Revolution

I Medal of Honor

Jed Barclay hesitated outside the door, glancing down at his suit jacket and tie to make sure everything was in order. It was one of the personal "tricks" the speech therapist had given him: Reassure yourself before a meeting that you look fantastic, hon, then you can proceed with confidence.

Her precise, motherly voice rang in his ears as he took a slow, deep breath. The nearby Secret Service agent was probably choking back a laugh, he thought, not daring to glance in his direction.

"Jed, come on," said Jerrod Hale, the President's chief of staff, spotting him through the doorway. "They've already started."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry."

Jed started inside with his head down, then heard the therapist's advice again: Head up, stride with purpose!You belong where you're going.

Even if it's the Oval office, she might have added — and undoubtedly would have if she'd known that his job as a deputy to the National Security Advisor often brought him here. He hadn't told her what his job was, and it appeared that the anonymous benefactor who arranged for his speech lessons hadn't told her.

Jed's boss, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, nodded at him as he slipped into the room. President Kevin Martindale gave him a nod as well, but then turned his attention back to the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral George Balboa, who was summing up the results of the U.S.'s successful intervention in the Indian-Pakistani War.

"So we now have peace between India and Pakistan. Total peace. For the moment." Balboa puffed out his words, punctuating his sentences with hard stops and short breaths as if they were darts. "The Navy has the situation under control. Entirely. Our two carriers are more than a match for the combatants. Medals are in order. My opinion."

"Oh, I think the Dreamland people deserve a little credit," said Arthur Chastain dryly. Chastain was the Secretary of Defense, and lately had been making little secret of his disdain for Balboa. Dreamland had, in fact, done most of the work, and had the casualties to prove it.

"Some credit. Some," admitted Balboa. "Terrill Samson is going to turn that place around."

"Samson is a good man," said Chastain. "But Dreamland doesn't need to be turned around. I admit Bastian is operating over his pay grade, but he's done a hell of a job."

Balboa made a face before continuing. His words came even faster, and in shorter bits. "I can envision a day where Dreamland works with Marines, SEALs, the whole nine yards."

"I think medals are a very good idea," said President Mar-tindale. "An excellent idea." He rose from the desk. "And why hasn't Bastian been promoted?" he asked Chastain. "He deserves it."

"Ordinarily, sir, length of service is the most important criteria. Lieutenant Colonel Bastian—"

"The hell with that. He should be a general."

Balboa cut in. "Mr. President, with due respect. To go from lieutenant colonel to general, at a time when we're not at war—"

"Thanks to him," noted the President.

"Bypassing the normal process and making a lieutenant colonel a general, I don't think it's a good idea, sir," said Chastain. "I like Bastian. I admire him. He's got a great future. But making him a general—"

"Roosevelt did it," said Martindale brightly.

"That was during the world war. And I don't believe that anyone went from lieutenant colonel to general without at least a few months as colonel," said Chastain. "Congress was also involved. They passed special legislation."

"There are promotion boards and processes," added Balboa. "If we disregard them, the entire service is harmed. We can't put one man above the entire military. It's not worth it, Mr. President."

Promotions were governed not only by tradition and service regulations, but by law. To become a full colonel, an officer usually had to spend twenty-two years in the military — and by law had to spend a minimum of three years in grade. Bastian failed on both counts. The law did allow what was unofficially called a "below the zone" promotion: One year before regular eligibility, a candidate might be elevated to the promotion list. But Chastain explained that Bastian had received a below the zone promotion to lieutenant colonel, and was therefore not eligible even for that consideration.

The criteria for promotion to flag officer rank — a general— was even more complicated. Congress limited the number of generals in the service. The Air Force was presently allotted 139 brigadier or one star generals; those ranks were not only full, but there was a long waiting list. In effect, a promotion was generally a replacement of a retiring general. No matter how capable he was, moving Lieutenant Colonel Bastian up to flag rank would provoke bad feelings — and require the approval of the Senate. The process would surely involve hearings, and given the recent criticism from some members of the Senate and congress that Dreamland was being used as the President's private army, that was something best avoided.

