by Dale Brown
“Uh-huh.”
“See you in the morning, all right?”
Her head popped up as he started to roll himself backward.
“Are you taking me to school?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Sometimes Mom does.”
“Sometimes Mom does. Not tomorrow.”
“Can we do my lines in the car?”
“You haven’t memorized them already?”
“I need practice.”
“We’ll practice. Sleep now.”
Breanna took the bottle of champagne out from the bottom of the refrigerator and got two glasses down from the cupboard. It had been a while since they used them, and they were covered with dust.
She ran them under the water in the sink to clean them. They’d gotten them for their wedding, but now she wasn’t sure who’d given them.
“Champagne?” said Zen, startling her.
The glass slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, shattering.
“Damn,” muttered Breanna.
“You OK?” Zen asked.
“Oh, I’m fine.”
She picked up the stem and the largest fragment, dropping them into the garbage bin.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Your law,” she said, going for the broom. “Today’s vote.”
“It’s not a law yet. Still a bill.”
“It will be a law. It should be a law.”
“Tell that to the President.”
“I will.”
“I think she’ll sign it. Hell, I’m going to Kiev for her.”
“Kiev?”
“Well, not really for her. Did I tell you—Al Osten had a heart attack.”
“Senator Osten?”
“Yeah, he’s OK. They got him to the hospital in time, thank God.” Zen swung around to the cabinet and got out another glass. “He was supposed to go to the NATO meeting next week in Ukraine. I’m going to pinch hit for him. I called him at the hospital to see how he was doing—you know that’s all he wanted to talk about? He wanted to go himself.”
Breanna felt something stick in her throat. She swept up the fragments of broken glass and dumped them into the garbage. By the time she put the broom and dustpan away, Zen had poured them both some champagne.
“You’ve got a juice glass,” she told him as he handed her the flute.
“Can’t reach the fancy stuff. Tastes the same. Here’s to us.”
“To your bill.”
They clicked glasses, then each took a small sip.
“Not bad,” said Zen.
“Why are you going to the NATO meeting?” asked Breanna.
“Your President needs someone she can count on.”
“That’s you?”
“Not really. But Tompkins can’t go. She sure can’t send someone from the other party. And we need someone important there. So that leaves me. I suggested it,” he added, shrugging.
“Jeff—there have been threats.”
“Yeah, I know, Bree. There’s always threats. The security people will do a good job.”
Breanna took another sip of the champagne, a deeper one this time. She had thought the days of worrying about her husband were long over.
“I don’t…” she started.
The words died on her lips. What was she going to say? She didn’t want him to go? But she couldn’t prevent him.
“There are always intelligence reports about people who want to break these things up,” said Zen. “Remember last year, the OPEC meeting? The CIA was convinced there was going to be a bomb attack. Nothing happened. Nada.”
“I know.”
“Come on. Let’s go sit inside. Bring the bottle.”
Breanna watched as Zen carefully positioned his glass between his useless legs and wheeled himself toward the living room. How much different would their lives have been if the experimental operations had been a success? she wondered.
How much different if he’d never had the accident?
Breanna sat in the green chair opposite the fireplace, wondering how much to say. Zen turned on the music, sliding the volume low to make sure they didn’t wake Teri. He fiddled with the control screen, bringing up a play list of jazz that included most of her favorites.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said when he turned back around. “I want you to stay home.”
“I’m sorry, babe. It’s too late for that.” Zen took a sip of his champagne. His casual smile was gone now; he looked as serious as if they were back at Dreamland, outlining a mission. “What’s up?”
“I think it’s dangerous.”
“Something else is bothering you. Something big.”
She’d never been able to keep secrets from him. Breanna drained her glass, then reached for the bottle.
“The intelligence is very good,” she told him. “The Russians want the meeting disrupted.”
“So? They going to bomb it?”
“We believe they hired a group of assassins to disrupt it. They’re pretty nasty folks. The idea would be to kill some of the ministers, and make it look like a terrorist attack. Or simply to stop the meeting from taking place.”
“Hired assassins?”
“It’s a group called the Wolves. Have you heard of them?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Not necessarily. Whiplash is involved.”
“Oh, really. Why wasn’t the oversight committee notified?”
“No action was endorsed. This is being undertaken as part of a joint task force project lead by the CIA. There’s an NSC finding.”
“A thin white sheet of paper to cover everyone’s behind.”
“Are we talking as husband and wife, or senator and Tech Office head?”
“Both. What’s Whiplash’s involvement? You’re providing security?”
“Not necessarily, Jeff. Don’t ask me.”
“Don’t ask you?”
“I have to draw the line.” Breanna got up.
“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean, you have to draw the line? Wait just a second there, Bree.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said defensively, even though she had started for the kitchen.
