Not Jeff. And if Gleason tried anything in that direction, she’d scratch the little banshee’s eyes out.
Dreamland Administrative Offices (“Taj”), Level 1
18 February, 1545
DANNY CAUGHT COLONEL BASTIAN ON HIS WAY OUT OF his office for a lunch so late it could be considered dinner.
“Talk to me,” said the colonel, waving off Sergeant Gibbs as he headed for the door.
Freah followed silently as Bastian made his getaway. Bastian grumbled about something, passing the elevator in favor of the stairs. He swiped his card in the reader and pushed through the door, practically leaping from the landing to the steps as he did his customary double time up to ground level, where the general cafeteria was.
“So?” he asked.
“I have to talk to you in private,” said Freah. “Personnel matter.”
Bastian stopped abruptly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hard to get a word in these days.”
Dog smiled. He folded his arms around each other in front of his chest and leaned against the metal pipe of the railing, as deliberate in his nonchalance as he had been in his rush. “This private enough?”
The entire building was swept for bugs daily; everyone entering the building passed through a sensor array that beeped if a paper clip or earring was out of place. In theory, it was as secure as anywhere on the base except the command bunker.
Still, it was a stairwell.
“Go ahead, Danny,” prompted Bastian. “What’s bothering you?”
Danny told him about Smith and the Brazilian official. No one knew what the two men had been talking about, but the Brazilians had been inquiring about MiG sales with the Russians. At the same time, there were rumblings in the Brazilian government about military takeovers and coups.
“None of what you’ve said implicates Mack in any way,” said Bastian when he was finished.
“I know that,” said Danny. “Except that he didn’t report the contact.”
“You sure somebody didn’t start this as a rumor to nail him? Smith is not the most liked person in the world.”
Freah shrugged. His team had pulled Mack out of the Mediterranean during the Somalian matter, rescuing him after disabling the plane his kidnappers were fleeing in. Otherwise, Freah had had very little contact with the man.
“I’m not accusing him of anything except not noting the contact,” said Freah. “In and of itself, that doesn’t call for the death penalty. However—”
“However it’s not good,” agreed Bastian. “What do you suggest?”
“Full security check for starters. Tail him when he’s off base. Do the phones, the whole shebang.”
“Pretty big invasion of privacy for forgetting to fill out a form.”
Danny didn’t say anything. Bastian finally sighed.
“All right. Go for it,” he said. “I have a temporary assignment for him as a liaison with the Department of Energy; it’s due to start in a week or two.”
“I don’t know, Colonel. It’s classified?”
“Yes, but it’s one of those BS things—it involves reviewing sites that are about to be closed for possible test sites. It was mandated by the last Congress, but the Administration has pretty much already dictated what the report should be. It’s a holding pattern for him until a prime spot comes up.”
“Doing what?”
“F-22. Mack would go in as the operations director on the test squadron. Important job—assuming he takes it. He’s turned down everything anyone’s offered so far.”
“I don’t know if I’d sign off security-wise.”
“Well, the liaison thing will give you time to form a definite opinion, no?”
Danny nodded.
“You really think he’s a traitor?” said Dog, his voice more incredulous than before.
Freah shrugged. “I learned when I was a kid you can never read somebody else’s mind.”
“Well, my mind says I’m hungry. How about some lunch?”
“Colonel, it’s almost dinnertime.”
Bastian smiled as if he were apologizing for having so much to do he couldn’t get out for lunch.
“I have to get this going,” said Danny. He took a step down. “I’m going to need you to sign the finding,” he added, referring to the paperwork that allowed the procedures to proceed.
“After lunch I’m going over to the Megafortress simulator,” said the colonel, glancing at his watch. “Half hour there, maybe forty-five minutes, then back to the office. Catch me and I’ll sign.”
“Can’t get enough of the Megafortress, huh’?” asked Danny. “Hey, the computer tells me I’m getting good,” said Bastian, resuming his upward jog.
Dreamland Bunker B, Subbasement
18 February, 1545
KEVIN PUNCHED THE SIDE OF THE HALLWAY WALL AS HE walked to the elevator. He hated Jeff. Who the hell did he think he was, criticizing him? No one else in the freaking fucking world had mastered ANTARES, and the Flighthawks, and the interface, and all the other crap so quickly, so easily as he had.
Damn him. Damn him.
“Kevin, excuse me.”
Madrone turned and saw Geraldo, hurrying toward him. He felt an impulse to jump into the elevator and shut the door, but resisted, waiting for her.
“Thank you,” she said. As they got into the car, he saw how old she was, how old and small. He’d never noticed it before.
“What happened during the last exercise?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I told you. Nothing.”
“I saw wave patterns I’ve never seen before. Explain to me what you felt.”
“I felt, you know, like I was flying. I had control of the planes.”
“Did you?”
“I may not be as good a pilot as Zen or Smith,” he said, “but I’m getting there.”
She looked at him oddly. He resisted the impulse to keep talking—that was how they got you.
Was she one of them?
“How have you been sleeping?” she asked.
“Fine.”
She put her hand to his skull where the spider had been implanted. Her touch was gentle, but still he winced. “Headaches?”
“No.”
“This doesn’t hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re afraid when I touch?”
“No.”
She pulled her hand down, smiling as if she had caught him in a fib. “We have a battery of tests we need to do.” She glanced at her watch. “Eat first. I’ll see you in an hour from now.”
“Yup.” He fixed his gaze on the floor. His head had been fine until she asked about headaches—now his temples felt like they would implode.
“Are you ready to fly without me?” she asked.
“You don’t think I can handle ANTARES alone?”
The words came out so harshly they snapped her back. Madrone felt her stare stoking the pain in his head.
He couldn’t afford to have her as an enemy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little tired. The, uh, the exercises wear me out.”
“Of course. I understand,” she said in a tone that suggested otherwise.
The elevator arrived at the main level. He smiled, ducking his head against the light, letting Gerald() go first. “I’m going to get some lunch,” he told her.
She nodded and walked out of the hangar.
Madrone remained standing a few feet from the elevator on the long cement ramp. He put his hand on the metal rail, felt its coolness. He was tempted to put his head on it, let the cold metal soften the throb, but there were others around; they’d think it odd.
Aspirin, he told himself. He needed to get something for the headache.
He didn’t have any back at his quarters.
Quarters—a stinking tiny little room the size of an old-fashioned phone booth.
He deserved better—he deserved a mansion with a pool and someone to fix dinner, someone to greet him at the door in a silk nightgown, fold him into her arms, lay back while he bonked her brains out.
Red railroad spikes smashed into his head.