"No. He was a dictator. A devil."

"So you want to return to that?"

She shook her head.

"There are elections now," said Stoner.

"They are a front for the old line. The hard-liners, the military-they are the ones really in control."

"Then change it by voting. Not by violence."

"Will your country let us?"

"It's not up to us. It's up to you. To Romanians."

Sorina Viorica's face grew sad. "Our movement is dead. It has been hijacked. And if by some miracle we were to win, we would be a va.s.sal again, a slave to Russia. They are all my enemies."

Stoner waited for her to continue, but she didn't. Whatever her personal story was-and he suspected there was a great deal to it-she didn't share. The CIA files had a single reference to her, because she'd been on a Romanian government watch list. She had relatives in Arad, a city near Hungary, but apparently her parents both died when she was young.

After they ate, they walked for a while through University Square. Sorina said no more about the movement. Instead, she told Stoner some of the history of the city-the old history, each building evoking a different period-nineteenth century, eighteenth century, seventeenth, sixteenth.

"You want me to betray them," she said as they walked up the steps to the apartment.

"You said they were your enemies. And that the only ones left were misfits, and criminals."

She took the key out of her pocket.

"They want to kill you," he said. "You could get revenge."

"You don't know me very well, do you, Mr. Stoner?" she said, and closed the door behind her.

Dreamland

1156.

MICKEY MCMICHAELS TUCKED THE BELL END OF HIS stethoscope into his jacket pocket.

"I can't say you're in bad health, Breanna," said the flight surgeon. "You're in great health. But...Your knee doesn't hurt you?"

Breanna shook her head.

"Not even a twinge?"

She shrugged.

"No broken bones. Contusions are fading," he admitted. "Ribs, not even tender."

"So what's the hang-up?"

"You were very dehydrated, you had a concussion, twisted knee, bruised ribs-"

"You're going to ground me for a few bruises?"

Dr. McMichaels pursed his lips. "Your knee is not back to normal. And as for that coma or whatever it was-"

"I've had two CAT scans that say I'm fine. Give me another."

"I may."

"X-ray my whole body. Do any test you want. Just give me my ticket to fly."

"You have to take it slow, Breanna. You have to give your body time to heal."

"It's healed. It's so healed it's starting to atrophy."

"I appreciate that you're bored. But you have to heal. And I have to do my job."

"Do it. Tell me what I have to do to get back in the air."

McMichaels sighed. For a second, Breanna thought she had worn him down. Then he shook his head.

"I'm not ready to say you can fly. You need more of a recovery period."

Breanna suddenly felt very angry. "I'm going to come back to you every day until you clear me."

"That's up to you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned and walked out of the office as quickly as she could, arms swinging, her cheeks flushed with anger and embarra.s.sment. She was sure that if she were a man, they'd let her back in the air. Mack, Zen, her father-they'd all gotten in the c.o.c.kpit with injuries more severe than hers. h.e.l.l, Zen was paralyzed and he was allowed to fly.

The thing that frosted her most of all-the doctors were taking out their own ignorance, their own mistakes, on her. They all wanted to believe she'd been in a coma or had major brain trauma. Well fine, except there was zero evidence-zero-of any brain damage. Of any abnormality whatsoever.

So, because they were wrong, they were taking it out on her.

Breanna stalked down the hall and up the ramp to the entrance to the med building, trying to contain her anger. She fixed her eyes on the ground as she pa.s.sed the security station, too furious even to say h.e.l.lo. The cold outside air bit at her face as soon as she cleared the doorway; the tears she'd been holding back let loose.

She wiped them as best she could as she started in the direction of her on-base apartment. She was almost there when she spotted a knot of people coming out of the entrance, laughing and talking; she turned abruptly, not wanting to be seen crying. Quickening her pace, she found herself walking toward the hangar area. She pushed her fingers around her eyes, rubbing out the moisture.

But she didn't want to go into the hangars or the offices beneath them either. The only thing left seemed to be to go back home to their condo in Allegro.

Once again she turned, this time in the direction of the helicopter landing pad and the parking lot at Edwards.

"Hey, Bree, how's it going?" yelled Marty Siechert as she changed direction.

Breanna briefly debated with herself whether to stop, but it was difficult for her to be impolite with anyone, and Sleek Top had been a friend for a while.

"Hi, Sleek, how are you?"

"What's up?" The former Marine-turned-civilian test pilot bent his head to the side, as if the change in angle would give him a better view of her face. "Your face looks raw."

"I've been out in the cold."

"Where you headed?"

"Probably home."

"You talk to Mack about flying the B-1s or what?"

"Yes, I did." Her lower lip started to tremble. She stopped abruptly.

"You all right?"

Her emotions felt like the lava in a volcano, surging toward the top. She nodded, and bit her teeth against her lips.

"Hey, how about we go get some lunch?" suggested Sleek Top.

"I don't know."

"Off base. I know a quiet lunch place. Kind of a dump, but the food's good. Italian."

"All right," she said. "Sure."

AS SLEEK TOP HAD SAID, MAMA'S WAS A BIT OF A DUMP, but the portions were large and the marinara sauce couldn't be beat. Breanna stayed away from the wine, as did Sleek Top, who was going to fly later that night.

"I don't know why I was so upset. I acted-I was like a little girl who had her toys taken away," said Breanna.

She'd calmed considerably. While she was still deeply disappointed about not being allowed to fly, she was also disappointed in herself. Showing emotion had been unprofessional. It wasn't like her.

"You've been through a lot," said Sleek Top. "Everything that's happened to you in the last few weeks? G.o.d, Bree, we all thought you and Zen were...dead."

"But we weren't."

"Maybe you should slow down a bit," he told her. "You know. Take a couple of weeks..."

His voice trailed off as he saw her frown.

"I don't mean permanently," he said quickly. "I mean, do a few things that you like to do. Hit some shows in Vegas. Play the slots or something."

"I don't play the slots. And I don't like shows."

"You don't like shows?"

She shrugged.

"It'll take your mind off things. You have to relax. What do you and Zen do to unwind?"

"Not much," she said honestly. "I mean, we'll watch some basketball or maybe baseball."

"Then go to a Lakers game."

"Oh, watching is such a-"

"No, no, go."

"To L.A.? I don't want to go all the way there by myself."

"I'll go with you. I have a season package."

"Thanks, Sleek, but-"

"Up to you. But really, you have to cut loose a bit. Relax. Slow down. I remember when I first left active duty. I was like a jackrabbit, practically bouncing off the walls. And the ceiling. I didn't know what to do with myself. Finally, I gave myself an order. Relax."

"And that did it, huh?"

"Sure. One thing Marines are good at-following orders." He smiled, then reached for the check. "Whereas you Air Force zippersuits never heard an order you didn't think was an optional request, right?"

Iasi Airfield,

northeastern Romania

25 January 1998

1600.

THE MEGAFORTRESS SHOT FORWARD, ROLLING DOWN THE concrete expanse toward a sky so perfectly blue it looked like a painting. The wind threw a gust of air under the plane's long wings, pushing her skyward with an enthusiastic rush. Flying might be a simple matter of aerodynamics, a calculation of variables and constants, but to a pilot it was always something more than just math. Imagination preceded the fact-you had to long for flight before you achieved it, and no matter how many times you gripped the stick and pulled back, gently or with a hard jerk, bracing yourself for the shock of g's against your face or simply rolling up your shirtsleeves for an afternoon's spin, there was always that moment of elation, the triumph of human spirit that set man apart from every other being. Flying was a triumph of the soul, and a pilot, however taciturn he might seem, however careful he was in planning and replanning his mission, savored that victory every time the plane's wheels left the ground.