Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Looking at it again could take a couple of days.”

Jennifer shrugged. She was about to volunteer to do it when the trill of a bike bell caught her attention. She turned around and saw Sergeant Lee Liu approaching on one of the Dreamland-issue mountain bikes the Whiplashers were using to patrol the area.

“Jen, Major Catsman needs to talk to you right away.”

“Really? OK.” Jennifer shaded her eyes. “Any word on Zen and Breanna?”

Liu shook his head. “Sorry. Hop on and I’ll give you a ride to the Command trailer.”

“Where am I going to get on?”

“You can sit on the handlebars.”

Jennifer eyed the bike dubiously.

“Only take us a few minutes,” said Liu.

“All right. But look out for the bumps.”

RAY RUBEO, NOT MAJOR CATSMAN, GREETED JENNIFER

when she arrived at the Dreamland Command trailer.

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“I hope you are enjoying your South Pacific sojourn,” said Rubeo testily.

“Fun in the sun, Ray. Wish you were here.”

“We have a real job that needs to be done.”

Rubeo explained what had happened with the warhead located at I-17, and its implications.

“Twenty miles is only a four percent error,” said Jennifer.

“That’s not off that much.”

“The search areas are twenty-five percent larger than the formulas calculated,” said Rubeo. “Which means that the missile traveled considerably farther than should be possible.

It is far beyond the likely error rate.”

“Maybe the formula’s wrong.”

“Don’t you think I considered that possibility?”

It was a sharp response, out of character even for Rubeo.

Jennifer asked what was wrong. The scientist’s frown only deepened. Instead of answering, he changed the subject.

“The Whiplash team is going to recover the weapon in a few hours. It needs to be examined by someone with expertise,” said Rubeo.

“I’ll get up there as soon as I can.”

“When?”

“Soon, Ray. Relax.”

“That does not seem possible,” he said, and the screen blanked.

Jennifer got up from the communications desk and walked over to Sergeant Liu in the trailer’s common area. “How soon will the Whiplash Osprey be back?” she asked.

“Not for several hours,” said Liu. “What’s up?”

“I need to get up to the border area between India and Pakistan to look at a weapon with Captain Freah. I’d like to be up there in a couple of hours.”

“Couple of hours can’t be done,” said Liu. “But I do know how you can get up there just after nightfall. If you’re willing.”

“Tell me.”

“The ride will be a little, er, bumpy.”

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“It can’t be as bad as the bike ride,” said Jennifer. “I’m all ears.”

An atoll off the Indian coast

Date and time unknown

ZEN DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SORT OF FISH LIVED IN THIS PART OF

the ocean, but he did know that sharks were spread out across the globe. He knew too that they had an incredible sense of smell, and would come from miles away to strike bloodied prey.

He also knew that with the sun sliding low in the sky, there was no way he’d make it back to the tent before it got too dark to see, if he crawled over land. Swimming might take an hour at most; it was a risk he was going to have to take.

He pulled the knife from the turtle’s shell and held it in his teeth, ready to use. Then he pushed his way down to the water. Positioning himself at the edge of the water, he took a breath and started to swim. He held the turtle in his left hand, closest to the open sea, and stayed in water as shallow as possible. At times he felt his legs dragging against the rocks.

Except, of course, he didn’t. Because he couldn’t feel anything in his legs.

He pushed as well as swam, stopping several times because the knife made it difficult to breathe. He was nearly back to the tent where he’d left Breanna when he heard the voice calling to him over the waves.

“Friend! Friend of Bart! Where are you?”

He stopped paddling for a moment, listening as the voice called for him again.

Should he go back? Was it a trap?

Unsure, he decided his first priority was getting the dead turtle back to the tent. He took a few more strokes, then beached himself for good, crawling out of the water with the turtle, a little worse for wear but still intact. Even as he pulled 172

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the animal onto the rocks, he worried a shark would rise up and snatch it from him, Jaws-style.

