by Dale Brown
"Really?"
"That's his version. And I don't lie — about that." Martin-dale folded his arms. "Why were Hartman and Balboa together in the Situation Room yesterday?"
"I was wondering that myself."
"Admiral Balboa and the majority in the Senate are best friends. Which doesn't make them my enemy." Martindale smiled. "But I suppose it doesn't make them my friends, does it?"
"But Secretary Hartman?"
"Depending on whose story you believe, he's trying to keep tabs on the enemy or he's cultivating the other side because he wants to position himself for a primary."
"Which is it?"
"I'm not sure, Jed. Both, probably. This is Washington. I suspect that the story line Mr. Hartman was hoping for was that we played by the rules and actually achieved something important. A storyline I can't argue with. Especially since it worked. In this case, anyway."
Martindale reached to his desk and took out a cigarette lighter. Jed watched as he burned the letter. "I really can't afford to lose you, son."
"But—"
"Ambassador Ford made it clear to his friends at the News that the picture was classified and that giving it out was a mistake."
"That's not the truth."
"Actually, it is the truth, it's just not the whole truth," said Martindale. "If you can't live with it, then yes, you can resign. And if you want to go public and tell everyone what you did, I can't stop you and I won't. But I wish you wouldn't. I don't think you should. I don't think it was particularly smart of you to fiddle around with those photos, but…Well, let's say we all make mistakes." Martindale smiled, brushing the two curls of gray hair from his forehead. "I wish yours were the sort of mistakes I made when I was your age, let me tell you."
Jed thought that was supposed to be a compliment, but wasn't quite sure.
"Take a couple of days off, Jed, you deserve them."
"Yes, sir."
"And never, ever turn your laptop over to anyone," said the President. He reached beneath the desk and pulled it up. "Never. Not even the President. Not in Washington."
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
12 November 1997
0800
Storm made it out to the deck as the Osprey Approached. The tug had tied up next to them, but the Abner Read was in no danger of sinking. Six brave men had died in the section of the ship that flooded after the missile hit; at least one gave his life so the others aboard could live.
Jennifer Gleason stood near the landing area, waiting for the Osprey to land.
"I have to say, I misjudged you," Storm told her. "You did a hell of a job for us. Sure you don't have any Navy blood in you?"
She flicked her short hair with her hand. "Afraid not."
Storm suddenly felt awkward and tongue-tied. He grabbed her hand. "I hope to see you again." She shrugged. "Maybe. Good luck." And then she was gone.
Diego Garcia
1200
"I think that's it for now," said Dog, wrapping up the postmission brief. "We'll stand down for the next twenty-four hours, take a little breather, relax. One thing I have to mention — there are a number of difficult situations in Asia. We may not be going directly home."
He looked around the small conference table in the Command trailer. He'd expected disappointment — but all he saw was fatigue.
"All right, then, I think that wraps it up," he told them. "Wait, Colonel, I had one thing I wanted to discuss."
"What is it, Mack?"
"Naming the Megafortresses. You put me in charge of that, remember?"
"This is not the time to play the name game," said Zen.
"I have an idea that I think everyone will agree with," said Mack. "Even Zen."
"Right," muttered Zen, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dog looked at Mack. He was glad the pilot could walk again — but still, he wished Mack didn't always have to be Mack.
"So? Want to hear it?" asked Mack.
"Come on, I'm starving," said Breanna.
"Medal of Honor winners," said Mack. "We name the airplanes after Air Force Medal of Honor winners."
Dog looked around the room. The other officers were speechless. It was an historic moment.
"I think it's a great idea Mack," said Dog. "There's only one problem."
"What's that?"
"You thought of it." "I still don't get it." Everyone else started to laugh. "Dismissed," said Dog.
* * *
Starship found his way back to the chapel after lunch. The minister wasn't there, but the door was unlocked. He took a step inside. A Bible sat on a chair a few feet away.
Was it wrong to steal a Bible?
Starship hesitated, then took the book.
* * *
"Listen, I owe you an apology. You were right and I got mad at you. For getting on Mack's case. I was being a jerk. You were right," Zen told Breanna, pushing the wheelchair along the path. "I got way out of line."
"I don't know," said Bree. "Everybody's saying how you made him walk again."
"No, you were right. He didn't walk because of me. He would have walked sooner or later."
"Maybe he needed a kick in the butt from you to get going."
"Oh, he needs a kick in the butt. Definitely. But I was out of line. I've always been mad at him — it was when I got mad at you that I realized I was out of control."
Should he tell her that he had almost hit her? He wanted to — but he couldn't. It was too terrible.
"I know it sucks," she said, coming over. Her fingers on his neck tickled his whole body — or what still worked on his body.
Yeah, he thought. It sucks. Every day. That's the way it is.
* * *
That night, Zen lay in bed for more than an hour after Breanna had fallen asleep. A wind whipped up and a light rain tapped at the window; whether it was the sounds or the memory of the mission the day before or just too much coffee that afternoon, he couldn't sleep. He got up and made his way over to the Dreamland Command trailer, hoping to find a card game. But the Whiplash troopers had only just returned from Africa, and the only person there was Sergeant Liu. Things were so slow, he was practicing his tae kwon do while standing watch.
Liu let Zen use the computer tie-in to check his e-mail.
As it happened, he had only one item. It was from Dr. Martha Geraldo, a psychiatrist who had led the Nerve Center project, an experiment that used brain waves to help control aircraft. Zen had been one of the subjects — and almost gone insane from the drugs and experimental procedures.
Zen:
I know someone who's working on a project at a research hospital in New York. It involves nerve cell regeneration. It's very — it's out on the edge. But what they think they could do, or what they want to do eventually, is regenerate spinal cords. Make people walk again. They need a candidate.
Zen wheeled back from the display.
When he leaned back to write a response, his fingers trembled so badly that he had to stop twice, though all he wrote was a simple sentence:
What's the phone number?
THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO TURN HIGH-TECH WAR GAMES INTO BREATHTAKING REALITY AT
DREAMLAND
Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian: The master of Dreamland, his "bark" and "bite" have won him many powerful Pentagon friends… and enemies.
Captain Breanna Bastian Stockard: A woman in a man's Top Gun world, she will stay on the attack and keep her cool when the fighting spins out of control.
Captain Harold "Storm" Gale, USN: commander of Xray Pop, a cutting-edge naval squadron, his "shoot first" attitude puts him on a dangerous collision course with Washington and Dog Bastian.
Captain Danny Freah: War hero and potential future political star, Dreamland needs his bravery and his brilliance more than ever before.
Jed Barclay: Barely old enough to shave — a science "whiz kid" and deputy to the National Security Advisor — he is Dreamland's link to the President and will be called
upon to take the ultimate risk in the midst of crisis.
Major Mack "Knife" Smith: An ace with more MiG kills than any flier since Vietnam, he was taken out of the game by a terrorist in Brunei… but nothing will keep him out of the fight.
About the Author
DALE BROWN a former U.S. Air Force captain, is the author of fifteen previous bestsellers. Brown lives in Nevada, where he can often be found in the skies, piloting his own plane. Jim DeFelice's recent techno-thrillers include Brother's Keeper (2000) and Havana Strike (1997). Jim has also written more than a dozen works of fiction and nonfiction for young people. He lives with his wife and son in upstate New York, and can be contacted by E-mail at [email protected].
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