“Yes, sir,” said Dog.

“Map out a plan to look for the subs. If we find one, Indian or Chinese, we’ll still with it. The others are bound to show up eventually,” said Woods. With that, he turned and walked quickly out of the trailer.

The girl’s breathing and heart rate were normal, and though unconscious, she didn’t seem to have been severely injured. They brought her to a small tent at the far end of the base, letting her rest on the air-cushion stretcher that carried her. Liu and the others had turned from warriors to mother hens, watching for signs of her revival.

Bison had told Danny about the change in their orders, but the captain hadn’t had time to think about the implications until he reached the medical tent. There were Navy people all over the place, off-loading equipment from transports, revving up bulldozers, and staking out building sites.

Ordinarily, Danny Freah didn’t put too much stock in interservice rivalry. In the modern military, the Joint Service Command structure meant Air Force people and Army people and Navy people often mixed in together. Danny had worked with Marines several times since coming to Dreamland; before that, he had drawn assignments with several Army Special Forces teams, including one from Delta.

However, besides heading the Whiplash ground team, he was responsible for Dreamland security, and this many people running around presented a serious problem, no matter what uniform they wore. Even the observation post and its displays were classified. While allowances had to be made for “live” operations, he had to make sure everyone up and down the command chain understood there were fences.

“Okay, sergeant,” he told Liu. “Keep me posted on the girl while I sort the security stuff out.”

“Gotcha, Cap.”

Danny’s ear bud vibrated with a page.

“Colonel’s looking for you,” said Bison. “He’s headed your way.”

“Good. What’s our status with the Megafortresses?”

“Our guys’ll watch ’em after they come in,” said Bison. “Marines know they’re out of bounds. Colonel Bastian kicked the admiral’s staff out of the trailer.”

“What staff?” said Danny. “What the hell were they doing in the trailer?”

“Uh, Captain, did you want Pretty Boy to shoot them?”

“Damn straight,” said Danny, who wasn’t kidding. “Shit. Why hell didn’t you tell me, Bison?”

“I told you the admiral was going there.”

“Just the admiral, you said.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you meant the whole staff could wait there.”

“Bison. Shit.”

Danny’s anger was temporary diverted by a moan from the stretcher.

“Girl’s waking up,” said Liu.

“I’ll get back to you.” Danny told his sergeant.

The Filipino jerked straight upright on the cot, disoriented and angry. Liu put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed forward, and his grip tightened just enough to stop her from moving any further. The anger on her face changed to fear, then something like curiosity, then back to anger.

“Are you okay?” Danny asked her.

She frowned. Her reaction convinced Danny she spoke English, like most, though not all, of her countrymen.

“You’re okay,” he said. “Does your head hurt? You may have a concussion.”

“Captain Freah?”

Danny turned toward the door of the tent. A Marine captain and two of his men had come in.

“I’m Freah.”

“Name’s Petersin. Justin Peterson.” He held out his hand, which Danny shook professionally. “Prisoner?”

“Not exactly,” said Danny. He gestured toward the door and they wen out to talk. The wind was whipping up with a fresh storm; Danny could taste moisture on his lips and his breaths were heavy with the approaching rain.

“I’m in charge of securing the base area,” said Peterson. “I understand you guys have some high-tech gizmos set up.”

“The sensors themselves aren’t that high-tech,” said Danny. “Camera, some IR gear. But what we have controlling them—that’s classified.”

“Oh?” Peterson’s tone was somewhere between a challenge and genuine puzzlement.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a pain in the ass, but I’d like to get some compartmentalization,” said Danny. “I’m thinking my guys work the gear. We feed information to your guys. I don’t know what personnel you’ll have.”

“A company. We can get what we need, though.”

“Company’s fine. I’ll go over the perimeter with you, and you can decide how you want to handle it. We had a similar arrangement with some guys from the 24th MEU (SOC),” added Danny, pronouncing the words as if they were “Mew-sock.” “Seemed to work out. We can get you some of our como gear, but not the helmets we use.”

Danny smiled. “You’d never give ’em back,” he added.

“Okay. I heard a little about you,” said Peterson.

“Me or my unit?”

“Both. You sure you’re not Marines under those black vests?”

Danny knew he was being buttered up—but still, Peterson seemed all right. They’d get along okay.