Zen slipped the knife in his belt and pushed up the rocks toward the tent. He had to stop twice, exhausted, to gather his breath. Finally, when he was about twenty feet from the tent, he looked up and saw a figure standing next to it.

“Bree!” he shouted.

Then he realized the figure was too skinny and short to be his wife. It held up a stick.

“Who are you?” he demanded, sliding his hand down to the knife.

“Whoareya?” said the figure.

“Simpsons?” asked Zen.

The figure took a step closer, coming out of the shadow. It was a kid, though not the same one he had seen earlier. He was older, a little bigger. He held the stick out menacingly, as if it were a spear.

“Who are you?” asked the youth.

“Hey, where’s your friend?” Zen asked. “The Bart Simpson fan?”

The boy didn’t say anything.

“Did he tell you I know Bart Simpson?”

There was a shout from behind Zen. He whirled, the knife out and ready.

It was the boy he’d seen earlier.

“You do know Bart Simpson?” said the kid.

“My best friend.”

The other kid shouted something and pointed. It took Zen a few seconds to realize he was pointing at the turtle.

“Food,” said Zen, gesturing at the dead animal. “I’m going to start a fire.”

Both kids started talking at once, first in a language he couldn’t recognize, then in English. Gradually, they made him understand that they had come to the island to hunt for turtles and wanted his.

While the two kids spoke English, Zen had trouble understanding their accents.

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“The turtles have to be bigger,” said the younger boy.

“We take,” said the older boy.

“I don’t think so,” Zen told him.

The boy came down and grabbed at the turtle. Zen pulled it toward him. The kid started talking rapidly, and Zen couldn’t understand.

“We need,” said the younger boy finally. “You give.”

“Why do you need it?” asked Zen.

He couldn’t understand the answer. The turtle had been difficult to capture and kill, and Zen was hardly confident he could get another. But simply turning the boys away would be foolish.

“If I give it to you, can you bring me a cell phone?” said Zen.

Now it was the boys who didn’t understand.

“Phone,” said Zen. He mimicked one. “T-r-rring-ring.”

“Phone,” said the younger boy.

“Yes. Can you bring me one?”

“Phone.”

“I give you the turtle, you give me a phone.”

“Phone, yes,” said the older boy.

It seemed to be a deal. By now it was getting dark, and the boys managed to explain to him that they had to leave. They told him that they would be back the next day.

Or at least he thought that’s what they said.

As soon as he gave them the turtle, they lit out for the eastern side of the island, where they had apparently left their boats.

Zen immediately regretted the deal, sensing he’d been gypped.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. He checked on Breanna, still sleeping fitfully, then retrieved the stick the older boy had tossed aside, and with it and the driftwood he’d gathered the day before he managed to start a small fire.

A strong foreboding overcame him as he went to Breanna, intending to pull her a little closer to the fire. He closed his eyes as he crawled the last few feet, fearing he would find her dead.

She was still breathing, more rhythmically it seemed to him.

“Can you feel the fire here?” he asked her.

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She made no sign that she heard.

“Come on down with me a little. It’ll warm you up a bit.

Just a bit.”

He cradled her upper body on his lap and pushed closer to the fire. It wasn’t much, but he could feel the warmth, and hoped she could too.

Zen told his wife about the boys. “Funny that they know the Simpsons, huh? I told them I’m Bart’s best friend. Maybe they’ll come back for an autograph.”

He remembered the radio. He hadn’t broadcast all day.

He reached into his pocket for Breanna’s watch to check the time, but it wasn’t there.

Had he put it in his other pocket? He swung his body around and reached to his left.

It wasn’t there either. He began to search feverishly, sure it was somewhere in his flight suit—then not sure. Had he left it in the tent? Given it back to Breanna? Where was it?

Where the hell was it?

It’s the little things that make you crazy.

