He recognized the EB-52 very well, of course. No other aircraft had ever been so closely identified with an adminis-
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tration before. It was ironic, Martindale thought; he certainly considered himself a man of peace—not a dove, exactly, but the last politician who would have chosen a weapon of war as his personal token. Yet he’d called out the military more than anyone since Roosevelt.
And much more effectively, he hoped.
Most of his critics didn’t exactly see it that way. He didn’t much mind the congressmen in the other party criticizing him. It was their job, after all. But when people in his own party questioned his motives in stopping the war between China, India, and Pakistan—that flabbergasted him.
And of course, they loved to claim he used Dreamland as his own secret air force and army.
Dreamland’s reorganization under Major General Samson would stop some of those wagging tongues, integrating the command back into the regular military structure. But Martindale didn’t want the baby thrown out with the bathwater, as the old saying went. Dreamland was the future. Samson’s real task, as far as he was concerned, was to make the future happen now.
“Are those planes an escort?” asked the Secretary of State, Jeffrey Hartmann. “Or are they checking us out?”
“Probably a little bit of both,” laughed Martindale, sitting back in his seat.
“If we can get back to the Romanian issue before we land,”
said Secretary of Defense Chastain. “It’s a very serious situation. Europe is depending on natural gas for winter heating.
If that pipeline is destroyed, we’ll have chaos.”
“No, not chaos,” said Hartmann. “The Russians can provide an adequate supply. They have over the past few years.”
“At prices that have been skyrocketing,” said Chastain.
“Prices that will mean a depression, or worse.”
“You’re exaggerating,” said Hartmann.
“The Russians see the pipeline as a threat,” said Chastain.
“They’re dancing in the Kremlin as we speak.”
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“I don’t see them involved in this,” said the Secretary of State. “They’ll exploit it, yes. That’s the Russian way. Take any advantage you can get. But they’re not going to back guerrillas.”
“Don’t be naive,” said Chastain. “Of course they are.”
“They have enough trouble with the Chechens.”
“I think the situation is critical,” said Philip Freeman, the National Security Advisor. “Gas prices are just one facet.
If the Russians are involved, their real goal may be to split NATO. They certainly want to keep the other Eastern European countries from joining. Look at how they’re setting the prices: NATO members pay more. We’ve seen the pressure with Poland. The Romanian pipeline makes that harder to do.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” said Hartmann. “There’s no evidence that the Russians are involved. I doubt they are.”
There was a knock at the door of the President’s private cabin. Martindale nodded, and the Secret Service man who was standing nearby unlatched it. A steward appeared.
“Mr. President, the pilot advises that he is on final approach.”
“Very good. Buckle up, gentlemen. We’re about to land.”
DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE ACTED AS DREAMLAND’S LIaison, Jed Barclay had been to the base only a handful of times over the past two years. He’d never been there with the President, however, and so was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the secret base managed: Not only had a pair of Megafortresses and EB-52s escorted them in, but a half-dozen black special operations Osprey MV-22s hovered alongside Air Force One as the 747 taxied toward the hangar area. Six GMC Jimmy SUVs raced along on either side of the big jet, flanking it as it approached the small stage set up just beyond the access apron. The entire area was ringed by security vehicles and weapons. Mobile antiaircraft missiles REVOLUTION
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stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Razor antiaircraft lasers.
There were antipersonnel weapons as well—large panels of nonlethal, hard plastic balls were strategically placed on the outskirts of the audience area, along with an array of video cameras and other sensors. Given how difficult it was to get to Dreamland, the gear was obviously intended to impress the President and his party.
Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President’s stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access—and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members—would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.
The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they’d seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.
Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.
Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men—the sergeant called Boston, whom he’d met before—then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general’s hands moved energetically, visual ex-clamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who’d been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn’t quite hear what Samson was saying, but 104
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knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be “I.”
“Jed!”
Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.
He knew she’d been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who’d made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met—or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.
Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter’s after a title bout.
“The chair is just temporary,” she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered.
“They’re really babying me. I only strained my knee. It’s embarrassing.”
“Hey, Bree,” he said.
He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.
Breanna sat back down.
“Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display,” she said. “My dad is with him. They’re going to let the President take the controls for a spin.”
“He’ll like that.”
Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.
“Look at me, I’m nervous,” said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.
“So who is this lovely lady?” President Martindale asked.
“Jed, are you going to introduce me?”
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“This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard,” he said.
“Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots,” said Samson, a half step behind the President.