“Tell me about what you’re doing,” demanded Zen.
“I can’t, Jeff. You know that. There’s a line.”
Zen took one of his exaggerated, I’m-holding-everything-in deep breaths.
Breanna hated when he did that.
“You’re not talking to a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee,” he said finally. “You’re talking to your husband.”
She remained silent.
“All right, so the Wolves are assassins,” said Zen. “Why should I be more afraid of them than run-of-the-mill Russian spies?”
“You shouldn’t,” she said.
“Good.”
Zen took another sip of his champagne, a bigger one this time.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“I don’t think you should go.”
“Because of the Wolves.”
“Just because. Just because.”
Zen let it rest for a while, drinking silently. But he knew there was more to her concern—Breanna didn’t worry easily. She’d show concern over his missions back when he was in the service, but she didn’t show outright fear.
She’d never, ever, told him not to do something.
He brooded on it through another glass of champagne. How far should he press? And was he pressing as a matter of national security or as a concerned husband?
Both.
“Well, I don’t want you to break the law on secrecy,” Zen told her after he refilled both of their glasses. “But you can’t just let that hang out there and not expect me to ignore it.”
“You should ignore it.”
“What’s bothering you, Bree?”
“Jeff—there’s more to the Wolves than I can go into right now.”
“More than I can get in a security briefing?”
“I’m sure yo
u can get a full briefing if you go through channels. You’re on the intelligence committee.”
“How full will the briefing be?”
“Oh, Jeff.”
It stayed there, simmering for the next half hour. Breanna felt the pressure building inside.
She couldn’t keep a secret like this from her husband. Not now. Not under these circumstances.
And yet she felt as if she had to.
If he hauled her before his committee, what then?
That would be silly and petty. Ridiculous.
The bottle of champagne was empty. It was still early, but she decided she would get ready for bed.
Zen caught her arm as she rose.
“Hey,” he said. “What?”
“Jeff…”
She had to tell him.
“This is between you and me, do you understand?” she asked. “Husband and wife—not senator.”
“Go ahead.”
“We think they’re enhanced.”
“Huh?”
“Biologically enhanced,” said Breanna. “Using drugs and implants. We have scattered evidence, but nothing solid. We think they’ve been operated on, and given drugs, and different biomechanics.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Reid has pieced together a lot of different strands of intelligence.”
“And all that makes them, what? Superhuman?”
“I don’t know,” said Breanna. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. That’s our mission.”
“These are the people who are going to attack at Kiev?”
“We think so, yes.”
“You’re not going to let them, are you?” Zen asked.
“No. Not at all. Not if we can help it.”
“That’s it?” Zen asked.
“No. No. We think we know who one of the assassins is.”
“Does that matter?”
“It should. It’s Mark Stoner.”
Zen felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Stoner?” he said finally. “The Mark Stoner?”
“Yes.”
“The CIA officer who worked with us.”
She nodded.
“He died,” said Zen.
“Maybe not.”
“The hell he didn’t. I was on that mission, Bree. I remember—my Flighthawks—I couldn’t get there in time. We weren’t supposed to cross the border. Stoner’s helicopter went into the swamp.”
“His body was never recovered,” she told him.
“There’s no way he could have lived. What? They rebuilt him?”
“Something like that, maybe. We don’t know.”
“Shit. No way.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too—it’s like science fiction. A crash like that—there were bodies recovered,” he said, remembering. “There were definitely bodies.”
“Not his.”
“You can’t rebuild a human being. Look at my legs. They’re still useless. All those experiments—”
“Those just didn’t work. Maybe the experiments with him did.”
“No.” Zen shook his head. He simply didn’t believe it.
“Who would have believed an airplane could fly by remote control twenty years ago?” Breanna asked.
“I would believe it.”
“That’s because you were working on the project. Science fiction becomes reality pretty quickly these days. Ready or not.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Does Danny know?” asked Zen. “Is he involved in the mission?”
“I’m not discussing operational details with you. I can’t.”
“Come on, Bree. Danny’s our friend. Stoner was a friend of his, too.”
“Mark saved my life,” blurted Breanna. “Don’t tell me about friends.”
“You didn’t tell Danny, did you?” said Zen calmly. “He doesn’t know.”
“Jeff, I’m sorry I said anything.” She sighed. “I will tell him if it’s important. When it’s important.”
God, she screamed at herself inside. Why did you say that?
“You have to tell him, Bree.” Zen wheeled around to look into her face. “You have to.”
“You just said it was science fiction. He probably won’t believe it either.”
“But you do.”
“Yes. I do.”
“You have evidence?”
They had what they thought was a partial DNA match, if the computer records were right. But they might not be. And there were other explanations—long shots, but maybe no more implausible than this.
Still, she was convinced.
“You don’t know what the situation is.”
