“They need someone right away.” Bastian reached back behind his shoulder, stretching the tense muscles in his upper body. Personally, he hated Mack, but it wasn’t fair to screw him out of this based on a vague suspicion and coincidence.
Not fair, but it had to be done.
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Freah.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to call the boss.”
“Shit, me too.”
Pei, Brazil
6 March, 0300 local
MINERVA LANZAS CURLED HER ARMS ACROSS HER chest, pacing in the dark night. She cursed herself for giving into him.
Did she have a choice?
A tower, enemies—he was out of his mind. She’d never see him again.
The idea clawed at her. Objectively speaking, it would be easier if the American completely vanished. Yet she didn’t think she could live if that happened.
She couldn’t really be in love; she would never allow herself to be so vulnerable. And yet, there seemed no other explanation.
The ground rattled gently. The large Boeing appeared over the mountain ridge, snapping its landing lights on as it turned abruptly to line up for the field.
Minerva trembled when the rear hatch opened and Madrone walked down the ramp and into her arms.
“I was so worried,” she told him.
“Yes,” said Madrone, pressing her so tightly to his body she thought her bones would break. “They are stronger than I imagined. I must go back. They’ll never leave us alone.”
Minerva tried to undo herself from his grasp, but couldn’t. “Kevin,” she said gently. “Let me go.”
Instead of answering, he sobbed on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“They are bastards,” he wailed. “They’re everywhere. Glavin is probably telling them what to do. I know where he is. He sent me a card, a Christmas card, the bastard. I know where he is. I have to go back. I must.”
He said it so forcefully, with such finality, Minerva knew she would never convince him to stay.
Dreamland
7 March, 0800
MACK SMITH HOPPED OFF THE DOLPHIN HELICOPTER ferry feeling like a million dollars.
Or rather, milioncino, a cool million. Lire.
Italiano. Which he would soon be speaking. Because obviously Bastian had ordered him back here because a transfer had come through.
And the grapevine was already buzzing with the possibilities. Either the Raptor F-22 program, which found itself in need of a director of operations, or squadron commander with a wonderful bunch of ragazzi flying F-15Cs in sunny Italia.
Bene, bene.
He’d prefer the Raptors, but something told him he was bound for Italy, where wine was cheap and the babes didn’t believe in wearing tops.
To the best of his knowledge, no squadron in the Air Force was currently commanded by a major, so a promotion would quickly follow. The pay bump would be nice. Maybe he’d buy a little speedboat. Nothing outlandish just big enough to rock gently when he made love.
“Major Smith, sir, Colonel Bastian wanted to see you,” said a sergeant near the ramp. “I was to expedite you there, sir.”
Jesus, Bastian had turned into an A-one fella, Knife thought as he climbed in the black SUV the sergeant had brought to ferry him over to Taj. Mack was in such a great mood that he even took a seat when Bastian’s muck-up-the-works Sergeant Gibbs greeted him at the door.
Actually, Gibbs seemed almost deferential, at least by chief master sergeant standards, not only offering coffee, but remembering how Mack liked it. When Bastian buzzed, the sergeant showed him right in.
“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack, breezing past Gibbs and pulling up a chair. “So—what’s so fantastically important that I had to peddle back ASAP, as if I didn’t know.”
Bastian frowned at Ax, who had brought a folder’s worth of vouchers to be signed.
“So?” asked Mack as the sergeant left the room.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Major.”
It took every ounce of self-restraint that Smith possessed not to cover his ears as Bastian continued. He spoke quickly, concisely, and without bullshit—Mack was assigned to Dreamland for the immediate future.
“Uh, Colonel—there’s a slot in Italy and, uh, F-15’s and, uh, I was promised—”
“Your name was mentioned for that, yes. I’m afraid it’s no longer viable.”
“Viable? Viable?”
“Nor is the Raptor slot open. The Pentagon wants more flight testing with the MiG-29’s. You’re on that assignment indefinitely,” said Bastian.
“Who screwed me? What the hell’s going on here?”
“I don’t know that anyone screwed you, Mack.”
“Oh, bullshit, Colonel. This isn’t about the attack at Glass Mountain, is it? I’m getting screwed by somebody here,” said Mack. He just barely stopped himself from jumping to his feet, rising slowly instead. “Colonel, can’t you do anything? I mean—my record, Somalia. I’ve been a team player.”
“I told you before, I will do something. And while we’re talking about your record, why don’t you tell me about the Brazilian you met in Las Vegas?”
“I told you about that. He wanted to know about MiG-29’s. I told him to fuck off.”
Bastian said nothing.
“That’s what this is about?” Mack was too incredulous to believe it. “Asshole buys me a drink and gives me a cigar? I don’t even smoke cigars.”
Bastian pushed a button on his phone, and Ax appeared at the door. “The sergeant will see to anything else you need.”
Confused as well as furious, Knife got up and made his way out of the office, barely controlling his temper well enough to avoid punching anything until he got into the elevator.
Aboard EB-52 BX-5 Galatica
Dreamland Range 34
7 March, 1000
BREANNA GLANCED AT HER COPILOT AS THE EB-52 reached twenty thousand feet. Galatica was similar to Raven in general layout, though the Dreamland wizards had continued to tinker around the edges. The most critical upgrades were larger fuel stores and super-cruise engines, which were based on a Pratt & Whitney design for the F-22. In the fighter, the engines helped conserve fuel at Mach-plus speeds. Tuned somewhat differently and shortened considerably for the Megafortress, they nearly tripled the model’s combat radius. With careful fuel management, Gal could take off from Dreamland, fly a mission to Russia, and return without refueling—while providing fuel to a pair of Flighthawks through an automated boom in the tail.
The refueling boom was one of a long list of items to be tested today. They were going to air-launch two Flighthawks, which hadn’t been done from Gal yet, and run through an automated test suite on Galatica’s tactical surveillance radar. That done, they’d burn off some fuel with a few crash dives and climbs to make sure the airframe and engines were up to the stress. Bree had in mind taking a shot at eighty thousand feet, which was currently the unofficial Megafortress altitude record.
“Handling like a fighter, even with all the extra fuel weight,” said Chris Ferris, her copilot. “I thought the leading-edge flap was a little sluggish when we started to climb, but the computer recorded the specs at Dash-1.”
“What about the gear?”
“Cleaned fine.”
“I don’t like the extra tires,” said Breanna. “It all felt kind of storky.”
“I guess. I kind of like the higher view.”
The plane stood roughly four feet higher off the ground than the other models. Changes in the landing gear made heavy landings more manageable, an important consideration if the plane were carrying a full load of fuel and had to quickly return to a combat base. At the same time, the gear further protected the engines and any carriaged Flighthawks from debris at a less than perfectly groomed airfield during takeoff.