Washington, D.C.

10 October 1997, 0700

WHEN HE FIRST READ THE ALERT ON THE MORNING BRIEFING, Jed couldn’t believe it. According to the Associated Press, a lone gunman had shot up a restaurant in the capital of Brunei. Two people had been killed and several more injured, but the casualty list could have been considerably longer if a lucky shot had not severed the wire on the man’s explosive vest.

Terrorists in Brunei? It seemed inconceivable.

It was incredibly inconvenient, since the president was due to announce the sale of three Megafortresses to the kingdom today. Dreamland had already been ordered to have the aircraft ready for delivery within two weeks.

Jed glanced at his watch. It was a bit early to call his boss, but he knew he’d better get some bulletins out on this right away.

Brunei Air Force Headquarters

10 October 1997, 2100

Breanna listened as Mack recounted the incident in the restaurant, and the oddly detached reaction of the government officials afterward.

“So they think he’s just a nutcase?” she said, finally.

“They don’t want to deal with reality,” said Mack. “That kid had a Romanian submachine gun. That’s pretty rare in Brunei.”

“You think he’s tied in with what happened to Zen and me on the beach?”

“Has to be:’ said Mack. “I think there’s a whole network of extremists running around. But as soon as I ask any serious questions, all I get are dumb-ass smiles from my fellow defense ministers.” He said the title as if it were a slur.

“Maybe it’s time for you to get out.”

Mack frowned but said nothing.

“You want me to hang around for a few days longer?” she asked.

Mack shrugged. “Nah. My guys are probably about as up to speed as they’re going to get.”

“Don’t be too hard on them, Mack. They’re not terrible pilots. They just need more flight time. Same with the equipment ops. Deci’ll work with them for a few more days. They’ll get it together.”

“Yeah. The whole country is not very serious about the military here. That’s the problem,” said Mack.

“Well you’re turning it around.” She meant the compliment; Mack was working hard at straightening out the air force—surely harder than she would have thought. “McKenna’s working at it, too.”

“She’s good,” said Mack. “Maybe I ought to send over to Canada for more contract pilots.” He got up. “Listen, Bree, I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Don’t mention it,” she told him.

“I’d buy you a drink but I have a pile of things to go through.”

“It’s all right. I have to get up early tomorrow for my flight. It leaves at 4 A.M. If I miss it, I’ll be here until Tuesday”

“You stopping over in Japan?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking of it, but I want to get home”

“Don’t blame you:’ he said, his voice almost wistful.

Dreamland

10 October 1997, 1310

Dog realized that things between him and Jennifer had been derailed for reasons unknown—at least to him. Rather than spending a lot of time analyzing why, he decided to go on the offensive. Big time.

He made sure all of his work was squared away early Friday afternoon, skipping both breakfast and lunch to get his various duties finished. Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs, who functioned as a combination right-hand man and ward healer in the stripped-down Dreamland hierarchy, ran interference for him. He also facilitated the first strike in the operation, helping Dog arrange for a dozen roses to be delivered to Jennifer’s lab first thing in the morning.

The roses sat in a makeshift vase—a sawed-down Coke bottle—on one of the tables near the entrance to the computer lab. As Dog came into the lab, Ray Rubeo had just gotten down on his knees next to Jennifer, seemingly praying over something on the computer.

“You never struck me as the religious type,” said Dog.

“Colonel. Hmmph,” said Rubeo, giving Dog his usual scowl.

“Problem?”

“Just the usual avalanche,” said Rubeo. “We need more personnel, Colonel. I need coders. Real coders.”

Rubeo made a similar plea at least once a week, and usually Dog would cut him off after a few words. But today the colonel let the scientist go on, using the opportunity to watch Jennifer working over the nearby computer. She pounded the directional keys, repeating numbers to herself as she stared at the screen.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

“So when do we get more personnel?” asked Rubeo finally. “We may be able to get some extra heads as part of the Megafortress program,” Dog told him.

“The Megafortress? Why?”

“Because we’re selling three to Brunei.”

“Piffle,” said the scientist.

“Piffle? In what way?” Dog continued to watch Jennifer, who was absorbed in the screen.

“Piffle in that they’re about as useful to Brunei as a toaster is on the Australian outback,” said Rubeo. “And we shouldn’t even be wasting our resources on the EB-52. The unmanned bomber and satellite stations are much more important—they’re the future, Colonel.”

“Ray, sometimes you’re just too much to take,” said Dog. He looked over at Jennifer, still staring at the screen. “But I love you anyway.”

“More piffle,” said the scientist, muttering to himself as he left the room.

Finally alone, Dog put his hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said.

“Mmmmm. “

He ran his fingers along the back of her neck, tickling the light down that grew there. “Come on. You’re taking the rest of the day off. And the weekend.”

“I am?”

“Yes you are. I cleared it with the base commander.”

“Ax?”

“Very funny.”

“And what am I doing with this time off?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“I really have to work.”

“No, as your commanding officer, I order you to take the weekend off.”

“I think that’s a violation of military law.”

“I think you’re right,” said Dog, gently coaxing her to her feet so he could kiss her.

“Do I have to pack?”

“Your suitcase is already in the car.”

JENNIFER LEANED BACK IN THE SEAT AND CLOSED HER EYES, letting the sound of the tires on the pavement soak through her body. The steady hum hypnotized her the way a rocking chair did. Dog was trying, really trying. Roses, a weekend away—she had to admit he was really trying.

Did she still love him?

That was a difficult question, one she couldn’t answer right now.

Maybe Monday.

The car began to slow. Jennifer opened her eyes just as Dog turned off the highway onto a narrow, dusty back road. She had no idea where they were; she wasn’t even sure if it was still in Nevada.

A plane engine roared nearby and a shadow passed over the car. Dog turned left and a trio of small airplane hangars, each not much larger than a garage, appeared across a chained entrance.

“You have a plane here?” she asked.

“Borrowing it from a friend,” said Dog.

“Really? You can fly a light plane?”

He started to laugh and she felt embarrassed, realizing how silly the question was.

“It does take more adjustment than you’d think,” Dog told her. “Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone but you.”

He put the car in gear, driving past the small chain separating the road from the airport lane. He got back out and rechained it—there was something charming in the informality of it all, even if it wasn’t exactly the most secure facility in the world. The small airstrip was all about informality—Dog rolled down the window before driving any further and stuck his head out.

“Have to make sure no one’s trying to land,” he told her.

It wasn’t a joke: just after they crossed the apron to the hangars, a small Cherokee came in, passing within twenty or thirty yards of the car. A short, balding man wearing a grease-stained flannel shirt appeared from the side of the hangar as Dog parked the car.