Zen heard the voice, but he knew it was only in his head—a snatch of a memory, part of a lecture someone had given during his survival training. The point had been: Don’t obsess over things that aren’t important.

He didn’t need a watch. Time was irrelevant. They’d be listening for him around the clock.

Zen went to the radio and made several calls, but there was no answer, and even the static sounded far away.

Tired, he poked at the fire. It was dark, and with the embers glowing a faint orange, he huddled around his wife and drifted off to sleep.

Southeastern Pakistan

1900

DANNY FREAH STUDIED THE IMAGE FROM THE I-17 LANDING

zone in his smart helmet, mentally plotting the Ospreys’ in-

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gress into the site. They had just swung south of the nearest village and were about ten minutes from the landing area.

“When you make your cut north,” he told the Osprey pilot, bending down over the console that separated the two aviators at the front of the aircraft, “you have a straight run to the target. There’s a slight rise to the road. It looks like there’s a high spot overlooking it and the missile as well.”

Unlike the Dreamland birds, the Marine Ospreys weren’t set up to receive the video image. Once they got close, though, their forward looking infrared radar would provide a good view.

The pilot put up his hand, gesturing to Danny that they were now five minutes from the landing zone.

“Clean,” said Danny.

Behind him the Marines got ready to hit the dirt. Even though this was the third warhead they’d recovered today, the men still tensed as they gathered near the door. Danny could smell the sweat as their adrenaline picked up and they got ready to go.

The Ospreys bucked slightly as they pitched toward the ground. The rear ramp opened and the Marines swarmed over the desert, anxious ants swarming an abandoned picnic basket.

Danny had Starship give him the widest possible view of the area from the Flighthawk; after making sure it was clean, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder and went to join the men as they took control of the area. Two fire teams ran full throttle to the highway, moving in opposite directions so they could observe and stop any traffic if necessary. Four men went toward the village, setting up a post where they could watch for anyone approaching them.

“Secure, Captain,” said the ranking Marine NCO, a gunnery sergeant named Bob McNamera, who, like gunnery sergeants throughout the Corps, was called Gunny. “Ready to take a look at our Easter egg?”

“Let’s get a look,” said Danny, starting toward the warhead.

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It was larger than the last two. Much of the fairing was burnt, and the ground around it was scorched. Bits and pieces of rocket were scattered behind it in an extended starburst pattern.

“This one’s a different missile than the others,” Danny told Dreamland Command as he scanned the area with his smart helmet’s built-in camera. “Bigger.”

“Very good,” replied Ray Rubeo over the satellite connection.

“Different procedure for disarming?”

“We’re determining that right now, Captain. What exactly is the ETA of Ms. Gleason to the site?”

“Huh?”

“When is Ms. Gleason expected to arrive?”

“Ms. Gleason isn’t expected to arrive.”

Rubeo cleared his throat, then explained that Jennifer Gleason was en route with the rest of the Whiplash ground team.

“Are you kidding?” Danny said. “They’re supposed to parachute into our camp in India an hour from now.”

“It would be useful for Ms. Gleason to join you at the scene,” said Rubeo. “Sooner rather than later.”

“Who told her she could do a night jump?”

“Who tells Ms. Gleason she can do anything?”

Aboard MC-17 Quickmover,

over northwestern India

1955

“CHANGE IN PLANS, JEN,” SAID SERGEANT LIU AFTER HE

clambered down the ladder from the cockpit area. “We’re going to go out a bit farther north than originally planned.”

“OK,” she answered, gripping her jump helmet. She was sitting with the other Whiplashers on a row of plastic fold-down seats at the side of the large cargo hold. The big aircraft was empty except for a small pallet of gear that would be dropped with the team.

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“You sure you don’t want to hitch up?” Liu asked.

“I hate tandem jumps,” she said.

“It’s a high altitude jump at nighttime.”

“I’m Army qualified, Sergeant.”

Liu gave her a dubious look, but it was true. A year before, she had suffered the ignominy of a tandem jump into Iran.

