Piranha

Chapter 2 An excellent coffin

Captain Breanna Stockard shifted her left leg for the five hundredth time since getting into the cockpit, trying to make herself comfortable. Her seat, which canted back at a twenty-degree angle, had ostensibly been form-fitted to her anatomy and designed for a maximum comfort on a long mission. Its inventor joked it would be so comfortable the pilot would be in constant danger of falling asleep; Breanna thought that a remote possibility at best. While the chair adjusted in several dimensions, it was impossible to find a setting that didn’t put a kink in her back — or somewhere else.

Captain Stockard was surrounded by four large panels, one in front, one overhead, and one on each side. Constructed of a plasma “Film,” each panel provided, at her command, a full instrument suite, optical view from all four compass points, or synthesized views composed from radar or infrared sensors. The stick at the side of her seat and the pedals at her feet did not actually move, instead sensing the pressure exerted on them and translating it as commands to the flight computer that took care of the actual details involved in trimming the large craft. The throttle was the closest to a “normal” airplane control in the cockpit — assuming, of course, such a control could select a standard turbofan, a scramjet, and a restartable rocket motor or some combination of all three depending on the flight regime. All of the controls could be discarded if Breanna preferred; the computer stood ready to translate her words into commands as quickly as she could utter them into the small microphone at the end of her headset.

That, Breanna felt, was a big part of the problem. The aircraft had been designed to be flown entirely by the computer; the cockpit was really just an afterthought, which explained why it was so stinking uncomfortable. Had it actually been in the plane, however, it would have been even worse. There, it would have had to squeeze into a thick, double-layer ceramic-titanium airfoil whose sinewy, weblike skin slid back from a needle nose into a shape described by its designers as an “aerodynamic triangle.” Its midsection looked something like a stretched B-1 bomber with engine inlets top and bottom, and wings capable of canting about ten degrees up and down as well as swinging out and it. It had a shallow tailfin on both the top and bottom of the fuselage. In order to keep the tailfin clear when landing or taking off, it sat on a set of landing gear that undoubtedly broke all previous records for height. Even so, when the aircraft was fully loaded, less than eighteen inches separated the wingtips from the runway, making it necessary to physically sweep the runway clean before taking off so any mishap might be avoided.

This tedious process added considerably to the pilot’s consternation as she waited for clearance to begin her test flight.

Known as the UMB — Unmanned Bomber Platform — or B-5, the plane was among Dreamland’s most ambitious projects to date. Once fully operational, it would fly at somewhere over six times the speed of sound, yet have the turning radius at Mach 3 of an F/A-18 just pushing five hundred knots. The UMB was designed to fly in near-earth orbit for extended deployments; there it could serve as an observation platform and launch-point for a suite of smart weapons still under study. Its engine, which were powered by hydrogen fuel, were not yet ready for such lofty flights, though today’s test would take it to a very respectable 200,000 feet. Similarly, the configurable leading and trailing portions of the wings — inflated by pressurized hydrogen to microcontrol the airfoil — had not yet replaced the more conventional leading- and trailing-edge control surfaces, thus limiting its maneuverability to a more conventional range.

Assuming taking ten Gs could be called conventional.

“Ground is clear. How are we looking, Captain?” asked Sam Fichera, who led the team developing the controls and was today’s mission boss.

“I think we’re ready to rock,” Bree answered.

“Ready for an engine start. Everything by the book.”

“Ready when you are.” Breanna looked at the left corner of her front screen, where the engine data had been preprogrammed to appear. “Computer. Takeoff engine start. Proceed.”

“Computer. Takeoff engine start,” acknowledged the electronic copilot.

The two GE-built turbofans used for takeoff and low speed flight regimes whipped to life. A detailed checklist appeared at the right side of Breanna’s screen, laid over the endless vista of the cleared runway and the surrounding dry lake beds that encircled Dreamland. Breanna and the computer moved through the long checklist slowly, making sure everything was good to go. The computer could facilitate quick takeoffs by color-coding the items — those it knew were “in the green” or good to go were shown in green letters, problems were in red. No caution (yellow) was permitted on takeoff; the items would be marked red instead, and the takeoff held until the trouble was corrected.

With the systems checked and rechecked, everything from fuel flow to air temperature recorded, parsed, and fretted over, Breanna glanced at the static camera from the runway to make sure her path was clean. Cleared, she loosened the brakes and took a long, slow breath.

And then she was off. The B-5’s engines cycled up to takeoff power and she trundled down the runway, speed building slowly. Relatively heavy for its airfoil even with the wings horizontal, the plane needed more distance than a B-52 to get airborne. That would change with the new wings. Even then, the rocket engine would probably be selected for a brief burn to make the takeoff easier, and more comfortable for Breanna.

Though she’d flown it several times now, Breanna’s feel for the UMB remained distorted and distant. As he indicated speed climbed above one hundred knots, the plane began to lift on its own. She held the stick a second too long, but came off the ground smoothly. The slight hitch bothered her; she was still slightly disoriented as he altitude began to climb.

Maybe if they added some sound feedback, she thought, making a mental note to bring it up at the post-flight briefing.

Captain Breanna Stockard had headed the UMB project for three weeks now. It was supposed to be a permanent job; the previous UMB director had been posted to the Pentagon months before. But Breanna had stubbornly insisted the duty be officially “temporary,” so she could decide if she wanted the assignment.

Of course she did — it was potentially the most important job in the Air Force. Even if the UMB never won approval as the follow-on to the B-2, the technology it tested would undoubtedly serve the military for the next two or three decades. But it meant leaving the Megafortress, and flying, behind.

Breanna’s husband, Jeff “Zen” Stockard, had flown the aircraft on its first two flight. His overall take on flying the plane could be summed up in one word: “boring.” He complained it was even more reliant on its native or onboard computer than the Flighthawk, and probably didn’t need a real pilot at all. Unlike the U/MF’s, which needed to be fairly close to their command plane, the UMB was designed to be flown entirely from the ground at vast distances using hooks in the Dreamland secure satellite system.

Boring? Maybe if you were a pilot used to taking six or seven Gs with your morning donut.

“Dreamland B-5 UMB is airborne and passing marker three-seven,” reported Breanna as they reached the airspace for the morning tests. “We have green indicators all around. I did ask for salsa music in the background, however, and it’s not coming through.”

“Preempted by baseball,” shot back Lieutenant Art McCourtm who was flying chase in an old but reliable F-5. “I’ll give you play-by-play if you want, Major. My Dodgers are ahead.”

It was far too early in the day for a game, or McCourt might really be listening to baseball; the test pilot had a reputation for using his engineering prowess in unconventional ways. Supposedly, he had found a way to pressurize a Mr. Coffee and enjoyed hot, zero-gravity coffee breaks.

The UMB continued to climb at a leisurely pace, reaching ten thousand feet as the structural-integrity tests began. Breanna pushed her stick left and let the plane turn into a fairly steep bank. Small sensors similar to the devices used to measure earthquakes recorded the effect of the turn on the wings and superstructure; one of the ground people monitoring the numbers gave an approving whistle as she came through the turn.

“Looking for a date, Jacky?” Bree shot back.

“Sorry, ma’am. Structure is looking very solid.”

“That’s what I figured you meant,” she said, continuing through the set of turns. Test complete, and passed, she began spiraling upwards, looking at the ground through the belly cam as she climbed.

Dreamland sprawled over a defunct lake in the desert wilderness north of Las Vegas. Its existence was so secret it appeared on no list of facilities or bases. No one was ever assigned here; instead, they were given “cover’ jobs or assignments, usually though not always at Edwards Air Force Base.

Until recently the heart of the Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Dreamland had involved a great deal over the past two years, more rapidly in the past two months. The command had lost some of its best military people and projects to the newly designated Brad Elliott Air Force Base, named in honor of the former general who had lost his life in the China conflict only a few months before. Nearby at Groom Lake, Elliott AFB was a high-profile and prestigious command, which, though structured along traditional lines, was to be task primarily with introducing new weapons into the Air Force mainstream. Meanwhile, Dreamland and its high-tech facilities would remain a cutting edge facility with a much more experimental bent — as well as its own combat team named “Whiplash,” which operated directly at the President’s command. In charge of Dreamland was a scrappy, forty-something lieutenant colonel who everyone outside of Dreamland knew was in way over his head — and everyone inside of Dreamland knew was about as can-do as any ten other officers in the service combined.

