"You're not OK. You're getting better. And to keep getting better, you have to go slow. Bit by bit."
"My mother's been talking to you, hasn't she?"
A smile fluttered across Dr. Rosenberg's face. It didn't last — her professional mask was quickly put back in place, the lines of her mouth sloping downward slightly, as if she were ready to frown.
"The doctor did call and ask a few questions," admitted Rosenberg. "But you're my patient, and these are my concerns. A walk, with your cane, to stretch your legs," she added, retrieving the cane. "A short walk. With the cane. All right?"
Breanna took the cane and began making her way out of the room. Dr. Rosenberg walked at her side.
"I know it must be hard for you to throttle back," said the doctor as they stepped into the hallway. "You're a Type A personality. But sometimes —"
"She's A to Z," said Zen, stopping just before rolling into them.
"Hey," said Breanna.
"Where are you going?" said Zen. "I thought we were having breakfast."
"We are as soon as I work up an appetite."
Zen looked over at the doctor. "How's she doing?"
"I think she's aiming for a breakout." The doctor's grimace turned into a broad smile. Her manner changed; Breanna couldn't help thinking she was flirting with Zen, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy.
"You aimin' to bust outta this dump?" Zen asked her.
"Ain't no prison can hold me, Sheriff."
"Another two days. You were unconscious for an awfully long time," said Dr. Rosenberg. "Days."
"Two days. I was sleeping," insisted Breanna. It wasn't clear what had happened to her; the neurologist believed she'd suffered a concussion, though the length of her "incident," as he called it, could also suggest a coma. She had no obvious sign of brain damage, and the series of tests failed to find anything subtle.
Her body was still somewhat depleted from exposure and dehydration, however, and it reminded her of it with a shake as she began walking down the hall. Determined not to let Zen or the doctor see, she gripped the top of the cane firmly, pausing just a moment.
The doctor missed it, but Zen didn't.
"Problem?" asked her husband.
"I'm waiting for you, slowpoke."
"That'll be the day."
"I'm going to leave you in the custody of your husband," said Rosenberg. "Jeff, she can make one circuit, then back to bed. Her knee really shouldn't be overstressed. And she should take those clothes off."
"I'll see what I can do about that."
Rosenberg, belatedly recognizing the double entendre, started to flush, then nodded and walked away.
"She's got a crush on you," Breanna told her husband.
"Who wouldn't?"
"You are so conceited."
"It's the chair. All babes fall for crips. Can't resist us."
Breanna's breakfast had arrived while they were out. Zen snickered at the overcooked croissant and told her he'd be right back. It took him more than a half hour to get to the cafeteria and back, but when he returned, he had a plate of bacon, a large helping of scrambled eggs, some home fries, toast, and a full carafe of coffee.
"What, no tomato juice?" said Breanna, pulling the cover off the plate of eggs.
"They're saving it for the Bloody Marys," Zen told her.
Breanna dug into the food greedily. The eggs were a little rubbery, but acceptable under the circumstances.
"All right, off with your clothes," growled Zen when she finished.
"What?"
"Doctor's orders." He smiled at her — then reached his fingers beneath her T-shirt. "What do you say?"
"They'll hear us out at the nurses' station."
"I'll close the door and put a do-not-disturb sign on it."
Zen's cell phone started to ring as he swung toward the door.
"You better answer that," she said.
"Why?"
"No one calls you on your cell phone unless it's an emergency."
"It's too early for an emergency." "Jeff. What if it's my father?"
"You're legal age." Zen pulled out the phone, checked the number, then answered. "This is Zen. What's going on, cuz?"
Breanna could tell from her husband's voice that he was talking to Jed Barclay, his cousin and the President's liaison to Dreamland.
"Wow," he said, his eyes opening wide. "Here, tell Bree."
Breanna took the phone.
"Breanna how are you feeling?" asked Jed.
"A lot better than when I talked to you the other day. What's going on?"
"You guys are getting big-time medals. And your father, Colonel Bastian? The Medal of Honor. No shit."
Major General Terrill "Earthmover" Samson took the last gulp of coffee from his cup, folded his arms and surveyed his office. The far wall was lined with photos of his past commands, along with a selection of pictures of him with superior officers, two Presidents, and a Hollywood movie star who'd visited his base to find out what pilots were really like. The wall to the right, until recently lined with bookshelves, now had framed commendations he'd received, along with a few oil paintings of the aircraft he'd flown. The furniture— which had arrived the day before — was sleek glass and chrome, very futuristic, just the right tone for Dreamland, Samson thought.
He wasn't quite done — he'd need a few models of aircraft to adorn his desk — but the office now bore his stamp.
The command itself would take a little longer. The first order of business was to organize Dreamland along traditional Air Force lines, which meant establishing a base command and a set of air wings to oversee the actual operations. To do that, he needed people. The base side was already taken care of: Colonel Marie Tassel was due at Dreamland in two weeks. She was a no-nonsense taskmaster who'd worked in the Inspector General's Office. Her job would be to run the physical plant, overseeing everything from day care for the dependents to purchasing paper clips, and Tassel was just anal enough to get the place shipshape in no time.
Samson had also chosen someone to head the science and engineering group — a military officer who would oversee the collection of civilian eggheads and hippies working on the high-tech toys Dreamland was famous for. Colonel John Cho was an engineer by training; he undoubtedly could speak their language while increasing their productivity. He'd also served as a tanker pilot early in his career and had done a stint with airlift. Cho was due in a few days, as soon as he finished up his present assignment at the Pentagon.
Filling the "action" side of things was trickier. Samson intended on establishing one wing to conduct combat operations and another to oversee experimental flights. But all the "good" colonels seemed to be taken.
Of course, he could slip a lieutenant colonel into one of the slots, if he had the right man. But he didn't want to do that, and not simply because wing commander was generally a colonel's job. As long as he used rank as his first consideration, it was the perfect excuse to keep Bastian out of the position.
Not that Bastian was going to be a problem. He was going elsewhere. Soon. Sooner than soon. But just in case.
Samson looked at his desk, piled high with papers. The other thing he needed was a chief of staff.
Bastian, with an extremely limited man count and an even tighter budget, had functioned as his own chief of staff— thanks largely to the efforts of a chief master sergeant extraordinaire. But the chief was retiring, and in any event, Samson reflected, he wasn't here to do things on a shoestring. He needed a savvy major to sort things out for him — and run interference, he noted as his thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
"Come," he commanded impatiently.
"General, Major Mack Smith, sir. You asked me to stop by, sir."