"Two days. I was sleeping," insisted Breanna. It wasn't clear what had happened to her; the neurologist believed she'd suffered a concussion, though the length of her "incident," as he called it, could also suggest a coma. She had no obvious sign of brain damage, and the series of tests failed to find anything subtle.

Her body was still somewhat depleted from exposure and dehydration, however, and it reminded her of it with a shake as she began walking down the hall. Determined not to let Zen or the doctor see, she gripped the top of the cane firmly, pausing just a moment.

The doctor missed it, but Zen didn't.

"Problem?" asked her husband.

"I'm waiting for you, slowpoke."

"That'll be the day."

"I'm going to leave you in the custody of your husband," said Rosenberg. "Jeff, she can make one circuit, then back to bed. Her knee really shouldn't be overstressed. And she should take those clothes off."

"I'll see what I can do about that."

Rosenberg, belatedly recognizing the double entendre, started to flush, then nodded and walked away.

"She's got a crush on you," Breanna told her husband.

"Who wouldn't?"

"You are so conceited."

"It's the chair. All babes fall for crips. Can't resist us."

Breanna's breakfast had arrived while they were out. Zen snickered at the overcooked croissant and told her he'd be right back. It took him more than a half hour to get to the cafeteria and back, but when he returned, he had a plate of bacon, a large helping of scrambled eggs, some home fries, toast, and a full carafe of coffee.

"What, no tomato juice?" said Breanna, pulling the cover off the plate of eggs.

"They're saving it for the b.l.o.o.d.y Marys," Zen told her.

Breanna dug into the food greedily. The eggs were a little rubbery, but acceptable under the circ.u.mstances.

"All right, off with your clothes," growled Zen when she finished.

"What?"

"Doctor's orders." He smiled at her-then reached his fingers beneath her T-shirt. "What do you say?"

"They'll hear us out at the nurses' station."

"I'll close the door and put a do-not-disturb sign on it."

Zen's cell phone started to ring as he swung toward the door.

"You better answer that," she said.

"Why?"

"No one calls you on your cell phone unless it's an emergency."

"It's too early for an emergency."

"Jeff. What if it's my father?"

"You're legal age." Zen pulled out the phone, checked the number, then answered. "This is Zen. What's going on, cuz?"

Breanna could tell from her husband's voice that he was talking to Jed Barclay, his cousin and the President's liaison to Dreamland.

"Wow," he said, his eyes opening wide. "Here, tell Bree."

Breanna took the phone.

"Breanna how are you feeling?" asked Jed.

"A lot better than when I talked to you the other day. What's going on?"

"You guys are getting big-time medals. And your father, Colonel Bastian? The Medal of Honor. No s.h.i.t."

Dreamland.

0728.

MAJOR GENERAL TERRILL "EARTHMOVER" SAMSON TOOK the last gulp of coffee from his cup, folded his arms and surveyed his office. The far wall was lined with photos of his past commands, along with a selection of pictures of him with superior officers, two Presidents, and a Hollywood movie star who'd visited his base to find out what pilots were really like. The wall to the right, until recently lined with bookshelves, now had framed commendations he'd received, along with a few oil paintings of the aircraft he'd flown. The furniture-which had arrived the day before-was sleek gla.s.s and chrome, very futuristic, just the right tone for Dreamland, Samson thought.

He wasn't quite done-he'd need a few models of aircraft to adorn his desk-but the office now bore his stamp.

The command itself would take a little longer. The first order of business was to organize Dreamland along traditional Air Force lines, which meant establishing a base command and a set of air wings to oversee the actual operations. To do that, he needed people. The base side was already taken care of: Colonel Marie Ta.s.sel was due at Dreamland in two weeks. She was a no-nonsense taskmaster who'd worked in the Inspector General's Office. Her job would be to run the physical plant, overseeing everything from day care for the dependents to purchasing paper clips, and Ta.s.sel was just a.n.a.l enough to get the place shipshape in no time.

Samson had also chosen someone to head the science and engineering group-a military officer who would oversee the collection of civilian eggheads and hippies working on the high-tech toys Dreamland was famous for. Colonel John Cho was an engineer by training; he undoubtedly could speak their language while increasing their productivity. He'd also served as a tanker pilot early in his career and had done a stint with airlift. Cho was due in a few days, as soon as he finished up his present a.s.signment at the Pentagon.

Filling the "action" side of things was trickier. Samson intended on establishing one wing to conduct combat operations and another to oversee experimental flights. But all the "good" colonels seemed to be taken.

Of course, he could slip a lieutenant colonel into one of the slots, if he had the right man. But he didn't want to do that, and not simply because wing commander was generally a colonel's job. As long as he used rank as his first consideration, it was the perfect excuse to keep Bastian out of the position.

Not that Bastian was going to be a problem. He was going elsewhere. Soon. Sooner than soon. But just in case.

Samson looked at his desk, piled high with papers. The other thing he needed was a chief of staff.

Bastian, with an extremely limited man count and an even tighter budget, had functioned as his own chief of staff-thanks largely to the efforts of a chief master sergeant extraordinaire. But the chief was retiring, and in any event, Samson reflected, he wasn't here to do things on a shoestring. He needed a savvy major to sort things out for him-and run interference, he noted as his thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

"Come," he commanded impatiently.