Breanna was just slightly prejudiced in favor of Dreamland’s director. She happened to be his daughter.

Her left leg began to cramp, and then spasmed. Trying to loosen te cramp, she knocked her knee against the lower edge of the front panel.

“Perfect coffin,” she grumbled.

Unlike everything else connected with the plane, the computer could not adjust the seat; it had to be fiddled with manually, a procedure that had at least as high a change of making things worse as better.

Breanna tried flexing her leg as she rose toward twenty thousand feet, stifling a curse as the muscles in her other leg started feeling sympathy pains. She banked again, then asked the computer for the environmental panel, deciding she felt cold.

The computer claimed the temperature in her coffin was a balmy seventy-two.

“My ass,” she told it.

“Captain?” said Fichera.

“Relax, Sam. I’m getting all sorts of leg cramps, that’s all.”

“Too hot in there?” asked Fichera.

“Negative. I doubt it’s really seventy-two, by the way. All right, I should be at angels twenty in one more turn.”

“We copy that,” answered the engineer.

Both the climb and the cramps continued in silence. Though much larger at about 170 feet in length, the aircraft handled a lot like an F-111 to about Mach 1.5 if the F-111 was being flown remote control.

“You’re looking really great,” said Fichera as the UMB hit into the orbit over Glass Mountain just a nudge under 25,000 feet.

“Looks good from here,” said McCourt from the chase plane. He was flying off her right wing, separated by about a half mile in the open sky.

“All right. Telemetry test ready?” Bree asked.

“Roger that,” said Fichera.

“Computer, begin scheduled test B-5-6A: photographic data flow. Smile for the cameras, Dreamland.”

“Begin scheduled test B-5-6A,” acknowledged the computer.

A panel in the fuselage slid open, permitting a camera array from a mini-KH satellite to see the earth. The camera sent a rapid succession of detailed photos back to Dreamland.

“Hey, Major, this stuff going to show up in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?” asked McCourt.

“Hell, Art, we’re going straight to Playgirl. The photos I took of your in the shower last week with the spy cam cinched it.”

“I thought I felt a draft.”

“Data flow under way,” said Breanna, her tone once again serious. The test was a fairly simple affair, sending back high-resolution optical photos to the ground. As the system was essentially the same used in Dreamland’s mini-KH-12 tactical satellites, it should pass without much difficulty.

Which it did. Breanna continued a long, lazy orbit around the Dreamland test ranges, slowly building her altitude until she was at 35,000 feet. The next series of tests were the meat of the day’s mission.

“Ready to test engine five,” Breanna told her team. Engine five was the restartable rocket motor.

“Roger that,” said Fichera. “We’re hot to start.”

“Three-second burn programmed,” she said, reading off the program screen. “Counting down.”

There was a slight hitch as the rocket ignited; the plane’s nose stuttered downward for a microsecond before the massive increase in thrust translated into upward momentum. This was a by-product of a glitch in the trimming program, which the team was still trying to fine-tune. Otherwise, the burn and plane worked perfectly; Breanna rode the B-5 up through fifty thousand feet. A soft tone in her helmet accompanied the visual cue that they had reached their intended altitude; she leveled off, then started a gentle bank. At the end of a complete circuit she nosed down, gathering momentum. As the plane hit Mach 2, she prepared for the next test sequence.

“Ready to test engines three and four,” she said, refering to the scramjets. “Counting down.”

The hydrogen-fueled scramjets lit as the plane touched Mach 2.3. By the end of the test sequence, Breanna was at Mach 3.4 and had climbed through 85,000 feet. She continued to climb, powered now only by the scramjets.

“Ready for engine five,” she told her team, leveling off for the next test sequence.

“Good. Temp in four slightly high.”

“Acknowledged.” She took q quick glance at the screen, making sure the temp was still in the green — it was by

about five degrees — then told the computer to light the rocket motor.

“Looking good,” she said as the speed built quickly.

“Aye, Captain,” Richera said, giving his best impression of Scotty, the engineering officer on the Starship Enterprise, “the dilithium crystals are shining bright.”

“Har-har,” said Breanna, whose leg began acting up again.

They touched Mach 5, but then began to slow inexplicably.

“Problem?” asked Fichera.

“Not sure,” said Breanna. The thrust on all three engines was steady, yet according to the instruments she was slowing.

Now if she’d been in the plane, she would have known exactly what the problem was. She’d felt it.

Really? Could you feel the difference at eighty-some-thousand feet and four or five times the speed of sound, with things rushing by? Or would you have to rely on the instruments anyway? How far would you be removed from the actual sensation of flight, lying in a specially canted seat wrapped in a special high-G suit?

Breanna pushed forward. Unencumbered by restraints or even a simple seat belt, she put her face nearly on the large glass panel as she had the computer run her through the vital signs on all the power plants. The speed had leveled off at Mach 4.3. They had reached the end of test sequence.

“Computer, cut engine five,” she said, referring to the hydro.

“Cut engine five.”

“I feel like I should be pushing buttons at least,” added Bree.

“Repeat command,” said the computer.

“I thought it wasn’t suppose to try to interpret anything without the word ‘computer’ in front of it,” Bree backed at Fichera.

“The computer expects you to either follow the original flight plan called for, or prepare a new course. Since you’re doing neither, it is confused.”

The snotty voice belonged to Ray Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist.

“Hey, Ray,” she retorted, “I didn’t realize you were sitting in.”

“I wasn’t,” said Rubeo.

“We can adjust that if it’s annoying,” said Fichera. “Can we proceed with the rest of the tests?”

“Roger that,” said Breanna, belatedly nosing the plane onto the planned course for a second battery of telemetry downloads.

They worked through the rest of the morning’s agenda without incident. Running ahead of schedule, Breanna suggested a few touch-and-go’s to practice landing technique.

“If that’s okay with you, Ray,” she added.

“Dr. Rubeo has left,” said Fichera.

“Yeah, I thought you guys sounded more relaxed.”

“You shouldn’t have called him Ray,” said Fichera. “He looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

“Oh, if I really wanted to tick him off I’d’ve called him Doctor Ray,” said Breanna.

There was no arguing Rubeo was a genius, though his social skills needed considerable work. He was especially prickly concerning the B-5 project, not only because he had personally done so much of the work on the computers, but because it had been conceived as an entirely computer-flown aircraft. Rubeo’s contention that its tests be controlled by scientists using simple verbal commands had been overruled by Colonel Bastian.

“Standby, Dreamland B-5,” said the airfield flight controller as Bree lined up for her first approach. “We have a VIP arrival via Runway One.”

Ordinarily, non-Dreamland aircraft, even those belonging to VIPs, did not use Dreamland’s runways; they came into Edwards and their passengers were ferried via a special helicopter. Breanna selected her video feed to watch as the aircraft, an unmarked 757, came in through restricted airspace. It banked over Taj — the low-slung administrative building, most of which was buried several stories below ground — and the rest of the main area of the base, as if to give its passengers a good view of Dreamland. Even though it had permission to land, two Razor antiaircraft lasers turned their directors on the Boeing, while an older Hawk missile battery leveled its missiles for delivery. If the plane deviated even a few yards from its permitted flight plan, it would be incinerated and then blown up for good measures.

“Whose jalopy?” asked McCourt from the chase plane.

“Got me,” said Bree, taking a circuit before starting her touch-and-go’s.

Wrestling her foot cramp into submission was more difficult than the practice landings. After three go-arounds, she was ready for the real thing.

“You’re going to have to hold off your landing,” said the controller again. “VIP jet taking off from Runway One in thirty seconds.”

“Must’ve tasted the food,” quipped McCourt.

Colonel Bastian put his signature on the last paper in his chief master sergeant’s hand, rolling out the last letters of his name with a noticeable flourish as the elevator stopped at the ground level.

