linebacker.
“Are your quarters satisfactory?” said Dog, trying to break the ice as Cortend surveyed the boat of a desk and the matching cherry bookcases that graced his office. He’d inherited the furniture from General Elliott, who had paid for it himself.
“I expect they will be,” said Cortend.
The frost in her voice removed any last doubt Dog might have had about how pleasant the colonel’s stay might be. He put on his Pentagon face and told her that she was welcome to go where she wanted, and that everyone at the base would fully cooperate in any way possible.
Cortend’s scowl deepened. “I’ll see the computer labs and the Flighthawk hangar first. Then I want an office. My staff will be arriving at 0800.”
It was rather late for a tour, but Dog didn’t bother arguing with her. “Security detail will take you around. Chief Gibbs has already set everything up and will personally make sure that you’re squared away in the morning. We’ve allocated a pair of rooms on the first level of the building. There’s a conference room as well. The chief has a handle on the badges, phones, computers, everything you need.
Ax is really incredible. You’ll be impressed.”
“Ax?”
“That would be Chief Gibbs. One of the best, believe me.”
Dog ignored her scowl and rose, intending that as her cue to clear out. She didn’t take it.
Page 15
“I’m afraid I’ve been away,” said Dog. “And I have a few things to attend to before turning in.”
“I see.” Cortend frowned, but didn’t move as Dog sat back down.
“Colonel?” he asked.
“Are you going to get this Chief Ax, or should I locate him myself?”
“Uh, it’s a little late in the day—”
“You, Lieutenant Colonel, are working. Why is your staff not?”
Dog stifled his instinctive response, trying to turn it into a joke. “I don’t like paying overtime,” he told her.
“Hmph,” said Cortend.
“Would you like some advice?” Dog asked. He ignored her frown and continued anyway. “You have to remember, Colonel, Dreamland is not like most other military commands. There are a lot of civilians here.
A lot of scientist types. And we don’t have the sort of bureaucratic infrastructure that a lot of the military has. I’m not critcizing other commands at all; I’d love the personnel slots, believe me. But we’re a bit different. And because of that, the atmosphere takes a little getting used to.”
“You seem to have adjusted.”
“You mean that as a compliment or a criticism?”
Dog had controlled his temper for a remarkably long time, but the implied slur on the people who worked for him was simply too much.
“Take it as you wish,” said Colonel Cortend, not giving an inch. “Now let me give you some advice, Lieutenant Colonel. I’m here informally, but if anyone interferes with my work—you especially—”
Dog’s anger had built to such a level that even he would have been unable to stifle an outburst had the phone not rung.
“I’m afraid I have to take this behind closed doors. The security detail will see to your needs,” he told Cortend, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “The sergeant will give you access to your quarters and to your office; the phone lines, computers, they’re all ready to go. Believe me, when Chief Gibbs sets something up, it works. And that goes for everyone here. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”
Cortend frowned, but stepped into the outer office, closing the door behind her.
“Bastian,” said Dog, picking up the encrypted phone.
“Colonel, it’s Jed Barclay. Stand by for the President.”
President Kevin Martindale’s voice practically jumped through the phone when the connection finally went through.
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“Tecumseh, I’m sorry I couldn’t come out there myself for your ceremony.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You did a fine job in the Pacific. A very good job. The Navy’s jealous. You should see Admiral Balboa. Just about apoplectic.” The President laughed, but his tone changed quickly. “We’ve spent a bit of time reviewing the situation in South Asia. The consensus seems to be that the Chinese will leave the Indians alone for a while.”
“I hope so.”
“Makes two of us, Tecumseh. Now tell me about the Flighthawk you discovered. Whose is it?”
“Sir, we’re not sure it’s a Flighthawk. We have only a few seconds’ worth of intercepts and a minuscule amount of radar on it. But it’s highly capable, probably as advanced as our own aircraft.”
“I understand there’s some sort of computer coding that is the same?”
Dog gave the President a brief overview of the latest analysis. “Very similar,” he concluded. There was no sense being anything less than candid.
The President said nothing for a few moments. “I’m also told that there’s a chance that your gear was mistaken. The information came from the aircraft that was shot down.”
“Yes, sir. But we believe the data was very good.”
“How is your daughter?” asked the President, changing the subject.
“She’s doing very well. Should be out of the hospital any day now.”
“If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be back on active duty in a week,” said the President.
Dog smiled. In fact, he had talked to Breanna earlier in the day, and she insisted she would be back home next week.
Home being Dreamland, of course.
“I want you to get to the bottom of the situation right away,” the President said. “I want you to find out who has the other aircraft. Given the volatility of Asia right now, a weapon such as the Flighthawk would greatly complicate the chances for peace.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I realize there’s a possibility the design was stolen,” said Martindale. “That has to be explored as well.”
Dog nodded silently to himself. The President was being tactful, but nonetheless making it clear that he was on top of the situation. Dog admired that—even though the implications might not be pleasant.
“We will, sir.”
“You’ve done well, Tecumseh. We’ve spent much of the evening reviewing your work in the South Page 17
China Sea. Another home run. No matter what the Navy says. I won’t forget. But let’s get this other matter straightened out.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dog told the President, but Martindale had already hung up.
Dreamland Lecture Center Two
5 September 1997
0845
MAJORJEFF“ZEN”Stockard rolled his wheelchair next to the free console in the small auditorium, trying not to spill his coffee. He was surprised and relieved that he wasn’t late. While he didn’t have to worry about getting a place—the station was specially designed for a wheelchair, and he was the only one on the base in one—he hated having everyone stare as he wheeled himself in.
“Hey, Zen,” said Major Alou, one of the Megafortress pilots. “How’s Bree?”
“Claims she’ll be home next week,” said Zen.
“Yeah, what’s she doing? Soaking sun on the beach.”
“That and taking hula lessons,” said Zen.
Alou laughed and sat down.
Breanna had told Zen last night that she was ready to come home but the doctors wouldn’t release her.
Doctors meaning her mother, who by some bad fortune happened to be a muckety-muck on the hospital surgical staff. Worse—much worse—said mother was taking a position at Medici Hospital just outside Las Vegas, which would put her within interference range of her favorite—and only—daughter.
It wasn’t that Zen had a bad relationship with his mother-in-law. He had no relationship, and would have preferred it that way. It was bad enough that Breanna’s father ran Dreamland. Now he was going to have her mother looking over his other shoulder.
Not that the Dog was a bad commander, or that he interfered with their personal lives. It was just—claustrophobic.
Ray Rubeo and Jennifer Gleason entered the room wearing deep frowns. Rubeo scowled habitually; the muscles in his face refused to unclench even when he ate. Jennifer, though, could be counted on for a cheery smile even after working for sixty straight hours. The appearance of the “ghost clone”—and the implications that someone had sold Flighthawk secrets to a foreign government—obviously had her deeply troubled. The scientists took seats at the consoles a row down from him, Jennifer forcing a smile as she sat.