“Put Major Stockard on the screen.”

His son-in-law’s helmeted face came on the screen. Zen was still piloting a Flighthawk and had his visor down; he looked a bit like a race car driver in his crash cage, head bobbing left and right before he spoke. “Stockard.”

“Jeff, I want to talk with you, Major Alou, and Jennifer Gleason,” said Dog. “Dr. Rubeo has an idea—”

“This is not exactly my idea,” said Rubeo.

“I have an idea,” said Dog. The others plugged into the line and he laid it out.

“I think we can do it,” said Jennifer. “We may even be able to use the Flighthawk controls for limited maneuverability.”

“Don’t get fancy,” said Dog. “There’s no time.”

“It’s not fancy—we built the control section from the same module; it’s meant to be portable.”

“That storm’s pretty fierce,” said Zen.

“The KH Storm and Eyes modules are to be tested,” said Rubeo, using the nicknames for the sensor arrays. “We’ll see anything we want to see.”

“Can I see them on my screens?” asked Zen.

“That part’s easy,” said Jennifer.

“Voice commands can be issued by myself—or even you, Colonel,” said Rubeo. “There’s no need to create a camel here—with all due respect to Major Stockard, I’d imagine he’s tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“I want a combat pilot at the controls,” insisted Dog. “Major Alou, Admiral Woods may call you to assist other missions. Could you accomplish them while you’re handling this?”

“I don’t know that we can be in two places at one time,” said Major Alou.

“You won’t have to be,” said Jennifer. “It’ll be just like a regular mission with Flighthawks—except you won’t have to stay close to the UMB. We can do it, Tecumseh.”

Her use of his name paralyzed him; he felt a strange mix of love and fear.

“Ray,” she continued, “on the Piranha translation module, the 128 processor—”

“Yes. The assembler will—”

“But we won’t need the weapon section.”

“That’s where we’re routing the KH radar unit.”

“I can do it, I can do it. We can use the channels reserved for the helmets. I can do it!”

“Don’t play schoolgirl.”

“All right, listen,” said Dog. “Major Alou—you land your plane, gas up, take off ASAP. Dr. Gleason and Dog—” he pointed at Rubeo. “See what you can work out. I want a go, no-go recommendation in two hours. Less if possible.”

“It’s go,” said Zen.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” said Dog.

“What do I do if I’m given a mission before then?” asked Major Alou.

“Take it,” said Zen.

“We need to be on the ground for at least two hours,” said Jennifer. “Maybe a little more.”

“It’ll take a while to refuel,” said Alou. “And the weather may delay us too.”

“Two hours, go or no-go,” said Dog. “Lets get to work.”

Aboard Iowa

August 29, 1997, 0207 local (August 28, 1997, 1107 Dreamland)

Zen checked the instruments on Flighthawk One, preparing to land on Okinawa. Jennifer was bouncing up and down next to him, already working out the problems on one of her laptop computers. He could feel her adrenaline rush, the excitement that came with facing the impossible, the sureness it could be overcome.

He’d heard it in their voices back at Dreamland too. They all had it. Even Rubeo, despite grousing that the computers would do a better job than Zen could.

The one thing they hadn’t talked about was that Bree and the others were very likely dead already, blown to bits in the plane.

Which was why they didn’t talk about it.

Somewhere in the South China Sea

Time and date unknown

She was the rain, soaking them. She was the wind sheering through their skulls. She was the tumult of the ocean, heaving her chest to plunge them into the black, salty hell, then lifting them up into the pure gray clouds. Again and again she twirled them back and forth, lashing them in every direction until she became them all, and they became her.

When Breanna Stockard pulled the handle on the ejection seat, time and space had merged. She now occupied all possible times and all possible places—the moment of the ejection seat exploding beneath her, the storm reaching down to take her from the plane, the universe roaring at her pointlessness.

She could see the canopy of the parachute. She could see the ocean collapsing around her. She could feel her helmet slamming against the slipstream; she could smell the rose water of a long-ago bath.

Somehow, the raft had inflated.