“Admiral will be wanting lunch,” said Terrence “Ax” Gibbs. “Should I call over the Starlight Room?”

“Rustle up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” said Dog as the doors opened.

“More flies are trapped with honey than vinegar. Goes triple with four-boat admirals.”

“Four-boat?”

“Stars, braids, whatever the sailors call those things on his shoulders that make him think he’s important.”

Ax followed Dog into the lobby of the Taj. A member if Danny Freah’s security team stood by the door — Technical Sergeant Perse Talcom, better known as Powder, waiting to drive the colonel over to Hangar D, where the Piranha system was headquartered.

“We’ll see about lunch,” Dog told Ax. “Anything else?”

“No, sir. I hear the salmon’s especially good down in the Red Room.”

“What salmon?”

“Flown in yesterday,” said Ax. “Allen’s favorite. I’ll make sure they put some aside.”

There was no way — absolutely no way — the fish had been special-ordered for Admiral Allen, since his arrival hadn’t been expected.

Then again …

“Hangar D,” Dog told Powder, walking over to the black SUV near the entrance.

“Yes, sir,” Powder slammed the Jimmy into gear and left considerable rubber on the pavement.

“I’d like to get there in one piece,” Dog said, grabbing at the door to keep his balance.

“Good one, sir.” Powder nearly tipped the truck over as he veered onto the access ramp that led to the hangar area. He zipped past a Hummer and a fuel truck, then beelined for the hangar area. The security detail posted in front of Hangar D snapped to attention as they approached — they took up safer positions behind a set of obstructions.

Powder whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail, rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.

“Hey, Nursy, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the admiral.”

Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then saluted Dog.

“Carry on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws, intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/exfiltrate aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s last deployment. The technies were now working on a number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a secure elevator, which opened only after scanning his retinas. Once you were inside, the elevator could be operated only by voice, and then only if the computer decided the vocal pattern matched its records.

“Fourth,” said Dog as the doors snapped closed. He folded his arms and waited.

And waited.

“Fourth,” he repeated clearly.

Still nothing.

“God damn it—”

Either finally recognizing the voice or the threat, the elevator snapped into action. Dog stepped off impatiently at his destination, and was immediately greeted by a familiar if not exactly affectionate hiss.

“Colonel, why is the admiral here and why weren’t we notified he was coming?” The thin lips of the senior scientist at Dreamland, Ray Rubeo, pursed into a funnel. “These scientists aren’t military people. They get nervous. It’s like dealing with a hotel full of prima donnas. There’ll be a run on Prozac tomorrow. We’ll be three weeks getting back on schedule. And Piranha is hardly the most important project here. Frankly, if it were up to me, it would be turned back to Naval Weapons, which is not only competent but is used to dealing with oversized Pentagon egos.”

“I wasn’t told either,” said Dog, continuing toward the project area. “And I believe Admiral Allen’s headquarters are in Hawaii.”

Dog passed into the main project development room, an open lab area dominated by low-slung workbenches and enough computer and electronic gear to outfit fifty Radio Shacks. Lieutenant Commander Delaford, the project specialist, was holding forth for the admiral and a small group of aides near the center of the room. His laser pointer danced over a Piranha chassis, highlighting the propulsion sections. This wasn’t a mockup — it was a live, though unfueled, unit. Delaford was talking about one of his favorite topics — the applicability of the unit’s hydrogen propulsion system to civilian applications such as cars. It was a noncontroversial selling point sure to win a few votes in Congress, though the admiral’s overly furled brow showed he wasn’t particularly impressed.

“Turning now to the program,” said Delaford, nodding at Dog, “our next phase of study adds autonomous modes and more stealthy communications techniques, useful for submarine applications. And, of course, the warhead launching modes. We’re confident we could put a fully suitable version, based on the test article, into production immediately. Using this propulsion system and the communications-link technologies Dreamland has developed, the production model would be controllable from fifty to seventy-five miles, either by airplane as we’ve demonstrated, or small surface craft. The submarine version is a little further behind, due to the detectability issues. We’re confident, though, of eighteen-month viability. That’s a year and a half from the word ‘go.’ ”

“Budget line,” said the admiral.

Delaford, who was unpracticed in the art of winning funds, hesitated and then lost his way, trying to argue for the project rather than simply giving Allen a number.

“Well, as a whole, compared to previous projects, say the probes for the Seawolf, the UUVs, it—”

“How much?”

“That would depend on the configuration, sir. And in, um, perspective—”

“What I think Commander Delaford is trying to point out, said Dog, who thought the program was worthwhile even though it belonged to the Navy, “is that you have to compare the cost to an entire weapons system. The fact that its intended to be expendable means the low per-unit cost ups the overall budget. Still, in a combat situation, the cost per engagement would be very low, since it would, by definition, be replaced.”

“Is it worth two nuclear submarines?” asked Allen.

“Well, that’s your call, Admiral,” said Dog.

“It’s not my call,” said the admiral. “But if It were, I’d take the submarines.”

“Actually, sir, at three hundred and forty million for the whole project,” said Delaford, regaining his balance, “it’s considerably less than a submarine. And tactically, it can do the job of a submarine without the exposure of, uh, risk, as the tests off Hawaii show.”

“I’m well aware of the results of the tests,” said the admiral.

Danny Freah, standing behind the admiral, suppressed a smile. Colonel Bastian belatedly realized what the visit was all about.

“Yes, the results were impressive,” continued Allen. “But once countermeasures are employed, the device will be easily countered.”

“Hardly,” said Rubeo, characteristically choosing the most undiplomatic moment to butt in. “Face it, Admiral, large ships are obsolete.”

Allen snorted. “That’s been said since galleys ruled the ocean. Colonel — I’d like some lunch.”

“I’m told it’s ready when you are,” said Dog.

“Yes,” said Allen. “I’m sorry, the colonel and I are meeting alone,” he added, as if Delaford and the others had actually volunteered to accompany them. “I’ll be back.”

“We’ll wait,” said Rubeo.

Fortunately for the scientist, Allen either didn’t hear what he said, or had a tin ear when it came to go acerbic irony. Dog led Allen back to the elevator, Captain Freah trailing behind him.

“Do we need a shadow?” the admiral asked as they got inside the car.

“I’m afraid close security is the order of the day here,” said Dog. “All visitors, no matter how high their rank.”

“Even a theater commander.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dog. He could have told Danny to make himself scarce; the orders to shadow Allen were his own. But he was a bit ticked at the surprise visit, and even more so now that he suspected Allen had come to lobby him on the report. Allen seemed to mellow ever so slightly, and in fact his mood visibly improved fifteen minutes later in Cafeteria Two, a private dining area known as the Red Room because of the décor, when the airman serving them told him that Thai-infused salmon headed the menu.

“I don’t want sushi,” said the admiral.

“No, sir, of course not, sir. It can be cooked to your specification.”

“Medium then, but still moist.”

“To drink?” said the airman, with the precise intonation of a waiter in a high-class restaurant.

A true achievement, since the man was a bomb ordie on special assignment. Dog marked him down mentally for a weekend pass.

“Water,” said the admiral.

“Evian, or perhaps Dolmechi?”

“Dolmechi?” said the admiral. “The Italian mineral water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” said Allen. “I haven’t had that since I visited Naples.”

The waiter — who had obviously been heavily briefed by Ax — turned toward the colonel.

“I’ll have a burger,” said Dog. “And a Coke.”

“Yes, sir. Captain?”

Danny glanced at Dog. “I was thinking I might catch up on some items,” said Freah. “Since we’re not in a secure area.”

“Very good, Danny.”

“Admiral.” Danny nodded, getting up to go.

“Just a second.” Allen rose and stuck out his hand. “Some of my Marines made sure I heard about what you did in Iran for them. Good work, son.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Danny.

“You ever think of switching commands, remember the Pacific,” said Allen.

Danny smiled and nodded, then left.

“An impressive officer,” said Allen.

“One of the best,” said Dog. “That’s why he’s here.”

