“But the problem is weight,” said Dog. “With those engines, that small a plane won’t be able to fly with the extra weight? Or at least not take off.”

“Precisely.”

“How far could the plane go on the surface?”

Something foreign creaked into the corner of Rubeo’s mouth—a smile.

“Very far, Colonel. Several hundred miles.”

“So he’s the culprit.”

“No, I didn’t say that, Colonel. Scientifically—”

“That’s all right, Ray, we’re not trying to prove the Theory of Relativity here. We need to get a list of where these planes have been sold.”

“I put the question to Jed Barclay at the NSC. He said that he would have to work with the State Department, but would provide us with information before the end of the day.”

“You know, Ray, you’re almost becoming human.”

“I take it that was a joke, Colonel?”

“Along those lines,” said Dog. “Keep me updated.”

He was alone in the Dreamland Security trailer, which was parked between the two buildings they were using at the base and the parking area for the Megafortresses and Flighthawks. His legs felt a little stiff—he hadn’t had a chance to take his customary morning run, and in fact hadn’t in several days now. He glanced at his watch, considering whether he had enough time to do a circuit around the buildings before preflighting his next sortie. He decided he did, but before he could head into the small room at the back of the trailer and grab his sweats, there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Come!” he yelled.

Lieutenant Cantor burst through the door as if he were running from a mob.

“What’s up, Cantor?” Dog asked him.

END GAME

113

“Colonel, I gotta talk to you. I really gotta talk to you.”

“Seat.” Dog pointed. “Sit.”

Cantor pulled out a chair. “Colonel—it’s Major Smith.”

“I know he’s pain in the ass,” said Dog. “But his post is only temporary. When we get back—”

“That’s not it, Colonel. I just don’t think he’s ready to fly the Flighthawks on his own. Not two.”

“Listen, Cantor, Mack has worked with the program before. He’s just rusty.”

“He hasn’t flown in combat. He can’t handle two planes.

He’ll get his ass kicked. Not that I wouldn’t,” added Cantor.

“Lieutenant, I don’t particularly like Mack Smith. But he was shooting down MiGs before you joined the Air Force.”

“In planes. That’s the problem, Colonel. He’s flying the Flighthawk as if he were flying an F-15 Eagle, or maybe an F-16.”

“Mack’s a cowboy, I’ll give you that,” Dog told the lieutenant. “Most days I wonder how he manages to fit his head into a helmet. But …”

Dog paused. He realized that he was reacting defensively, partly in reaction to a decision he had made—putting Mack in temporary charge of the Flighthawk program—and partly to a much lower ranking officer questioning the competence of a superior officer. But Cantor was not being dis-respectful or insubordinate. His only offense was the fact that he wore a lieutenant’s single bar.

And that Cantor took his policy of inviting “open discussion on any topic whatsoever” seriously.

“I understand your concerns,” said Dog. “I think they’re serious, and I think you’ve presented them in the proper manner. They’re now my concerns. OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fair enough. We ready to fly?”

“We will be, Colonel.”

“Good.”

Cantor nodded, then got up and left. Watching him, Dog 114

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

worried that he’d come off as too patronizing. He’d meant everything he said, but now that it was out of his mouth, it seemed a little phony-baloney.

For the first time since they deployed, he wished Zen were there.

Las Vegas University of Medicine,

Las Vegas, Nevada

1700

THE DREAM WAS EXACTLY THE SAME. THE ONLY DIFFERENCE

was that Zen started shouting as soon as he smelled the smoke.

When he finally managed to escape from semiconsciousness, Zen found himself surrounded by doctors and nurses on the table used to measure the nerve impulses. He looked up at a sea of anxious faces.

“Hello,” he said bashfully. “I guess I was dreaming.”

“Jeffrey, are you all right?” asked Dr. Vasin.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

Vasin looked skeptical, but merely nodded, then left the room. The others began poking and prodding. When they were done, a male aide came and helped Zen dress.

“Dr. Vasin wants to talk to you in his office,” said the aide as he helped Zen slide into his wheelchair.

Zen wheeled himself down the hall to the doctor’s office.

“Come in, come in,” said Vasin, still wearing his concerned grimace. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored, actually.”

“Bored?”

“Yeah. I’m not used to lying around all day. I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“It is good that you were so relaxed.” Vasin raised his head, but kept his eyes fixed on Zen, as if he were looking at him through the bottom half of a pair of bifocals. “Can you tell me about your nightmare?”

END GAME

115

“Ah, it was nothing.”

“Please.”

Reluctantly, Zen gave him a quick summary, adding that the dream recurred often.

“Like this?” asked Vasin.

“The part with my wife and the fire is different. A little. It started a few days ago.”

“You’re worrying about your wife?”

“Not really.”

He realized it was a lie as the words left his mouth. Breanna wasn’t the sort of woman you worried about. And she’d certainly proven that she could take care of herself.

So why was he worried?

“Yeah, maybe I am. A little.”

“Are you concerned about walking?” asked Vasin.

“Sure.”

The answer seemed to mollify the doctor—but only for a moment.

“Have you spoken to Dr. Hamm?” asked Vasin.

“The shrink? Just during the evaluations last week.”

Vasin grimaced at the word “shrink.” Hamm was a psy-chologist with a wall of certificates. They’d talked about the obvious: whether Zen wanted to walk again or not.

Duh.

“If you feel the need to discuss things, sometimes a specialist will assist you in placing things into context,” said Vasin.

“OK, thanks,” said Zen. He backed away half a turn of the wheels, then stopped. “Any reprieve on coffee and beer?”

“No caffeine or alcohol. You feel the need?”

“Just checking,” said Zen turning to go.

116

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Drigh Road

2200

“NO, MACK, MY POINT IS NOT THAT I DON’T WANT YOU TO FLY.

Nor am I relieving you of your assignment.” Dog jabbed his finger in the air as he spoke, underlining each point. “My point is, only two people have been able to handle two Flighthawks at a time in combat—Zen and Starship. In both cases they flew the aircraft in combat for considerable time before handling two.”

“There’s always a first time.”

Dog could practically see the steam coming off Mack’s head. “I don’t want you launching two planes.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do? Leave one home? That’s bullshit, Colonel. What if one goes down?”

“You bring both. You keep one in reserve. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” His tone would have made a drill sergeant proud.

“Good,” said Dog, matching it.

Somehow it seemed easier to deal with people when they were being unreasonable, Dog decided as he walked over to his aircraft.

AN HOUR LATER DOG CONTACTED STORM, TESTED HIS THEory and found it wanting. Explaining to the captain what he thought had happened was more frustrating than talking to a wall.

“It’s that airplane, and the others that you saw like it, that we have to look for,” said Dog. “They’re the key to this. Not a submarine. The submarine doesn’t exist.”

“Just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, Bastian.”