"Yes, all right, I'm sorry, gentlemen. Of course," said the President. "We have to think about the entire military. But Bastian's promotion should be expedited. There has to be a way to get him to full colonel. He deserves it."

"That can be looked into," said Balboa.

"And the Congressional Medal of Honor, for what he did," said Martindale. "Clearly he earned that."

That was no exaggeration. Colonel Bastian had risked his life to stop a world war. His aircraft was under heavy fire and had been damaged by Chinese missiles, he'd outgunned several interceptors and at least one destroyer, he had his crew bail out, and then single-handedly dove his plane on that Chinese carrier, ready to sacrifice his life so the plane couldn't take off. He'd been seconds away from death when the Chinese stood down.

"If it weren't for Bastian," agreed Freeman, "we would be at war with the Chinese by now."

"I agree," said Chastain. "Frankly, that sort of honor is long overdue. All of the Dreamland people who were on that mission. The two pilots who were on that island… "

The Secretary of Defense looked at Jed, expecting him to supply their names.

"That would be Zen Stockard," he said. "Uh… um, M-Major Jeffrey Stockard and Cap-Captain Breanna Stockard."

Damn, he thought. He was still stuttering.

"I agree they should be recognized. Their efforts," said Balboa. "But of course, we do have provisions… regulations. A procedure."

"Follow the procedure," said Martindale. "But Bastian gets the Medal of Honor. And medals for the rest. Our heroes have to be recognized. Period. Next topic."

"The guards change at ten minutes to midnight.The path to the pipe is wide open," said General Tomma Locusta. "You can make the attack without any interference."

"And no loss to your men," said the Russian. Locusta nodded. The Russian was very good at stating the obvious.

"Sometimes eggs must be broken," said the Russian.

"Eggs are one thing, men another."

"As you wish," said the Russian. His name was Svoransky; he was a military attache sent from Bucharest, the capital. He could not speak Romanian; the two men used English to communicate, the only language in common between them.

Locusta raised his binoculars, scanning farther across the valley toward the gas pipeline. Only the very top of its gunmetal-gray frame could be seen from here. Raised on metal stanchions, the huge metal pipe was part of an old network originally laid from Romania's own gas production wells. The government gas company had plans to bury the line eventually; until then, it was an easy and tempting target.

Which was what the Russian wanted. "What is the interval between radio checks?" asked Svo-ransky.

"It is not necessary to worry about that," said Locusta, fearing he had given away too much information already. Svoransky was helping him, but it would be a mistake to believe that their interests were precisely the same.

A severe mistake. The Russians could never be trusted. Even Romania's fool of a president, Alin Voda, knew that.

Voda. Just thinking of him turned Locusta's stomach. He was a weakling, a democrat — part of the alleged liberalizing movement that aimed at bringing Romania into the twenty-first century. The movement was nothing but a cover for money grabbing capitalists who aimed at stealing Romania blind.

"Very good, then," said Svoransky. "I appreciate your showing me this in person."

Locusta nodded. He had taken the task on himself because he felt he could trust no one with it — not because he was afraid they would betray him, but because the soldiers in his command retained a strong dislike for Russians. Few Romanian soldiers, officers or enlisted, would have been able to countenance helping the Russians in this way. Locusta himself barely accepted it, and he was doing it so he could rid the country of its scoundrel democrats and return the strong hand it deserved.

"You are sure you have everything you need?" Svoransky asked. "Very sure? You must see to every detail — you do not want the government realizing who is truly behind the attacks."

The remark didn't deserve an answer, and Locusta made no reply. Instead he turned his glasses to the southeast, in the general direction the pipeline took from Bulgaria, through Turkey, and over to the far-off Caspian Sea. It was amazing to think that the gas would travel so many miles — and that it would go even farther still, to Austria, then Czechoslovakia, Germany, France, and Spain.

Of course, that wouldn't be the case once the attacks were finished. Western Europe would have to freeze — or buy from the Russians, which was what Svoransky wanted.

While stopping the flow of gas served Locusta's purposes as well, he did not want the pipeline damaged too severely. As soon as he was in charge of the government, the line would be repaired — and better guarded, most especially against the Russians. The revenues would be as handy for him as they were for Voda and his cronies.