“If what you’re saying is true, which I don’t know that I believe,” added Zen, “but let’s say, for argument’s sake, that it is. Let’s say it is Mark Stoner, somehow, resurrected from the grave or hospital bed, whatever. Then that’s his friend who’s hunting him down. Who’s probably going to kill him.” Zen rolled his wheelchair close to her. “Is that why Whiplash is involved? So Danny can see if it really is Stoner?”
“Jeff—”
“That’s why you sent him. Because you think Stoner will recognize him, and hesitate. Or come over to our side. Somehow.”
It was part of what they were thinking, at least at the beginning. But then new evidence had seemed to contradict the conclusion that it was Stoner. Breanna had decided not to tell Danny—it would only confuse and complicate the issue. When the time was right, when they had more evidence, then she would tell him about the possible DNA match, and the rest of the theories. For now, the job was simple—find out who these people were.
Whiplash was the best group for the job, with or without the old Dreamland connection.
“You have to tell him,” Zen said.
“I thought you didn’t believe it.”
“But you do,” he answered. “You have to be honest with him.”
“Don’t tell me what I have to do. You don’t know what the pressures are.”
“What does this have to do with pressure, Bree? This has to do with basic honesty.”
“Honesty? Honesty? What the hell are you talking about, honesty? You lie to people all the time.”
“I don’t lie.”
“You’re a politician. Tell me you don’t lie.”
It was the worst fight they’d had in years. The only fight they’d had in years. There’d been disagreements, debates maybe, but nothing approaching this. This was a nuclear explosion, a blowout so severe it left them both trembling.
Maybe it had been a long time coming. Maybe they were just due. Maybe at its heart, the fight had little to do with Mark Stoner and Danny and who should know what.
Maybe at its heart, Breanna was worried about him and didn’t want to lose him. And he…
He wasn’t sure what he was worried about. He knew he was angry, over a lot of things, none of which had anything to do with his wife, not really.
Losing his legs most of all. Even now, even after all these years without them. He wanted them. He wanted them so badly he would trade anything for them.
Not his daughter. Not his wife, not even tonight in his anger. But anything else.
Zen stayed in the living room while Breanna went to the bedroom. He went into the kitchen and got himself a beer, then sipped it slowly, thinking back to his days at Dreamland.
He didn’t believe it could possibly be true. It wasn’t the question of whether Stoner had survived. He’d seen worse crashes—hell, his own for starters.
But to be rebuilt?
Science fiction bullshit.
The phrase was familiar. Zen looked down at his legs, trying to place it.
Oh yeah, he thought, remembering. It was what the Air Force secretary had said the day he arrived at Dreamland to review the Flighthawk project.
The day of his accident, when one of the Flighthawks cut too close to his tail.
The Air Force secretar
y had said it with a smile on his face, laughing, really, shaking his hand before the flight.
Science fiction bullshit, that just happened to be true.
SUPERMEN
14
Kiev, Ukraine
“Why Moldova?” Danny asked.
“I have no idea if it means anything,” Nuri told him as they debriefed the break-in over the secure sat phone. “He was looking at a lot of sites there. We’ll have a better idea in the morning, when MY-PID finishes churning through all the data. I just thought it was a little unusual. Moldova is not exactly the garden spot of the world. It’s not on the beaten path, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not,” agreed Danny.
“The guy loves porn,” continued Nuri. “And he’s an animal—he started screwing on the couch while I was there. I swear, I was ten feet away. Maybe closer. If they’d seen me, they probably would have asked me to join in.”
Nuri’s mention of Moldova brought back painful memories for Danny. A decade and a half before, Dreamland Whiplash had run an operation in neighboring Romania, helping rout guerrillas who were trying to disrupt a pipeline project. In the process, they’d helped rescue the country from a coup.
But they’d lost a key member of the team and a friend, CIA officer Mark Stoner. Danny could still remember getting the news.
They talked for a while more, about whether Flash should stay with Nuri or come to Kiev, about how many more people they’d need, about when to contact the local authorities.
Danny couldn’t focus on any of it. He kept thinking about Stoner.
He’d lost a lot of friends in the early part of his career, in Bosnia, and then with Dreamland. Later on in the Gulf and Afghanistan. It had been a luxury the last few years, not having to worry about forming friendships that could end all too suddenly.
“I’ll talk to you after we get the info dump,” said Nuri. “Figure out the next move then. In the meantime, I’m going to bed. You good?”
“Good.”
“You OK, Colonel?”
“I’m here,” answered Danny.
“Maybe you ought to get some rest, too,” said Nuri. “You sound a little tired.”
Danny glanced at his watch. It was five in the morning; no way was he getting back to sleep.
“I’m good,” he told Nuri. “Talk to you soon.”
15
Washington, D.C.
