Black Wolf

“What if the Moldovans tip the Wolves off?” asked Nuri.

“That should not be a problem as long as the operation is addressed as a drug one,” said Reid. “And by simply limiting the details they have, there should be no chance of that kind of double cross. Besides, it’s doubtful the Moldovans have any real links to the Wolves. We’d have picked up information about it.”

“Maybe,” said Nuri skeptically.

“Dr. Rubeo has some information for you,” Reid continued, ignoring him. “There’s some equipment that will be arriving with your people in Ukraine tonight. I take it that he wants to explain how it works. You had best wait until a reasonable hour to contact him. He’s cantankerous enough as it is.”

Da

In theory, they could launch an assault just before dawn. But the force would be tired from the long flight, and Da

He also thought it would be best to go in at night. More than likely, the men at the farm would be prepared to fight whenever they struck, but attacking at night would make it less likely a stray passerby would wander across the operation.

So he decided to hold off for twenty-four hours. It was a logical decision—they wouldn’t have to rush the pla

35

Dreamland

Brea

Some of her hardest had been spent here. Yet for some reason the difficulties, the trials and tribulations—the stays in the hospital, the long nights watching over Zen, her own dramas in the emergency room—all of that faded. Only the good times remained.

“Hey, boss!” bellowed a familiar voice from below. “You’re late!”

Brea

“I knew you weren’t flying this old crate,” continued Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, standing at the bottom of the rolling steps, “because you woulda had it here a half hour early.”

“Even I can’t fight head winds,” said Brea

“Chief” was a reference to Greasy Hands’ title fifteen years earlier, when he was responsible for making sure every aircraft Dreamland had could get into the air.

There had been officers over him—plenty—but ask any maintainer on the base who they answered to—and who they didn’t want to cross—and “Greasy Hands” would be the immediate answer.

The same with the pilots.

“Brass is already here,” said Greasy Hands in a stage whisper as she came down the steps. “Got enough of them to stock a hardware store, if there were hardware stores anymore.”

“The chief of staff here?”

“First one to arrive,” said Greasy Hands. “They’re all over the Sabre like ants at a picnic. I’m thinking maybe we can tie a few of them to the wings. I just don’t know which ones.”

Greasy Hands winked. He still had a chief’s perspective on what he liked to call “upper management.”

Dreamland had changed a great deal since her father had the command. There were many more buildings. Taj Mahal—the command center back in her day—was now a research laboratory. It was flanked by two much larger buildings. What had been a tiny residential area used by perhaps a hundred or so military and research perso

And an outdoor swimming pool. She would have killed for that when she’d been stationed here.

Brea

“Recognize this bird?” Greasy Hands said as they walked toward the aircraft.

“Should I?”

“You betchya. Picked you up out of that jam in Vietnam.” He said the words as if they were lyrics to a song. “Now it’s a ferry. I remember the oil pressure in that starboard engine used to like to jump up and down. Used to drive Spokes nuts. Which wasn’t necessarily a hard thing to do.”

With a wary glance toward the large props on the tilt wing, Brea

“Please fasten seat belts,” said a voice.

Parsons started laughing.

“Please fasten seat belts.”

“What’s so fu

“I remember when Carla Agrei recorded that. It took her more than an hour. Four little words—she couldn’t get them out of her mouth.”

“You were there for the session?”

“You don’t remember Carla Agrei? I think half the base was there watching her. The male half.”

The door to the Osprey closed.

“Prepare to take off, please,” said Carla’s disembodied voice. “Please remain seated while flying.”

It wasn’t just the cabin crew that was automated; the entire aircraft flew on its own. The base flight controller could step in at any time if necessary, but that hadn’t happened in anyone’s recent memory.

“Flight transit time is computed at fifteen point three minutes. Please enjoy the ride.”

Brown Lake Test Area had not existed when Brea

The Tigershark and a half-dozen Sabres stood in a neat line at the south end of the airstrip area. A pair of large tent canopies had been erected to the east for the VIPs, but no one was under them—as Greasy Hands had said, they were swarming around the Sabres.

The Tigershark, by contrast, stood all alone.