Dog laughed.

"They haven't been up in the plane," Sleek Top continued, his tone more serious. "You should have some jump seats rigged and take them aloft."

"That's a good idea, Sleek. But it's not my call."

"It's your base."

"Not anymore."

"It'll always be your base," said the test pilot as the door opened.

General Samson was standing across the vestibule. It wasn't clear that he'd heard Sleek Top's comment-the elevator doors were sealed pretty tight-but Dog had a feeling he had.

So did Sleek Top. He grimaced, gave the general a wave, then strode quickly away.

"Colonel Bastian, a word," said Samson.

Dog followed him to the far end of the hangar ramp. Gently sloped, the wide expanse of concrete led to a large blast-proof hangar where the B-1s were kept. It looked like the ramp of a very wide parking garage.

Before he'd come to Dreamland, Dog had been in awe of generals-if not the men (and women), then at least the office. Part of his att.i.tude had to do with his respect for the Air Force and tradition, but a larger part stemmed from his good fortune he'd had of working for some extremely good men, especially during the Gulf War.

Dreamland had changed that. While he wouldn't call himself cynical, he had a much more balanced view now. He realized that the process of rising to the upper ranks had a lot to do with politics-often a lot more than anything else.

Colonel Bastian had met some inept generals in his day. Samson wasn't one of them. He was capable, though bullheaded and c.o.c.ky-characteristics critical to a combat pilot, but not particularly winsome in a commander, especially at a place like Dreamland.

"B-1 is a h.e.l.l of a plane," said Samson, walking in the direction of Boomer. "I commanded a squadron of them for SAC."

"Yes, sir. I think you mentioned that."

"I don't know about some of these mods, though." Samson stopped short and put his hands on his hips. "Airborne lasers?"

"Going to be a h.e.l.l of a weapon."

"Once it's perfected-that's the rub, isn't it? You know how many iron bombs one laser would buy once it's in production, Tec.u.mseh?"

Dog actually did know, or at least could have worked it out, but the question was clearly rhetorical; Samson didn't wait for an answer.

"And having a computer fly it-that was your test today, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't like it." Samson practically spat on the ground as he spoke. "What we need are more planes and pilots. Not more gadgets. Widgets, I call them. They can't replace pilots."

Dog couldn't help but smile.

"Problem, Colonel?"

"You sound a little like my old boss, General Magnus," said Dog. "When he started. By the time he moved on, he was pushing for all the high tech he could get."

"I know Magnus. Good man. Had to retire. Couldn't play the Washington system."

That was probably correct, thought Dog-a point in Magnus's favor.

"But Magnus isn't here. I am," added Samson. He turned his gaze back to the aircraft. It seemed to Dog that he wished he were back in the pilot's seat again-back as a captain flying missions.

Who didn't? That was the best part of your career. Though it was a rare officer who understood it at the time.

"This airborne tactical laser can change a lot of things," said Dog. "It'll revolutionize ground support. With some more work, the laser will do a credible job as an antifighter weapon as well. And to do all that, it needs a pretty powerful computer to help the pilots fly and target the enemy."

"I don't need a sales pitch," said Samson sharply. Then he added, in a tone somewhat less gruff, "We've gotten off to a bad start, you and I. But I don't think it's necessary that we be enemies. In a way-in a lot of ways-you remind me of myself when I was your age. Ambitious. Tough. A bit strong willed-but that's a plus."

Dog didn't say anything. He knew that Samson was trying to be magnanimous, though to his ears the general sounded like an a.s.s.

"Congratulations on your Medal of Honor," added Samson. "You've heard about it, I understand. You earned it, Bastian. You and the others did a h.e.l.l of a job. h.e.l.l of a job. Made us all proud."

"Thank you, sir."

"The President is coming. Or at least, I hope he can squeeze us into his schedule. I have made a request-I'm sure I'm going to get him here. Maybe as early as tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Samson waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. "I still have to do some paperwork-you know, there are going to be hoops with this medal thing, so don't expect too much too quickly. But I thought it would be nice for the President to show his respect, and admiration."

"You don't have to go to any trouble. I don't-Medals don't really mean that much."

"The h.e.l.l they don't!" Samson practically shouted. "They mean everything. They remind us how we should carry ourselves. What we're about!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dog saw that some of the aircraft maintainers were staring at them.

"So, Colonel, as I said, we've gotten off to a bad start, you and I," added Samson.

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything you'd like to say?"

Dog wasn't exactly sure what Samson was expecting, though he was clearly expecting something.

