He knew that eventually all of this would change.

Dreamland and Whiplash were too important to be commanded by a puny lieutenant colonel. The latest rumors posited that Whiplash would be expanded to full squadron size and then placed under the Special Operations Command (USSOC). A two-star would take over the base, which would remain a hybrid command. While such a split was antithetical to the concept that had established Whiplash, as well as the reason Dog had been sent here in the first place, it had a certain Washington logic to it that made the rumor seem fairly authentic.

Yet it didn’t bother Dog. As a matter of fact, he no longer thought about his career in the Air Force. He even considered—albeit lightly and without focus—what sort of job he might take if he returned to civilian life. Nothing about the future bothered him these days, especially while he was jogging.

The reason waited a few yards ahead, stretching in the chilly morning air.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” said Dog as he approached.

“I had a late night,” said Jennifer Gleason. She paused in her warm-up routine long enough to accept a light peck on the lips, then fell into a slow trot alongside him. “I had to help Ray on some last minute coding for Galatica. The navigation section in the autopilot programs developed some nasty bugs when the spoof lines were imposed and the GPS signal was blocked. Major Cheshire’s supposed to fly it this morning, and we didn’t want her landing in Canada.”

“Spoof lines?”

“Well, the ECM coding in the three-factor section doesn’t interface with the GPS at all, but for some bizarre 64

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

reason there was this variable table that was affected. It had to do with the allocation of memory—”

“I think we’re venturing into need-to-know territory,”

said Dog, picking up his pace. “And I don’t need to know.”

“Too technical for you, Colonel?”

“Nah.”

Jennifer tapped at him teasingly. He caught her hand, then folded it into his, her long, slim fingers twining around thumb and pinkie. They ran like that for a few yards, Dog luxuriating in the soft echo of her footsteps next to him.

“I get off here,” he said as they approached the narrow road that led to his quarters.

“You’re not running with me?”

“Hey, I’ve done my time.” Dog slowed to a trot and then a walk. Jennifer let go of his hand, but also slowed, trotting backward to talk a few more moments before saying good-bye.

“Come on, you can do another circuit.”

“Can’t. Chief Gibbs probably has the papers three feet high on my desk already,” said Dog. “Maybe we can meet for dinner?”

“How about lunch?”

“Can’t do lunch. How about off base for dinner?”

“Are you sure Gibbs will let you off base?”

“Ax works for me, not the other way around.”

“Have you checked the organizational chart?”

“No way. He drew it up,” Dog said, laughing.

Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs was the colonel’s right-hand man; the chief tended to the p’s and q’s of the job and at times acted as a substitute mother hen. Ax came from a long line of top-dog sergeants, a chief’s chief who could organize a hurricane into a Sun-day picnic.

RAZOR’S EDGE

65

“The question is, can you get away?” said Dog.

“You’re the worst workaholic on this base, and that’s saying something.”

Jennifer jogged forward. Her long hair framed a beautiful round face, and even in rumpled sweats her body pulled him toward her.

“I will meet you at the Dolphin port at 1800 hours,” she said a few inches from his face. “Be there or be square.”

Dog laughed, then leaned in to kiss her. As their lips touched, he caught the flash of a blue security light in the distance.

“Now you’ve done it,” said Jennifer. “Chief Gibbs heard you talking about him.”

“I have no doubt,” said Dog. He turned toward the approaching truck, one of the black GMC SUVs used by the base’s elite security force. The Jimmy whipped so close before halting that Dog took two steps off the pavement, nudging Jennifer out of the way as well.

“Colonel, got a message for you,” said the driver. Lieutenant William Ferro, the security duty officer, was out of breath, as if he’d run instead of driven. “You have to, you have a secure call.”

“Relax, Billy,” Dog told him. “Gleason, I’ll see you at 1800.”

“You got it,” Jennifer told him, whirling and breaking into a smooth stride.

“Whiplash,” said Ferro as Dog got into the truck. “I didn’t know if I should say that, in front of the, uh, scientist, sir.”

“That scientist has seen more combat than you have,”

said Dog, who might have added that her clearance was also considerably higher. “But you did okay. When in doubt, don’t.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant stepped on the gas and whipped the truck into a 180, shooting toward Taj, the 66

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

main building at the base. Dog’s office and a secure communications bunker known as Dreamland Command were located in the basement.

The colonel ran his hands over his face as they drove, mopping the perspiration. His shirt had a wide, wet V at the chest. He’d change once he knew what was up.

“Do me a favor, Billy,” he said as the lieutenant screeched to a stop in front of the building. “Roust Captain Freah and ask him to meet me up in my office as soon as he can make it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Billy—slow down a bit, all right? This thing’s a truck, not a tank. You’ll get hurt if you hit something.”

THE DOORS TO DREAMLAND’S SECURE COMMAND CENTER

snapped open with a pneumatic hiss. As Dog stalked across the threshold, the automatic lighting system snapped on. He went to the bank of video consoles on the left, hunkering over the keyboard as he pecked in his password. The screen’s blue tint flashed brown; a three-option menu appeared, corresponding to the communication and coded protocols. Dog nudged the F3 key, then retyped both his password and the Whiplash activation code. Then he opened a small drawer beneath the desk and took out a headset.

“Configuration Dog One,” he told the computer that controlled the communications suite. “Allow pending connection.”

The screen popped into a live video from the situation room at the Pentagon. Lieutenant General Magnus, in his shirtsleeves, was conferring with an aide at the side.

“General,” said Dog.

Magnus turned toward him with his familiar scowl.

“Tecumseh. Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping, General. I’d just finished my run.”

RAZOR’S EDGE

67

“We’re having some problems in Iraq,” said Magnus.

“Very bad problems. You’ll be hearing news reports soon.

We’re getting ready for a press conference upstairs. The executive summary is this—Saddam has shot down three of our planes.”

“What?”

“We recovered one of the pilots and had a quick look at the wreckage. We weren’t able to get a full team out there but we have some of the photos. One of your men happened to be in Europe and was routed out there by coincidence. Mack Smith. He looked at the wreckage.”

Dog nodded. Mack wasn’t a true expert on plane damage—though of course he thought he was. Still, he knew enough to give a lecture on it to terrorism experts and had commanded an investigation in the past.

“What did Mack say?”

“I don’t have the report yet, or the photos,” said Magnus. “This is still developing. Two of the planes are still missing. They’re definitely down.”

Dog felt a surge of anger as the news sank in. He’d flown missions over Iraq, commanded guys in both Southern Watch and Operation Comfort. If there were men down, there was a good chance he knew them.

Iraq should have been taken care of six years ago, steamrolled when they had a chance.