They fired the radiation weapons. Power is out throughout the subcontinent.”

“Uh-huh.” Samson tried to hide his impatience. A few months before, he had been mentioned as a possible commander for a new base that would have supplanted Dreamland, but the plans had never come to fruition—thankfully so, because he had much bigger and better things in mind.

Like the job he’d hoped Balboa had called him here to discuss, heading Southern Command.

“Some of the people in the administration didn’t understand the potential of the Whiplash concept,” said Balboa.

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come.”

One of his aides, a Marine Corps major, entered with a 59

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cup of coffee. The major set it down, then whispered something in Balboa’s ear.

“I’ll call him back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The President,” Balboa explained to Samson as the aide left. “Always looking for more information.”

“What exactly is Whiplash?” asked Samson.

“Oh, Whiplash.” Balboa made a face that was halfway between a smirk and a frown. “Whiplash is the name the Dreamland people use for their ground action team. They’re air commandos. But the term is also the code word the President uses to deploy Dreamland assets—air as well as ground—around the world. The concept is to combine cutting-edge technology with special operations people. A few of us thought it would be a good idea years ago, but it’s taken quite a while to get the kinks out. The line of communication and command—the National Security Advisor and the White House had their fingers in the pie, which twisted things around, as I’m sure you’d imagine.”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s finally been worked out. From this point forward, I think things will run much more smoothly. The concept—I fully support it, of course. But since I’ve been pushing it for so long, that’s understandable.”

Samson didn’t know how much of what Balboa was saying to believe. Not only was the Chairman’s disdain for the Air Force well known, but Balboa didn’t have a reputation for backing either cutting-edge research or special operations, even in the Navy. Balboa loved ships—big ships, as in aircraft carriers and even battleships, which he had suggested several times could be brought back into active service as cruise missile launchers.

Or cruise missile targets, as some of Samson’s friends at the War College commented in after-hour lectures. These sessions were always off campus, off the record, and far from any ears that might report back to the admiral. And, naturally, they were accompanied by studious elbow bending.

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“As it happens,” said Balboa, “Dreamland has been under the, uh, direction of a lieutenant colonel. Dog—what’s his first name, uh …”

“Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian,” said Samson.

A decade younger than himself, Bastian had earned his wings as a fighter jock, a community unto itself in the Air Force, and so far as Samson knew, he had never met the colonel. But everyone in the Air Force had heard of Bastian and his incredible exploits at the helm of the EB-52 Megafortress.

“Presumptuous name,” said Balboa. “Goes with the personality.”

“A lieutenant colonel is in charge of Dreamland?” said Samson. He’d assumed Bastian was in charge of a wing at Dreamland, not the entire place. “I thought General Magnus took over after Brad Elliott.”

“Yes, well, General Magnus did take over—on paper. For a while. The reality is, Bastian has been in charge. And while he has, I’m sure, points to recommend him …”

Balboa paused, making it clear he was struggling for something nice to say about the lieutenant colonel. Then he also made it clear he had given up.

“In the end, Bastian is a lieutenant colonel,” said Balboa.

“What Dreamland needs to reach its potential is a commander. A command general. You.”

Samson sucked air.

“Of course, it’s not just the base,” added Balboa, obviously sensing a problem. “The Whiplash people, the Megafortresses—”

Samson cleared his throat. “I had been given to understand that I was to … that I was in line for Southern Command.”

Balboa made a face. “That’s not in the cards at the moment.”

“When is it in the cards?”

“This is an important assignment, General. Weapons development is just one aspect of Dreamland. Important, but just part. We want to expand the capability—the Whiplash idea—we want to expand it exponentially. That’s the whole point.”

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Samson felt his face growing hot. No matter how much sugar Balboa tried to put on the assignment, it was a major comedown. He was deputy freaking commander of the Eighth Air Force, for cryin’ out loud. Not to mention former chief of plans for the air staff at the Pentagon. Base commander—with all due respect to other base commanders, fine men all, or almost all—was a sidetrack to his career.

Years before maybe, when he was still commanding a B-1B bomber wing, this might have been a step up. But not now. They had a lieutenant colonel in charge over there, for cryin’ out loud.

And what a lieutenant colonel. No one was going to out-shine him. The brass would be far better off finding a single star general a year or so from retirement to take things in hand quietly.

“Questions?” Balboa asked.

“Sir—”

“You’ll have a free hand,” said Balboa, rising and extending his hand. “We want this to be a real command—an integral part of the system. It hasn’t been until now. We’re going to expand. You’re going to expand. You have carte blanche.

Use it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Samson managed to shake Balboa’s hand, then left the office as quickly as he could.

Air Force High Technology Advanced Weapons Center (Dreamland)

0630, 15 January 1998

JENNIFER GLEASON ROSE AND PUT HER HANDS ON HER

hips, then began pacing at the back of the Command Center.

She was due at Test Range 2B to check on the computer guidance system for the AIM-154 Anaconda interceptor missiles in a half hour. There had been troubles with the dis-criminator software, which used artificial intelligence 62

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

routines to distinguish between civilian and military targets in fail-safe mode when the Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) circuitry failed. She had helped one of the engineers with the coding and agreed to sit in on today’s tests of the missile to see if the changes had been successful.

But she’d agreed to do that weeks ago, before the trouble in India. Before her lover, Colonel Bastian, had deployed, before her friends had been shot down trying to save the world, or at least a big part of it.

Jennifer, though modestly altruistic, didn’t really care about the world. She cared about Colonel Bastian. And Zen.

And Breanna, though Breanna didn’t particularly like her.

And even Mack Smith, class A jackass that he could be.

“I truly wish you would stop pacing up and down,” said Ray Rubeo. “Don’t you have a test or something to supervise?”

Jennifer glared at him. Rubeo could be a difficult task-master—nearly all the scientists at Dreamland preferred dealing with the military people rather than him—but she had never felt intimidated by the tall, skinny scientist. Rubeo made a face, then touched his silver earring stud—an unconscious tic that in this case was a sign of surrender. He scowled and went back to his computer screen.

“All right, we have the missile trajectories,” said one of the analysts nearby. “Do you want to see them, Dr. Rubeo? Or should I just zip the file and send it to the White House?”

“Hardly,” said Rubeo, his witheringly sarcastic voice back in full swing. “Put it on the main screen and let me have a look at it.”

“You think you know everything, Ray?” said Jennifer pee-vishly.