Dog explained carefully and as fully as he could, then segued from that into a description of the ensuing engagement between the Sukhois and the Indian sub, which had resulted in the sinking of the oil tanker and the probable loss of three men.

“Thank you, Dog.” The President’s voice remained friendly; they could had been discussing a hunting trip where they’d come up empty.

“Sir, we do have plans in place now to track the Indian submarine,” Dog added.

“Well, you carry on, Colonel,” said the President. “I’m afraid I have some pressing matters.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said Dog reflexively. It was doubtful that the President heard his last few words; the line had snapped dead before he finished.

His intercom buzzed. Dog picked it up and barked at Ax. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that was the President on hold?”

“Didn’t know it was the President,” said Ax. “It was Mr. Barclay, as far as I knew. And he wasn’t on hold more than ten seconds. Line two Admiral Allen. He’s spitting bullets.”

“Why?”

“Born that way.”

“Listen, Ax, I’m going to be deploying to the Philippines—”

“Camp Paradise, huh? Pack a bathing suit, and a raincoat—there’s monsoons this time of year.”

“Thanks. Make sure everything’s in order. Is Major Ascenzio still in the secure center?”

“Far as I know, Colonel. How long will you be gone?”

“A few days.”

“Just wanted to know how many signatures I’ll need to forge.”

“Very funny, Ax.”

Dog punched the phone button and got a tired-sounding lieutenant on Admiral Allen’s staff.

“The admiral wants to speak to you, sir,” said the lieutenant.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Dog.

“Tecumseh, what the hell is going on?” said Allen, coming on the line a few seconds later.

“Not exactly sure what we’re talking about, Admiral.”

“I hear from my sources you’re looking for authority to fire at Chinese vessels.”

“Not at all, Admiral.”

“Don’t give me that crap. What are you trying to do, Colonel? Start World War III?”

“Admiral—I don’t know where that rumor came from,” said Dog. “I haven’t asked for authority to do anything.”

“What happened with the tanker?” asked Allen.

“The Chinese aircraft were firing at an Indian submarine,” Dog told him.

“Which conveniently disappeared.”

“We have tape of the incident,” said Dog. He wondered if Allen was being sabotaged by enemies over at the Pentagon—or if he was the target. “The details should have reached you by now.”

“They haven’t. I want to see it.”

“I’m sure if you called over to the NSC—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” said Allen.

“Admiral, my hands are tied.”

“From now on, you check with my people before running any more missions.”

“I can’t do that, Admiral,” said Dog. “And I won’t.

the line went dead.

Philippines

August 25, 1997, 0600 local

From the way he looked at him, Zen could tell Stoner was wondering how he managed to get from his wheelchair to inside the airplane, and how he maneuvered once there. It was the sort of question everyone had, though almost no one asked.

There were a lot of things no one asked. At first, this was fine with Zen—he couldn’t stand bullshit sympathy, which was always in the air whenever an AB—an able-bodied person—asked about his useless legs. Gradually, however, people’s avoidance of the topic began to annoy him, as if by not saying anything they were pretending he didn’t exist. Now his attitude was complicated. Sometimes he thought it was funny, sometimes he thought it was insulting, sometimes he thought it was ridiculous, sometimes he thought it was almost endearing. Watching how a person handled the awkwardness could tell you a lot about them, if you cared.

In Stoner’s case, he didn’t. he didn’t like the CIA agent, probably because he’d copped an attitude toward Danny. He was one of those “been-there, done-that” types who spread a know-it-all air everywhere he went. Stoner had suggested he come along to get a firsthand look at things; Major Alou and Bree had thought it a good idea.

“We go up the ramp, Stoner,” Zen told him, pushing his wheelchair toward the ladder that led down from the crew area of the Megafortress. When Zen reached the stairway he swung around quickly, backing into the attachment device the Dreamland engineers had added to all of the Flighthawk-equipped EB-52’s. The Zen Clamp, as they called it, hooked his chair into an elevator they’d rigged to work off electricity or stored compressed air, so no matter what was going on with the plane he had a way in or out. Two small metal panels folded down from the sides of the ladder; Zen backed onto them and then pulled thick U-bolts across the fronts of is read wheels.

“Gimps going up,” said Zen, hitting the switch. He had to push back in the seat to keep his balance and avoid scraping his head; there wasn’t a particularly huge amount of clearance and, once moving, the elevator didn’t stop.