She liked the excitement of parachuting, but didn’t like being tethered to someone else. So she’d gone to the trouble of completing a parachute course with a former Army Ranger and master combat jumper.

“Qualified” was a relatively low standard—a soldier could earn the basic Army parachutist badge with five jumps, only one of which was at night. Liu and his men would do five jumps in a single day just to stay sharp. And HALO jumps—high altitude, low opening—weren’t even part of the program.

“I’ve had three night jumps, all with more gear than I’m carrying now,” added Jennifer, sensing Liu’s objections.

“And I’ve done thirty jumps, including three HALO. OK? So I don’t need a keeper.”

“Hey, I jumped with her, Nurse,” said Sergeant Geraldo

“Blow” Hernandez. Blow was also the team jumpmaster.

“She’s got the goods.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“It’s gonna cost you,” said Blow.

“Not if I hit the ground first.”

Southeastern Pakistan

2010

“GLOBAL HAWK SHOWS A CAR COMING, CAPTAIN. DRIVING

from the east.”

Danny couldn’t believe the bad timing. The Whiplash team had just gone out of the aircraft.

“How fast?”

“Hard to tell,” said Gunny. “Ground team can’t see him yet. You want us to nuke him?”

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Danny knew what the sergeant meant, but it was still a poor choice of words.

“Let’s see if he goes fast enough to miss them,” Danny told the sergeant. “Better for all of us if he just drives on.”

“Your call,” said the Marine, his tone leaving no doubt that he disagreed with Danny’s decision.

Danny waited for the car to come into view. If only the Whiplash team had jumped, he could have told Liu and the others to change their landing spot to avoid being detected.

But he felt that was too much to ask of Jennifer.

She really shouldn’t have been on the mission at all.

“Guy’s a slowpoke,” said Gunny, who was watching the car with a set of night glasses.

Danny glanced toward the sky. The team would be opening their chutes just about now.

“We may make it,” said Danny hopefully.

“Your call.”

“Yes, it is.”

THE SHOCK OF WIND AS SHE HIT THE SLIPSTREAM BELOW

the jet sent a chill through Jennifer so severe that her legs shook. Even with the Dreamland night-vision technology embedded in the smart helmet, all she could see was black.

“Damn,” she told herself.

That was as close as she would come to admitting that she’d bit off a little more than she could comfortably chew.

She pulled her arms and legs back closer to her torso, shaping herself into a frog position as she plummeted downward.

The altimeter in the smart helmet was somewhat distracting—the default display flashed large numerals in blue as the jumper descended—but she did like the infrared night view, which bathed the world in a warm green glow.

It didn’t feel like she was falling. The sensation was more of flying, sailing through the air at a tremendous clip. For all her intellectual skills, Jennifer loved to push her body; running and rock climbing were regular pursuits. Skydiving wasn’t quite as much fun—there was too much prep involved, RETRIBUTION

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which meant she had to plan quite a bit with her schedule.

But it was definitely a rush.

The smart helmet showed her where she was compared to her designated landing zone. She tilted her arm and left leg, leaning back to the right spot.

A tone sounded. Jennifer yanked the ripcord, and within moments the loud hurricane rush transformed into something gentler. This wasn’t the lullaby of a bassinet slowly lulling a newborn to sleep: she had to work, checking her canopy with the aid of a wrist flashlight and then steering according to the cues given by the helmet. The parachutist and her parachute were a miniature aircraft, capable of flying literally miles before touching down.

Jennifer didn’t have to go quite that far. With her chute and lines looking good, her course set, she enjoyed the view.

There were small huts in the distance, a car on a road, the Osprey and work team.

The digital altimeter counted down her altitude: 200 feet …

150 … 100 …

The helmet blacked out.

Her legs locked. She tried to relax them, tried to relax everything, taking a deep, long breath.

