“But why are you going?”

“Because if I don’t, they won’t be picked up for another day. And they have to get out now.”

Zen said nothing for a moment.

Breanna knew she hadn’t really answered the question: Why was she going?

For a moment she felt foolish, realizing she had acted impulsively. Her job wasn’t to fly airplanes, and she wasn’t the twenty-something woman with something to prove.

But she had to go.

“You still there?” asked Zen.

“Yes, Senator.”

“Hey, listen, we’ll cope. I know you gotta do what you gotta do,” he added. “I just want to be able to tell Teri something.”

There was a sound in the background: muffled music.

“They’re starting up inside. I oughta get going,” Zen said.

“Bring me in with you,” said Breanna.

“Huh?”

“Bring the cell phone in and let me listen.”

“Good idea.”

By any objective standard, the music was absolutely…trying.

Naturally, the parents who filled the auditorium thought it was incredibly wonderful. So did Breanna, who took her hands off the wheel and applauded when it was done.

“Thank you,” she told Zen. “Tell her I thought she did great, and I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“All right, Bree. Listen, babe—you take damn good care of yourself, all right? I don’t want to be chairing a Senate inquiry over this.”

“Don’t worry, Senator. I intend to.”

BREANNA WANTED GREASY HANDS ALONG ON THE FLIGHT because there would be no air force crew in Ethiopia; in case something went wrong, she needed someone who could get the plane back together in one piece.

“You have an awful lot of faith in me,” said Greasy Hands, looking over the MC-17. As he had suspected, the maintainers at Andrews needed absolutely no encouragement from him, let alone help. But then again, the chief master sergeant they reported to had trained under him a few years back. “I haven’t worked on an MC-17 since Dreamland.”

“Have they changed since then?”

Greasy Hands laughed. “Not all that much.”

“Can you do it?”

“With my eyes closed,” said Greasy Hands.

After walking around the aircraft with Breanna and the pilot, Greasy Hands went inside and looked over the Ospreys. Ostensibly, he was making sure they were secured properly. In reality, he was indulging himself in a little bit of Dreamland nostalgia.

The MV-22/G Ospreys were upgraded versions of the tilt-rotor aircraft used for heavy transport by the Marines and some Air Force units. The M designation alluded to the fact that these Ospreys were designed for special operations and, among other things, included gear for night missions, extra fuel tanks, and armor plating. The aircraft were also outfitted with cannon; missiles and a chain gun could also be mounted on the undercarriage or the forward winglets, which were specific to the G version. Besides these goodies, the G Block models included uprated engines and provisions for autonomous piloting, another Dreamland innovation that allowed them to be flown by only one pilot or, if the situation warranted, completely by remote control. Finally, they were designed specifically for easy transport in the MC-17/DS “Stretch.”

The transport’s nickname alluded to the most obvious of its improvements over the standard airframe—namely, its fuselage had been lengthened to nearly double the cargo bay, bringing it to 140 feet. Its portly belly was also another two feet wider. The changes had been designed specifically to allow the transport to carry two Ospreys or an Osprey and two Werewolf II UAV gunships, along with crew and a combat team. With everyone aboard, the fit could be a bit cozy, but the configuration allowed the U.S. to project considerable power into hot spots with very little notice.

Greasy Hands had worked on the Osprey project for several years, before the arrival of Colonel Bastian and Dreamland’s renaissance. The aircraft and its tilt wings were the bastard children at the facility then, a project no one wanted. Everyone agreed the Osprey had incredible potential; they could land where standard helicopters could, but fly twice as fast and several times as far. Reaching that potential, though, seemed impossible. The planes were expensive, difficult to fly, and an adventure to maintain.

When several were detailed to Dreamland as part of a Defense Department program to help the Osprey “reach its full potential,” Greasy Hands was assigned to the team. He’d tried to duck it at first but within a few weeks was the aircraft’s biggest fanboy. He was responsible for suggesting that weapons be added, and even worked with the engineers on some of the mechanical systems. Then he’d helped Jennifer Gleason refine the computer routines that allowed the complicated aircraft to fly itself, an accomplishment that cinched his promotion to chief.

He thought about Jennifer as he looked at the aircraft. He hadn’t been as close to her as some of the people at Dreamland, but the memory of her still choked him up. He finished looking at the Ospreys, then went back upstairs to the flight deck.

Breanna and the pilot, Captain Luther Underhill, had just finished the preflight checklist.

“Have a seat, Chief,” said Breanna. “We’re about to take off.”

As he walked toward the seat behind the pilot, Greasy Hands’s attention was caught by the zero-gravity coffeemaker in the small galley. It looked suspiciously like the design they had pioneered at Dreamland some twenty years before.

“Mind if I grab a cup of joe?” he asked the crew chief, Gordon Heinz.

“It’s there for the taking.”

Greasy Hands found a cup in the cabinet next to the machine and poured himself a dose.

“Just like old times again, huh, Bree?” he said as he slid into the seat. “Even the coffee’s the same.”

49

Tehran

AS TARID HAD FEARED, HE DID NOT SLEEP AT ALL AFTER THE call from Aberhadji. He tossed and turned, then finally gave up all pretense of resting several hours before morning prayer.

With the meeting set for 1:00 P.M., he knew he had a long, torturous wait. Karaj was located a little over a half hour outside of Tehran, and it would be senseless to get there too early. He needed something to do.

Had it not been for Aberhadji’s tone, he might have spent the time in the lobby, where the wait would have been quite enjoyable. Simin was working in the office, but her father, not used to the late night, had slept in. Aberhadji’s stern voice lingered in his ears. Clearly, his boss had spies in the capital. Perhaps the hotel owner was one of them—it would not have surprised Tarid at this point—and so he had to be on his best behavior.

“I am going across for some breakfast,” he told the girl. “If anyone is looking for me.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No one in particular.”

DANNY LINGERED IN THE AISLE OF THE BAZAAR, WATCHING as Hera looked through the basket of buttons in the nearby stall. The bazaar was the Middle Eastern equivalent of an American shopping mall, covered and divided into dozens of alleys, each lined with shops. Most weren’t open yet, but as Hera had predicted, a good number that catered to household necessities were.

She looked at the black buttons, turning each over before tossing it back into the basket. Just pick one, he wanted to shout, we’re running out of time. But Hera kept looking, trying for a perfect match to Tarid’s jacket.

She selected a half dozen, all very similar, all subtly different. She turned and looked at the material, ignoring Danny’s exasperated glances, before showing the buttons to the woman who ran the stall.

“Is that your husband?” asked the woman.