“That’s in the past week and a half. We did maybe a million before my accident.”

She frowned, not even bothering to refute his exaggeration. Jeff kept talking, convinced he was right—convinced that not only would the Flighthawks do a great job, but that they would prove their worth to everyone and the project would live on.

He would live on. Or fly on.

“Raven and Fort Two are too valuable to risk anyplace where somebody else got shot down. The Flighthawks can take chances you can’t.”

“Maybe five years from now. Three years if we’re lucky,” said Cheshire. “After a hell of a lot more work and practice.”

“You think the pilots who got shot down are going to be alive in three years?”

“I didn’t think you cared that much for Mack Smith after, uh, the accident,” she said.

“Smith was one of the pilots?”

Cheshire nodded.

“Yeah, well, I’m still going.”

SHAVING, COLONEL BASTIAN CONSIDERED WHETHER HE might just escape for a few hours—pull the phone out of the wall, or better yet, steal away to a Vegas hotel and sleep for twenty-four hours.

Wouldn’t that go over big with the F-119 junta?

But hiding wasn’t exactly his style. And besides, he needed to stay available in case O’Day wanted his input on Somalia. So he fortified himself with a quick, very hot shower, and headed back to the Taj.

By now Bastian had learned it was much faster to avoid the elevator’s security systems and go down the stairways, which “merely” required a second retina scan, magnetic strip card, and a nod to the security detail at each floor. He had just burst out into the hallway down from his office when Major Stockard yelled to him from the elevator area.

“Colonel, just the man I was looking for,” said Jeff, wheeling his chair at breakneck speed. “Can we talk for a second?”

“Sure, Zen,” said Bastian, pushing open the door to his outer office. The room was jammed with a dozen other people waiting to see him. Dog gave the room a quick glance, though he could tell from the chaos that Ax was temporarily AWOL. “Sergeant Gibbs will be with you all shortly,” he said, waving off any interruptions as he plunged into his personal office. He held the door open as Stockard wheeled through, then closed it quickly.

“Colonel—”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” said Bastian quickly.

“I’m not worried about Bree, Colonel,” said Jeff. “I know she’s fine. I want to get the Flighthawks on Raven.”

“What?”

“The Flighthawks. If you’re sending a second Mega-fortress to Africa, you should send the Flighthawks along too. They can act as escorts and scouts,” he added. “We’ll have real-time surveillance and CAP.”

“I don’t know, Jeff.” Dog pulled out his desk chair and sat down. “For one thing, I don’t have approval to send the first Megafortress, let alone the second. I’m only authorizing it on the grounds that the first one doesn’t have a full crew aboard. In theory, the two planes are supposed to come back.”

“Come on, Dog. You’re stuffing the Raven with air-to-ground weapons. I agree with you. We should be in this.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. The weapons are for defensive purposes only.”

“JSOWs?”

“If there are ground installations targeting them,” said Bastian. It was, at best, a thin veneer—but that was all he needed.

“So they’ll need up-to-date intelligence. I’ve flown the Flighthawks off Raven before. I know it will work.”

The phone on his desk buzzed. Bastian looked at it angrily.

“You know I’m right about this, Colonel,” said Zen. “If you’re sending another Megafortress, the Flighthawks should go too. They’re proven. They’re expendable escorts.”

“You haven’t proven anything yet,” Bastian told him. He snapped up the phone. “Bastian.”

“Couple a dozen people waiting to talk to you, Colonel,” said Ax. “And Washington—”

“Start a list. Tell Washington I’ll get back to them,” he snapped, hanging up the phone. He turned back to Stockard. “You think aircraft that cost a half a billion dollars to build are expendable?”

“That’s the whole program cost,” said Jeff. “But even if it were the cost of one plane, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than someone’s life.”

As mad as he was, Bastian couldn’t quite disagree with that.

Especially since one of the lives they were talking about was Rap’s.

“Have you used the Megafortress as a mother ship?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” said Jeff. “Once they’re off the wings, flying them from the Megafortress is like flying them from anywhere. Come on, Dog. You know it makes sense. Send them.”

“You’re asking me to send an untested flight system into a war zone.”

“You already did that. Shit.” Zen nudged his wheelchair forward. “You want to prove Dreamland will work, don’t you? I know the whole concept—cutting-edge technology in the hands of an elite force. I have a copy of your paper. You’re right. That’s why this makes so much goddamn sense.”

“Where did you get a copy of that?”

“My cousin works for the NSC,” said Zen, realizing he’d gone too far.

“Which cousin is that?”

“Off the record?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t want to get my cousin fired.” Jeff pushed on, obviously hoping to skirt the question. “The bottom line here is, I want to put into practice what you’ve been preaching. Cutting-edge weapons on the firing line, where they belong.”

He was right—or at least he was making a damn strong argument. How could he not? It was exactly what Bastian himself believed.

But was Bastian right? He’d written that paper in an air-conditioned Washington, D.C., office over a few quiet afternoons. It was summer, and his evenings had been spent on a golf course, learning to play.

The report, and the man who wrote it, had been far removed from the realities of command, let alone combat. He hadn’t had to worry about the consequences of failure.

“Zen, I’m going to forget that claim to have seen an eyes-only code-word report that I doubt you’re cleared to read,” he told him. “What do we do if one of the Flighthawks crashes?”

“I hit self-destruct.” Jeff shrugged. “God, Colonel, they’re killing us anyway, right? What do we have to lose? I’m not asking you to send the JSF. You know this will work.”

Ax’s short double rap on the door interrupted them. The sergeant appeared with two cups of coffee and a stack of folders beneath his arm.

“Intel report you want to look at, Colonel,” said the sergeant, setting the folders down. “Courtesy of Centcom Planning.”

“Centcom?” Dog took the folder in his hand. It contained a short, undated memo accessing antiair defenses possessed by Iran. The emphasis was on mobile systems purchased from the former Soviet Union. According to the report, the Iranians were suspected of possessing a “sizable” number—”more than twenty”—of SA-3’s, SA-6’s, and man-portable SA-16’s.

Serious weapons, all. There were also improved SA-2’s, old but reliable SAMs. Though their systems were well known, their old-style radar could take advantage of some deficiencies in stealth technology—in other words, they could “see” F- 117’s in some circumstances.

They could also see the Megafortress.

Not the Flighthawks, though. Or at least not quite as soon.

A pair of the robots could extend the scouting range, take the risks. Keep his people safe. That was his mission, no?

No. This wasn’t his mission at all. He’d taken a hell of a risk using Fort Two as a transport. He knew—he strongly suspected, at least—that once the Megafortress was available, it would be used. And that would certainly hold true for Raven, with its ECMs.

And the Flighthawks. Damn straight.

Who would resist the temptation to use them?

Didn’t he want that, though? Didn’t he want to demonstrate how right he was?

No, it wasn’t a matter of him being right. It was a matter of getting the job done. And saving lives. Bree’ s.