The ground grabbed her before she could exhale. Jennifer tumbled hard to her right, skidding ignobly and twisting completely around three times before coming to a stop against a pile of very hard rocks.

DANNY FREAH SAW THE FLASH OF THE BRAKE LIGHTS JUST

as the f irst Whiplash trooper sailed across the landing zone toward his touchdown. The auto was a mile away, and slightly ahead of the parachutist as he landed, but Danny decided he just couldn’t take a chance.

“Nab him,” he told Gunny. “As gently as possible.”

“Will do,” said the Marine cheerfully.

Danny turned his attention to the team landing around him. Suddenly, the night was filled with the sound of a woman cursing her head off—Jennifer Gleason had come in 180

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hard twenty yards away from him. Danny ran over and found her rolling up her parachute.

“Hey, Jen, you keep that up, the kids are going to learn a whole bunch of new words,” he said.

“Stinking fucking helmet.”

Danny couldn’t help but laugh.

A fresh string of expletives exploded from her mouth. “It’s not funny, Freah,” she told him. “The stinking helmet blacked out just before I landed.”

“Did you have it in default mode? If so, it reverted to standard view five seconds before you landed. You should have set it to a custom mode if you wanted it to continue counting.”

Jennifer expanded her vocabulary to include a description of what could be done to default mode. The description defied the laws of physics, though Danny made it a point never to argue science with a scientist.

“Where is the stinking bomb at?” she said finally.

“This way,” said Danny.

She seemed to be limping as she followed.

“You want an ice pack on that knee?”

“Just show me where the son of a bitch is.”

Danny got Jennifer over to the warhead, then went to check on the rest of his team. Liu and the others had landed about a quarter mile away, shading away from the car.

“Good to see you, Cap,” said Blow. “How’s Boston doing?” he asked, referring to Sergeant Ben Rockland. Boston had been hurt, though not seriously, apprehending the Iranian commandos who instigated the Indian-Pakistani nuclear exchange.

“He’s going to be OK,” said Danny. “Listen, there was a car stopped up the road.”

“We saw it coming in,” said Liu.

“Run up there and see if you can help the Marines with the language,” said Danny. “Link back to Dreamland and use their computer translators.”

“On it,” said Liu.

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A few minutes later Sergeant Liu, Gunny, and two Marine privates returned with a skinny Pakistani man who looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“You gotta hear his story, Cap,” said Liu. “Claims his wife is pregnant and he’s going to fetch her mother.”

“They don’t have doctors in Karachi?”

“Doesn’t live in Karachi,” said Liu. “Lives about five miles up the road. She sounds like she’s in serious labor, Captain. Kind of like that breeched birth we had on the Iranian mission?”

“You guys deliver babies?” asked Gunny.

“We do all sorts of things, Sergeant,” said Danny.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over Pakistan

2100

DOG TURNED THE STICK OVER TO HIS COPILOT AND GOT UP

to stretch his legs. The crew’s resentment had diminished a bit, but he knew he still wouldn’t win any popularity con-tests.

Not that it mattered. He walked to the galley and started a fresh pot of coffee in the Zero Gravity Mr. Coffee. The sealed coffeemaker, which worked as advertised, was still rated by most of the technical people as their biggest contribution to mankind.

“Hey, Colonel, you got Ray Rubeo looking for you,” said Sullivan.

“Thanks, Kevin.”

Dog poured himself a half cup of the steaming java, then made his way back to his seat. Rubeo’s familiar frown was frozen on the screen.

“One of these days, Ray, you’re going to smile,” said Dog.

“It won’t be today. We’ve done some new calculations based on Ms. Gleason’s findings,” said the scientist, launching into an explanation of why the five missiles still missing 182

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had not been found. They all belonged to a subtype of the Prithvi family that had not been previously identified. According to Rubeo, solenoid valves that controlled parts of the engine had been shielded sufficiently so they had not been destroyed by the T-Rays.

As Rubeo’s discussion veered toward the technical, Dog cut him short.

