29 January, 1705

COLONEL BASTIAN PUSHED HIS LEGS UNDER HIS DESK, stretching out some of the knots that had twisted in his muscles. But there was no way to release the pressure of the one developing in his head.

“The way this works, Colonel,” General Magnus continued over the secure phone, “reports come to my office.”

“I understand the normal procedure, General,” said Bastian, struggling to keep his voice level. “I was ordered—”

“You don’t accept orders from anyone but me.”

“The Assistant Secretary of Defense asked specifically for an eyes-only assessment of ANTARES. I delivered it. And I copied you ahead of time, despite her instructions not to.”

“Chain of command. Chain of command.”

Dog pushed the phone away, resisting the temptation to answer. He detested the political bullshit. Worse, he’d been maneuvered into a no-win situation. Magnus was his boss, but Washington wanted a direct say over what happened at Dreamland. Magnus hadn’t minded that so much with the past Administration—he’d been tight with the NSC as well as the Joint Chiefs. But things were different now.

Nor did it help that Dog had told Washington what it didn’t want to hear—go slow, if at all, on ANTARES.

“You still there, Bastian?”

“Yes, General, I am.” Dog pulled the receiver back to his ear.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Magnus said. “You’re covering your ass fifty ways to Sunday on this.”

“Actually, sir, I’m playing it straight. We’re ramping up ANTARES, per your direct order. But at the same time, I don’t think it should have priority.”

Magnus snorted. “You sound like Brad Elliott more and more.” He was referring to Dreamland’s last commander.

“I’d take that as a great compliment, General.”

“Just remember where the hell he is,” snapped Magnus, breaking the connection abruptly.

As he hung up the phone, Dog realized the lieutenant general had never actually disagreed with the report on ANTARES. But it wasn’t Magnus’s opinion—or Bastian’s—that counted. And the truth was, the program was galloping along.

The intercom buzzed.

“Next appointment, Senior Scientist Andrew Ichison,” said Gibbs. “Mack Smith is also waiting, sir.”

“Again?”

“Wants to check on the progress of his assignment, sir.” Dog could tell from Gibbs’s tone that Smith was standing about three inches from him.

“Tell him there’s nothing to report.”

“I did that, sir.”

“Slot him in.”

“Your call, sir,” said Ax, hanging up the phone.

Bastian pushed his chair back, waiting for Ichison to appear. The scientist had been part of the high-altitude spy glider project, which the Administration had cut. Dog had to tell him, along with twenty other civilians, there was no place for him at Dreamland, and probably anywhere else in the government.

ANTARES was hot. The advanced particle laser, the high-altitude spy glider, the HARM follow-ons, and the MiG Aggressor projects were not. Many of the senior military people who’d been working on them would be shunted into career dead ends. A good portion of the civilians would be left with nothing but a handshake and a reduced government pension for their years here.

Most accepted the news with grace. They thanked him for trying to hunt down jobs, and then giving them a personal heads-up on the prospects. And then there were people like Mack Smith—who barged into the office instead of Ichison.

“Major, you are to wait in line,” Dog told him.

“Egghead told me to go first. Nice guy. So how are we doing, Colonel? Did you find something?”

“I offered you a job here.”

“No offense, Dog, but you and I both know that’s going nowhere. Unassigned test pilot—that’s a man without a country.”

“I meant the Megafortress project.”

“Ah, I’m a jock. I’m not flying cows. Shit, Colonel, the EB-52 is a girl’s plane, you know what I mean?”

“No, Major, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hey, it’s great for Cheshire and Rap, probably as much as they can handle. But guys like us—we’re jocks, right? We belong in the best.”

“You know, Mack, I’ve had a ball-buster of a day. In spite of that, and maybe in spite of my best judgment, I have actually made some inquiries on your behalf. But you know what? I have a tremendous headache. And when I get a headache, I sometimes forget to follow up on things. I don’t answer important phone calls. Paperwork tends to get lost.”

“Gotcha, Colonel.” Mack jumped to his feet. “F-22 is going to need a commander, I hear.”

Dog said nothing.

“How about a gig in Europe? Naples?”

“Good night, Major.”

Mack took a few quick steps toward the door. “Hey, go easy on Ichison,” he said, spinning around. “Not wrapped too tight. I told him there’d be plenty of people looking for an engineer with experience like him and he just about started crying.”

“Thanks.”

“Just doing my bit.”

Allegro, Nevada

29 January, 2034

BREANNA TOOK HER BEER INSIDE INTO THE LIVING ROOM, curling up on the couch next to Jeff in his wheelchair. He had a folder with reports open on his lap, and seemed only vaguely interested in the basketball game on the TV; she reached for the TV controller.

“Don’t change the station,” he growled.

“Oh, come on, Jeff. You’re not watching it.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s the score?”

“Denver 45, Seattle 23.”

“Blowout.”

“Don’t change the station.”

“What a grouch,” she said. She drew a curve on Jeff’s skull behind his ear, sliding her finger down and back along his neck. “Come on. You don’t want to watch TV. Let’s watch a dirty movie.”

“Friends is not a dirty movie. And that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“After Friends.”

Her hand shot toward the controller, but he was too fast, snatching it away.

But then, as she knew he would, he clicked it to her program.

“Whatcha doing anyway?” she asked him as the opening credits rolled.

“Classified.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just bullshit for Washington,” said Jeff finally, closing the folder. “Flighthawks and ANTARES. Need-to-know bullshit.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Breanna. “What are you getting me for Valentine’s Day?”

“A six-pack of Anchor Steam.”

“Very romantic.”

Jeff tucked the folder away in his briefcase, locked it, then wheeled himself into the kitchen. By the time he returned with a beer, the program had started. As it happened, it was one of the two Breanna had already managed to see.

“Want to play Scrabble?” she asked.

Jeff agreed as long as she’d put the basketball game back on. Twenty minutes later, she was ahead by more than a hundred points.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked her husband. “You didn’t all of a sudden start rooting for the Sonics, did you?” He shrugged.

Breanna put her fingers at the base of his neck, kneading gently. Finally he began to speak.

“I saw Kevin today. I think ANTARES is blowing his head to pieces.”

“They only just started.”

“He got into Theta-alpha already. I talked to Geraldo before I came home. She’s excited as hell and pushed up the simulator tests. He’ll be at Stage Five in a few days. Hell, maybe tomorrow.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Flying on the sim.”

“Really?”

Jeff nodded his head but didn’t say anything. ANTARES was one of the few things they didn’t talk about before his accident, and not just because the program was highly classified. Something about the interface and the associated protocols, Breanna gathered, deeply bothered Zen. But when her husband didn’t want to talk about something, he didn’t; there was no sense pushing him.

Besides, there were better ways to spend the night. Breanna slid her fingers under his shirt. “Loser has to draw the bath,” she told him. “And gets the bottom.”