"Tomorrow," said Svoransky. "Depend on it."

"We will," said Locusta, starting back toward the car.

Jeff "Zen" Stockard tapped the side of the pool and started back on his last lap, pushing hard enough to feel the strain in his shoulder muscles. The water was warm, and stank of chlorine. He closed his eyes and dove down, aiming for the bottom. He tapped it, then came up quickly, his thrusts so hard he nearly slammed against the end of the pool.

"You're looking good," said the lifeguard, standing nearby with a towel. They were the only two people in the large room that housed the gym's pool.

"Thanks, Pete." Zen put his arms on the edge of the pool and lifted himself out slowly, twisting his body around to sit on the side. Even though he'd grown friendly with the lifeguard — or trainer, which was his actual title — over the past six or seven months, Zen still felt self-conscious getting in and out of the pool, and especially getting into his wheelchair.

It wasn't the chair that bothered him; it was the looks of apprehension and pity from the people who saw him.

Not being able to use his legs did bother him, of course. It bothered him a great deal. But most days he had other things to focus on.

"Hey." The lifeguard squatted down. "You want to catch some breakfast? Coffee or something?"

"No, sorry. I'm supposed to meet Bree for breakfast before work."

Pete threw the towel over his shoulders. "I saw those news reports," he said. "God damn. You are a real hero. I'm really… it's amazing."

Zen laughed.

"No, I mean it. I ain't buttering you up, Zen. I'm really honored just to know you."

"Hey, I'm still the same guy," said Zen. He wasn't sure why he was laughing — maybe because he was nervous about being called a hero, or about being in the spotlight. "Still the same guy who pulls his pants on one bum leg at a time."

"You want me to get your chair?"

"If you could."

"Of course I can. God. Jeez, man, for you I'd do anything."

Zen began edging away from the pool. The flooring material was textured to provide a good grip for feet, which made it harder for him to move back. The lifeguard positioned the chair and helped him up.

"Hard to believe you could do all that and still be in a wheelchair," he said. "You guys really did stop a war."

"I guess we did."

"Maybe no one will ever go to war again, huh? If they know you guys will step in?"

"Somehow, I think that's wishful thinking, Pete," said Zen, starting for the locker room.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm taking a walk," said Breanna Stockard.

"What are you doing out of bed?" repeated the doctor. Her name was Rene Rosenberg, and she was so short that Bre-anna — no giant herself — could look down at the top of her head and see speckles of gray in the roots of her hair.

"I seem to be taking a walk," repeated Breanna.

"You're dressed."

"Just about." Breanna turned slowly, surveying the room. She'd forgotten where her sweater was.

"Ms. Stockard — really, I insist that you rest. Have you had breakfast?"

"I need to move my legs before breakfast."

"The bathroom is behind you."

"I've already been."

"Then please, back in bed."

Breanna spotted the sweater on the chair under the television.

"I don't want you putting weight on that right leg," warned the doctor.

"You said the X rays were clean."

"Yes, but the ligaments and tendons in your knee were severely damaged."

"But not torn. Exercise is good," added Breanna, remembering the doctor's own words.

"Supervised exercise as part of a rehabilitation program, not jogging around the halls at seven in the morning."

"I was thinking I'd save the jogging for after breakfast."

Breanna shifted her weight back and forth. The ligament connecting the muscles and bones together had been severely strained, but not torn. Still, it did hurt enough for her to fight back a wince.

The doctor had her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. "Frankly, Breanna, I don't understand how you managed to avoid breaking your leg, let alone ripping the knee to shreds. How are your ribs?"

"Solid."

"And your head?" "Still hard as a rock."

Dr. Rosenberg frowned. Breanna's lower right ribs were badly bruised. Her injuries had come after ejecting from her Megafortress, though their exact origin was something of a mystery — the doctors believed she had hit something, probably the bottom of the plane as she jumped, though Breanna thought it had happened much later, when she hit the water. She had a good memory of leaving the plane, jumping through the open hatchway in the Flighthawk bay with Zen. She could see him falling with her, diverted slightly by the slipstream of wind below the fuselage. His chute opened. She felt the tug of hers, looked up and saw the blossom above her…

The rest was a blank. Zen had found her in the water, pulled her onto a small atoll off the Indian coast, gotten her food and helped get them rescued.

