unrecognizable, bizarrely shaped and shot through with pain.

Time lost meaning, and there was no meaning, there was no present or past, nothing solid, nothing reliable except confusion.

Major Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard lay on his back in the ocean, floating not on water but rocks, black rocks tinged with orange. Flames lapped at his face and his legs were packed solid in ice. When he breathed, his lungs filled with the per-fumed air of lilacs.

What happened to me?

The voice came from the sky.

Am I out of the plane?

Zen tried to shake his head and regain consciousness. Instead of his head, his chest shook.

Where is Breanna? Where’s my wife?

A black blanket covered his head. He clawed at it, pulled and poked and prodded, but it would not yield. He gave up.

When he did, the blackness lifted to reveal a golden red 21

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sun no more than a foot from his head.

The voice spoke again.

I’m out of the plane, but where is Breanna?

Zen blinked his eyes, trying to shield them from the sun.

His brain began to sort things out, reconstituting his memory like a computer rebuilding its hard drive. It moved sequen-tially, from the very beginning, everything rushing together: He was in high school, he was in the Air Force, he had just qualified as a fighter pilot, in the Gulf War.

Good shot, Captain, that MiG never had a chance.

Selected as test pilot, assigned to Dreamland, in love.

Well, you’re too pretty to be a bomber pilot, why’d you slap me?

I do, I do, I do the happiest day of my life and no, the damn Flighthawk is going to hit my tail pain just pain just dark blank nothing who cares no one cares never and I will walk damn you all damn everyone because I will walk and I won’t walk I won’t won’t won’t will not give up will come back and who I am who I am?

Where is Breanna? Where is my wife?

Bree?

The voice called louder, pleading. Finally, he recognized that it was his voice, that he was calling for his wife, that he wanted her more than he wanted anything, more than he cared for his own life, certainly.

And then time asserted itself, and he was aware of the present. Zen fell into it, consumed by the swirling ocean of gray.

White House Situation Room,

Washington, D.C.

2145, 14 January 1998

(0745, 15 January, Karachi)

“THERE’S AN OPPORTUNITY HERE THAT WE HADN’T ANTICIpated.” National Security Advisor Philip Freeman’s face was beet red as he pleaded his cause. “It’s been thrown in our lap.”

22

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Freeman glanced at Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman, then at President Kevin Martindale. Jed Barclay couldn’t remember his boss arguing this passionately before.

“Of course there’s risk, but it’s not as great as it seems,”

continued Freeman. “The T-Rays have been much more effective than we hoped. It will be days before power is restored. The Lincoln is within a day’s sail, and we still have the Dreamland assets in the region. If we recover those warheads ourselves, neither country will be in a position to challenge the other for years—years.”

“We need to know definitively where the warheads are before we give the go ahead for an operation,” insisted Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, speaking over the closed circuit communications system from the Pentagon War Room. “Without that, Mr. President, I can’t guarantee success. I’m not even sure I can with it.”

“Jed?” said Martindale.

“Space Command is working on the p-p-projections,” said Jed, referring to the Air Force agency responsible for monitoring satellite intelligence. “They say they’ll have something in twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours!” Martindale never shouted, but his voice was as loud as Jed had ever heard it.

“Mr. President,” said Chastain, “it’s going to take time to get the area under full surveillance. The satellites we couldn’t reposition were lost. Remember, we had to rush the operation before all the assets we wanted were in place, and even if they had been—”

“I don’t want excuses,” said Martindale. “Jed, tell Dreamland to find the warheads.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. President, but besides Space Command, the National Reconnaissance Office is working on it, and so is Navy Intelligence,” said Admiral Balboa, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “I’m sure we can cut the time down considerably. We’ll have something in twelve hours, maybe less. And the Dreamland people have done enough.”

23

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“See what Dreamland can do,” Martindale told Jed. He was calmer now, his voice softer, though it still had an edge to it. “Those scientists can figure it out. They always have some sort of high-tech trick up their sleeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” said Chastain. “The Lincoln doesn’t have ground forces that could make the pickups.”

“We have a Marine Expeditionary Force near Somalia,”

said Freeman. “We can put them into action. And the Dreamland people.”

“The Marines are two days away,” said Chastain. “At least.”

“Not if they stage out to the Lincoln and then go ashore,”

countered Freeman. “What do you think, Admiral Balboa?”

Admiral George Balboa, also speaking from the Pentagon, cleared his throat. While he and Freeman had often found themselves at odds, Jed noted that the two men had been meeting together a lot recently. If Balboa’s tone was any indication, they had come to some sort of understanding.

“It might be possible,” said the admiral. “The Marine Ospreys can fly to the Lincoln, then operate from there or even somewhere onshore until their assault ship arrives. Of course, we need to know where the warheads are. That’s the key.”

“What about the Dreamland people?” asked Martindale.

“Can they recover the weapons?”

“There are too many warheads for them to do it,” said Chastain. “And three of their planes have been shot down.”

“Jed?”

“Um, their ground unit is intact, but, um, it’s not big enough to do it on its own.”

“I meant, what’s the status of the airplanes?”

“There were three planes on the mission. Two were shot down,” said Jed. “The third was the plane flown by Colonel Bastian. He was preparing to crash it into the Chinese aircraft carrier when the Chinese sent their nuclear-loaded bomber 24

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

back to the hangar deck. So six crews are in the water.”

“Have our people been picked up?”

“We’re still working on it. This has only happened within the last hour, sir. Thirty minutes.”

Martindale took a step toward the video conference screens. “Admiral, I want those people recovered.”

“I’m sure they’re working on it, sir,” said Balboa.

“Work harder.” Martindale turned around. “I’ll decide what we’re doing when I see the data on where the warheads are. But I agree with Philip. This is an historic opportunity.

It’s worth considerable risk. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to tell the world what we’ve done.”

Aboard the Wisconsin,

over the northern Arabian Sea

0745

DOG TACKED TO THE EAST, WIDENING HIS ORBIT. IT WAS VERY

possible the destroyer had noticed him circling the area and was coming over to investigate. In that case, he thought he might be able to throw them off by circling around an empty patch of water.

On the other hand, they might be pulling themselves close enough to fire short-range antiair weapons at him. He had no radar warning device, so he couldn’t even tell if he was being tracked.

“Dreamland Wisconsin, this is the Abner Read.”

“Wisconsin.”