It hurt to watch him wheel across the open cement. It made her want to cry, but that was the last, the very last thing she could do. It would be like kicking him in the face.

Breanna forced her arms to hang down at her sides. She could do this. She had to do this.

“Sir, your orders, sir,” snapped one of the two sergeants, his voice cold enough to chill the heart of a Russian paratrooper.

Zen scowled. The look was so familiar Breanna felt her heart snap. He placed the bag with his clothes and other personal items on the ground next to him. He undid the clasp on his leather attaché—an old gift from his mother before she died—and slipped out a small sheaf of paperwork. The routine was, of course, not necessary, since the captain was well known and in any event would soon have his identity checked at a retina scanner at their station inside the hangar. His status and orders, like those of everyone at Dreamland, were recorded on the security computer. But it was a good touch.

The first sergeant inspected the documents while the other sergeant remained watchful. “Sir, I have to ask you if you are armed,” said the man finally, holding the papers in his hand.

Before, Jeff would have smiled wryly and said something like, “The girls all think so.”

Now he stared straight ahead, his words snapping taut in the chilly morning breeze. “My personal weapon is in storage. I am presently unarmed.”

The guard handed him back his orders.

“Your bags, sir. I have to ask that you present them for inspection.”

Zen handed them over.

“If you’ll follow us, Major, we can complete the protocol inside. We require a retina scan. It’s a new procedure.”

The men turned smartly and began striding toward the hangar. One of them gave Breanna the faintest wink.

“Jeff.” The word slipped out faintly as he drew parallel to her. He didn’t answer; she put her hand gently on his upper arm, stopping him.

“I’m okay, Bree.”

“I know that,” she said.

She stepped back and watched him wheel into the hangar. An F-15C Eagle—coincidentally the one Mack Smith had been flying when the accident happened—sat at the far end. Jeff kept his head pointed straight ahead, following the two sergeants to the computerized security device.

Breanna held her breath as Greasy Hands—Chief Master Sergeant Clyde Parsons, the senior NCO in charge of the maintenance crews—ambled up with a cup of coffee in his fist.

“Yo, Zen. Good to have you back, Major. About goddamn time.”

Jeff snorted.

“Been a slew of changes around here during your R&R. Flighthawks only got back in the air two months ago. Civilian pilot—nice guy, but not for nothin’ his nickname’s ‘Rock.’ “ Greasy Hands offered Jeff the coffee. “Dab .a milk. Alzheimer’s hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

She couldn’t see Jeff’s face. He didn’t say anything, but did take the coffee. Jeff and Greasy Hands had gotten along particularly well before the accident, the sergeant looking after the pilot like a doting parent.

Parsons caught her gaze. “Megafortress’ll be ready for you in ten shakes, Captain. Just checked with the crew chief.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

The old geezer smirked. “Better watch out for Major Cheshire. Hear she’s on the rag today.”

Breanna wasn’t exactly sure how to take that; she was rarely sure exactly how to take anything Parsons said. Though Dreamland’s excellent work teams were a testimony to the first sergeant’s abilities as an organizer and mother hen, Parsons was old school and very uncomfortable with women being in the military. She thought that he was trying to treat her like one of the guys, which probably in his mind was a big honor. His approach to Cheshire—the senior project officer on the EB-52 Mega-fortress and Breanna’s immediate superior—was very different, stiff to the point of being overly correct.

“Your dad’s sure gonna stir things up,” added Parsons. “He’s a bee-whacker.”

“A bee-whacker?”

“Really likes to whack the old bees’ nest,” explained the sergeant. “Shake things up. Got all the officers jumpin’, even the pilots.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Bree.

“He’s a butt-kicker,” Parsons told Jeff. His admiration seemed genuine. “You best watch your fanny, Major. Place isn’t going to be the same with him in charge. Now I admired the general—a damn fine man. An excellent officer. But Colonel Bastian, hell, he’s a bee-whacker. Just what we need,” Greasy Hands added, shaking his head and grinning. “I’ve heard stories.”

“So have I,” said Breanna sharply. “Jeff, I have to go get ready for a mission.”

He ignored her. It was pretty much what she expected; pretty much what he’d done in the hospital and all during rehab, after the doctors had told him he’d never walk again.

Not sure what else to do, she turned quickly and started for the Megafortress’s underground bunker.

COLONEL BASTIAN LOOKED UP AS AX MADE HIS WAY across the office.

“Cup number two, not quite as strong,” said the sergeant, placing down the coffee mug. “As per request.”

Dog grunted and rubbed his eyes. He’d gotten less than two hours of sleep last night, spending the rest of the time reviewing project notes and trying to correlate some of the reports with the Pentagon data he’d come west with. His desk was littered with folders, printouts, white pads, photocopies, notes, index cards, Post-its, and even a few old-fashioned carbons.

“Sunday Times crossword puzzle in that mess somewhere?”

“Very funny, Ax.”

“You want to run through the day’s agenda yet, Colonel? I figure we wait any longer the day’ll be over and then we’ll be behind.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dog took the coffee and leaned back in the well-padded leather chair. One thing about Ax’s coffee: Even the weak cups were gut-burning strong. And hot—Dog backed his lips off without taking a full sip.

“It’ll cool down,” said the sergeant.

“Thanks for the advice. Well?”

“Okay, let’s see. Number-one priority—hire a secretary. Preferably one who can make coffee.”

“Agreed.”

“Number-two priority, we need some typists, clerks, etc., etc. I can’t be expected to do real work forever, you know.”

Ax folded his arms in front of his chest. He was joking. Dreamland had a full complement of military and civilian clerks, probably more than the ever-efficient Ax needed. But instead of giving himself away with a laugh as he usually did, his expression turned serious.

“You okay, Colonel? Usually, you’re rolling on the floor by now.”

“This is a worse mess than I thought, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Ax ran his left hand up behind his neck, scratching an imaginary itch. Gibbs’s actual age was a closely guarded military secret, but he gave every impression of being old enough to be Bastian’s father. There were many times, like now, when he reminded Dog of the old man—kinder, without the temper. Maybe smarter, though Bastian’s father had been sharp enough to make admiral and get himself elected to Congress.

“Colonel, you’ve been in worse messes,” said the sergeant. “It’s just the paper-shuffling’s got you down.”

“Five of these programs have to go,” said Bastian, pointing to the papers. “Ms. O’Day is calling this morning for my recommendation.”

Deborah O’Day was the National Security Advisor and the reason Bastian was here.

“Eenie, meeney, minee, moe.”

Dog laughed.

“Finally,” said the sergeant. “I was beginning to worry you left your sense of humor back in Washington somewhere.”

Dog smiled and took a sip of the coffee. The problem wasn’t deciding which programs should be cut. The problem was that the programs that should be cut were exactly the ones the brass, the White House, and the Congress wouldn’t cut. Worse, by recommending they be cut, all he would succeed in doing was anger people and administer the final coup de grace to Dreamland.