General Magnus had briefly served as Colonel Bastian’s commanding officer; though technically responsible for Dreamland, the general’s responsibilities were mostly on paper. A reshuffling had soon taken him out of the chain of command, and he’d had almost no contact with Dreamland or its personnel since.

“Actually, I was looking forward to getting some serious fishing in, and maybe improving my golf,” Magnus told Danny as he ushered him into his office. “But I got suckered into this. Primarily because I’ve known the Secretary of Defense for thirty years.”

Magnus winked. Though in his late sixties, he still had the look of an elf about him. Or maybe Santa Claus—the years had added several pounds to his frame, which had never been svelte to begin with. Known as a firebrand during his early days in the Air Force, Magnus had gradually softened his approach. He now came off more like a grandfather than a whip-cracker. He was, in fact, a grandfather, and a rather proud one, too, as an entire table’s worth of photos near his desk attested.

“Coffee?” Magnus asked Danny.

“No thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to have some, if you don’t mind.”

Magnus pressed the button on his phone console. His secretary knew him well enough that she didn’t have to ask what he wanted, appearing with a tray inside a minute.

“So how’s your wife?” Magnus asked Danny.

“I’m afraid we divorced a number of years ago.”

It was five, to be exact. The marriage had floundered long before then.

“I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Magnus stirred his coffee. Married to the same woman for nearly forty years, he was a little baffled by marital discord. He never knew exactly what to say when confronted with it. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had a disagreement with his wife in all that time. But he knew it existed, and realized it wasn’t a character flaw. His usual strategy when the issue was raised inside his family—one of his daughters and son-in-law had been having troubles for over a year—was to stay silent for a moment, offering the other party a chance to speak if they wanted. If nothing was forthcoming, he always changed the subject.

“See the old Dreamland crew much these days?” Magnus asked when his internal time limit had passed.

“No, not really,” confessed Danny. “I still see some of my men occasionally. Ben Rockland’s a chief now, out at Edwards.”

“Rockland—I think he may have been after my time.”

Danny nodded. The general was being polite. He’d had no dealings with the enlisted members of Whiplash, and thus had no reason to know Rockland—whose nickname was Boston—let alone any of the other team members.

“What about the scientists?” asked Magnus, sipping his coffee.

“The scientists, not really,” said Danny. “Ray Rubeo invited me to his birthday party two years ago. It was an interesting affair.”

“Some estate, huh?”

“You can tell he doesn’t work for the government anymore.”

Rubeo had been the chief scientist at Dreamland for several years. He left after falling out of favor with Dog’s successor. He was now the owner of a portfolio of companies in the alternative energy field; his biggest had recently won a contract from the government to build an orbiting solar power station. Rubeo’s birthday party, his fiftieth, had lasted two weeks and featured a Venice night, a Cairo night, and a Taj Mahal night, all in the actual places. Danny had caught the Taj Mahal celebration.

“You don’t see Jeff Stockard anymore?” asked Magnus.

“Zen? Oh yeah, I see him every so often. Couple of times a year. A little more if I’m around. We’ll go to a ball game or something.”

“Really? I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with Senator Stockard myself. He likes to take my money.”

“You don’t play poker with him, do you?”

“I’m afraid I do. Though it’s more like work.”

“You can say that again.” Danny shook his head. “I’d never play cards with Zen. Much easier just to give him my wallet.”

“Some people think he might run for President next time out,” Magnus said.

“Oh?” Danny hadn’t heard that.

“Some people think he’d be perfect. He wonders if the voters could deal with a guy in a wheelchair. Roosevelt was in a wheelchair, but no one knew it.”

“I think if anybody could convince them, Zen could.”

“I agree with you there, Colonel.”

Magnus glanced at the clock on his desk. It was early in the morning, but he was already running a little late. “I suppose you must be wondering why I asked you here,” he said, putting down his coffee. “Actually, it has to do with Breanna Stockard.”

“Bree?”

“You know she’s working for the Office of Technology, right?”

“Uh, yeah, she might have mentioned something like that.”

Breanna had left the regular Air Force to help Zen when he ran for Congress twelve years before. After that, she’d stayed at home for a few years to raise their daughter, Teri. But even a rambunctious preschooler wasn’t enough challenge for the former Megafortress pilot, and Breanna had begun examining her options soon after Teri learned how to count.

Her husband’s job as congressman complicated things. Zen was borderline fanatic about avoiding even the appearance of a conflict of interest, which ruled out working at any company that did business with the government—a surprisingly large range of firms, especially in the Virginia area where they lived. Though Breanna was still in the Reserve and flew C-5s and C-17s part-time a few months a year, returning to the Air Force full-time was out of the question because of Teri. So she’d gone back to school for a law degree.

That wasn’t without its potentials for conflict, either, considering how many law firms had dealings with the government. She’d held several posts, including civilian jobs with the Air Force, and had last worked for the U.S. Satellite Agency, a quasigovernmental concern responsible for putting and maintaining satellites in orbit. The Office of Technology was a Defense Department entity that had largely taken the place of DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—the military’s central research organization, during the last administration.

“We’re putting together a special project out of that office,” Magnus said. “And we’d like you to be part of the team.”

“I see.”

“Breanna suggested you for the position. I immediately agreed.”

“It’s a civilian job?”

“Not exactly. You’d still be a member of the Air Force,” said Magnus. He was hedging, because he couldn’t tell Danny too much about the job unless and until he actually agreed to take it. “Your responsibilities—let’s say they would be multidisciplinary. And in keeping with some of your past experience.”

“I see.”

Danny leaned back in the chair. He had suspected there would be some sort of job offer, of course, but he had been hoping the assignment would be something more traditional—a base command would be ideal. He’d already done two stints at the Pentagon and hadn’t particularly liked either. From everything he had heard, a staff position was unlikely to help him get promoted, unless he worked directly for the Joint of Chiefs of Staff.

“You’re worried about your career,” said Magnus, deciding to be blunt.

“Well, a little.”

“You should be in line for a promotion, but with the freeze on, you know the odds of getting a star on your shoulder are pretty slim.”

“I’ve heard slim and none.”

“None may be an exaggeration,” said Magnus. “But I think you’re right as far as the immediate future goes. I don’t see any additions being made to the list of generals this year, or next. It’s tough. They’re encouraging people to retire.”

“I know.”

“This team would be outside the normal route to promotion,” admitted Magnus. “In fact, it might make it harder for you to get to general—at least in the traditional way.”