"Lieutenant colonel?" said Samson. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

In normal conversation, a lieutenant colonel was always called a colonel; as far as Dog was concerned, the only reason Samson would use his full rank now was to put him in his place-which was made all the more obvious by the emphasis he put on the word.

"Not really, General."

"Excuse me?" said Samson, raising his voice.

"I have nothing I want to say. Thank you. I didn't expect a medal, but I'm very honored. Flattered. Humbled, really."

"You don't want to apologize for anything?"

"For getting off on the wrong foot?"

"For not showing respect."

Dog stiffened. He didn't have anything to apologize for. Samson was just playing bs games, throwing his weight around.

"If the general feels an apology is warranted for anything," he said coldly, "then I apologize."

Samson scowled, pressing his lips together and furling his eyebrows out.

"I was wondering when you'd want me to run down the main projects and personnel with you," said Dog, trying to move the conversation past its sticking point. "I can make myself available at any-"

"That won't be necessary," snapped Samson, stalking back up the ramp toward the exit.

GENERAL SAMSON WAS SO ANGRY, HIS LOWER LIP STARTED to tremble by the time he reached his waiting SUV. He'd offered the idiot the chance to apologize, to start fresh, and the jerk had all but spat in his face.

A cowboy, out of control, with no respect for anyone. From first to last.

Last, as far as Samson was concerned. Medal of Honor or not, the sooner Bastian was gone from Dreamland, the better.

Northwestern Moldova,

near the Romania border

23 January 1998

0155.

MARK STONER HAD HEARD SEVERAL EXPLOSIONS IN HIS life, but none quite like this.

The grenade the gunman had thrown blew up with the sound a pumpkin makes when it hits the pavement. Part of the explosive packed beneath the hard metal sh.e.l.l failed to explode, whether because of manufacturing defects or poor storage during the fifty-some years since. But more than enough explosive did ignite to shred the metal canister and send splinters hurtling through the air in every direction, red hot metal spat from a dragon's mouth.

Stoner caught a small piece in his right side. There was no pain at first, just a light flick as if someone had tapped him there with a pen or a ruler. And then it began to burn. This was a fire on the inside of his skin, a flame that stayed in place rather than spreading, and was all the more intense because of it. His body twisted away from the pain. He couldn't breathe for a second. He lost his grip on his rifle.

The man who'd thrown the grenade came down the hill toward him, his flashlight waving over the ground.

Stoner reached for his gun but couldn't find it. He grabbed to the left, reached farther, found the barrel and began pulling it over. The flashlight's beam moved closer to him. He slid his hand along the rifle, trying to reach the trigger, but it was too late-the guerrilla's light hit him.

An a.s.sault rifle barked-a long, sustained burst, a thick run of death.

But the bullets didn't hit Stoner. They hadn't been aimed at him. They struck the man with the flashlight, cutting a dotted line across his back. The holes the bullets made were so close together, he was nearly severed in two.

A minute later the woman he'd come to meet stood over him, AK-47 in hand.

"You are the man who answered the message," she said.

"Yes."

"Where did they hit you?"

He rolled over and showed her.

She knelt down. "It's shrapnel only. It has to be taken out. The wound can be cauterized."

"Yeah." He unsheathed his knife. "Do it."

"It will hurt very much."

"No s.h.i.t."

She frowned. "There is blood all over this knife."

"I killed one of them near the road."

"Well then, let us get someplace where I can clean it and start a fire."

"No one's going to be looking for them?" Stoner asked as she helped him up.

"They may. It will be best to do this quickly."

HER NAME WAS SORINA VIORICA. SHE WAS ROMANIAN. SHE called herself a freedom fighter. Stoner tried not to scoff.

A good idea, considering she had his knife in her hands and was poking out the grenade shard as she spoke.

"This government has done very little for the people, the poor people," she insisted, slipping the tip of the knife into his side as they sat on the floor of the house. She'd started a small fire nearby, and smoke curled in his nose. "The people are left to fend like animals as the fat get fatter. Hold still. You must hold still."

The tip of knife blade struck something underneath the metal, and a sharp pain ran through his abdomen, all the way to his fingers and toes. He felt faint.

"Out," she said, turning to the fire. "Now for the part that will hurt."

Stoner pulled his T-shirt up into his mouth and bit down, waiting as Sorina Viorica heated the knife in the fire. It was an old method of dealing with a wound-cauterizing it, basically burning the flesh so it would no longer bleed or spread an infection.

Effective, but extremely painful.