“And you’re wondering why I am, aren’t you?” said Allen. He smiled, showing signs that somewhere beneath the weight of command he did have a sense of self-deprecating humor.

Maybe.

“Actually, Admiral, what I’m wondering is why you didn’t give us a heads-up that you were coming,” said Dog.

“That’s not the way I do things,” he said abruptly.

The colonel looked over at the airman approaching with their drinks. He didn’t intend on getting into a pissing match with Allen, who as commander in chief of the Pacific Command (USCINCPAC) was one of the most powerful people in the military. The admiral commanded all forces in the Pacific, including Air Force and Army units as well as Navy. He also had considerable input at the Pentagon and, more important, the White House.

On the other hand, Dog wasn’t going to roll over for anyone. Allen had no more real business here than Dog did on the flight deck of his carriers.

Admiral Allen took a small, almost dainty sip from his mineral water as the waiter retreated. “Colonel. Tecumseh — can I call you that?”

“My friends call me Dog.”

Allen smiled indulgently. “Dog. How’d you earn that?”

“It’s God spelled backwards,” said the colonel, who didn’t mind telling the story on himself. “I was a flight leader with a bit too much of an attitude, and some people thought it fit. They were probably right.”

Allen laughed. “This was before you shot down the MiGs in the Gulf, or after?”

“My kills were unconfirmed,” said Dog, though there was little doubt he had indeed splashed the enemy planes.

Another indulgent smile from Allen. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said the admiral. “The Piranha report — what’s it going to say?”

“I would imagine it will say something along the lines of what Commander Delaford said — the system is ready to be implemented, and it’s ready for the next phase of tests, if that’s approved.”

“Specifically, concerning the test.”

Allen was undoubtedly worried about the details of the test engagement, which would show his Navy commanders — Woods especially — in a somewhat embarrassing light. With the proper emphasis, Admiral Woods — and, by extension, Admiral Allen — could be seen not only as enemies of the program, but as going overboard to scuttle it. In a politically charged atmosphere, such nuances could be deadly.

Or not. It was a game Dog had long ago decided not to play.

“Writing the report itself is not generally regarded as one of my duties,” said the colonel.

“You’ll sign off on it, though.”

“As I see my job, Admiral, it’s to develop weapons, not worry about egos that might be bruised because test results make them look bad. If you have a specific worry, maybe you ought to lay it out.”

“Steady there, Colonel. Steady.”

There were once more interrupted by the waiter, who brought out two dishes of fancy salad. Dog now regretted letting Danny leave; courtesy demanded someone keep the admiral company, and he didn’t feel like hanging

around to be harangued on what he considered a minor matter. He was somewhat surprised that Allen himself changed the conversation, turning to a totally neutral topic — the Megafortress.

Allen claimed to have long admired the big bombers, and was impressed by their showing during the recent showdown with China. Politely, Dog offered to put him in a copilot’s seat on an orientation flight.

“Can’t do it, unfortunately,” said the admiral. “Ever since the flare-up, we’ve been going nonstop. I guess you heard the press is calling it the Fatal Terrain affair. Makes good headlines for them, I guess.” He smiled wryly, but then added, “I was sorry about General Elliott.”

“Yes,” said Dog. In a brief but brutal encounter between America and China known to some as the “Fatal Terrain” affair, Elliott had given his life. He’d died successfully preventing an all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and China. He was a bonafide war hero — at least to some people who criticized the maverick general. They didn’t realize how close the communists had come to running over Taiwan — and starting World War III.

“Things are still hot there. Touchy. We’ve got a lot of assets along the coast.”

“You’re probably stretched thin,” said Dog.

“Absolutely,” said Allen. “And contrary to all the talking heads, there’s still no guarantee war won’t break out. I don’t trust the Chinese as far as I can spit, even with our carriers along their coast. And, hell, even the Indians seem to be spoiling for a fight.”

“India?”

“Oh, yes,” said Allen. “Minor incidents so far. Saber-rattling. Frankly, I don’t take them too seriously. But all South Asia’s boiling.”

Dog nodded.

“Admiral Woods is an excellent man,” said Allen. “A little competitive sometimes. Especially if he thinks the Air Force is trying to get ahead of him. Very competitive.”

“How about yourself?” ask Dog.

“Never play tennis with me.”

“I meant, do you think the Air Force is trying to get ahead of you?”

“Piranha is a Navy project, Colonel.”

The accent on Colonel was sharp enough to fillet a salmon. Having to negotiate with someone so far down in rank obviously pricked at the admiral. The fact that Dog essentially answered to no one in the military undoubtedly irked him as well.

Their lunch arrived. The conversation once more tacked toward more friendly waters. Allen compared the salmon favorably to several dinners he’d had recently in Washington, D.C. — a not too subtle hint that the admiral could muster considerable political muscle if displeased.

“Extend my compliments to the chef,” said Allen as the waiter cleared the plates.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dog, if you run the rest of your ship as well as you run the mess, you’ll do well,” the admiral added.

“I can’t take the credit,” said Dog. “Brad Elliott staffed the kitchen.”

Displeasure or sorrow — it was impossible to tell which — flicked over Allen’s face. “I’d like a copy of the draft report,” he said.

“That can be arranged.” In truth, Colonel Bastian would have forwarded him one as a matter of course, since his command had been involved in the testing and had personnel involved in the development. Had Dog not taken such a dislike to Allen, he might also have noted, for the record, that Dreamland reports focused on the system under study. Personalities, and what orders they might or might not have issued during test exercises, were never included.

But the colonel didn’t see much reason for adding that.

“You have a nice little operation here, Colonel. No reason for us to be enemies,” said Allen as they walked back to the SUV that would take the admiral to his plane, which had returned after being refueled at Edwards.

“I didn’t realize we were,”

Allen only smiled.

Zen pulled his wheelchair toward Hangar A, where the UMB’s control unit was housed. Bree had promised to meet him there for lunch. He was running his standard ten minutes later — the only place he was punctual was in the air — so it was somewhat surprising when she was not standing impatiently outside the door.

Zen breathed a reassuring sigh, since she was sure to get on him for being late. Instead of justifying his tardiness, her absence presented a perfect opportunity for turning the tables on the notoriously punctual captain; he could claim he’d been here the whole time, waiting outside. He stopped a few feet from the doorway and pulled his paperback from the corner of his seat, starting to position himself as if he’d been reading in the shade.

“More Roosevelt!” said Bree behind him.

“More Roosevelt,” he said, closing the biography of the President. “Where you been?”

“I was necking with Chief Parsons around the corner,” she said. Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was in charge of the maintenance team and old enough to be her father — or grandfather.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said.

“Oh, baloney. I saw you come up.”

“Musta been some other pimp in a wheelchair.” Zen smiled at her.

“So which book is this?”

Bree reached down and picked it up; Zen saw the opening and snuck in a kiss.

“Heavy reading,” she said. The book was Geoffrey Ward’s A First Class Temperament. “Whatever happened to Sports Illustrated?”

“I only get it for the swimsuit issue,” said Zen. His interest in Roosevelt had started by accident during his flight home from Turkey, and now he was truly fascinated by the only man to have been elected President four times — all the time confined to a wheelchair. He’d worked through several FDR volumes, and was now eyeing Kenneth Davis’s five books, the definitive tome on Roosevelt’s life. While he joked that he wanted to see how a “fellow gimp made good,” what truly fascinated Zen was Roosevelt’s ability to get along with so many people.

His charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico — against the Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had treated him like a son.

How did he manage to get on with so many people after polio took his legs? Wasn’t he bitter? Why didn’t bitterness come out in his relationships, which seemed to show no trace of anger or frustration? Zen didn’t fool himself that his own relationships were on nearly so lofty a plain; at least privately, he railed about his condition every day.

“Ready for lunch?” Bree asked.

“Starving.”

“Red Room?”

“Nah, Admiral Allen’s there, and Ax says stay away.”

“Allen? Is that who landed on my runway?”