"Breanna, really, you have to take it easy," said the doctor. "Seriously, Bree."

Something about the doctor's tone of voice-it was very unprofessional, almost pleading — caught Breanna off guard. "I'm OK," she told her.

"You're not OK. You're getting better. And to keep getting better, you have to go slow. Bit by bit."

"My mother's been talking to you, hasn't she?"

A smile fluttered across Dr. Rosenberg's face. It didn't last — her professional mask was quickly put back in place, the lines of her mouth sloping downward slightly, as if she were ready to frown.

"The doctor did call and ask a few questions," admitted Rosenberg. "But you're my patient, and these are my concerns. A walk, with your cane, to stretch your legs," she added, retrieving the cane. "A short walk. With the cane. All right?"

Breanna took the cane and began making her way out of the room. Dr. Rosenberg walked at her side.

"I know it must be hard for you to throttle back," said the doctor as they stepped into the hallway. "You're a Type A personality. But sometimes —"

"She's A to Z," said Zen, stopping just before rolling into them.

"Hey," said Breanna.

"Where are you going?" said Zen. "I thought we were having breakfast."

"We are as soon as I work up an appetite."

Zen looked over at the doctor. "How's she doing?"

"I think she's aiming for a breakout." The doctor's grimace turned into a broad smile. Her manner changed; Breanna couldn't help thinking she was flirting with Zen, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy.

"You aimin' to bust outta this dump?" Zen asked her.

"Ain't no prison can hold me, Sheriff."

"Another two days. You were unconscious for an awfully long time," said Dr. Rosenberg. "Days."

"Two days. I was sleeping," insisted Breanna. It wasn't clear what had happened to her; the neurologist believed she'd suffered a concussion, though the length of her "incident," as he called it, could also suggest a coma. She had no obvious sign of brain damage, and the series of tests failed to find anything subtle.

Her body was still somewhat depleted from exposure and dehydration, however, and it reminded her of it with a shake as she began walking down the hall. Determined not to let Zen or the doctor see, she gripped the top of the cane firmly, pausing just a moment.

The doctor missed it, but Zen didn't.

"Problem?" asked her husband.

"I'm waiting for you, slowpoke."

"That'll be the day."

"I'm going to leave you in the custody of your husband," said Rosenberg. "Jeff, she can make one circuit, then back to bed. Her knee really shouldn't be overstressed. And she should take those clothes off."

"I'll see what I can do about that."

Rosenberg, belatedly recognizing the double entendre, started to flush, then nodded and walked away.

"She's got a crush on you," Breanna told her husband.

"Who wouldn't?"

"You are so conceited."

"It's the chair. All babes fall for crips. Can't resist us."

Breanna's breakfast had arrived while they were out. Zen snickered at the overcooked croissant and told her he'd be right back. It took him more than a half hour to get to the cafeteria and back, but when he returned, he had a plate of bacon, a large helping of scrambled eggs, some home fries, toast, and a full carafe of coffee.

"What, no tomato juice?" said Breanna, pulling the cover off the plate of eggs.

"They're saving it for the Bloody Marys," Zen told her.

Breanna dug into the food greedily. The eggs were a little rubbery, but acceptable under the circumstances.

"All right, off with your clothes," growled Zen when she finished.

"What?"

"Doctor's orders." He smiled at her — then reached his fingers beneath her T-shirt. "What do you say?"

"They'll hear us out at the nurses' station."

"I'll close the door and put a do-not-disturb sign on it."

Zen's cell phone started to ring as he swung toward the door.

"You better answer that," she said.

"Why?"

"No one calls you on your cell phone unless it's an emergency."

"It's too early for an emergency." "Jeff. What if it's my father?"

"You're legal age." Zen pulled out the phone, checked the number, then answered. "This is Zen. What's going on, cuz?"

Breanna could tell from her husband's voice that he was talking to Jed Barclay, his cousin and the President's liaison to Dreamland.

"Wow," he said, his eyes opening wide. "Here, tell Bree."

Breanna took the phone.

"Breanna how are you feeling?" asked Jed.

