Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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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.

Dreamland “Taj” building

1000

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.