Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President's stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access — and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members— would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.
The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they'd seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.
Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.
Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men — the sergeant called Boston, whom he'd met before — then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general's hands moved energetically, visual exclamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who'd been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn't quite hear what Samson was saying, but knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be "I." "Jed!"
Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.
He knew she'd been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who'd made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met — or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.
Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter's after a title bout.
"The chair is just temporary," she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered. "They're really babying me. I only strained my knee. It's embarrassing."
"Hey, Bree," he said.
He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.
Breanna sat back down.
"Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display," she said. "My dad is with him. They're going to let the President take the controls for a spin."
"He'll like that."
Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.
"Look at me, I'm nervous," said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.
"So who is this lovely lady?" President Martindale asked. "Jed, are you going to introduce me?"
"This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard," he said.
"Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots," said Samson, a half step behind the President.
"An honor to meet you, Mr. President," said Breanna.
She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.
"Captain, it's an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you. You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew — the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It's beyond words, frankly. I'm the one who's honored."
Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician— no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catastrophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.
"We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President," said Breanna.
"Some of the best. And you'll be getting more. Right, General?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course."
"Now where the hell is Dog?" said the President, turning around and looking. "He's responsible for all this."
A look flashed across Samson's face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.
"Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot," said Samson, a little stiffly. "We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks."
Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK. Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.
"I'd love it, Terrill. Let's do it."
Stoner took Sorina Viorica back to the safe house in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal. Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.
Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection — it would be too easy to track communications.
"This is my prison?" said Sorina when they reached the back room.
"It's not a prison."
"Oh, it's a resort. My mistake."
Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he'd been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.
"And what do you expect me to do here?" asked Sorina, still standing.
"Tell me more about the Russians."
She didn't respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head — it was a kind of traitor's regret, trying to pull back from what she'd already decided to do.
He had to reel her in gently.
"We can get something to eat," he suggested.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you dye your hair, you won't be recognized," he told her. "You may not be recognized now."
She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn't be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She'd insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren't being followed.