"A lot better than when I talked to you the other day. What's going on?"

"You guys are getting big-time medals. And your father, Colonel Bastian? The Medal of Honor. No shit."

Major General Terrill "Earthmover" Samson took the last gulp of coffee from his cup, folded his arms and surveyed his office. The far wall was lined with photos of his past commands, along with a selection of pictures of him with superior officers, two Presidents, and a Hollywood movie star who'd visited his base to find out what pilots were really like. The wall to the right, until recently lined with bookshelves, now had framed commendations he'd received, along with a few oil paintings of the aircraft he'd flown. The furniture— which had arrived the day before — was sleek glass and chrome, very futuristic, just the right tone for Dreamland, Samson thought.

He wasn't quite done — he'd need a few models of aircraft to adorn his desk — but the office now bore his stamp.

The command itself would take a little longer. The first order of business was to organize Dreamland along traditional Air Force lines, which meant establishing a base command and a set of air wings to oversee the actual operations. To do that, he needed people. The base side was already taken care of: Colonel Marie Tassel was due at Dreamland in two weeks. She was a no-nonsense taskmaster who'd worked in the Inspector General's Office. Her job would be to run the physical plant, overseeing everything from day care for the dependents to purchasing paper clips, and Tassel was just anal enough to get the place shipshape in no time.

Samson had also chosen someone to head the science and engineering group — a military officer who would oversee the collection of civilian eggheads and hippies working on the high-tech toys Dreamland was famous for. Colonel John Cho was an engineer by training; he undoubtedly could speak their language while increasing their productivity. He'd also served as a tanker pilot early in his career and had done a stint with airlift. Cho was due in a few days, as soon as he finished up his present assignment at the Pentagon.

Filling the "action" side of things was trickier. Samson intended on establishing one wing to conduct combat operations and another to oversee experimental flights. But all the "good" colonels seemed to be taken.

Of course, he could slip a lieutenant colonel into one of the slots, if he had the right man. But he didn't want to do that, and not simply because wing commander was generally a colonel's job. As long as he used rank as his first consideration, it was the perfect excuse to keep Bastian out of the position.

Not that Bastian was going to be a problem. He was going elsewhere. Soon. Sooner than soon. But just in case.

Samson looked at his desk, piled high with papers. The other thing he needed was a chief of staff.

Bastian, with an extremely limited man count and an even tighter budget, had functioned as his own chief of staff— thanks largely to the efforts of a chief master sergeant extraordinaire. But the chief was retiring, and in any event, Samson reflected, he wasn't here to do things on a shoestring. He needed a savvy major to sort things out for him — and run interference, he noted as his thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

"Come," he commanded impatiently.

"General, Major Mack Smith, sir. You asked me to stop by, sir."

Mack walked into the office as if he owned it. He had the cocky smile that Samson instantly recognized as the particular disease of a fighter jock. Tall, well-built, and with a somewhat boyish face, Smith looked like he stepped out of a Hollywood movie. He reeked of arrogance — without waiting for permission, he pulled over a chair and sat down.

"Did I say you should sit, Major?"

"Sir, no sir."

Mack jumped quickly to his feet. He was still grinning, but his quickness was a good sign, thought Samson. He tried to remember who the hell Mack Smith was: He'd met so many people over the past few days that he was drawing a blank.

"The general is having a little trouble placing me," said Mack, his voice now obsequious. "We met, sir, on Diego Garcia."

Smith? Not the head of the special operations ground unit, the pararescuers with counterterror training — that was a black captain, Danny Freah.

Smith?

"General, if I may — I served under you sir, briefly, in the Fourth Air Force."

The Fourth Air Force? God, that took him back.

"I was a second lieutenant, sir," added Mack. "Young and impressionable. You showed me the way."

"Go on," said Samson.

Mack barely needed the prompting. He recited a service record that would have made Jimmy Doolittle jealous — a record that Samson wouldn't have believed had he not read the after-action reports involving Dreamland under the so-called "Whiplash orders" — actions directed by the President.

An F-15 pilot in the Gulf War with a kill, serious time as a test pilot, a stint as a foreign air force advisor, combat operations on two continents, with a dozen kills to his name — the man was definitely going places in the Air Force. He was just the sort Samson wanted under him.

