“Yes. When are we taking off?” Bree asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“You ready?”

RAZOR’S EDGE

77

“I’m not going,” said Cheshire. Her words were so flat her disappointment was obvious. “Colonel Bastian wants me here to help monitor things from the command center.

Major Alou will lead the mission in Raven.”

Alou?

Of course Alou. He ranked her, even though she had more combat hours in the Megafortress than anyone, Cheshire included.

Why did that bother her? Because she’d shown him the ropes on his first few orientation flights in the Megafortress? That was three months ago.

“The deployment may last awhile,” Cheshire told her.

“Meet me in my office in the hangar bunker as soon as you land. Both of you.”

Incirlik, Turkey

2100

IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE WIND OR THE STICKINESS OF THE

black vinyl cushions against his face or the thousand thoughts rushing through his head, Mack Smith might have caught a quick nap on the couch in the lounge while waiting for General Elliott. Instead he spent nearly three hours sliding back and forth on the thoroughly uncomfortable chair, kicking against the rail and wedging his head in the crack at the back. When he finally drifted off, the lights flicked on.

“Sorry, General,” he said, rolling upward. But instead of Elliott he saw a tall man in chinos and white shirt.

“Garrison. CIA,” said the man. He frowned, as if Mack were sleeping on his time. Or maybe his couch.

“Smith. USAF,” said Mack, annoyed.

“I’d like to speak to you about what you saw at the crash site.”

78

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Yeah, you and the rest of the world,” said Mack. “But I’m not talking to anybody except General Elliott.”

“General Elliott is busy,” said Garrison.

Mack got up slowly, his body kinked from the couch.

At six feet, he was tall for a fighter pilot, but Garrison had at least six inches on him. The spook’s hair was so white and thick it looked like a carpet.

“I’ve already been debriefed. Twice,” said Mack.

“Sometimes details have a way of slipping away.”

“Don’t you have some insurrection to start?” said Mack. He started toward the door, deciding he was hungry.

“Major.” The CIA agent grabbed his sleeve.

Mack spun and stuck his finger in Garrison’s chest.

“These aren’t my clothes, Jack. Don’t rip them.”

Garrison let go so sharply—maybe it was a spook technique, Mack thought—that he nearly fell backward.

“You’re a real jerk, you know that?” Mack said.

“That’s what they say about you.”

Shaking his head, Mack turned toward the door, where he nearly knocked into General Elliott.

“General—”

“Mack, I see you’ve met Agent Garrison.”

“We were just getting introduced,” said Garrison.

“Real personable spy,” said Mack.

“I’d like to hear you describe the wreckage,” Elliott told him. “Agent Garrison should listen too.”

Mack frowned, then began recounting what had happened.

“We don’t need a blow-by-blow of your courageous encounter with the Iraqi army,” said Garrison caustically when Mack began to describe what had happened when the tanks came.

“I just wanted to show that we didn’t have enough time for leisurely inspections,” Mack said.

RAZOR’S EDGE

79

“Burn marks?” asked Garrison.

“No,” said Mack.

“The edges of the metal where it sheered off—powdery white?”

Mack shrugged. “Look at the pictures.”

“They’re blurry as hell. You need photography lessons.”

“See how good you are at taking pictures when a tank’s firing at you.”

“Mack, did you see any trace of the missing wing?”

asked the general.

“No,” said Mack. “I didn’t see it in the area, and when all hell broke loose, we had too much else to worry about.

How’s the PJ?”

“He’s fine. They’re a tough breed,” said Elliott.

“This is inconclusive at best,” said Garrison. “I’d still like to get in there.”

“Not possible,” said Elliott.

The frown Garrison had been wearing since waking Mack deepened. He stared at the general for nearly a minute, then walked from the room.

“What the hell’s up his ass, sir?” Mack asked, adding the “sir” belatedly.

“Mr. Garrison and his agency are going to have to defend some rather rash predictions they made,” said Elliott.

“I expect that accounts for a small portion of his hostility.”

“What’s going on, General? Do the Iraqis have a new missile?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Elliott.

“How did they target those planes? The SA-2 radars?

Impossible,” said Mack. “The F-16, sure, okay. The Weasel operator let it slip through and the Iraqis got seriously lucky. But two Eagles? And what got them? I have a hard time believing they could get nailed by flying telephone poles.”

Elliott said nothing.

80

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“How did they do it?” asked Mack.

“How do you think they did it?” asked Elliott.

Mack had flown over Iraq during the Gulf War and nailed a MiG-29 in air-to-air combat. He’d had several encounters with SA-2s, including one where he had seen a missile sail within five or six hundred feet of his canopy.

But he couldn’t imagine how a pair of Eagle pilots could get shot down in the same engagement, especially with a Weasel flying shotgun; it just shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t happen.

“Honestly, I don’t know what hit the F-16 I saw,” he told Elliott. “Maybe it was a new kind of missile, something like the Russian SA-4 with a proximity fuse and shrapnel, or maybe just a fluke whack that got the wing, shattering it without exploding or at least without a fire.

But I don’t know, operating in a bizarre radar band the jammers didn’t see? And that not even the AWACS could track? I really don’t think it’s possible.”

“Neither do I,” said the general.

Dreamland

1002

DANNY LOOKED AT THE CALLER ID SCREEN, TRYING TO

puzzle out the number. It had a New York City area code but wasn’t Jemma’s apartment or school. It might be Jimmy Ferro, or even Blaze, his buddy from the bad days in Bosnia.

Then again, it probably wasn’t.

He grabbed it just before it would have rolled over into the answering system.

“Danny Freah.”

“Daniel, hello. Jim Stephens.”

Danny couldn’t place him.

RAZOR’S EDGE

81

“I used to be Al D’Amato,” said Stephens. It was obviously meant as a joke, but the name still didn’t register for Danny. “I worked for the senator. I was his alter ego. I was talking with your wife Jemma the other day and I told her I’d call.”

Oh yeah—the politico. “Hi,” said Danny.

“Listen, I’d like to sit down some time and talk about your future.”

“My future?”

“I like to think of myself as something of a scout. I have a lot of friends, a lot of people who are interested in giving other people the right kind of start.”

In his junior year of high school Danny had been briefly—very briefly—recruited by two colleges, which offered athletic scholarships for his football skills. That was his first introduction to the wonderful world of unadulterated bullshit. He fought off the flashback.

“I don’t need a start,” he told Stephens.

“No, you’ve actually got it all started already. Headed in the right direction, definitely. Can I talk frankly? There aren’t many people like you in government right now.

Straight-shooters. Honest. Military background.”

“That’s a plus?”

“I checked with some friends in Washington. You have quite an impressive record, Captain.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Long-term, you could make important contributions to your country, very important contributions. There aren’t many of us in important jobs right now,” he added.