“Yes,” said Dog. In a brief but brutal encounter between America and China known to some as the “Fatal Terrain” affair, Elliott had given his life. He’d died successfully preventing an all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and China. He was a bonafide war hero—at least to some people who criticized the maverick general. They didn’t realize how close the communists had come to running over Taiwan—and starting World War III.

“Things are still hot there. Touchy. We’ve got a lot of assets along the coast.”

“You’re probably stretched thin,” said Dog.

“Absolutely,” said Allen. “And contrary to all the talking heads, there’s still no guarantee war won’t break out. I don’t trust the Chinese as far as I can spit, even with our carriers along their coast. And, hell, even the Indians seem to be spoiling for a fight.”

“India?”

“Oh, yes,” said Allen. “Minor incidents so far. Saber-rattling. Frankly, I don’t take them too seriously. But all South Asia’s boiling.”

Dog nodded.

“Admiral Woods is an excellent man,” said Allen. “A little competitive sometimes. Especially if he thinks the Air Force is trying to get ahead of him. Very competitive.”

“How about yourself?” ask Dog.

“Never play tennis with me.”

“I meant, do you think the Air Force is trying to get ahead of you?”

“Piranha is a Navy project, Colonel.”

The accent on Colonel was sharp enough to fillet a salmon. Having to negotiate with someone so far down in rank obviously pricked at the admiral. The fact that Dog essentially answered to no one in the military undoubtedly irked him as well.

Their lunch arrived. The conversation once more tacked toward more friendly waters. Allen compared the salmon favorably to several dinners he’d had recently in Washington, D.C.—a not too subtle hint that the admiral could muster considerable political muscle if displeased.

“Extend my compliments to the chef,” said Allen as the waiter cleared the plates.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dog, if you run the rest of your ship as well as you run the mess, you’ll do well,” the admiral added.

“I can’t take the credit,” said Dog. “Brad Elliott staffed the kitchen.”

Displeasure or sorrow—it was impossible to tell which—flicked over Allen’s face. “I’d like a copy of the draft report,” he said.

“That can be arranged.” In truth, Colonel Bastian would have forwarded him one as a matter of course, since his command had been involved in the testing and had personnel involved in the development. Had Dog not taken such a dislike to Allen, he might also have noted, for the record, that Dreamland reports focused on the system under study. Personalities, and what orders they might or might not have issued during test exercises, were never included.

But the colonel didn’t see much reason for adding that.

“You have a nice little operation here, Colonel. No reason for us to be enemies,” said Allen as they walked back to the SUV that would take the admiral to his plane, which had returned after being refueled at Edwards.

“I didn’t realize we were,”

Allen only smiled.

Zen pulled his wheelchair toward Hangar A, where the UMB’s control unit was housed. Bree had promised to meet him there for lunch. He was running his standard ten minutes later—the only place he was punctual was in the air—so it was somewhat surprising when she was not standing impatiently outside the door.

Zen breathed a reassuring sigh, since she was sure to get on him for being late. Instead of justifying his tardiness, her absence presented a perfect opportunity for turning the tables on the notoriously punctual captain; he could claim he’d been here the whole time, waiting outside. He stopped a few feet from the doorway and pulled his paperback from the corner of his seat, starting to position himself as if he’d been reading in the shade.

“More Roosevelt!” said Bree behind him.

“More Roosevelt,” he said, closing the biography of the President. “Where you been?”

“I was necking with Chief Parsons around the corner,” she said. Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was in charge of the maintenance team and old enough to be her father—or grandfather.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said.

“Oh, baloney. I saw you come up.”

“Musta been some other pimp in a wheelchair.” Zen smiled at her.

“So which book is this?”

Bree reached down and picked it up; Zen saw the opening and snuck in a kiss.

“Heavy reading,” she said. The book was Geoffrey Ward’s A First Class Temperament. “Whatever happened to Sports Illustrated?”

“I only get it for the swimsuit issue,” said Zen. His interest in Roosevelt had started by accident during his flight home from Turkey, and now he was truly fascinated by the only man to have been elected President four times—all the time confined to a wheelchair. He’d worked through several FDR volumes, and was now eyeing Kenneth Davis’s five books, the definitive tome on Roosevelt’s life. While he joked that he wanted to see how a “fellow gimp made good,” what truly fascinated Zen was Roosevelt’s ability to get along with so many people.

His charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico—against the Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had treated him like a son.