“Mission-orientation flights.” Dog grinned wider than Smith had. “Don’t make anybody throw up when you put them in the backseat.”
Smith lost his grin, but only for a second. “I’m lead pilot on the F-119 project, Colonel, the Joint Strike Fighter. I’ve had that assignment since DreamStar was canceled.”
“And?” Dog let just the hint of impatience creep into his voice. He remembered Smith pretty well now. He was a great pilot. And he had bagged two planes—except that the second was initially listed as unconfirmed, due to some problem on the AWACS covering the area. Smith had raised a fuss about getting credit, bypassing his squadron commander and complaining to Centcom about it as soon as he heard the kill was in doubt.
“The, uh, we have the prototype,” Smith continued, growing less sure of himself. “The F-119. I don’t know if you’re up to speed on it yet, Dog.”
If Dog was up to speed on anything, it was the F-119. And while ordinarily he didn’t mind another pilot using his handle, something about the way Smith said it bothered him.
“I realize it’s a one-seater,” said Bastian. “So unless you’re planning on strapping someone on the wing, Knife, I think we can leave it in the barn for these missions.” He paused just long enough to let Smith think he had wormed his way out of the morale flights. “But your combat record shows you’re the best Eagle pilot—by far—on the base. So obviously you ought to be the first one off the flight line. Hell, I insist on it. You’re top man; you get the most seat time. I believe there are two F-15Es here. You have one all day. Move up the starting time to 0500.”
Bastian started to step away from Smith when a bony hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see Rubeo, the scientist he’d met outside earlier.
“Colonel, do you really feel these airplane rides are necessary?” asked Rubeo.
Before Dog could reply, a squeaky voice piped up behind the scientist.
“Hell, I think it’s blastoff idea. About time the enlisteds got into the game.”
Dog peered around Rubeo—it wasn’t exactly difficult—and smiled at Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs. “Hey, Graybeard,” he said to the burly, gray-haired sergeant, who had adopted the falsetto to mock the scientist.
Not that Dog officially approved of that sort of thing.
“Colonel, what took you?” said the sergeant. “I’ve been here since lunchtime.”
“Then why weren’t you on the runway waiting?” Dog asked.
“Priorities, sir. Priorities.” If regulations allowed beards, Ax would look like Santa Claus after a year’s worth of Nautilus sessions. He’d served in various capacities with Dog over the past decade in a dozen commands. The colonel had asked him to come to Dreamland as his senior staff NCO; there was no one better at slicing red tape and tending to things that needed tending.
“Great speech, sir,” said Ax, elbowing Rubeo out of the way. “One of your best. Morale-boosting, us against the world, we’re all in it together. Nine on a ten scale.”
“Only nine?”
“You haven’t had supper, I’d bet.” Ax winked at him. “Sandwich waiting for you in your office.”
“You’re going to make somebody a fine wife someday, Ax.” Dog raised his eyes to scan the rest of the room. Smith and Rubeo had decided to retreat. There were only a few people left in the small auditorium. Two lieutenants and a captain, holdovers from the previous commander’s staff, were waiting respectfully a few feet away. Everyone else seemed to have someplace else to go.
Just as well.
“Every base needs a good wife,” said Ax. “Of course, we may be put out of business any minute. And if we’re not, there are half a dozen people with shiny stars on their shoulders who want your job. I’ve had three offers already.”
“That’s all?” Dog took a step toward the waiting officers, but Ax stopped him with a subtle raise of his hand.
“She’s over there by the door,” said the sergeant, gesturing behind him.
Dog turned and saw her, sandy brown hair that managed to look alluringly feminine despite the military cut, sleeves rolled up to reveal well-sculpted forearms, hands on trim hips, fierce green eyes.
Her mother’s eyes.
The rest—such as the captain’s bars and the hard gaze of a pilot old before her time—might be traced to her father.
Him.
Dog took a deep breath, then began walking toward her. She took a breath as well, obviously tense.
“Breanna,” he said.
“Daddy.”
They winced simultaneously. Dog started to lean toward her, intending to give her a peck on the cheek. He stopped. She leaned up, then stopped. For a moment, neither one spoke. Then they both spoke together.
“I didn’t—”
“I wanted—”
“Tell you what, Captain,” said Dog, “let me go first.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment he almost asked how her mother was. But he’d already decided that was out of bounds.
“You’ll be treated like any other officer on the base,” he told her.
“I would expect nothing less, sir.”
Dog nodded.
“I was hoping to introduce you to Jeff,” she said. He noticed that she lowered her gaze as well as her voice.
Dog didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t approved of the marriage.
He hadn’t disapproved either. He simply hadn’t been consulted.
“But Jeff’s not here yet,” said Breanna. “He wasn’t due until next week. But he’s coming tomorrow.”
“I see.”
Dog frowned, wondering if he shouldn’t have his daughter removed from his command. But that would undoubtedly hurt her career—she was among the Air Force’s top-rated test pilots. And if Dog took pride in the fact that he had never done anything to help her career, he also was loath to hurt it.
Everyone knew she was here when they offered him the assignment. Maybe they didn’t think it would be a problem.
More likely, they didn’t think Dreamland would last. “Orientation flights first thing in the morning?” she said.
“I expect you to be among the first pilots off the tarmac,” he said.
“I intend on it. Wait until you see the Megafortress. Even you’ll be impressed.” Her frown turned into an impish grin, something the typical young flier might betray at the thought of a good joke. Then it morphed into something else, something barely familiar—the grin of a three-year-old playing hide-and-seek the day after her birthday. “At some point, 1 expect to have some personal face time,” she told him. “Have you found an apartment yet?”
“I’ll be on base,” he snapped.
Breanna’s face changed back to stone, eyes focused on a blank spot in the distance.
“I understand, Colonel,” she said. “No favors, please.”
He didn’t want to be mad at her—hell, if she were anyone else, he’d be joking, taking her under his wing. She was one of the future’s bright stars, the kind of officer he wanted working for him. “We’ll have dinner, okay?” he said softly. “Once I’m oriented.”
Either his words were too low or she simply ignored him.
“It was a hell of a speech. We’re pulling for you,” she said, turning away.
“And I’m pulling for you, Bree,” he said.
Dreamland
8 October, 0530
THERE WAS NO PRISON LIKE THE HUMAN BODY. IT clamped bars stronger than titanium steel around your chest, your legs, your head. It held you every waking moment; it mocked you when you slept. It infected time itself, poisoning both past and future.
There was no future for Captain Jeff “Zen” Stockard; there was only now. He sat in his wheelchair, long fingers wrapped stiffly around the spokes of the wheels, hard rubber against his palms. He stared directly ahead, eyes fixed on the closed door of the HH-53 as the big helicopter skirted the fringes of Nellis Air Force Base, rumbling toward Dreamland. The helo’s crew chief sat on a narrow bench seat a few feet away, having given up his attempts at starting a conversation.