"General, Major Mack Smith, sir. You asked me to stop by, sir."

Mack walked into the office as if he owned it. He had the c.o.c.ky smile that Samson instantly recognized as the particular disease of a fighter jock. Tall, well-built, and with a somewhat boyish face, Smith looked like he stepped out of a Hollywood movie. He reeked of arrogance-without waiting for permission, he pulled over a chair and sat down.

"Did I say you should sit, Major?"

"Sir, no sir."

Mack jumped quickly to his feet. He was still grinning, but his quickness was a good sign, thought Samson. He tried to remember who the h.e.l.l Mack Smith was: He'd met so many people over the past few days that he was drawing a blank.

"The general is having a little trouble placing me," said Mack, his voice now obsequious. "We met, sir, on Diego Garcia."

Smith? Not the head of the special operations ground unit, the pararescuers with counterterror training-that was a black captain, Danny Freah.

Smith?

"General, if I may-I served under you sir, briefly, in the Fourth Air Force."

The Fourth Air Force? G.o.d, that took him back.

"I was a second lieutenant, sir," added Mack. "Young and impressionable. You showed me the way."

"Go on," said Samson.

Mack barely needed the prompting. He recited a service record that would have made Jimmy Doolittle jealous-a record that Samson wouldn't have believed had he not read the after-action reports involving Dreamland under the so-called "Whiplash orders"-actions directed by the President.

An F-15 pilot in the Gulf War with a kill, serious time as a test pilot, a stint as a foreign air force advisor, combat operations on two continents, with a dozen kills to his name-the man was definitely going places in the Air Force. He was just the sort Samson wanted under him.

And maybe a perfect chief of staff.

"That's enough, Major," said Samson, interrupting. "As I recall, you were looking for some help finding a new a.s.signment."

"Uh, yes sir."

"An active wing-something that will help you move ahead."

"I'd appreciate that, General." Mack gave him a big smile.

"I can certainly do that. Have a seat, Major. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"There's a pot in the outer office. Refill mine, too."

Mack hopped to. Samson leaned back in his chair. Smith had been Bastian's copilot on his last mission. Ordered by Bastian to jump into the water-with characteristically misplaced bravado, Bastian had been planning to crash his plane into a Chinese carrier-the major had pulled the crew together and gotten them rescued.

That was all very well and good-the men would respect him-but if he'd been Bastian's copilot, he might be too close to him.

"So tell me, Major, what do you think of Major Catsman?" he asked when Mack returned with the coffee.

Mack made a face as he sat down.

"Problem?"

"She's OK."

Catsman had been Bastian's executive officer. Samson had thought of making her his chief of staff, but some of her comments over the past few days convinced him that would be a mistake.

"You can be candid," Samson told Mack. "She's not a very good officer?"

"Oh, she's a great officer," said Mack. "Very good at what she does. Just...well, I wouldn't want to speak out of turn."

Samson raised his hand. "This is completely off the record, Major. Just chatter between us."

"Well, yes sir. She does seem pretty close to Colonel Bastian, don't you think?"

"An affair?"

"Oh no, no, nothing like that," said Mack. "She just-you know the old saying about looking through the world with rose-shaded gla.s.ses? Well, Major Catsman has Bastian-shaded gla.s.ses, if you know what I mean."

Samson nodded. "She tried to convince me I should talk Ray Rubeo out of quitting."

"Dr. Ray? Pshew. Good riddance."

"Good riddance?"

Mack shrugged. "He wasn't exactly a team player. You know what I mean? We're still off the record, sir?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Samson.

Rubeo was the civilian scientist who had headed the science department. Samson eagerly accepted his resignation after making it clear that eccentric eggheads had no future in his command.

"Tell me, Mack, what do you think of Danny Freah?" said Samson.

"Captain Freah? Head of base security, head of Whiplash. Our top Spec Warfare guy. A-number-one. Close to Bastian, but dependable even so. He's done a h.e.l.l of a lot with the Whiplash kids. Still impressionable. With the right mentor, he could go all the way."

Samson began quizzing Mack about the other personnel at the base. Mack had a strong opinion about each one of them. It didn't take long for Samson to realize that Mack Smith knew where all the bodies were buried-and where a few more ought to be dumped.

"Mack, have you given any thought to your next a.s.signment?" asked the general, once more interrupting him. "I mean real thought?"

"Excuse me, sir, as I'd said earlier, I did, and not to repeat myself but-"

"No, no, Mack. Real thought." Samson rose from his chair and walked over to the wall with his photographs. "Some men plan things out very far in advance. Others just let them happen."

Mack got up from the chair and walked over behind the general.

"Did you ever meet Curtis LeMay?" asked Samson, pointing at the photo of himself and the famous Air Force general who had served during World War II and the Cold War.

"Gee, no, sir."

"Richard Nixon. Tragic figure," said Samson, pointing to another photo. "Not so tragic as LBJ. That's after he left the presidency. I'm a captain in that photo. Freshly promoted."