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Ax cleared his throat. “Major General Samson is on Diego Garcia.”
“No shit. I just left there. Well, not just.” Mack went around to the desk and plopped into the general’s chair. “So he already kicked Dog out of his office, huh? I figured he would.
Too nice for a colonel.”
“Colonel Bastian has an office down the hall.”
“What’s that for, transition? Where’s the old Dog headed next anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Ax.
“Jeez, Axy, I thought you knew everything.”
“From what I understand, it hasn’t been decided. Is there something I can do for you, Major?”
“Just enjoying the view,” said Mack, spi
Ax frowned.
“You know what your problem is, Chief?” Mack asked, getting up.
“I couldn’t guess.”
“All you chiefs—you think you outrank everybody, even a general. But don’t worry.” Mack slapped Ax on the back.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’m most obliged,” said Ax.
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Tehran
0110, 21 January 1998
(1410, 20 January, Dreamland)
“YOU SEEM TO HAVE LOST YOUR SPIRIT, GENERAL.”
Sattari blinked at the dark shadow in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure where he was.
In Tehran somewhere, of course, but where?
The seat he was sitting on was hard. There were several people in the room besides the man talking.
“You should be quite proud of what you accomplished,”
continued the man. “Soon, you will have struck a blow against the Americans that will be remembered for all time.”
“Why did you not let me fly the plane?” said Sattari.
“General, a man such as yourself is very valuable. Our country needs you. And what do you think would happen when the Americans found out that a general of the Iranian air force—an important man in our country—was at the controls? We could say you were a rebel, but the Americans would not believe it. This will be much easier for them to accept. There will be trouble, of course, but we will overcome it.”
Sattari finally recognized the voice. It belonged to Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaj, an important member of the National Security Deputate, Iran’s national security council.
“My nephew,” said the general.
“Your nephew was proud to be chosen. He will be a great martyr. Of course, we will say he was crazy, but we will all know the truth in our hearts.”
“He’s too young.”
“You did not seem to feel that was a concern when you asked him to be your copilot.”
Sattari felt a stab of guilt. He should not have enlisted the young man. He shouldn’t have let Val lead the mission to provoke the Indians either.
So many things he shouldn’t have done. He should not have trusted Hassam, above all.
390
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Sattari’s eyes finally came into focus. He was in a small basement room. He didn’t recognize it, but guessed it was in the government complex.
“Was I drugged?” he demanded.
Mohtaj waved his hand. “Do not concern yourself with the past. You must work for the future. You have many important tasks ahead. Many. You’re not an old man.”
“I want revenge against the bastards who killed my son,”
said the general. With every breath, his mind became sharper.
“You will have it. And the longer you live, the more revenge you will have.”
It wasn’t going to be enough—this wasn’t going to be enough.
Sattari rose from the chair. The men behind the Ayatollah jerked forward, submachine guns suddenly pointed in his direction.
“He means no harm,” said Mohtaj calmly. “He is back among friends.”
“I need time to think,” said Sattari.
“By all means. As long as you need.”
Mohtaj smiled, then turned and left the room.
Sattari thought of Kerman, then of Val.
It wasn’t going to be enough, destroying Las Vegas and Dreamland. Someday, he would drink his enemy’s blood.
Aboard Dreamland Be
over the Pacific Ocean
1410, Dreamland
DOG FOLDED HIS ARMS AND LEANED AGAINST THE BACK OF
the ejection seat in the lower bay of the Be
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That was the way his life ran: Every time he was really tired, he was too busy to sleep, and when he wasn’t busy, he wasn’t tired.
Starship seemed equally antsy, sitting in the seat next to him, monitoring the flight. Since it was highly unlikely they’d be needed, the Flighthawks were stowed on the wings to conserve fuel.
“Shoulda brought a deck of cards, huh?” said Starship as Dog settled back.
“That or a nice stewardess, huh?”
Starship laughed.
“You have a girlfriend, Starship?” asked Dog. He knew almost nothing about his junior officer’s personal life.
“Uh, no, sir. Not at the present time.”
“You can relax, Starship. I’m not going to bite you.”
“Yeah, Colonel. Um, no. I did. I mean I’ve had a couple, but things didn’t work out that well. You know, like, I was traveling and stuff.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’ll probably get married someday,” added Starship. “But pretty far in the future, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t mind kids. But, in the future.”
“I know what you mean,” said Dog again. But what he was thinking was how small a place the future sometimes could be.
ENGLEHARDT HAD FELT THE CREW’S RESENTMENT TOWARD
him from the moment he walked into the little room they used to brief the mission. None of them had the guts to say anything, but he knew what they were thinking. They thought he hadn’t made the best decisions under fire, hadn’t moved quickly enough, had hesitated a few times when he should have been aggressive.
But what the hell did they want? Look at Sparks and the Cheli. They were in deep, deep shit. Did his guys want security standing over them in the restroom everytime they had to take a leak?
392
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Not likely.
Colonel Bastian’s presence downstairs made things ten times worse. In a way, he felt sorry for the colonel—everybody knew Samson was screwing him because he was jealous. Still, it was Bastian who had caused him so much trouble. The crew compared them unfairly. Of course, Dog had done a great job when he piloted the plane; the man had been in combat countless times, and he was a colonel, for cryin’ out loud. He was supposed to be good.
Not that he wasn’t good, Englehardt thought. He was. And even if the nitpickers had problems with his mission, he knew he’d done a hell of a job—a hell of a job—getting the plane back on two engines.
One and a half, really.
More like one and a quarter.
“Waypoint coming up,” said Sullivan, his copilot.
“Noted,” said Englehardt quickly. He tried to get a little snap into his voice, a bit of professionalism, though it sounded a little hollow.
From now on he was going to do everything by the book.
If his crew didn’t like him, at least they wouldn’t have anything to complain about.
Dreamland Command Center
1500
UNDER ORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES, TRACKING TRUCK
traff ic through the Pakistani northeastern territories would have been close to impossible.
Fortunately, these weren’t ordinary circumstances.
Which wasn’t to say that the task was a piece of cake. Or a Yankee Doodle, which the head of the Dreamland photo analysis team was eating as he discussed the possibilities with his counterpart at the CIA.
“One of these six,” the techie agreed, stuffing the last of the snack in his mouth. “Gotta be.”
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Ray Rubeo, standing behind his console, frowned. The scientist hated sweets of any kind, but most especially ones that threatened the equipment he had personally helped design. The Command Center’s no food rule had been eased by Catsman as a morale booster as the mission stretched on. Without any authority over operations or military perso