“We’re really, really sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Liu.

“No problem,” said Bastian. “Let me ask you something, Sergeant. Both of you. How come you’re pulling guard duty?”

“SOP. Captain Freah’s orders, sir,” said Liu. “Normal rotation.”

“Thinks we’re fuckin’ gettin’ big heads,” said Talcom. “Uh, excuse me, Colonel. Shit.”

“I’ve heard the word before.”

Bastian hid a smile as he returned their salutes, watching them slip back into the darkness. Then he slid his magnetic ID card through the security terminal next to the door. After he punched his access code, the panel above the card reader began to glow a faint green. He placed his thumb against it and the lock on the door clicked open.

The vestibule inside was bathed scarlet by the night-lights; a pair of surveillance cameras tracked Dog as he walked to the elevator. He had to rekey his ID code and give another thumb print for the doors to open. Once inside, he turned and waited. There were no buttons inside the elevator car; there was only one destination, the underground hangar-bunker that housed the Megafortress project offices and labs.

The bright hallway lights stung Dog’s eyes as the doors snapped open. Activated by a computer when the elevator started downward, the fluorescent panels washed the scrubbed concrete with the equivalent of ten million candles, ensuring that the security cameras observing him had an excellent image. Lights flicked on in the distance as he started down the hallway. The surveillance, lighting, and environmental systems were run by a small computer optimized for economy as well as security; the brain could selectively shut down heating and even ventilating units depending on the time of day or other requirements. The vast bays on the left side of the hall, for example, were currently unheated; they held four B-52’s undergoing conversion to EB-52 Megafortresses. One of the planes was being bathed by a strong flow of air—it had been painted earlier in the day, and the techies had arranged for perfect conditions to dry the coating of liquid Teflon properly.

Dog’s destination was on the other side of the wide hallway, where a set of double doors led to a Z-shaped ramp upward. Black suitcases were piled along the side of the top of the ramp; wires snaked everywhere just beyond the railing. Tables crammed with electronics equipment—meters, oscilloscopes, computer displays—clustered just off the ramp. Bastian treaded his way to the large, cone-shaped mockup of the Megafortress cockpit in the middle of the room. He had just reached its slightly rickety-looking wooden stairs when a head popped out from a control station near the nose.

“Colonel, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” said Jennifer Gleason.

“Just kept getting waylaid,” said Dog. The stairs were sturdier than they looked; they didn’t even creak as he climbed up and slid into the pilot’s seat. Intended more to help the developers play with the still-experimental plane’s systems, the simulator did not fully duplicate flight conditions. But it did move on a flexible chassis, and Dog strapped himself in.

“You’re all set,” said Jennifer, coming up the stairs behind him. “Computer will follow your voice commands with the usual authorizations. You can run today’s flight backwards and forwards as many times as you want.”

“Thanks,” he said.

As he reached for the control stick, the computer scientist placed her hand on his shoulder.

The world suddenly caught fire.

“You want me to hang around?” she asked.

He did, but not to monitor the practice session.

Dog told her no, and then began the arduous process of learning from his morning’s mistakes.

Las Vegas

9 January, 2250

FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS AHEAD ON TWENTY-FIVE-dollar chips playing blackjack—not bad, thought Mack, especially for fifteen minutes worth of work.

Four hundred bucks was a pile of money to anyone on a military salary, but to the other people around the table, especially the blonde on his right in her almost-see-through top, four hundred bucks was a tip for the doorman. Mack took his cards, noted the total—nineteen, a pat hand—and sipped his drink. The double shot of Jack Daniels stung his lips lightly as he took an infinitesimal sip.

“Hit me,” said the blonde. Mack watched her chest heave as the dealer slid a card from the shoe.

Seven.

“Hit me,” said the woman again.

A king materialized next to her chips. She curled her lip up but said nothing, silently turning over her cards as she submitted. She’d tried to hit sixteen.

Too dumb to make it with, Mack decided.

The dealer looked at him.

“I’m fine,” he said.

The dealer revealed her cards—fourteen. By casino rules she had to hit. She made eighteen; everyone but Mack lost the round.

He kept playing, winning mostly, but his mind started wandering. He’d wandered into The Punch, one of the newest casinos in town. Its game rooms exuded sophistication—exotic wood trimmed the tables, waiters in dark suits prowled the aisles, the lighting was directed perfectly to make it easy to see your cards, yet it somehow seemed soft and incapable of producing a glare. But all the good-looking women here had rich sugar daddies on their arms. The pile of chips in front of him wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Rolex on the old codger two seats away. Only his competitive juices kept Mack at the table.

That and the blonde’s soft shoulder, which now leaned heavily against his arm.

“Nice music,” he said. “I’ve never been in Punch before.”

“It’s all right,” she said. Then she got up and walked away.

That did it. Mack took his cards, saw that he had a pair of red tens, and decided not only to split them but to put his whole wad on the bet. He busted on the first.

And hit blackjack on the second—good way to go out.

“Let me buy you a drink, Major,” said the codger with the Rolex, appearing next to him as he swept up his chips.

“Do I know you?” Mack asked the old man.

“We’ve met several times,” said the man. He had a vaguely Spanish accent, though Mack couldn’t place it. “Fernando Valenz. Brazilian Air Attaché. I have an office in San Francisco, but I visit here often.”

Portuguese, not Spanish. But that didn’t help Mack. He was about to blow off the old guy when Valenz took his elbow. “A lot of pretty girls in the blue lounge, I’d wager.”

The blue lounge was a private penthouse upstairs. Mack had heard stories that the waitresses there all were topless. He’d heard other stories as well.

What the hell, he thought, and he let Valenz lead him toward the elevator, which opened when Valenz placed a special key card in the lock slot. Inside the car, the Brazilian slicked back his white hair, flashing not just the Rolex but a black onyx ring whose jewel could have been used as a golf ball. Five-eight with a good-sized belly, he wore what had to be a hand-tailored suit and a silk turtleneck—a dandy, though forgivable given that the guy was probably sixty and a foreigner.

The geezer slipped a Franklin to the attendant who met them at the door to the lounge, then tented one for the waitress who approached with a gin and tonic.

She wore a top. So much for rumors.

Valenz told the woman to bring Mack a double Jack on the rocks, then steered him toward a pair of leather club chairs at the corner. The chairs sat in front of a large plate-glass with a good view of the city; Las Vegas in all its tacky glory spread out before him, neons wailing in the night.

“The Punch is a bit sophisticated for the city, wouldn’t you say, Major?” asked Valenz.

“I guess,” said Mack.

“Besides the Brazilian government, I work for Centurion Aeronautics,” said Valenz. “We are consultants. We’re always looking for new associates.”

Mack smiled. He’d been expecting some sort of pitch. “I don’t think I’d be a very good salesman,” he said.