Zen gave her the gossip he’d heard from Chief Gibbs: Apparently the admiral was on a tear because his people had gotten their fannies waved during the Piranha exercises. One of Allen’s favorite commanders, Admiral Woods, had pulled some strings to alter the parameters of the test in his favor — and still lost. There was justice in the world, Zen concluded. They Navy being so damned concerned about their little egos being crushed that a top admiral had to come and personally try to soothe things over gave Zen immense satisfaction.

It wasn’t until they were at their table with full trays of food that Zen realized Bree was distracted. He made a joke about her choice — salad with a side of yogurt — then one about his — a double helping of homemade meat loaf, with extra gravy. She hardly snickered.

“Bad flight?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Something up?”

“I fly every day,” he said.

“You know what I mean. Flying a robot. It’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah,” he said. He missed a lot more than flying.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Jeff,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” he told her.

“It’s a promotion. It’s important.”

Zen slid back a little in his seat, looking at her face. Breanna was not by any definition, a worrier. Her eyes were fraught with it now.

“Hey.” He paused, not really sure what to say. After an awkward silence, he stumbled on. “There’re plenty of different projects out there. You don’t have to take something you don’t want. But if you do take it, I know you can do it,” he added quickly. Her lips had pursed — a bad sign. “I mean you’re beyond capable of it. I mean, that’s why you got it.”

“The Megafortresses.”

A sore subject, he knew, since she had hoped to inherit Major Nancy Cheshire’s place when she left. But Merce Alou, who outranked her, had been tagged.

“To be honest with you, Bree, the EB-52, not that it’s a dead end or anything, but it’s now, uh, mature.” Zen hated using the bureaucratese, but it did essentially describe the program. The EB-52 was now a production aircraft; the advances were sure to be incremental. “The UMB. Hell, that’s the future. Or something that comes out of it. Ask anybody. But if it’s not what you want to do, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s a big adjustment, that’s all,” she said, poking her salad. She frowned, but this time at him. “You’re not going to eat all of that, are you? It’s pure fat.”

He laughed and reached for his soda — then yawped with pain.

“Problem?” she asked.

“Tooth. Geez.”

“Are you going to get it fixed or what?”

“This afternoon.” The cold soda had shot through the nerve into every cell in his skull, and his head reverberated with pain. He put down the glass and rubbed the back of his jaw on both sides hoping to ease it somehow.

“Not going to cancel this time?”

“I didn’t cancel on purpose,” he mumbled.

Bree’s manner had brightened; in fact, she seemed to be suppressing a giggle.

“I’m glad my misery is entertaining,” he told her.

“Don’t be a sissy.”

“You filled it with extra ice,” he said. “You knew I had the appointment.”

“Just a coincidence,” said his wife.

Freed from his onerous escort duty, Danny Freah took a tour of his perimeter, checking on the security post. His body still felt the lingering effects of his “visit” to Turkey, Iraq, and Iran a few months before; he’d been injured in a mission that recovered data and parts from an Iranian antiaircraft laser facility. His legs were especially bothersome — Danny had stretched and partially torn ligaments in his right knee.

Not that he’d taken any time off to mend. You had to break something for that. Like your neck.

Danny eyed the fence along the road, looking at the video cameras posted at irregular intervals. The entire base was constantly watched. Not just by human eyes, but computer programs, which searched for spatial anomalies, as the programmers stubbornly referred to intruders. Additional sensors were buried in the perimeter area. Mines and remote-controlled ground defenses — basically old M2HB machine guns with massive belts of ammunition in modified fifty-gallon drums — were webbed around the fences. A generation ago, it might have taken the better part of an army regiment to provide as secure a perimeter, Dreamland could, at least in theory, be secured with only six men, though Danny’s security squadron was considerably larger and growing every day.

He turned off the perimeter road, driving up a short hill toward a bunker halfway between the underground hangars and the main gate. A brown slant of cement marked the entrance to the hardened security monitoring station. Lieutenant William McNally and two airmen were inside, reviewing the security feeds and drinking coffee, not necessarily in that order.

“Hey, Boss,” said McNally as Danny came through the doors. “How’s the admiral?”

“Looked like he was searching for a boat.”

“Can we shoot down his plan next time? Razor guys say they had it nailed at twenty miles.”

Danny grunted. He checked through the logs, then told McNally he was going over to the weapons lab to check on his gear. His smart helmet and body armor had been damaged in Iran; its custom-fitted replacement was due for a final fitting.

McNally stopped him, saying a message had come for him while he was with the Admiral.

“Just leave it in my cue,” Danny told him.

“Actually, it was a voice message, uh, your wife,” said McNally. “She decided to talk to me.”

“And?”

“Says she’ll be out here this afternoon, Said something about a hotel.”

“Okay,” Danny told him. Jemma knew exactly what Danny did, and had gone through her own security check before Danny was allowed to take his post. Technically, she could come to Dreamland and stay at his quarters on the base. However, the procedure were elaborate, and it was much easier all around to put her up in a nice hotel for a few days.

Put himself up too.

“Surprise that she’s coming?” McNally asked.

“Not a surprise, no,” Danny said. “You have a handle on things?”

“Boss, you can take off for the next few months as far as I’m concerned. You earned it.”

“Thanks, Billy.” He tapped his radio and then his beeper, wordlessly telling his lieutenant to call if needed, then headed toward the handheld-weapons lab.

Annie Klondike sat hunched over a desk, starting at a small, liver-shaped piece of metal. Her think white hair had been pulled back into a tight ball, enhancing her school-marm look.

“Hey, Annie, whatcha got going?” asked Danny.

“Hmmmpphhhh,” she said without looking up.

Danny bent over and inspected the metal. “New explosive?”

“Hardly.” She pushed herself up from the chair. “You’ll want your helmet, I suppose.”

“If its convenient.”

“Convenient? Captain, you’ve added a new word to your vocabulary.”

“I even used it in a sentence,” said Freah.

“I’d be curious as to your definition,” she said, beginning her shuffle toward one of the back areas. “We took the liberty of adding upgrades,” said Annie, opening the door to a storage closet. “Try the vest first.”

The carbon-boron vest that Danny pulled over his chest was no thicker than a good-quality goose-down ski vest, and weighed nearly the same. The side that nestled against his ribs had a crinkly feel; pressing it against his side felt a little like squishing the Styrofoam of a packing peanut.

“What’s the cushion?”

“Styrated aluminum,” said Klondike. “Actually a carbonized alloy, but mostly aluminum.”

“Aluminum?”

“It bears only a passing resemblance to the material used in soda cans, Captain, not to worry,” said Annie. “I’m told a bullet from a M60E1 at five yards won’t leave a bruise, though I haven’t found a volunteer willing to demonstrate.”

“Does the next upgrade come with a built-in nurse?”

“Your helmet is this way,” said the weapons expert tartly. “Have I ever told you, you have a big head?”

“All the time.”

Danny’s smart helmet and its connected Combat Information Visor included a display shield with Video, low-light, infrared, and radiation-detection modes. When plugged into its com modules — these were generally carried in a small pack on the wearer’s back or belt — it could tie into Dreamland’s secure satellite communications system. But that system required coordination back at Dreamland, as well as being in line of sight of the satellite — fine in some situations, not in others. Team members on the ground communicated through a discrete-mode unit that was also line-of-sight — again, fine in some situations but not in others.

“We have bowed to popular demand and added a standard radio link,” announced Annie. “I would caution you: The encryption is merely based on a 128-byte key on a random skip; it can be broken easily.”

“By anyone outside of the NSA and Dreamland?”

Annie smiled — slightly. “A simple beacon detector could be used to locate the transmissions, which, as requested, have a range of five miles. We are looking at a complementary-wave transmitter that would interfere with the transmissions beyond an operator-specified range, but alas, it remains to be perfected.”

“This’ll do,” said Danny. “It beats having to stand up under fire.”

“I imagine it would.”

Danny took the new helmet and fit it onto his head. it felt just like the old one — way too tight and far too heavy.

“Yes, I know,” said Klondike, sighing though Danny hadn’t said anything. “We balance function and utility. We are scientists of the possible, Captain. If we could shave off another pound while not giving up protection or functionality, we gladly would.”