And maybe a perfect chief of staff.

"That's enough, Major," said Samson, interrupting. "As I recall, you were looking for some help finding a new assignment."

"Uh, yes sir."

"An active wing — something that will help you move ahead."

"I'd appreciate that, General." Mack gave him a big smile.

"I can certainly do that. Have a seat, Major. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"There's a pot in the outer office. Refill mine, too."

Mack hopped to. Samson leaned back in his chair. Smith had been Bastian's copilot on his last mission. Ordered by Bastian to jump into the water — with characteristically misplaced bravado, Bastian had been planning to crash his plane into a Chinese carrier — the major had pulled the crew together and gotten them rescued.

That was all very well and good — the men would respect him — but if he'd been Bastian's copilot, he might be too close to him.

"So tell me, Major, what do you think of Major Catsman?" he asked when Mack returned with the coffee. Mack made a face as he sat down. "Problem?"

"She's OK."

Catsman had been Bastian's executive officer. Samson had thought of making her his chief of staff, but some of her comments over the past few days convinced him that would be a mistake.

"You can be candid," Samson told Mack. "She's not a very good officer?"

"Oh, she's a great officer," said Mack. "Very good at what she does. Just… well, I wouldn't want to speak out of turn."

Samson raised his hand. "This is completely off the record, Major. Just chatter between us."

"Well, yes sir. She does seem pretty close to Colonel Bas-tian, don't you think?"

"An affair?"

"Oh no, no, nothing like that," said Mack. "She just — you know the old saying about looking through the world with rose-shaded glasses? Well, Major Catsman has Bastian-shaded glasses, if you know what I mean."

Samson nodded. "She tried to convince me I should talk Ray Rubeo out of quitting."

"Dr. Ray? Pshew. Good riddance."

"Good riddance?"

Mack shrugged. "He wasn't exactly a team player. You know what I mean? We're still off the record, sir?" "Yes, yes, of course," said Samson. Rubeo was the civilian scientist who had headed the sci ence department. Samson eagerly accepted his resignation after making it clear that eccentric eggheads had no future in his command.

"Tell me, Mack, what do you think of Danny Freah?" said Samson.

"Captain Freah? Head of base security, head of Whiplash. Our top Spec Warfare guy. A-number-one. Close to Bastian, but dependable even so. He's done a hell of a lot with the Whiplash kids. Still impressionable. With the right mentor, he could go all the way."

Samson began quizzing Mack about the other personnel at the base. Mack had a strong opinion about each one of them. It didn't take long for Samson to realize that Mack Smith knew where all the bodies were buried — and where a few more ought to be dumped.

"Mack, have you given any thought to your next assignment?" asked the general, once more interrupting him. "I mean real thought?"

"Excuse me, sir, as I'd said earlier, I did, and not to repeat myself but—"

"No, no, Mack. Real thought." Samson rose from his chair and walked over to the wall with his photographs. "Some men plan things out very far in advance. Others just let them happen."

Mack got up from the chair and walked over behind the general.

"Did you ever meet Curtis LeMay?" asked Samson, pointing at the photo of himself and the famous Air Force general who had served during World War II and the Cold War.

"Gee, no, sir."

"Richard Nixon. Tragic figure," said Samson, pointing to another photo. "Not so tragic as LBJ. That's after he left the presidency. I'm a captain in that photo. Freshly promoted."

"The general hasn't changed a bit," said Mack.

Samson smirked. Yes, Mack would do very well as chief of staff. After he was broken in.

"You flew Boners, sir?" asked Mack, staring at another shot.

Samson frowned. Though "boner" was a common nickname for the B-1B bomber — it came from spelling out B-1—he didn't particularly like it.

"I've had plenty of stick time in the B-1," he said, "among other planes. I was one of the first B-1B squadron leaders. A pretty plane."

"Yes sir, real pretty."

"To get where I am, you need a few things, Mack. Some important things." "Luck, General?" "I'm anything but lucky, Major."

If he was lucky, thought Samson, he'd have been given a full command like Centcom or the Southern Command, posts he coveted, rather than Dreamland.

