But he was in a Megafortress now.

“Trimming to compensate,” Dog said calmly, remembering the routine Bree had taught him during the simulations.

“Good,” said Cheshire. “Okay. Okay,” she sang, running through the instruments on her side.

The Megafortress wobbled slightly. Mo’s speed continued to drop steadily, but he was still in control.

“I’m going to bank around and try for Runway Two,” Bastian told Cheshire.

“Two’s no good,” said Nancy. “The Flighthawks are using it for touch-and-go’s. Three is our designated landing area.”

“Three then.” Bastian clicked his radio transmit button. “Dreamland Tower, this is Missouri. We have an emergency situation. One engine is out. Request permission to land on Runway Three.”

“Tower. We acknowledge your emergency. Stand by.”

Dog started to bank the plane. His hands were a little shaky and the artificial horizon showed he was tipping his wing a little too much.

“Temp in Engine Three going yellow, going—shit—climbing—red,” reported Cheshire.

She said something else, but Dog couldn’t process it. His stomach started fluttering to the side, as if it had somehow pulled loose inside his body.

Relax, he told himself. You can do this.

“Nine thousand feet, going to eight thousand,” said Cheshire.

“Shut down Engine Three,” said Dog.

“Through the turn first,” prompted Cheshire. “I’m on the engine, Colonel,” she explained.

Dog came out of the turn, leveling the wings while still in a gentle downward glide. Cheshire did a quick run through the indicators on the remaining engines, reporting that they were in the green. The tower came back, clearing them to land.

“Six thousand feet,” said Cheshire. “One more orbit?”

“I think so,” said Dog. But as he nudged into the bank, his left wing started to tip precipitously; the Megafortress began bucking and threatening to turn into a brick.

“Problem with the automatic trim control,” reported Cheshire. “System failure in the automated flight-control computer, section three—the backup protocol for the engine tests introduced an error. All right, hang with it. This won’t be fatal.”

She then began running through some numbers, recording the section problems that the flight computer was giving her on the screen. Under other circumstances—like maybe sitting on the ground in his office—Dog would have appreciated the technical details and the prompt identification of the problem. Now, though, all he wanted was a solution.

“We’re going to have to fly without the computer,” said Cheshire finally. “I can’t lock this out and it will be easier to just land and we can debug on the ground.”

“I figured that out,” said Dog, wrangling the big plane through the turn.

“If you want me to take it, just say the word.”

He felt his anger boiling up, even though he knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. “No, I’m okay,” he said. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.”

“Wide turns,” she said. “Very wide turns. We’re more like an airliner than a fighter jet.”

“Yup.”

Part of him, a very, very small part of him, wanted to turn the plane over to Cheshire. A strong case could be made that it was the right thing to do—when all was said and done, he was a green pilot trying to deal with a very big problem. Even if he wasn’t in over his head, it made sense to turn the stick over to Cheshire.

But Dog was way too stubborn for that. And besides, he wasn’t in over his head—he came through another orbit much more smoothly, having worked the plane down to two thousand feet. They legged into final approach with a long, gentle glide.

“Come on, Mo,” said Cheshire, talking to the plane. “You can do it, baby.”

“Yeah, Mo,” said Dog. “Go for it, sister.”

Whether she heard them or not, the EB-52 stepped down daintily on the desert runway, her tires barely chirping.

She poked her nose up slightly, perhaps indignant to find a full escort of emergency vehicles roaring alongside her. But Bastian had no trouble controlling her, bringing her to a rest near the secondary access ramp at the middle of the field.

“Good work, Colonel,” said Cheshire. “You handled that like a pro. Maybe we will use you as a pilot when Pistol and Billy leave.”

ANTARES Bunker

27 January, 0755

KEVIN NODDED AT THE GUARD AS THE GATE SWUNG back from the road, the panel of chain links groaning and clicking as the metal wheels whirled. While the path was wide enough for a tractor-trailer, no vehicles were allowed past the checkpoint, not even the black SUVs used by Dreamland security.

Madrone proceeded past the gate and the three cement-reinforced metal pipes that stuck up from the roadway, walking toward the pillbox that served as the entrance to the ANTARES lab. Made of concrete, the building bore the scars from its use long ago as a target area for live-fire exercises, though it had been at least two decades since the last piece of lead had ricocheted off the thick gray exterior. The interior somehow managed to smell not only damp, but like fried chicken, perhaps because the main vents from the underground complex ran through an access shaft next to the stairway.

Madrone nearly lost his balance as he stepped down the tight spiral stairway. All of the qualifying tests for ANTARES had taken place over at Taj; coming to the lab yesterday had been a revelation—truthfully, he didn’t even know it existed. The bunker facility had actually not been used during the program’s first phase, except for some minor tests; it was only after ANTARES was officially shut down that the computers and other gear were consolidated here. Geraldo had been using it as an office and lab for a few months, but the scent of fresh paint managed to mingle with the heavier odors as Ma-drone stepped off the stairway and across the wide ramp. No human guards were posted beyond the gate, and like the rest of Dreamland, there were no signs to direct anyone; it was assumed that if you had business here, you knew where you were going.

The metal ramp led to a subterranean catacomb area with three large metal doors, none of which looked as if they had been opened in years. Madrone went to the door on the right, which was the only one that worked. It was also the only one with a magnetic card reader. He pushed his ID into the slot and the door slowly creaked upward. He took a breath, then ducked beneath it, passing into a long hallway whose raked cement walls and dull red overhead lights continued the early-bomb-shelter motif. At the end of the hallway he turned right, and was immediately blinded by light; before his eyes could adjust the door in front of him slid open, activated by a computer security system similar to the one that governed Taj’s elevator.

Now the ambiance changed dramatically. He stepped onto a plush green carpet and walked down the hallway, barely glancing at the Impressionist paintings—elaborate canvas transfer prints complete with forged brush strokes like the real thing. As he neared Lab Room 1, the adagio of a Mozart Concerto—K.313, for flute and orchestra—filtered into the hallway, and he smelled the light perfume of Earl Grey tea.

“Good morning, Kevin, come in, come in,” said Dr. Geraldo.

She was wearing a lab coat and her customary severe suit, but otherwise seemed more like a matron welcoming visitors to the family estate than a staid scientist. She ushered Kevin to a thick leather chair and went to get him some tea; somewhere along the way he’d mentioned that he preferred it to coffee.

“And a pineapple Danish,” she said, appearing with a plate and cloth napkin. “Did you sleep well?” the psychiatrist asked him.

“As a matter of fact I did,” he told her. “Best I’ve slept in weeks. Didn’t have any dreams.”

“We always have dreams,” she said gently. “You mean that you don’t remember them.”