He knew they weren’t oblivious, and there were a few awkward silences and glances. Still, the test had gone well, and Remington’s new laptop had some cool video extensions that replayed the flight videos very sharply, and the report was perfect. And what the hell. Between the beer and the day, he actually felt damn good. He even joined in the good-natured kidding of Lou DeFalco, the civilian who’d been acting as lead Flighthawk pilot in Zen’s absence. They called DeFalco “Rock”—not exactly a flattering nickname for a pilot.

“You think I’m bad in the Flighthawks,” said DeFalco with a laugh, “you should see me in Aurora. There I’m Big Rock.”

“I heard you put one of the Flighthawks through the hangar door,” said Zen.

“No way,” said DeFalco. “It was the side of the hangar.”

“True.” Remington laughed. “We just barely missed. He came, I’m not exaggerating, within an inch. Damn computer protocols don’t always lock out on proximity.”

“Hey, if they did, Rock would never get off the ground,” said Paul Kardon, one of the weapons engineers.

“Hey, Zen,” said Nancy Cheshire, walking in. “Your wife’s looking for you.”

“Uh-oh,” groaned the others in unison.

“The ball and chain beckons,” deadpanned Remington.

Zen laughed along with the others.

“You better go run her down, Major,” said Kardon. “And don’t take any guff. Remember—you outrank her.”

“Yeah, but she’s connected.” DeFalco laughed.

Zen tried Bree at the Megafortress bunker, and then over at the Taj, before one of the security sergeants said he’d seen her heading toward Yellow Two, the dorm building where she had her apartment.

Their apartment.

She was trying. Shouldn’t he let her make the attempt? There was a chance that she might be able to get over the fact that he was a cripple.

Was that fair? Let her waste her life on him?

Even though the entrance to the dorm building was ramped, Jeff had trouble negotiating the bumps. He had to jiggle his wheels sideways on one, and that killed his momentum. Finally he reached the exterior hall, only to find it nearly impossible to pull the heavy door while rolling backward.

“Hey, Major, let me grab that sucker for you,” said Captain Danny Freah.

“Thanks,” said Zen, rolling backward as the big Air Force security officer pulled open the door.

“Ought to have an electronic eye on it,” said Freah as Zen rolled into the foyer.

“That’s not necessary,” said Zen, fighting against his embarrassment.

Freah seemed to sense the awkwardness, and opened the inside door quickly.

“Heard you nailed that tanker sim this afternoon,” said Freah. “Good going.”

“I didn’t realize that’d be big news,” said Zen.

“Hey, Major, relax,” said Freah. He pulled his hands back as if he’d touched a hot stove. “I happened to be in the control tower when you got it. They were applauding.”

“Yeah,” said Zen. He hadn’t meant to snarl. He pulled his wheelchair around, starting down the hallway for the room. It was automatic—he didn’t think about the stairs at the far end of the hall.

The flight down was only six steps deep, the suite door barely ten feet beyond that. But there was no way he could get down the steps without help. He’d have to go back through the lobby and around through the back wing, where there was a ramp. As he started to wheel backward, he saw the door to the suite open.

Mack Smith popped his head out, then turned back to say something before leaving.

SMITH SKIPPED UP THE STEPS, DISAPPOINTED WITH Breanna and maybe with himself. He hadn’t gone there to seduce her.

So why had he gone then?

He hadn’t found an answer before he reached the lobby. Coincidence of coincidences, who was just arriving but Bree’s husband Zen.

That was close.

“Hey,” said Knife, grabbing Zen’s chair as he was rolling down the back hallway. “Hey, Zen, what are you up to?”

“What are you up to?” snapped Stockard furiously.

Smith let go of the wheelchair. Captain Freah and a Spec Ops security guard were standing near the front door a few yards away.

“I’m sorry,” said Smith.

Paralyzed and all, Stockard looked like he was going to bolt out of the chair and strangle him. Mack knew better than to say anything about Rap, even though nothing had happened, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

“I was just making the rounds, saying good-bye,” said Mack, taking a step back. He hadn’t had a chance to say anything about Zen’s legs, but this sure as hell wasn’t the time.

And anyway, what the hell could he say? Tough break? He’d already said something like that in the hospital.

“I’m saying good-bye,” Mack repeated.

“Good-bye for what?”

“Hell, Zen, what’s up your ass?” Smith took a step backward and stuck his hands on his hips. For a second he thought Stockard was going to put his head down and ram forward with his chair.

“Uh, Majors,” said Freah, coming toward them with the air of a kindergarten teacher. “Can I be of some assistance?”

“I’m fine,” said Zen.

“Me too,” said Knife, starting for the door. “Good-bye, Zen. Tell your wife I said hello.”

“Tell her yourself,” said Stockard.

Smith spun around and headed through the lobby door, letting it slam shut behind him.

III

A matter of conscience

Two weeks later

Ethiopia

21 October, 0400

“ALL RIGHT MARINES, LISTEN THE FUCK UP.” GUNNERY Sergeant James Ricardo Melfi gave the small handpicked platoon one of his best sneers, even though it was difficult for them to see in the dim light from the nearby flare. “That means you too, Goosehead,” he told one of his sergeants. “Jack, you close your fuckin’ mouth or I’m puttin’ a boot in it. You want to yawn, you go to the dentist. All right, girls, here’s the deal. We come off the Chinook, we split into two squads, we hit the buildings the way we laid it out. We take out missile one and missile two, we call in the fuckin’ Air Force. We give the weenies two minutes to get here because they’re not Marine aviators.” He paused to allow his men the appropriate contemptuous snort, then continued. “At that point, we take the administration building, which should be defenseless, assuming the Air Force has done its job. If they have not, then Fire Team B, following my lead, will do it for them, wiping out the tank with their bare hands if they have to.”

Actually, they would be using a Russian-made SPG-9 piece of shit. The light antitank gun fired a 73mm missile that had a fairly good chance of destroying the ancient M47—but only if it hit it. The weapon wasn’t particularly known for its accuracy.

“Team A, meanwhile, will be taking care of the machine guns on the east side of the building. Prisoners and wounded to be evacuated to the Chinook rendezvous point, blah-blah-blah. You girls got that?”

“Oh, we got it, Sergeant Honey,” said the Team B point man, Jerry Jackson.

“Listen, Swishboy, you just make sure you don’t trip going out of the helicopter,” Melfi told him. “I’ll boot your black ass right into the sandbag post.”

“Oh, I wish you would, Gunny.”

The others laughed, and so did the sergeant, even as he shook his head. He thumbed toward the two green, unmarked Chinooks standing on the dirt pad behind him. The flare he’d lit behind him made the aircraft look almost purple in the early morning twilight. Looming beyond them were jagged hills, their sharp shadows and shapes making the place look like the far side of the moon, rather than the ragged hinterland of northeastern Ethiopia.

“Okay, let’s run this like we’re under fire, all right?” said Gunny. “Check your gear and move out.”