"You need experience, you need ambition, you need good postings," continued the general. "And you need friends. Mentors. The Air Force is very political, Mack. Very. Even for someone like you, with a great record, who you know can determine how far you go."

"I'll bet."

"I've been blessed with a number of very important mentors — men, and a few women as well, whom I've met on the way up. Admiral Balboa, for one."

"Sure. You probably know a lot of people."

Samson could see that Mack wasn't quite getting it. The general went back to his desk and had another sip of coffee. "I'm looking for a chief of staff," he said bluntly. "I'm hoping you'll be interested."

"Chief of staff? A desk job?"

"An important hands-on position," said Samson. "A right-hand man."

"Gee, General, I hadn't really thought of taking something like that."

"Mmmm." Samson pressed his lips together. "Can I, uh, think it over?"

"Of course, Mack." He rose to dismiss him — and hide his displeasure. "Let's say, twenty-four hours?"

"Um, uh — yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"No, thank you, Mack." Samson stared at him a moment. When Mack didn't move, he added, "Dismissed," and went back to work on his papers.

Mark Stoner pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head as he got out of the Fiat, then zipped his winter coat against the cold. He closed the door of the car, slipping his hand into his coat pocket as he walked along the road, his fingers gripping the .45 caliber Colt automatic in his pocket, an old but trusted friend.

Making his way along the crumbling asphalt of the highway shoulder, he reached the start of a dirt path that twisted down through the woods. He paused as if to tie his shoe, dropping to his knee and looking around, making sure he wasn't being followed or watched. The sun had already set, but the woods were thin and he had a good, clear view of his surroundings. Satisfied he was alone, Stoner rose and started down the trail. He walked slowly so he could listen for any sound that seemed out of place.

After twenty yards the path veered sharply to the right. Stoner stopped again, once more checking around carefully, though this time he didn't bother with a pretense. The terrain dropped off precipitously to the left, giving a good view of the valley and, not coincidentally, of the gas pipeline that ran nearby.

Stoner had never been here before, but he had examined satellite photos of the area, and everything seemed vaguely familiar. That, he knew, was dangerous — familiarity made you assume things you shouldn't assume. It was better to be a stranger, as he was to Romania. A stranger trusted no one, took nothing for granted.

Stoner was a professional stranger. His actual job was as a paramilitary officer, assigned to the CIA's operations directorate. He was literally a stranger to Romania, having been pressed into service here barely a week before, following the death of another officer. The man had been murdered by rebels in a town twenty miles to the south, and was in fact the third CIA employee killed in the troubled northeastern quarter of Romania over the past year. Stoner had been sent to find out what the hell was going on.

Thirty yards after the sharp bend, the trail disintegrated into a pile of a large boulders, the result of a landslide that had occurred several years before. Though he had a good view of the rocks and the drop-off beyond, Stoner took his time approaching them, stopping and starting, aware that it would be an easy place for an ambush. When he finally reached the rocks, the last light of the sun was nearly gone. He dropped to his haunches, then unzipped his coat and took out his night-vision binoculars.

The gas line ran on the opposite side of the valley, roughly a mile and a half from where he was. The pipe was at least thirty years old, originally built to take gas from nearby wells down to the southwest, toward Bucharest, the Romanian capital. Those wells had stopped producing roughly a decade before, and the pipes sat unused until Inogate — the European oil and gas network — realized they were almost perfectly positioned to join a network of pipelines from Turkey to Austria and Central Europe.

Almost perfectly placed. A hundred fifty miles to the southwest would have been much better. But these pipes were here already, which meant not only could their construction costs be avoided, but so could the web of environmental regulations and political maneuvering that went hand in hand with construction in Europe, even in a country like Romania, which had only recently emerged from behind the Iron Curtain. A detour of a few hundred miles was nothing to the gas itself, and it had the side benefit of promising future economic development in an area where it was sorely needed.

But the pipeline was also a tempting target for the Romanian rebels who'd sought refuge in the north after being chased from the more urban south. They were communists, young hard-liners angry over the country's flowering democracy and nascent capitalism.