“You’ll get it right, Annie,” he said.

“Hmmmph. The shape-recognition program is finally operational and so we have added it. It defaults to ‘on.’ I find it annoying myself, though the weapons detector is useful.”

“If we can trust it,” said Danny.

“Yes. Well, Captain, you’ve seen the tests yourself.” The device used pattern recognition to check shapes in the screen against a library of weapons and “suspicious polygons.” It was excellent against the obvious — like tanks and artillery pieces — but tended to be overly suspicious about things like bulges in pants and pockets. On IR mode, however, it could tell the difference between a toy gun and the real thing, which was potentially valuable in certain situations.

“Let’s go test the targeting screen,” said Annie. There was almost a suppressed cackle in her voice as she said that, and Danny knew he’d find a surprise in the weapons locked at the firing range. Sure enough, the weapons scientist presented him with a new gun.

“Silenced MP-5,” he said admiringly, taking it from her hands.

“Hardly,” said Annie. “Try it.”

Danny studied the stubby wire at the end. On the other systems that worked with the visor targeting system, a thin wire ran from the gun to his helmet.

“No, there’s no connection. Just point it at the target and shoot,” insisted Annie.

As Danny pointed the business end of the German submachine gun down the alley, crosshairs appeared in the middle of his visor.

“Please, I have work to do,” said Annie.

As Danny pressed the trigger, he unconsciously raised his shoulder to brace against the recoil. For a submachine gun, the MP-5 was famously easy to handle; unlike many predecessors that justly earned the moniker “spray guns,” this was a precision weapon in the hands of a trained and experienced professional. It was, however, still a submachine gun, and all the brilliant engineering in the world could not completely remove the barrel’s tendency under automatic fire to kick a bit.

Or could it? For the gun in Danny’s hands was not only exceedingly quiet — quieter by far than even the silenced versions of the MP-5 he’s used — but it spit through its fifteen-bullet magazine with less recoil than a water pistol.

And continued to do so. Though it appeared no larger than the standard box, somehow the magazine contained twenty bullets.

“Heh,” said Annie. She took another clip from her lab coat and gave it to him. Danny realized it was slightly longer and just a hair fatter than the standard box. The addition of five bullets didn’t sound like much — until you had to use them.

“You might try aiming this time,” added Annie.

“I hit the target square on, bull’s-eye.”

“You should have put all the bullets through the same hole.”

“You want to try?”

He’d been set up. She took the gun with a smile and pressed the button on the wall to send the paper target back another fifty feet. Without bothering to take his visor, she blew a rather narrow and perfectly round hole through the “100” at the center of the head area.

“It’s the bullets. Primarily,” she said. “Though I must say our German friends were quite ingenious with the improvements they suggested to the gun. We’re still working on them, of course. But we should have enough to outfit your entire team in a month.”

“That long?”

“My best advice, Captain, is not to let them try the weapon until then. That boy Powder especially; he’ll never give it up. Want to take another crack at the target? Best two out of three. You can use your visor if you want.”

KNOW WHITE, BE BLACK

Chen Lo Fann held the ideograms in his head as he scanned the horizon. The thick brush strokes and their stark ideas contrasted with the haze of the horizon, the fickle world flowing in its chaos. The words from the twenty-fifth chapter of the Tao Te Ching draped themselves across his consciousness, the old master’s voice as real in his thoughts as the shadows of the ships in the distance.

Know white, be black. Be the empire’s model.

There was no more perfect statement of his mission, nor his desire in life.

Chen focused his binoculars on the closest shadow, a mere speck even at highest magnification. It was a destroyer, an escort for the largest ship in the squadron just over the horizon, the aircraft carrier Shangi-Ti. Named for an ancient creator god, the carrier was considerably smaller than the Mao, the pride of the Chinese Mainland Navy. But though half Mao’s size, Shangi-Ti and her sister ship, T’ien, were nonetheless potent crafts, similar in many ways to the British Invincible class. Displacing about twenty thousand tons, Shangi-Ti and T’ien held four Dauphin multirole helicopters and a dozen Chinese versions of the Sukhoi Su-33.

The Su-33’s were launched with the help of a special catapult system on a ramped deck, then recovered with the help or arrestor gear. It was an awkward system in some respects, still in need of refinement; even with the ramp, the heavy Sukhois dipped low over the bow on takeoff, and botched landings were particularly unforgiving. The maritime versions of the planes were fairly short-ranged, and the Dauphins’ ASW gear somewhat old. But the crews were well trained and dedicated.

And unlike the Mao, which had originally been built by Russia, the two pocket carriers were an all-Chinese design — not counting, of course, certain useful items of technology that had originated abroad and found their way surrepitiously to Asia.

Know white, be black.

Fann’s thought and gaze turned southward, in roughly the direction of the Spratly Islands. Another task force was making its way northward there, this one also centered around an aircraft carrier — the Indian Vikrant. Just out of dry dock where she had received new avionics and a ramped deck, the ship was roughly the same size as the Shangi-Ti, though its basic layout harked back to World War II. Originally built by the English and refurbished several times, she boasted eighteen Harrier II jump jets, along with four or five helicopters and one rather limited radar plane.

Ostensibly, both forces were sailing into the South China Sea to protect ships bound for their home ports. The reality was more complicated — and less so. On their present courses, it would take only a few days for them to meet.

Everything Chen did aimed at that moment of intersection.

He himself commanded five ships. The naked eye, all were noncombatants, weak and vulnerable sisters that had no business near the caldron of battle. Four were similar to the small freighter on whose bridge he stood. They looked innocent, but their simple superstructures and wide hulls were crammed with spying gear, and their sophisticated communications devices kept them in constant touch though they were spread across several thousand square miles of ocean.

The fifth vessel, still far to the north, was unlike them in many ways. To the naked eye from one hundred yards, it looked only like a decrepit oil tanker. But it held Chen’s greatest tool — robot planes the scientists called Dragons. They would not be available for several days. Even then, it was doubtful what the aircraft could accomplish; they were still experimental.

They would extend his eyesight, which was enough. His more conventional tools were sufficient to his larger purpose.

Know white, be black. Be a model for the empire.

Chen satisfied, put down his glasses and went to have his morning tea.

Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard had faced considerable danger and hardship during his Air Force career; he had gunned down MiGs, nailed enemy antiaircraft sites, and lost the use of his legs in a horrific accident while testing robot fighters. He’d dealt with enemies ranging from poorly trained Libyan pilots to highly polished government bureaucrats, vanquishing all. His confinement to a wheelchair had not prevented him from deftly directing one of the most important programs at Dreamland. If any man might truly earn the title “courageous,” it was Zen Stockard. If he was not fearless — no man in full possession of his wits is completely devoid of some silver of fear — he was so much a master of fear as to be without peer in military service.

There was one thing, however, that turned his resolute will into quivering mass of jelly:

The whine of a dentist’s drill.

Zen took a last, sharp breath as the dentist closed in, aiming at a molar deep in his mouth. The way had been prepared with a heavy dose of Novocain, and in truth Zen couldn’t feel much of anything as the drill bit touched the tooth.

But he could hear its nerve-wracking, cell-tingling howl, a shriek of devastation so violent it reverberated in the suddenly hollow ventricles of his heart. Pain, incredible pain, pulsed through every vein, every artery, every capillary, coursing through his body like hot electricity. The world went black.

And then, thankfully, the storm broke. Pain and fear retreated. The viper had stopped his hiss.

Only to gather strength for a curdling scream five octaves higher as it tore through the vulnerable enamel and weakened dentin of the defenseless back tooth.

“Got to get it all,” growled the dentist, as if Zen had somehow hidden part of the cavity to spite him.

The worst thing was, the sadist enjoyed it all. When he finally stopped, he smiled and held the drill triumphantly in one hand, waving it like a victory flag.

“See — that wasn’t bad at all, right?”

“Awgrhfkhllmk,” said Zen. It was the most coherent sound he could manage with his mouth full of dentist tools.

