The Marine’s expression didn’t change, but he was smart enough to follow without further comment as Dog strode up the long, dirt access road that paralleled the runway. A Herc transport hunkered in as he walked, its broad shoulders delivering more supplies for the Seabees swarming over the base. Two crews with surveying equipment were setting up near the aircraft parking area; another was already working on the far end of the runway. Large metal poles, the skeleton framework for a building or hangar, were being off-loaded from one of the C-130’s that had just landed. By the end of next week, the Navy would have a base here twice the size of Norfolk.
Sergeant Jack Floyd, otherwise known as “Pretty Boy,” guarded the entrance to the mobile Dreamland command unit. He snapped to attention as the colonel approached, then cast a rather jaundiced look at the trailing Marine. Pretty Boy had his carbon-boron vest on; his helmet hung off a loop at the side like a nail gun off a carpenter’s tool belt.
“Hey, Sergeant,” said Dog. “Where’s Captain Freah?”
“He and the guys snagged a local in the woods, Colonel,” said Pretty Boy. “Looks like she was spying on us. They’re bringing her up to the med tent. Liu says she’s got a concussion or something. Went for the stretcher, whole nine yards.”
“Okay,” said Dog, starting toward the small flight of stairs to the trailer.
“Uh, sir,” said Floyd. “Something you oughta know, uh, the admiral—”
“About time you got here, Bastian,” said Admiral Woods, opening the door to the trailer.
The Marine jumped to attention so quickly Dog thought he heard the air snap. Pretty Boy scowled deeply, his back to the admiral.
“Hello, Admiral,” said Dog. “Good day to you too”
Woods said nothing, disappearing inside. Dreamland’s ultra-top-secret facility was now crowded with Navy people. The lone member of the Whiplash team inside was Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez, who sat at the com panel toward the back.
“Out,” demanded Dog. “Everyone the hell out of here.”
“Belay that!” said Woods.
“Belay bullshit,” said Dog. “This is a code-word-classified installation. Everyone the hell out.”
“Belay that!”
Woods, his hands balled into fists that perched on his hips, stood in front of Dog, his face the color of a ripe strawberry. Dog’s was undoubtedly the same shade. It was only with the greatest effort he kept himself from physically pushing the Navy people out the door.
“Admiral, let’s be clear about this,” he said. “The gear in this trailer, let alone the network it connects to and the information it accesses, are covered by six different code-word clearances, none of which I guarantee you or your men have,” said Dog. “You’re not even cleared to know the existence of the damn classification.”
“And let me be clear about this,” said Woods. “You work for me.”
“The chain of command is going to make little difference in Leavenworth,” said Dog.
Dog wasn’t particularly tall; fight pilots rarely were. Woods was only an inch or two taller than Dog, though his frame held at least thirty more pounds. The two men glared at each other, their eyes only a few millimeters apart.
“Colonel, uh, I have a link pending here from NSC. Need your voice confirmation,” said Hernandez. Among other things, the Whiplash team member had helped make a daylight rescue under fire during Gulf War, but his voice now had a worried tremble to it.
Dog managed to unball his hands.
“I have to get that,” he told Woods. “The computer won’t let the communication proceed with anyone else in view, even if I wear headphones.”
“Understood,” said Woods.
The two men held each other’s glare for a few seconds more. Then simultaneously, Dog turned toward the com area, and Woods nodded to his men. They filed out quietly, undoubtedly glad to escape without having been scorched. Hernandez looked at Dog, silently asking if he should go too. Dog decided it might be an appropriate diplomatic gesture and nodded.
Woods stood quietly by the table, out of line-of-sight of the com screen. Dog, meanwhile, picked up a headset and spoke his name into the microphone. Jed Barclay’s face snapped into view.
“Hi, Colonel.”
“Jed. What’s up?”
“Wanted to brief you on the situation with China and India. Um, and um, to uh, well, the way you got the news, I would’ve preferred to give you a better heads-up.”
“Understood,” Dog told him. “You’re just the messenger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s all right, Jed. I’m a big boy,” said Dog. When he’d first met Barclay, he hadn’t thought much of the NSC aide; he was a pimple-faced kid who stuttered when he spoke. Hell, he was also a computer whiz, quite possibly as adept at the science as Jennifer Gleason, though his interests were more in international politics than hand-constructed integrated circuits. Barclay combined the technical knowledge with a surprisingly deft feel for foreign relations, and could analyze the international implications of anything from ATM machines to U/MFs. What he did for Dreamland and Whiplash—basically acting as a liaison for the NSC director and the President—involved perhaps one one-hundredth of his skills.
“Well, okay,” said Jed. He began running down the situation between China and India, starting with the present force structure.
Dog stopped him.