It was more complicated than that — it was always more complicated than that — but the nuances weren't important to Stoner. He leaned back against the rocks. Observing the pipeline was just a sideline tonight. The rebels had yet to make a serious or successful attack on it. Their targets thus far had been political — police stations, a mayor's house, several town halls. The effectiveness of their attacks vacillated wildly.

All of which, in his opinion, made them unlikely candidates to have murdered the CIA officers. As did the fact that no communiques — no e-mails or phone calls to radio stations — had followed the deaths.

Which was one reason he was going to meet one of them tonight.

Stoner checked his watch. He had an hour to get to the village and meet his guide across the border, in Moldova. He turned and started for the car.

Dog craned his head, watching as the B-1B/L rocketed off the runway. The big jet — a highly modified version of the B-1—pitched its nose almost straight upward, riding a wave of thrust through the light curtain of clouds. For a brief moment the aircraft's black hull engulfed the rising sun, blotting it out in an artificial eclipse. Then it was beyond the yellow orb, streaking toward the first mission checkpoint at 20,000 feet.

Though he no longer commanded Dreamland, Dog was still one of the few pilots checked out to fly nearly every plane on the base. Hoping to keep himself busy until fresh orders arrived, he'd volunteered to take a spot in the test rotation whenever needed, and was due to take the stick in Dreamland's other B-1B in a few hours.

"Purty little beast, eh, Colonel?" asked Al "Greasy Hands" Parsons, sidling up to Dog with a satisfied look on his face.

"You sound almost sentimental, Chief. Like it's one of your babies."

"It is. I love airplanes, Colonel. More like lust, really."

Dog lost sight of the aircraft as it twisted toward Range 6B. A few seconds later the air shook with a sonic boom.

"Of course, some of 'em are purtier than others," continued Parsons. "The B-1—I always liked that plane. Pain in the you-know-what to keep running, when we first got her, anyway. Par for the course. But she's a sleek little beast."

"I wouldn't call her little."

"Compared to a B-52, she is," said Parsons. He whistled. "I remember, I thought the B-36 was big." He whistled again. "Then the first day I saw the Superfortress, man, that shrunk everything."

Dog shaded his eyes, straining to catch a glimpse of the B-1B/L and its laser test shots.

"It'll be over here," said Greasy Hands, pointing in the direction of the range.

Sure enough, a white funnel appeared on the horizon. Two more followed. A laser mounted in the belly of the aircraft had fired and struck a series of ground targets on the range, striking them while flying faster than the speed of sound.

"Looked good from here," said Parsons. "But then again, it always does. Buy you breakfast, Colonel?"

A week ago Dog would have felt guilty lingering here to watch the test, even from the distance. But now, Samson's appointment as Dreamland's new commander meant there was no mountain of papers waiting for him back at the office, no personnel matters to settle, no experiments to oversee.

"I could use a cup of coffee," he told Parsons. "So tell me a little bit about the B-36, Chief. It was before my time."

"You're not implying I'm old, are you, Colonel?"

Dog chuckled. The two men turned in the direction of the Taj.

Greasy Hands had just begun to wax eloquent about the sound six 3,800-horsepower Pratt & Whitney engines and four GE turbojets made on takeoff when Major Natalie Catsman ran into the combined mess hall, the large cafeteria that served Dreamland personnel regardless of rank.

"Colonel, Zen just told me the news," she said breathlessly. "Congratulations."

"What news?" said Dog.

"We all knew it — now the world will know it, too." "What news?" Dog asked again.

"Listen up everyone." Catsman turned around. "Colonel Bastian is getting the Congressional Medal of Honor!"

"What?" said Dog, dumbfounded.

"It's true," said Zen, rolling into the room with a wide grin on his face.

Dog looked around the room, not exactly sure what was going on.

"You're getting the Medal of Honor," Zen told him as he came close. "Jed just told me. Bree's on the phone. She wants to congratulate you."

"The Medal of Honor?"

"Hot damn, congratulations, Colonel!" said Greasy Hands Parsons, slapping Colonel Bastian on the back.

As if by some hidden signal, everyone in the cafeteria rose and began to applaud. Dog, not sure what to say — not even sure that this was in fact happening — opened his mouth, but then closed it.

The Medal of Honor?

The Medal of Honor.