:Geez, you’d think I was an Air Force dentist.” Dr. Gideon — Ken to friends and victims alike — poked fun at the Air Force whenever possible. His discharge papers from the Navy were prominently displayed in the hallway.

Sure they discharge him. He was a dentist.

“Awgrh,” said Zen.

“Maybe I’ll break for coffee,” teased Gideon.

“Awgrh-agrh.” Zen tried to make the mumble sound threatening, but there was only so much you could do with a sucked clawing at your gum. Gideon picked up another tool and shot cold air into the hole he had just created.

The pain nearly knocked Zen unconscious.

“you know, Jeff, I really have to compliment you. You’ve become a much better patient over the past year. Must be your wife’s influence.”

“Awrgr-kerl-wushump.”

“Yeah, Breanna is a perfect patient. Never a word of pain. I don’t think she needs Novocain at all. Wonderful woman. You’re lucky to have her. You guys should think about kids.”

“Awrgr-kerl-wushump.”

Gideon took Zen’s garbled protest as an invitation to expound on the joys of fatherhood. He had three children, all between the ages of five and ten. They all loved to play dentist — more proof that evil hereditary.

“Due for their checkups soon,” added Gideon. “We started ’em young.”

“I thought child abuse was illegal in this state,” said Zen. With the Novocain and dental equipment, the sentence came out sounding like “thickel giggle hissss.”

“Yeah, they’re cute, all right. You ought to think about having some. Seriously.”

Gideon prolonged Zen’s agony by polishing down the filling and then using what looked and tasted like old carbon paper to perfect the bite. By the time he was done, Zen suspected the dentist could see himself in the surface.

“Very good,” said Gideon, standing back as if to take a bow. “Want to grab coffee? I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“You just want to see me with coffee dribbling down my face,” said Zen.

The actual sound was more like: “Yuwwa see muf fee dippling dowt mek fack.”

“What language are you speaking, Jeff?”

“Novocain.”

“See you in six months.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Mark Stoner shifted his eyes from the highway to the bluffs in the distance and then back, scanning every possible place an ambush might be launched from. It was the sort of thing he couldn’t turn off; ten years as a covert CIA officer on top of six years as a SEAL rewired your brain.

Not that he or Jed Barclay, the man driving the car, were in any danger of being ambushed. Coming from Washington in a scheduled flight offered expediency, but led Stoner to insist on a number of precautions, most of which caused Barclay to roll his eyes: dummy reservations, Agency-supplied false documents, even an elaborate cover story designed to be overheard — all routine precautions for Stoner. The fact they were traveling to a top-secret, ultrasecure facility changed nothing.

Stoner had never dealt with Whiplash before, and knew only vaguely about Dreamland. He tended to be agnostic about organizations and people until he saw them under fire; so he had formed no opinion on Whiplash, or even on Jed, though his youth and overabundance of nervous energy tended to grate.

Stoner noticed a small pile of rocks ahead, off on the right, seemingly haphazardly piled there.

“Security cam,” he said.

“Yeah. They’re all along the road,” said Jed. “We’re being watched via satellite too.”

Stoner cracked the window slightly, listening to the rush of air passing over the car. The road changed abruptly, taking a sharp turn down into a suddenly exposed ravine. Barclay had to slow to barely ten miles an hour as he made his way through a series of switchbacks. Undoubtedly that was the idea, and Stoner noticed the random rock piles were now much closer together.

They must have remote weapons as well as sensors here, thought Stoner.

These guys knew what they were doing, at least in terms of guarding their perimeter. There’d be holes, though. There always were.

The dirt road at the base of the slope extended for roughly a quarter mile, then suddenly trailed off. Jed drove about two hundred yards further, then stopped the car. They looked to be in the middle of nowhere. “Wrong turn?” asked Stoner.

“No. You wanted to do it the hard way. I told you, if we didn’t go through Edwards—”

“Easier to keep it compartmented.”

“If we don’t go through Edwards or get a direct flight, this is the way we have to do it.” Barclay hit his radio scan, pushing the FM frequency to exactly 100.00. all they could hear was static.

A small cloud of dust appeared directly ahead. The ground began to shake. As Stoner stared, the cloud separated into two Ospreys, roto-tipped aircraft capable of hovering like helicopters. These were unlike any Ospreys Stoner had ever seen, however; beneath their chins were swivel-mounted chain guns similar to those used in Apache gunships, and there were triple-rack missile launchers on their wings and the side of their fuselages.

Stoner started to unlock the door.

“Uh, no, not until they say it’s okay.” Jed reached across and grabbed him. “They’ll blow us up if you get out.”

Stoner let go of the door handle. One of the Ospreys whipped past, its big shadow covering thee car. The other slowed to a hover about twenty yards away. The reflection of the sun made if hard to see, but from where Stoner was sitting there didn’t seem to be a pilot.

“Blue Taurus, license plate X-ray Tetra Vector, exit your vehicle and stand by for identification,” said a sharp, clear voice on the radio.

“That would be us,” said Jed, unlocking the door. Stoner watched and then copied his actions, taking a few steps away and holding out his hands. He looked upward as the hovering Osprey moved forward slowly, its gun rotating, there was a camera pod behind the weapon.

The Osprey leapt upward. Stoner waited as the wash from the second aircraft pushed his pants and shit to the side.

“Okay, let’s go,” said Jed, who was already trotting forward. The first Osprey landed about fifty yards ahead; the second, meanwhile, had plopped down behind them, depositing two fully armed Air Force special tactics team members to inspect and investigate the vehicle.

The door to the Osprey sprang open as Jed and Stoner approached. “Welcome, Mr. Barclay.”

“Hey,” said Jed.

“There’s nobody flying this thing,” said Stoner as he climbed inside.

“This is Dreamland,” said Jed. “What did you expect?”

The silkiness of his wife’s body worked like a drug, loosening knots Danny didn’t know he had. He ran his hand slowly over her belly and breast, gently skimming along the surface. The tips of his fingers tingled, as if electricity were flowing from her. He pulled her hip toward him, rolling on top to make love again. His mouth dove into hers. Jemma’s tongue slid along the bottom of his lips; something tight in his neck let loose and he fell inside her, his whole body plunging into a warm cave. He rolled through it, luxuriating in the liberating heat.

How long it lasted, Danny couldn’t say. At some point, he felt as if he were floating at the top of an ocean; shortly afterward, he washed up on a beach, still basking in the warmth of the summer sun.

“Good,” said Jemma.

“Good,” said Danny.

“We could do this more often.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Jemma reached over to the floor, where they’d set the room service tray with its decanter of tea. Danny slide his arm under the pillow, wallowing in the decadence of the large bed. Living halfway across the country from his wife sucked — but it sure did make things sweeter when they saw each other.

“I talked to Jim Stephens the other day,” said Jemma, slipping back in bed with her tea, an herbal blend that smelled like orange and cinnamon. Its perfume added to his intoxication.

“Uh-huh,” said Danny, not really paying attention.

“There’s a primary coming up this fall. A perfect shot. Happens to be the district where I’m staying — and it’s an open seat.”

“You should run,” he said, starting to drift toward sleep.

“Not me,” she said. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she took a sip of her tea. “You did talk to Jim Stephens, right? I know you did, because he told me he had an excellent conversation with you. And he’s very, very high on you.”

Stephens — election. Jemma’s master plan make him the next President of the United States.

“I can’t run for office while I’m in the Air Force,” said Danny, still drifting.

“Oh, Jimmy can fix that. Don’t worry.”

Danny reached his hand over to his wife’s breast. His fingers slid gently across her nipple, brushing it erect.

“Changing the subject?” she asked.

“Fact-finding mission,” he said.

“Oh? And what fact are you looking for?”

“Whether you’re still horny or not.”

“Again?” She said.

She reached over and put her tea on the side table. As she turned back, Danny’s cell phone began to buzz.

Danny sighed, and immediately slide upright.

“Daniel.”

“They wouldn’t call unless it was important.”

“Everything’s important,” She reached her hand down to stroke his leg.

“Mmmmph.” Danny pulled the phone over from the stand on his side of the bed.

“Freah,” he said after clicking the talk button.

