Raven’s bomb bay had been overhauled so that its rotating dispenser could launch (or drop) a variety of smart weapons—not just bombs and air-to-ground missiles, but AMRAAM-plus antiaircraft missiles. At its tail, the four 12.7 or 50-caliber machine guns had been replaced by a Stinger airmine gun, which could pepper the sky behind the plane with exploding shards of tungsten, just the thing to shred a jet engine and ruin a pursuing fighter pilot’s day. While no match for a frontline American interceptor, the Megafortress could hold her own when attacked by most enemies—as this one had done on several occasions.

Next over the Dreamland apron area was a heavily customized C-17, the product of an intense Page 9

collaboration between Dreamland and the highly skilled engineers at McDonnell Douglas further enhancing its already impressive heavy-hauling and short-runway abilities. Dubbed the MC-17D/W-2, the black-skinned aircraft sported two belly blisters, which in time would be filled by specially designed howitzers. According to the concept, the aircraft would be able to drop two companies of Marines and then provide fire support à la the AC-130, combining two functions in the same aircraft. The weapons had not yet been fitted to the plane; they were due to be tested in about two weeks. The guns, as awesome as they were, were just a start—a team was hard at work trying to make enough adjustments to the Razor antiaircraft laser so that it could be used in place of the howitzers.

As the big plane came over, she dipped her left wing, a nod to the fallen comrades being honored at the ceremony below. Not far behind the MC-17 came an F-22. Like every aircraft at the high-tech developmental center, the Raptor’s airframe had undergone extensive revamping. Now longer, it sported a delta-shaped airfoil and saber-toothed tiger strakes at the front; the design was being studied for possible use as an F-15E replacement.

Last but not least in the Dreamland formation was a B-1B, the swing-wing, Mach + attack craft that had once been seen as the B-52’s replacement, though the versatile Stratofortress had refused to be pushed aside. The big wings of the Lancer—sometimes dubbed the “Bone” by her crew, a pun on B-One—were fully extended, allowing the aircraft to parade over the grounds at a low and solemn speed.

This aircraft had been used to test some concepts for the Unmanned Bomber project; its four GE F101

engines had only recently been returned to their place under the wing roots and fuselage, reclaiming their position from hydrogen-powered prototypes that would be the main impetus for the UMB. Immediately after the ceremony, the B-1 would head for Underground Hangar Five, where she would begin a new phase, testing a concept as an advanced penetrator/weasel equipped with antiradar HARM missiles and a multiple mini-bomb launcher.

As the B-1 climbed away, a second group of aircraft, these much smaller, appeared from the right. Four U/MF-3 Flighthawks thundered by in a diamond pattern. Just as they reached the center of the viewing area in front of the stands, one of the aircraft peeled off; the others circled around the field, commemorating the loss of Dreamland’s fallen comrades. Smoke canisters under the fuselages of the remaining aircraft ignited, and the sky turned red, white, and blue. The Dreamland audience rose to their feet as one, saluting their comrades and pledging themselves once more to the cause of keeping America free and the world safe.

Danny stared into the distance, back teeth tightly clenched.

Dreamland Commander’s Office

1407

SOMETIMES IT SEEMEDlike Dog’s whole life came down to paper. Reams of it sat on Colonel Bastian’s desk—reports, folders, notices. The computer at the corner held even more—emails, various attachments, all marked urgent, more urgent, or impossibly urgent. Dreamland’s command structure was perhaps the most streamlined in the military, yet it still killed more trees than Dog could count.

There was a familiar knock on the door. Fearing that it meant Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax”

Gibbs was bringing yet another wagonload of paper for him to process, Dog growled “come” in a voice that would have sent anyone else into retreat.

Ax, however, walked calmly into the room. He had taken the precaution of arming himself with a fresh Page 10

carafe of coffee.

“Thought you could use a refill,” said the chief.

“Thanks,” said Dog, his mood lifting slightly.

“Jed Barclay’s on line four over there,” he added, pointing to the lit button on the black scrambled phone. “He’s got an off-the-record heads-up for you.”

“Just great,” said Dog, his mood once again diving into the depths.

He took a sip of the coffee, then punched the button. Ax thumbed through some of the paperwork on the desk, retrieving several items he needed, then left.

“Jed? What can I do for you?” asked Dog.

“Colonel. Um, this is, uh, un-unofficial,” said Barclay.

Barclay was the National Security Council assistant director for technology and the right-hand man of the NSC advisor, Philip Freeman. Jed’s responsibilities included acting as the de facto liaison between the White House and Dreamland. Though only in his early twenties, he’d been involved in several Dreamland missions and had proven that, despite his pimples, he could hang in there with the best of them.

It was a very bad sign, however, that he was stuttering. He usually only did that when a situation was red-lining.

“Uh, I’m calling off the r-record,” he said.

“Jed, I know it’s bad news, so don’t sugarcoat it,” Dog told him.

“I wasn’t going to, Colonel. I wouldn’t sugarcoat anything.”

“Don’t bullshit me either.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So?”

“The NSC and the Joint Chiefs, they put their heads together in a way—well, you know how Admiral Balboa is, and what they want is an outsider. We cut them off a bit and got a compromise but—”

“Who’s investigating?” asked Dog, deciding to cut to the quick. Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs and a general pain in the butt when it came to anything concerning Dreamland.

“Air Force Office of Special Investigations,” said Jed. “They’re sending a woman out this afternoon. Her name is Cortend, and she’s a bitch with wings. Um, pardon my French.”

“Didn’t sound very French to me, Jed.” Dog sighed and took another sip of his coffee. “Who is she?”

“Full-bird colonel. She’s, uh, she’s going to answer to the chief of the Air Force directly because—uh, Page 11

do you want all the political interplay, or just the shorthand?”

“Shorthand’s fine.”

“They want to make sure this isn’t a replay of the Russian situation a few years ago,” said Barclay, making an oblique reference to the spy scandal that had preceded Dog’s arrival at the base. “Defense Secretary Chastain got Balboa to sign off on her because she did the, uh, she found the fraud at J&D on the propulsion contract last year, and the Chinese spy at the Alaska contractor. She’s tough. But even so, this is just like a preliminary, unofficial, I mean, she has full powers, but it’s—”

“Thanks, Jed. I get the picture,” said Dog. Basically, they were sending someone there with the power to turn the base upside down, but because she was only coming on an informal or unofficial basis, she wouldn’t have to play by any of the rules meant to keep things fair.

So be it.

“There’s a couple of people who want your scalp,” added the NSC official. “Uh, I know you don’t care for the politics but, uh—”

“I don’t.”

“They may, uh—you have to watch the way you handle it,” said Barclay. “Because they have their knives out.”

“I appreciate the warning, Jed. Really. It’s all right. I can take care of myself. So can the rest of the people here.”