"Mack Smith," he said, picking it up.
"General wants you down in Dreamland Command ASAP," said Lieutenant Stephens, the com specialist on duty there. "Actually, faster than ASAP."
"Tell him I'm on my way," said Mack.
Maybe he's going to compliment me on my PowerPoint presentation, he thought as he walked briskly down the hall to the elevator.
Perhaps. But "good" and "job" were two words that Samson rarely put together, except as a preface to an order for more work. If Samson did like the report, he would probably tell him to make a hundred copies each with personalized comments and have them sent out by midnight to everyone in the Pentagon.
The ride down to the secure command center was so quick Mack felt a little light-headed; he regretted not grabbing something to eat earlier. He nodded at the security sergeant standing in front of the door, then pressed his palm against the reader. The doors opened.
"Where have you been, Mack?" growled Samson from down near the center screen.
"Going through some reports, General. How'd the White House briefing go?"
"Fine," said Samson in a voice that suggested the opposite. "What's the status of the B-1 program?"
"Pretty much what it was the other day. Program head is due sometime next week and—"
"What are we doing in the meantime to get it back on schedule?"
"It's not really that far off, General. In some respects—"
Mack stopped short. Samson's eyebrows furled and his cheeks puffed out. Had he opened his mouth just then, he would have looked like a grizzly bear.
And not a particularly happy one.
"What I mean, General, is we're moving it right back to schedule, as you directed," said Mack quickly. "We do have the pilot shortage to deal with."
"Why don't we have pilots, Major?"
"Well we do, but in terms of being checked out—"
"That's your solution?"
"I'm working on it, General."
"That's not a good enough answer, Major. You've been working on this for days." Hours at least, thought Mack.
"General, I can't just shanghai pilots from other projects or units. Even once the budget line—" "Why not shanghai them?" Mack blinked.
"I don't care what you do, Major. Find a solution. Get the program back on schedule. I want the B-1s on line. I want to tell the White House tomorrow that they're ready to go operational. I want to tell them to gear up the production line."
"Well, they are ready to fly, General, that's not—" Mack stopped speaking as General Samson walked up toward him. It wasn't just his face that looked like a grizzly bear now.
"There's one thing you have to understand when you work for me, Major," said Samson, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't like excuses. I don't like explanations. Results. That's what I like."
"Yes, sir."
"Get it done, Mack." Samson's voice was almost inaudible. "Get it done."
"I'm on it right now, General."
The Lakers were down by two with eight seconds to go when Kobe Bryant took the ball in bounds. He looked across court, saw that Rick Fox was covered, then turned down toward the key.
Shaquille O'Neal had just drawn double coverage. Kobe hesitated just a second, as if he was going to scoop the ball up for O'Neal anyway. And then in a flash he was running toward the foul line. As he reached the paint, he jumped high in the air. The ball twirled off his fingertips as the buzzer sounded.
Rimming the hoop, the ball fell into the basket with a swish.
A referee ran from the scrum near the backboard, his hand in the air. Kobe had been fouled.
"Oh my God," said Breanna. She'd spent practically the whole fourth period on her feet, as the Lakers had mounted a stop-and-start comeback after trailing by fifteen. And her knee felt fine.
"Great game, huh?" said Sleek Top, next to her.
"Fantastic."
Kobe went to the line for the point that would win the game. He bounced the ball a few times, bent his knees, then bounced it again. Finally, he lifted it, raised it toward the basket, and let it go. The ball spun sharply, hit the glass and slapped in. The crowd shouted at the top of their lungs. Sleek Top grabbed Breanna and hugged her.
"What a game!" he yelled in her ear. "What a game!"
The fans were slow to leave the arena, but once in the hallway there was a mad rush for the exits and the cars. Sleek Top led Breanna around a line of cars to a row of men holding signs for private taxis. Recognizing one of the drivers, he pointed at him and then started to follow, ushering Breanna along.
Breanna was still in the glow of the game when they got into the back of the Lincoln. She was thinking how jealous Zen was going to be that he'd missed it.
"Great seats," she said to Sleek Top.
"Yeah. I don't know what happens next year when they open the Staples Center. I may go to the back of the line. But for now, gotta enjoy it."
The driver eased into the line of cars waiting to get out.
"Want to go and get a drink?" said Sleek Top. "A little nightcap?"
"How are you going to fly home?" said Breanna.
"We could stay over and leave in the morning," he said, putting his hand on her knee.
His touch brought a dozen other hints into focus.
Oh no, she thought. How did she miss this? How could she be so stupid?
She took his hand off her knee. Gently, but firmly.
"I think you have the wrong idea," she told him.
"Really? You sure?"
"Very."
"Doesn't have to be anything serious."
"You're a nice guy, Sleek, but no. No thanks."
He gave her a brave smile, the sort she hadn't seen since well before she got married. She felt a pang in her heart. But she wasn't about to cheat on Zen.
"No hard feelings?" he asked.
"Never happened."
"Hawthorne Airport, same as usual," he told the driver. "I'll get you right around to the hangars." "Great," said Sleek Top, still wincing a bit.
Stoner had to pound on the door before Sorina Viorica answered.
"Stoner?" she called from inside.
"Open up."
She worked the locks and pulled the door open. She was wearing a sweatshirt over a thin cotton nightgown. "You need to get dressed," he told her.
"What?"
"Come on. We have to go."
She took it the way he thought she would — as a warning that she had been found. Her sleepy expression changed instantly. Quietly, she turned and went inside, changed and started to throw her things into a bag.
"You won't need a bag," said Stoner. "We have to move quickly."
She came out wearing the dark clothes he had first seen her in.
"You should look a little less… " He searched for the word. "Militant."
Without saying anything, she turned and went back inside. She came out a few moments later wearing a thick brown sweater over the dark pants, along with a red patterned scarf. It softened her look and made her look prettier, though Stoner tried not to notice.
He found a cab within a block of the apartment.
"Train station," he said in English.
The man said in Romanian that he didn't understand.
"Which train station, Mark?" Sorina asked.
She told the driver; when they reached the station, she bought the tickets. They made the train just as it was boarding.
"Where are we going?" she asked as it pulled out. "You bought the tickets." "Yes, but the town—"
"You'll see," Stoner said, and refused to tell her anything else.
Sorina became more nervous at each stop as they headed north. "Are you giving me up?" she asked finally.
He looked at her, looked into her pretty eyes, then shook his head.