“Tonight?” It was all she could manage as her throat started to close.

“Yeah. No sweat. I’ll be home. Sorry about last night. I was just too beat to deal with getting back. And it was late.”

“Sure,” she said, but by the time she got the word out of her mouth, he’d pushed into the rest room.

* * *

WHEN COLONEL BASTIAN RETURNED TO HIS OFFICE after his test flight, he found himself walking around, rearranging things on his desk that didn’t need to be rearranged. He went through Ax’s two piles of papers that needed attention—left pile, immediate attention; right pile, sooner-than-immediate attention—got up from his chair, sat back down, got up again.

Dreamland had been included as a direct line item in the F-119 program. In the past few days he had received calls from several generals above him, including the three-star Air Force “liaison” for the interservice project. He’d also spoken to two admirals, three DOD budget analysts, no less than five Congressmen, and a Senator. All had congratulated him, assuring him that Dreamland’s future was now set. While other facilities were trying to wrestle some of the JSF tests, it was clear that Dreamland was the best suited for the project.

Part of the reason for this, Bastian knew, was the fact that everyone figured they could keep a puny lieutenant colonel under their thumb. And while there had been hints of a promotion “in the wind,” as one Congressman put it, even a full bird colonel or brigadier general would be a long way down the pecking order.

In the wind. It was a foul wind. By hitching himself and Dreamland to the JSF, he was saddling the Air Force with a turkey.

Worse, he was going against his conscience and his duty.

Was he? Was telling other people what they wanted to hear such a sin?

The JSF wasn’t that bad a design. Hell, the people here knew how to fix it. They could too—though the necessary changes would turn it into two or three different planes, with less than forty percent interchangeable parts. Each plane would be excellent, well suited for its job. The only drawback would be the expense.

No, the only drawback would be the fact that DOD and the Joint Chiefs and Congress and the President wanted a Joint Services airplane, one size fits all.

How many men would die because of that?

None—there’d be excellent CAP and AWACS and the SAMs would be suppressed, and everything would snap together clean and to spec every day. What could go wrong?

“Hey, Colonel, why are you messing up my system?” asked Ax, standing in the doorway. “You’re making one pile out of two.”

“Jeez, Ax, did you knock?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” snapped the sergeant, momentarily coming to full drill-master attention.

“Come on in, Sergeant Ballbuster,” said Bastian. “What the hell are you up to?”

“Just looking after my papers, Colonel,” said Ax, fishing the signed documents from Bastian’s desk. “How was your flight?”

“Uneventful, thanks,” said Dog. “Who’s my next appointment?”

“Nothing on your agenda rest of the day.” Gibbs smiled. “I believe there was some sort of scheduling snafu that indicated your test flight was continuing until tomorrow and that you couldn’t be disturbed.”

“You’re a piece of work, Ax.”

“Thank you, sir.” The sergeant smiled again. “I do actually have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. I have this friend who has this problem. He’s an executor for a trust. All the people connected with the trust, they want him to buy some stock. He thinks the stock is lousy, but he knows that if he doesn’t buy it, they’ll can his sorry ass and hire someone who will. He kinda needs the job, and he figures if they fire him he’ll be bagging groceries. On the other hand, he likes to look himself in the mirror every morning when he’s shaving.”

Bastian shook his head. “Thanks, Ax.”

Gibbs’s face was the very model of innocence. “Sir?”

“Tell your friend to do what he thinks is right, and damn what everyone else wants,” said Bastian, getting up. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thank you, sir,” snapped the sergeant as Bastian snuck out the side door.

BREANNA HAD TIMED IT ALL OUT WITH THE PRECISION of a deep-strike mission against a well-fortified enemy city. The five-disc CD player had been armed with Earl Klugh and Keiko Matsui jazz artists admittedly more to her taste than his, but definitely capable of establishing a preemptive romantic mood. Two long tapers of pure beeswax sat in candleholders in the middle of the freshly polished dinette table, ready to cast their flickering soft light over the borrowed china place settings with their elegant flower patterns. A bottle of Clos Du Bois merlot sat nearby, with a six-pack of Anchor Steam Beer on standby in the refrigerator. Two salad plates—with fancy baby lettuce and fresh tomatoes from a helpful neighbor’s garden—were lined up for the initial assault. A light carrot soup would follow, with waves of seafood crepes and lamb chops to administer the coup de grâce. The lamb was running a little behind, but otherwise everything was perfect, including the long, silky dress Breanna hadn’t worn in more than a year. She glanced at herself in the hall mirror, bending and twisting to make sure she’d gotten rid of the flour that had spilled on the side. The dress was very loose now on the top and in the back; she’d lost a bit of weight since Zen’s accident, but figured that was better than the opposite.

So where was he? He had boarded the Dolphin helicopter shuttle from Dreamland for Nellis precisely an hour and a half before; she had promised dibs on the leftovers to the pilot so he’d call with the heads-up. At Nellis, Jeff would have boarded the public bus—it was a “kneeler,” dipping down to ground level to allow wheelchairs to access an onboard elevator—and ought to have arrived at the end of their condo development’s cul-de-sac ten minutes ago.

If he blows me off tonight, I’ll kill him, Breanna thought to herself.

And just on cue, she heard his key in the door.

She jumped into action, lighting the candles with the small Bic lighter, hitting the stereo, killing the lights, relighting the burner under the asparagus. Rap made it out to the foyer just as Jeff closed the door behind him.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I thought you’d like some dinner,” she said, reaching toward him. He held his briefcase out in front of him; she took it from him and then leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Well, kinda.”

“Come on,” Breanna said, backing away. “Dinner is served.”

“I guess I can’t suggest we send out for pizza,” said Jeff.

“Not if you want to live.”

He rolled forward to the table in the seating area between the kitchen and living room. Breanna rushed to unfurl his napkin, placing it gently on his lap. She let her cheek brush against his as she did.

In her fantasy about how this would go, Jeff turned his mouth toward hers and they began a long and passionate kiss, interrupted only by the buzzer announcing that dinner was ready.

In reality, the buzzer rang as soon as their cheeks met. She pecked his cheek, cursed to herself, and went and got the soup.

“Wow,” said Jeff.

“We had this at the first restaurant you took me to. Remember?”

“The first restaurant I took you to was Cafeteria Four at Dreamland.”

“Restaurant,” she said, sitting down. “Cafe Auberge.”

“Oui, oui,” he said.

“Oh, God, wine. You want wine? I have merlot. Or beer—I found a six-pack of Anchor Steam.”

“Either’s fine.”

“Why don’t we start with wine?” she suggested. “It will go with the main course.”

“There’s a main course?”

“Dahling, I am the main course.” She fluttered her eyes, laughing as she retreated to the kitchen.