“Do we have new projections of where they came to earth?”

“We’re working on them, Colonel. There are several vari-ables involved. At a minimum, we believe that all of the missiles went much farther north.”

Rubeo had a map ready. The search areas included Kashmir and the borders of Afghanistan and China.

“Ray, this map has to cover a hundred thousand square miles.”

“It’s 225, 963.” Rubeo’s scowl deepened. “We are working on reducing it. We don’t entirely understand why the solenoid valve—and it was only one—on the missile at I-17 wasn’t affected. We should have this quantified in a few hours, depending on how quickly Jennifer works.”

“I’m sure she’ll work as quickly as possible,” said Dog.

“What did she do? Set up a simulator in the Command trailer?”

“No, we’ve done the simulations. She provided the measurements and electric readings. I would have preferred—”

“Wait a second. Are you telling me Jennifer Gleason is on the ground in Pakistan?”

“Yes. I assume she checked with you before going … or is that an invalid assumption?”

Southeastern Pakistan

2115

DOG’S VOICE WOULD HAVE SHATTERED DANNY’S EARDRUMS

if it weren’t for the special volume reducer built into the smart helmet’s headset.

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“Why the hell did you let Jennifer jump into a battle zone?”

demanded Dog.

“I didn’t let her do anything. Rubeo told me she was on the way. I thought you told her she could go.”

“Let me talk to her. Now. ”

Danny walked over to the missile assembly. Jennifer was peering into the ruined and burned skeleton, examining bits of circuit boards with an oscilloscope.

“Colonel wants to talk to you,” Danny told her. “He’s hot.

Real hot.”

“WHAT EXACTLY IS YOUR OBJECTION?” JENNIFER ASKED.

“You know very well what my objection is. You’re in a combat zone.”

“There’s no combat here. And I’ve been in combat zones before. We needed a specialist. I was available.”

“We have other experts. You’re a scientist, damn it.”

“I’m not made out of paper.”

“You’re more valuable back at the base,” said Dog. “You shouldn’t have gone to Diego Garcia in the first place.”

She could practically feel his anger in the long breath and pause that followed. Jennifer felt her own anger rise.

“I should have said something to you then,” Dog told her.

“I was wrong not to send you back. But this—”

“Colonel, is there anything else?” she demanded.

“The next time …”

She waited for him to finish the sentence. Instead, he signed off.

Jennifer looked at one of the Marines standing nearby, a young private barely out of high school.

“Officers,” she said, shaking her head.

“Know what you mean,” said the man, nodding.

THE PAKISTANI WAS SO EXCITED, AND SO DISTRAUGHT, that Danny decided his story had to be true. The question was what to do about it.

According to the man, his house had been without electricity, 184

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telephone, or running water for several days. His wife had gone into labor and he’d left her to get her mother, who lived in the nearby village.

The man practically hopped up and down, pleading that he be let go so he could get his mother-in-law. He interspersed his English with long sentences in Punjabi, convinced that Danny would understand if he spoke slowly and distinctly.

He seemed to take the appearance of the Americans in stride, as if they belonged there; Danny thought it better not to press the issue.

But what should he do with him? Releasing him was too dangerous. On the other hand, it seemed that if they did nothing, the baby and its mother might die.

“Ya don’t even know if this woman he’s going to get can help her,” said Gunny.

Danny nodded.

“We can deliver the baby,” said Liu. “We’ve done it before.

The woman could die without medical attention.”

“We’re not exactly a maternity ward,” said Danny. “We have other things going on here.”

He turned around and walked down the hill toward the rutted area where the missile had come to rest. A set of tarps had been erected to shield the work lights from the roadway.

Jennifer Gleason was hunched over a mangled part of the body and the engine in the first third of the debris field.

“How’s it going, Doc?” Danny asked.

“Slow, Captain. I’m not an expert on these systems.”

“I thought you knew everything, Jen.”

“Ha ha.”

