“What if the Moldovans tip the Wolves off?” asked Nuri.

“That should not be a problem as long as the operation is addressed as a drug one,” said Reid. “And by simply limiting the details they have, there should be no chance of that kind of double cross. Besides, it’s doubtful the Moldovans have any real links to the Wolves. We’d have picked up information about it.”

“Maybe,” said Nuri skeptically.

“Dr. Rubeo has some information for you,” Reid continued, ignoring him. “There’s some equipment that will be arriving with your people in Ukraine tonight. I take it that he wants to explain how it works. You had best wait until a reasonable hour to contact him. He’s cantankerous enough as it is.”

Danny had already given Boston the heads-up that they would probably need a strike force. As soon as he got off the phone with Reid, he told him to get it in the air. A C–17 with the team and much of their equipment was due to land in Germany a little after eight. After refueling, it would fly on to Chernivtsi in southwestern Ukraine. There it would meet a second C–17 with their Rattlesnakes. A pair of armed Osprey MV–22s were scheduled to arrive at roughly the same time, completing the assault force.

In theory, they could launch an assault just before dawn. But the force would be tired from the long flight, and Danny still didn’t have much intelligence on the farm. He wanted to move as quickly as possible, but he also knew he would only get one chance at this.

He also thought it would be best to go in at night. More than likely, the men at the farm would be prepared to fight whenever they struck, but attacking at night would make it less likely a stray passerby would wander across the operation.

So he decided to hold off for twenty-four hours. It was a logical decision—they wouldn’t have to rush the planning, and he and the others would be able to rest. But it was also the sort of decision easily second-guessed, not least of all by Danny himself. He lay awake for another hour, trying to beat off the doubts, until finally, exhausted mentally as well as physically, he slipped into a fitful slumber.

35

Dreamland

Breanna paused at the door of the aircraft, preparing herself to go down the steps. Though she’d been back to Dreamland several times since leaving the active Air Force, the return was always emotional. She had spent some of the best days of her life here, and while not ordinarily given to nostalgia, it was impossible to keep the memories from flooding back as soon as she saw the low-slung silhouettes of the research bunkers and nearby hangars.

Some of her hardest had been spent here. Yet for some reason the difficulties, the trials and tribulations—the stays in the hospital, the long nights watching over Zen, her own dramas in the emergency room—all of that faded. Only the good times remained.

“Hey, boss!” bellowed a familiar voice from below. “You’re late!”

Breanna pushed herself out onto the steps.

“I knew you weren’t flying this old crate,” continued Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, standing at the bottom of the rolling steps, “because you woulda had it here a half hour early.”

“Even I can’t fight head winds,” said Breanna, coming down the steps. “How are we doing, Chief?”

“Chief” was a reference to Greasy Hands’ title fifteen years earlier, when he was responsible for making sure every aircraft Dreamland had could get into the air.

There had been officers over him—plenty—but ask any maintainer on the base who they answered to—and who they didn’t want to cross—and “Greasy Hands” would be the immediate answer.

The same with the pilots.

“Brass is already here,” said Greasy Hands in a stage whisper as she came down the steps. “Got enough of them to stock a hardware store, if there were hardware stores anymore.”

“The chief of staff here?”

“First one to arrive,” said Greasy Hands. “They’re all over the Sabre like ants at a picnic. I’m thinking maybe we can tie a few of them to the wings. I just don’t know which ones.”

Greasy Hands winked. He still had a chief’s perspective on what he liked to call “upper management.”

Dreamland had changed a great deal since her father had the command. There were many more buildings. Taj Mahal—the command center back in her day—was now a research laboratory. It was flanked by two much larger buildings. What had been a tiny residential area used by perhaps a hundred or so military and research personnel, most of them single, was now a small city more than ten times as large. There was a day care center, an interdenominational chapel, and a small school.

And an outdoor swimming pool. She would have killed for that when she’d been stationed here.

Breanna turned toward the sound of advancing rotors. An Osprey was settling down a few yards from the rear of the C–20B that had just brought her here.

“Recognize this bird?” Greasy Hands said as they walked toward the aircraft.

“Should I?”

“You betchya. Picked you up out of that jam in Vietnam.” He said the words as if they were lyrics to a song. “Now it’s a ferry. I remember the oil pressure in that starboard engine used to like to jump up and down. Used to drive Spokes nuts. Which wasn’t necessarily a hard thing to do.”

With a wary glance toward the large props on the tilt wing, Breanna walked to the aircraft as the steps folded down. She clambered into the utilitarian interior, taking a seat on the thinly cushioned bench in the middle of the cabin. Greasy Hands sat alongside her.

“Please fasten seat belts,” said a voice.

Parsons started laughing.

“Please fasten seat belts.”

“What’s so funny?” asked Breanna, pulling the belt tight.

“I remember when Carla Agrei recorded that. It took her more than an hour. Four little words—she couldn’t get them out of her mouth.”

“You were there for the session?”

“You don’t remember Carla Agrei? I think half the base was there watching her. The male half.”

The door to the Osprey closed.

“Prepare to take off, please,” said Carla’s disembodied voice. “Please remain seated while flying.”

It wasn’t just the cabin crew that was automated; the entire aircraft flew on its own. The base flight controller could step in at any time if necessary, but that hadn’t happened in anyone’s recent memory.

“Flight transit time is computed at fifteen point three minutes. Please enjoy the ride.”

Brown Lake Test Area had not existed when Breanna was here. There was only one building, and most of that was underground. It served as a hangar and a small laboratory area. There were no offices, and workers had to be ferried in and out via Osprey. One entered through a set of cement steps that looked as if they’d been dropped into the middle of the desert. The surrounding area was, as the name implied, brown and smooth as glass, and considerably sturdier—heavily laden Megafortresses had landed and taken off from it back when it was a test range.

The Tigershark and a half-dozen Sabres stood in a neat line at the south end of the airstrip area. A pair of large tent canopies had been erected to the east for the VIPs, but no one was under them—as Greasy Hands had said, they were swarming around the Sabres.

The Tigershark, by contrast, stood all alone.