“good” colonels seemed to be taken.

Of course, he could slip a lieutenant colonel into one of 22

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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 ex-traordinaire. 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 cocky 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 hell 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, REVOLUTION

23

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? God, 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 assignment.”

“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 24

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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 glasses? Well, Major Catsman has Bastian-shaded glasses, 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 sci-

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ence 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 hell 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 assignment?” 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.”

“The general hasn’t changed a bit,” said Mack.

Samson smirked. Yes, Mack would do very well as chief of staff. After he was broken in.

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“You flew Boners, sir?” asked Mack, staring at another shot.

Samson frowned. Though “boner” was a common nickname for the B-1B bomber—it came from spelling out B-1—he didn’t particularly like it.

“I’ve had plenty of stick time in the B-1,” he said, “among other planes. I was one of the first B-1B squadron leaders. A pretty plane.”

“Yes sir, real pretty.”

“To get where I am, you need a few things, Mack. Some important things.”

“Luck, General?”

“I’m anything but lucky, Major.”

If he was lucky, thought Samson, he’d have been given a full command like Centcom or the Southern Command, posts he coveted, rather than Dreamland.

“You need experience, you need ambition, you need good postings,” continued the general. “And you need friends.