“How much longer do you need?”

“Two or three hours at least,” she said. “Are we in a hurry?”

“I want to be out of here before daylight.”

“Then let me alone.”

Danny went back to the Pakistani and Liu. Gunny was standing with them, trying to engage the Pakistani in a con-

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versation about what was going on in the country. The man wasn’t interested in anything but his wife.

“Sergeant Liu, grab Blow and Jonesy and take this guy back to his house. Assess the situation and report back.”

“You got it, Cap.”

“Excuse me, Captain,” said Gunny.

“What’s up, Sergeant?” asked Danny, already suspecting the problem.

“Hey, no offense here, but, uh, sending those guys out there—you really think it’s a good idea?”

“It’s the best alternative.”

“I don’t know about that. For one thing, he may be lying.”

“I don’t think he is.”

“For another thing, Captain, what are you going to do if she is in labor? We going to deliver the baby?”

Danny shrugged. “Those guys have done it before.”

The Marine sergeant shook his head.

“Look, we’re not at war with these people,” Danny told him. “On the contrary, they’re our allies.”

“I don’t think I’d trust them much.”

“You don’t have to,” said Danny, turning to go check on the Osprey crews.

Dreamland

0815, 17 January 1998

(2115, Karachi)

SAMSON FLATTENED THE PAPER ON THE DESK, SPREADING

his large hand across its surface. For all its high-tech gizmos, the Dreamland commander’s office still relied on a fax machine that used thermal imaging paper.

The letters were a little faint and the image crinkled, but he didn’t care. He could see what it said: The Whiplash order had been reissued, directed to Major General Terrill Samson, rather than Colonel Bastian.

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Just in case.

He’d keep Rubeo through the deployment—being too vin-dictive would only hurt the mission. But once it was over, the egghead was history.

Samson got up from the desk. Bastian—or his predecessor, if the chief master sergeant was to be believed—had good taste in furniture, he decided. But the place was a little cluttered with chairs and files. The first thing he had to do was have them cleared out. He’d put them in the conference room next door, which he would now use as an office annex—a library.

He didn’t need a conference room. He wasn’t planning on doing much conferring.

“Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax, still standing near the doorway, “but was there anything else this morning?”

“Yes, Chief, there is. I need a memo telling all department and section heads, all heads of testing programs, everyone from the head scientist to the janitor, that Dreamland’s entire agenda is now open for review. My review. Top to bottom. I want something that will convey urgency. I want it to sound …”

Samson drifted off, unsure exactly how he wanted it to sound.

“Like if they don’t do a good job you’ll sack them?” asked Ax.

“That’s it, Chief. Exactly.” Ax would definitely stay, Samson decided. “Have it on my desk before lunch.”

TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT TERence “Ax” Gibbs was a bachelor. But in a very real sense, Gibbs was as married as any man in America. It’s just that his wife—his children, his relatives, his home, his family, his friends, his pets, his entire existence—was the U.S. Air Force.

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a much more balanced tone than the general wanted—he went online and obtained the appropriate paperwork to initiate a transfer back to his home state of Florida, in anticipation of a separation from the service in a few months. And just in case Samson objected—Ax sensed he would, if only on general principles—the chief sent out a handful of private messages lining up support. Among the recipients were two lieutenant generals and the Air Force’s commanding general, giving him a full house to deal with any bluff Samson might mount.

He had worked for people like Samson at numerous points during his career. But he’d been young then. Age mellowed some people; for others, it removed their ability to stand still for bullshit. He fell into the latter category.

Lieutenant Colonel Bastian wasn’t the perfect boss. He was occasionally given to fits of anger; however well justi-fied, fits of pique in the long run could be counterproductive.

The colonel also insisted on keeping things at Dreamland streamlined, which for Ax meant that he had to make do with about a tenth of the staff he would have at a “normal”

command. But Dog respected, trusted, and related to his people in a way that Ax knew Samson never would.