Strike Zone

Epilogue: Heroes, after a Fashion

In the best of all worlds, Dog would have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

In the worst of all worlds, he would also have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

But Beijing was where he was. And as an honored guest, to all forms and appearances.

A car stopped a few feet away from the building where he was standing with the Chinese officers who had met Raven. The American ambassador stepped from the plane, accompanied by a Chinese official. The ambassador stepped smartly to Dog, saluting first — Dog was a little taken aback, but gave the proper response — and then shaking his hand.

“A hell of a job,” said the ambassador. “Washington’s told me everything.”

“Okay,” said Dog, truly surprised as the ambassador grabbed him in a bear hug.

“Did the self-destruct go all right?” whispered the ambassador.

“Yes. Completely,” said Dog. “The computers are completely fried.”

“Excellent.” He turned and smiled at the Chinese officials. “Washington will throw a ticker-tape parade for you.”

The ambassador introduced the man who had come with him as the Chinese foreign minister. Dog tried to bow, though his back was a bit stiff from the flight and fatigue.

“You have saved Beijing,” said the minister. “You are a hero.”

Dog smiled weakly. A few weeks ago he’d thought he’d be ordered to bomb Beijing, not save it. But such were the twisted fates of war.

“They’re having a ceremony to open the discussions between Taiwan and the Mainland,” said the ambassador. “The Taiwanese president will thank you, and the Mainland premier may actually thank you too.”

“I’d rather sleep,” said Dog honestly.

The ambassador looked as if he were going to have a heart attack.

“But I’ll do my duty,” added the colonel.

“Good,” said the ambassador, starting away.

Starship rolled out of bed, even though he’d had less than four hours’ sleep. He’d come to a decision about the Brunei offer.

No way would he take it. Major Smith would be disappointed, but that was too bad. He’d worked too long and too hard to get to Dreamland.

Granted, the assignment wasn’t everything he thought it would be. But then, he wasn’t everything he thought he was either.

He glanced at his watch. Noon. He could grab a beer, something to eat.

He’d be all right if he didn’t drink too much.

It wouldn’t matter today how much he drank. Major Alou said today was an off day. Off meant off. He’d give that to Alou — when he said off, he meant it. Not like Zen.

Zen and the others on Raven were being called heroes. Good, he thought; they deserved it. They were heroes.

He wasn’t. But he had done his job, and because of that, an Osprey’s worth of Marines and Air Force crewmen were alive.

He pulled on his pants. Maybe he’d see if Kick was awake.

Mack Smith flipped off the television, killing the news broadcast just as it began showing the crowds in downtown Beijing cheering the arrival of the two Chinese leaders.

Or were they cheering for Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, who had saved them from incineration a few hours ago?

Mack preferred to think it was the former — not that he didn’t like Dog; on the contrary, he liked the colonel quite a bit. He had to — the colonel’s blessing was needed for him to work out the arrangement as Brunei’s new chief of the Air Force Command.

Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command. His own title. At the moment, he was still technically a member of the U.S. Air Force on duty as Whiplash’s political officer. But that was just a technicality — he already had his office, two floors of plush offices in the capital, complete with a lounge and an office for the chief that looked like a lounge.

No staff yet, but he’d take care of that this afternoon. Talk to Starship again, and maybe some of his old cronies. Paradise here, my friends — the babes are unbelievable, and boy do they put out.

Next order of business — purchasing twelve F-15s from America, along with six Megafortresses.

Mack didn’t particularly want the Megafortresses himself, but the sultan insisted. And hey, it was his dough.

Getting the aircraft from America was probably going to take some heavy-duty diplomacy. Megafortresses had never been sold overseas. Even F-15s weren’t sold to just anyone. In fact, only Japan, Israel, and Saudi Arabia currently had them.

Mack could fix that with a little charm in the right places. He was a born diplomat.

Secretary of state someday. Though personally he’d prefer defense.

Once they got the planes, they’d pull a few mods from the Dreamland playbook. Which meant he needed some brainpower as well.

And some mechanical monkeys. Not that he’d call them monkeys to their faces.

Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command Mack Smith. A boss in paradise — what more could he ask for?

The hotel where the Chinese had put up the Dreamland crew was not exactly handicapped-friendly, and Zen found himself having to ask two of the staff to help him down the two steps from the hallway to the lobby. As indignities went, it was hardly the worst he’d ever suffered, but after struggling with the sink upstairs in his room and pushing his way through the narrow maze they called a hallway, he was hardly in the best of all moods. And the fact that he couldn’t call the States from his room didn’t exactly calm his mood.

Nonetheless, he managed to ask for a phone politely, explaining that he wanted to call home. It took three tries — the hotel personnel all spoke English, but his accent apparently was difficult for them to decipher. Finally he managed to mime what he wanted, and was led behind the desk to the manager’s own office. The door was just wide enough — just — but Zen was used to that, and the man seemed genuinely hospitable, anxious to do right by his American visitor. He punched the buttons on the phone to allow the international call, then waited to make sure Zen had no problem connecting.

Zen used the “open” number for Dreamland, which actually connected through Nellis Air Force Base. It was highly likely, of course, that the conversation was being recorded, and so he had to be careful exactly what he said. Still, he wanted to talk to Bree.

“This is Major Stockard,” he told the operator on duty who answered. “I’m looking for Captain Stockard.”

“Yes, sir!” snapped the operator.

The line clicked, and a few seconds later, a male voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s this?” asked Zen.

“Deke James. Who’s this?”

“Zen Stockard.”

“Why’d you wake me up for?” said James.

“I’m looking for my wife,” said Zen.

“She ain’t here.”

Zen felt his jealousy spiking up — what the hell was James doing in their apartment?

“I want to talk to Bree,” he said.

“Yeah?”

The line went dead. Zen held the phone out, confused and angry. Deke was one of the engineer dweebs on the Unmanned Bomber Project.

What the hell was he doing in their apartment?

He was just about to put the phone down and try again when someone suddenly picked up on the other end of the line.

“Major!”

“Ax?”

“What, you’re away a few days and you forget who runs this place?” said Chief Master Sergeant Gibbs.

“How’d I get you?”

“Just lucky I guess. Deke James transferred you. Why’d you call him? What’d you do, wake him up?”

“I got the wrong number. What time is it there?”

“About 2100. He goes to bed early. Want to talk to your wife?”

“It’d be nice,” said Zen.

“Hold the phone. And listen, Zen — you kicked butt big time. We’re prouder than hell of you.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

Zen waited while the line once more went cold. Another voice picked up — male.

“Hey hero,” said Greasy Hands Parsons.

“Grease — what the hell are you doing?”

“Partying with your wife,” said Parsons. If Ax ran the administrative side of Dreamland — and he did — Greasy Hands essentially owned the planes. The chief master sergeant and Zen had known each other pretty much forever.

“She’s okay to party?” said Zen.

“Better than ever,” said the chief.

“Give me that phone,” said Breanna in the background.

“Bree—”

“Jeff—”

Her voice was like a spell. He felt his body suddenly relax.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Am I okay?” she said. “I’m fine. How the hell are you?”

“Just tired. I want to see you.”

She laughed. He could hear her talk to the room. “Hey, I got Zen on the phone—”

There was a general shout. Zen made out some congratulations from the assorted tumult.

“Where are you?” he asked, but Bree didn’t hear. Someone took the phone from her.

“Zen?”

“Hey, Jennifer. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she said, with a tone that seemed to be meant to reassure herself as well as him. “Is Colonel Bastian there?”

“No, he’s hooked up with some ceremonies and crap,” said Zen.

“Tell him I said hello, okay?”

“I will. I think your program helped us nail the clone.”

She didn’t answer. Zen imagined seeing her turn red and push back her long, strawberry blond hair.

Breanna took the phone back. “So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“When you coming home?” Bree asked.

“Haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Well, get moving, Major. Get the lead out. Here, listen, everybody wants to say hello.”

Zen didn’t particularly want to talk to them, but somehow it felt as if it was his duty to. He leaned back in his wheelchair and listened as Breanna reminded them it was an open line.