“Captain, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Whiplash order,” said Lieutenant McNally. “Colonel needs you ASAP.”

“I’m on my way.” Danny clicked the phone off and rolled out of bed.

“Oh, no,” said Jemma.

“I’ll call as soon as I can,” said Danny, grabbing his pants.

“At least put underwear on,” she called after him.

Danny, embarrassed — he had in fact forgotten — let go of his pants and dropped to the floor to retrieve his underwear.

“How do you manage without me?” said his wife, laughing and shaking her head.

“The political situation in both India and China is complicated, as you’d imagine,” continued Jed Barclay.

“Just a summary, Jed,” said Dog, trying to keep the NSC deputy on line. Barclay was a genius and a strong advocate for Whiplash and Dreamland, but his dissertations on international politics tended to sprawl.

“Yes, sir. Basically, the extremists in India are trying to improve their position in the upcoming elections. They calculate that China is a weak and easy mark due to the conflict with us and Taiwan — well, you’re all familiar with the so-called Fatal Terrain event.”

The dozen top officers gathered in the secure briefing room nodded. Though the details were still highly classified, most knew how Brad Elliott had chosen to give his life to help prevent an apocalyptic war — their interpretation, not the media’s.

“Of course, the Islamic Alliance and the connection with China plays right into this, yada, yada, yada, because now hitting the Chinese is the same as hitting Muslims as far as most Hindus are concerned. Those who care anyway,” continued Barclay. “And we’ve — uh, I better skip some of the political wrangling.”

He glanced at Dog, who nodded.

“On the other side of the equation, the Chinese, domestically, needed something to show they’re in power, that they’re not slipping. Because now, right, they look weak. As we saw with the incident in Tibet …”

“Which incident was that?” asked Rubeo.

From anyone else, it would have been an innocent question — in fact, Dog himself wasn’t sure what Barclay was referring to, but Rubeo took a perverse pleasure in watching other squirm. An ever-so-subtle look of satisfaction flickered across the scientist’s face as Jed stuttered, the train of his thoughts bunching and crashing down a siding he hadn’t seen coming.

“Don’t worry about Tibet, Pakistan, Taiwan, or any of that bullshit,” said Stoner. It was the first time the CIA official had spoken since he arrived. “The action’s out in the South China Sea. India and China are fighting a war out there, sinking each other’s merchant ships. They’ve been rattling sabers and now they’re using them. everything else is just bullshit.”

“Please,” said Rubeo, in a way that implied many things other than courtesy or respect.

“I think we can get a full rundown on Tibet later, along with any other geopolitical matters anyone has an interest in,” said Dog. “Let’s move to our assignment.”

Anyone else would have interpreted this as a mild reprimand. Rubeo, however, saw it somehow as a vindication, and slipped back into his seat with a barely concealed gloat. Before Jed could continue, the door alarm buzzed; the doors slid back and Danny Freah appeared.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Freah.

“We’re just getting to the good part, Danny,” said Dog. “We’re being asked to mount a surveillance mission in the South China Sea, observing a new weapon the Indians have.”

“It’s not limited just to that,” said Jed. “Information on everything going in — that’s what Whiplash covers.”

“The new technology is a prime concern,” said Stoner.

“Um, everything’s of interest,” said Jed. “The order covers the entire situation; the Chinese as well as the Indians. This is a twenty-four/seven operation, completely covert and not coordinated with Pacific Command or any other command.”

“Why not?” asked Major Merce Alou, who had taken over command of the Megafortress development project when Major Cheshire left to head the operational wing.

“Security,” said Stoner.

“Uh, well, uh, there are several concerns,” said Jed. “We’re absolutely not attempting to provoke anything, or increase tensions, which putting ships out there would do. Pacific Fleet’s resources are already concentrated in the Indian Ocean and around Taiwan. The threat of an invasion remains viable.”

“That’s a bullshit estimate,” said Stoner.

“I agree, but it’s not my call,” said Jed. “Also, the Director, um, the National Security Director, would prefer not tipping off the Indians that we know, uh, about Kali. Moving Naval assets would, at least arguably, tip them or the Russians off. Which would be the same thing.”

“Kali?” asked Zen.

“It’s halfway between a sub-launched Harpoon and a Tomahawk missile,” said Stoner. “It’s underwater-launched, like a torpedo. We think it can travel four or five miles underwater before it surfaces, which makes the launching sub that much harder to detect. It pops up, skims along the surface of the water, and hits its target. It seems to be able to correct toward its target close in; we believe it has an active radar phase, but we still need to gather data. That’s your mission.”

“At least for now,” added Jed. “There’s a debate—”

“Let’s deal with what we’re assigned to do, not maybes,” Colonel Bastian said. Jed had told him earlier the NSC had debated asking Whiplash to protect all shipping in the area — a tall order, and one possibly beyond their abilities. NSC had held off doing so — largely, according to Jed, because doing so would have stepped on the Navy’s toes.

“Piranha,” said Rubeo. “It’s obvious choice.”

“Not ready for a mission like this,” said Dog.

“Piranha is what?” said Stoner.

“Underwater surveillance probe and weapon,” Dog told him. “I don’t think you need to know the details.”

“We can clean up the computer issues in a few days,” said Rubeo.

“The mission has to start right away,” said Jed. “We were thinking Elint Megafortresses.”

“I concur,” said Dog. “Merce?”

“We’ll use Raven and Quicksilver,” said Alou, referring to the EB-52’s optimized for electronic intelligence-gathering. “We deploy a mini-KH for optical surveillance at the same time.”

“Negative on the tactical satellites,” Dog told him. “We dong have any launch chassis.”

“We do have satellite coverage of the area,” said Jed. “It’ll be available through the Dreamland network.”

“If we’re looking for really close views of something while it’s traveling, we can take Flighthawks,” said Zen. “Straightforward.”

“What do we do if these weapons are used?” asked Alou.

“At the moment, just observe them,” said Jed.

“Wait — they’re firing at civilian targets or military targets?” asked Zen. “I think I missed something here.”

“What difference does it make?” asked Stoner.

“It makes a shitload of difference,” said Zen.

“There are military ships in the region that could be targets,” said Jed. “Until now, all of the ships that have been sunk were civilian.”

“Damn.”

“The vessel sunk by the Kali was a merchant freighter owned by the Chinese government smuggling weapons to Islamic extremists,” said Stoner. “The same ship delivered explosives used to blow up a government building in New Delhi six months ago. Still worried about civilians?”

“Yeah. I am,” said Zen.

“We’ll need a force briefing before we deploy.” Dog told Jed.

“Do we operate out of Guam?” asked Major Alou, referring to the air base on the island. “Anderson?”

“We’d prefer not to, due to the nature of the mission,” said Jed. “We’d prefer a sanitized site not connected to USPACCOM or any present operation.”

“Deniable,” added Stoner.

“I’ve already checked into possible sites for a secure forward base,” continued Jed. “We have a site in the Philippines away from, uh, away from the population centers and sea lanes. It’s actually an old airstrip, pretty long. Just needs to be, um, tidied up a little. Remembering what you did in Turkey, I thought—”

“You want us to blow up another mountain?” Danny asked with a laugh.

“That won’t be necessary this time.”

“I want to drive one of the bulldozers,” said Breanna.

Half of the room laughed.

The other half said, “Me too.”

“I want to be in one of the Megafortresses,” said Breanna as the laughterdied.

“You have a heavy schedule with the UMB,” Dog said, surprised that she had volunteered.

“There’s only one flight test planned over the next seven or eight days,” said Bree.

“This could easily last longer,” said Jed. “I’d be thinking in, uh, the time frame of two or three months, at least until tensions die down.”

“That’s the case, you really need me. You won’t have enough trained Megafortress pilots unless you rotate in and out,” said Breanna, looking at Alou.

“She’s right, Colonel. We could work around her schedule. Actually, if this lasts any length of time, we’ll have to work around a lot of schedules.”

“All right. Map out plans for a deployment,” said Dog. “I want planes over the area twenty-four hours from now, and I want them landing at that Philippines base when their shift is done.”