“What’s up?” Dog asked.

“ISA is putting together a special strike package. One of the pilots and two of the support personnel on Dreamland’s roster are going to be asked to join. It’s strictly voluntary, but, uh, there have been some back-channel discussions, as I’m sure you would expect.”

“They need my permission?”

“No, but some of the people back East thought you’d want to be in the loop,” said McLanahan carefully. “I was at Nellis and since we know each other, they asked me to give you a heads-up.”

“You’re running ISA?”

“No. I’m more like a consultant. A freelancer,” said McLanahan. “The pilot is Mack Smith.”

“You want the F-119 too?”

Dog hadn’t meant it as a joke, but McLanahan laughed. “Just Smith,” he said. “The 119 can stay in the shed forever as far as I’m concerned. The technical people are listed as specialists in avionics and engines respectively, but their records show they could build planes from scratch.”

While Smith was an arrogant SOB, Colonel Bastian didn’t particularly want to lose him; the fighter jock was the hottest stick on the patch. And he was the senior officer on the JSF.

“It’s about Somalia,” added McLanahan, obviously sensing his reluctance to part with the pilot.

“Oh,” said Dog. He hadn’t seen the intelligence briefings since a few days before leaving Washington, but McLanahan’s tone made it clear that things there had continued to worsen. The Iranian mullahs had been equipping one of the warlords in the eastern African country, apparently with the intention of helping him take over the government. That would allow them to control access to the Red Sea and Suez Canal, as well as the Gulf of Aden—and thereby manipulate the price and flow of oil. Which itself was supposed to be a prelude to their “Greater Islamic League,” a coalition of Middle Eastern countries dedicated to the prospect of giving America a headache.

“ISA is involved with Somalia?” Dog asked.

“ISA is part of a contingency plan.” McLanahan took a sip of his water. “Iran’s warlord will be in charge inside two weeks.”

“Then what happens?”

“Well, maybe nothing. The analysts are all over the place.”

“I wouldn’t count on nothing,” said Dog. “If the mullahs are feeling strong enough, they’ll base the Silkworms they bought from China there. And after that, they’ll move in the new aircraft they’re buying from Russia. Two dozen Su-35’s and the same number of Su-27’s equipped for surface attack could bottle up half the world’s oil fleet within three hours.”

“Oil prices will go to one hundred dollars a barrel,” said McLanahan. “I read your white paper on it. Hard to believe you wrote it a year ago.”

“The Sukhois are good warplanes.”

“CIA says they haven’t been sold.” McLanahan frowned, but it was impossible to tell whether he believed that or not. “They have the Silkworms ready to go. And rumor has it that they’re working with the Chinese on an aircraft carrier, which should be ready within a few months, if not weeks. The NSC is recommending that this thing be cut off quickly. Which is why I—ISA, that is, wants Smith.”

The sergeant emerged from the kitchen pushing a large cart. On top of it were two deluxe burger plates, with oversized hamburgers on grilled potato-bread rolls. Large saucers of ketchup, mustard, and relish flanked a massive heap of steak fries at the side of the plates.

“Now this is what I call first class,” said Dog, thanking the sergeant.

“I would have thought you’d be used to fancy food, having come from Washington,” said McLanahan. “I hear they love you at the White House.”

“I met the President exactly once,” said Dog. “And that was in a room with fifty people.”

The burger was excellent, perfectly charred on the outside and pink on the inside. Maybe not the healthiest lunch, but tasty enough to justify the risk.

“Like I say, the analysts are all over the place on this. We’re not exactly knee-deep in intelligence on what Iran is up to,” McLanahan said, picking up the napkin from his lap and dabbing at the side of his mouth. “Good burger.”

“Very good,” said Dog. “The Iranians have studied the Oil Shock of the seventies. They know what the impact on the Western economies would be of doubling or quadrupling the price of oil. And don’t forget, they’ll benefit from the extra money. They’ll go straight to Russia and lure another fifty or sixty scientists for their nuclear program. As well as plutonium.”

“You sound like you’re still working for Ms. O’Day.” McLanahan picked up one of the large steak fries with his fork. “CIA says they’re at least six years away from a bomb.”

“They’re crazy. More like six months. You should talk to Jack O’Connell.”

“I have,” said McLanahan. O’Connell was a CIA ground officer who’d been in Africa and the Middle East as well as Russia, tracking Russian nuclear technology.

“Is ISA hooked up with Madcap Magician?” asked Bastian.

McLanahan didn’t answer. From what Dog had been told at the NSC, Madcap Magician was an interservice Spec Ops “program” consisting of volunteers from different branches trained to operate as a covert intervention or first-strike force in the Middle East. Different Spec Ops groups—including a small unit at Dreamland under Danny Freah known as Whiplash—were attached as call-up units; they were supposed to be available on twenty-four-hour notice. Madcap Magician itself was so secret that Bastian didn’t know much about it—but he realized from McLanahan’s silence that he had just nailed the connection.

“Obviously, you can have Smith,” said Dog. He held his half-eaten burger and roll in his hand. It was too good; it tempted him to reconsider his “all ranks” decision.

He put the burger down and pushed the plate away. McLanahan looked at him with an expression close to shock.

“What else do you need?” Dog asked.

“Food’s fine.”

“I mean planes. Hell, I’ve got the hottest weapons on the planet here. Cheetah? The Scorpion AMRAAM-Plus? Tell me what you need and it’s yours.”

“Sounds tempting.”

“We’re an important part of the Air Force,” continued Dog. “With the top talent the military and private enterprise can offer. I have a base full of cutting-edge weapons just begging to be used.”

“I used to work here, remember? You sound like you’re making a funding pitch.”

“No. I’m stating a fact. And maybe a pitch. A little pitch,” conceded Dog. “Because if we put some of these high-tech doodads we’re working on here to work, no one will close us down.”

“Those high-tech doodads you’re working on still have bugs in them,” said McLanahan. “Believe me, I know.”

“Nothing’s without risk. If Dreamland’s going to survive—now there’s a white paper you should read,” he added, referring to the report that had led him to this post.

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

Dog stood up. “I have to get back to work, Patrick. Whoever you need, he’s yours. And I’m serious about the planes and weapons. You know more about what Dreamland can offer than I do.”

McLanahan nodded thoughtfully. “Say hi to Rap for me when you see her.”

Dog nodded, then turned and started back for his office.

THE FIRST THING BREANNA THOUGHT AS THE Megafortress slammed downward was: Damn, this is going to screw up the project big-time.

The next thing she thought was: Damn, we have a serious problem here.

The plane didn’t respond to her yoke. Rap commanded the computer to restore full pilot control. As she did, the legends on the heads-up displays, or HUDs, glowed bright and then flashed out.

“Computer, restore pilot control,” Breanna calmly told the computer, but even as the words left her mouth she realized the computer had been taken off-line. Fort Two’s nose was aimed toward the earth. The g’s were piling up; they were pulling four, then five, the pressure increasing exponentially.