DOG WROTE OUT THE DRAFT OF HIS FORMAL REPORT on a lined yellow pad as he sat at a back table in Cafeteria Four. He made a few false starts, pausing to listen as a pair of engine technicians debated whether the meat loaf or open-faced turkey was better. He considered walking over to say hello, but their embarrassed waves somehow reminded him that he was just avoiding the work at hand. He nodded, then began writing in earnest, his Papermate disposable pencil squeaking over the paper.

“Despite the great weight of politics and certain outrage that I’m sure will meet this report, I cannot in good conscience recommend that the F-119 project as currently constituted proceed,” he wrote. “I have carefully reviewed the data on the project, and have personally flown the aircraft.”

He paused, wondering if that might not sound a little conceited. Before he could decide, Danny Freah’s deep voice bellowed behind him.

“Letter home, sir?”

Bastian looked over his shoulder to find Freah grinning.

“Not exactly,” he said.

“Probably not a classified document,” said the base’s security officer, pulling up a chair.

“Probably is,” said Bastian. “But I figure you’ll bounce anyone who gets close enough to steal it.”

Freah laughed. “I’m raring for a fight.”

“How are things doing?”

“Security checks have come back clean. Hal left things in good shape.”

“I imagine he would,” said Dog.

“He’s up to his ears about now,” added Freah.

“In what sense?”

“I was watching CNN a while ago. The Iranians sound like they’re going to make a play to cut off shipping in the Gulf. Increase the price of oil.”

“Another attempt at wrecking my budget,” said Dog. He jostled his pen back and forth. “You miss the action end, Danny?”

“This is a big job, Colonel. I’m grateful for the assignment.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I didn’t realize it was a question.”

“I guess not,” said Bastian. “In a way, I guess I miss the action too. Not losing kids, though.”

“No, sir,” said Freah, suddenly serious. “That part sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, as long as everything’s secure,” said Freah, standing up.

“Looks like it.”

Dog watched Danny go to the cafeteria line. He emerged with an orange juice carton, then disappeared out the side door.

Losing kids sucked. If his concept of Dreamland were ever implemented—if it truly became a cutting-edge unit assigned to covert and non-covert actions where high-tech could leverage a favorable result—he’d be sending plenty of kids into harm’s way.

Including his daughter.

Bastian put his pencil back to the pad. He reviewed what he’d written, letting the sentence about his flying the plane stand. Then he added, “I have appended some of the relevant reports. Because of the political nature of this project, I have taken the precaution of removing the names of the authors. This recommendation is my responsibility and my responsibility only.”

Would that save them, though? It wouldn’t exactly be difficult to figure out who had done what.

“You look like you’re trying to untie the Gordian knot.”

Surprised, Dog looked up to find Jennifer Gleason, the young computer scientist who worked primarily on the Flighthawk project, smiling down at him.

“The Gordian knot?” he asked. “You know, I’ve always wondered what that was.”

“The Gordian knot was a complicated knot tied by King Gordius of Phrygia,” said Gleason. “Supposedly, anyway. The oracles claimed that whoever could undo it would rule Asia. So along comes Alexander the Great. He hears about it, goes over to it, and without wasting a blink of his eye, slices it with his sword.”

Bastian laughed.

“Probably not a true story,” said Gleason. She flicked her head back so her long reddish-blond hair glistened at her shoulders. “But it has a certain charm.”

“Especially if you’re trying to work out a budget,” said Bastian.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, I need interruption,” he told her, flipping the top page back over his pad so the writing couldn’t be read. “Sit down.”

She slid in across from him and took the top off her yogurt container.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“More like a late lunch.”

“No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“I hope that was meant in a professional way.”

“Touché, Doc.”

“Most people call me Jennifer or Jen, Colonel.” Gleason smiled and then spooned some of the vanilla-flavored yogurt into her mouth. “I always thought doctors were the people who were sticking stethoscopes in your face and thermometers in your chest.”

“I think that goes the other way around.”

She smirked. Dog searched for something else to say, but all he could think of was the Flighthawk project—not a good topic, since he’d already decided to recommend cutting it. And in fact he half-expected she’d sat down to make a pitch for keeping it.

“You run every morning?” she asked.

“I do actually.”

“I saw you this morning. I was going to ask if I could join you, but I chickened out.”

“I don’t bite,” said Bastian.

“I was a little worried about your pace. I only run to keep in shape for climbing. I rock-climb on weekends,” she added.

“You rock-climb nearby?”

“There are some great climbs in the mountains at the end of F Range,” she said.

“I always wanted to try it.”

The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them, but she didn’t laugh.

“It’s easy. I’ll show you sometime. As long as you don’t mind taking orders from a civilian.”

“I don’t think I’d mind at all.”

“Good.”

“You can run with me anytime you want,” he said.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” said Jennifer, finishing her yogurt.

He watched her walk away, then went back to work.

JEFF HADN’T EATEN LIKE THIS IN YEARS, NOT EVEN IN A restaurant. Breanna had knocked herself out for him, and he appreciated it.

But it only made him more determined.

The truth was, he’d come to this conclusion months ago. Seeing her with Smith just brought him back to his senses.

So why didn’t he feel calm about it?

Dessert was the only course she hadn’t cooked herself, homemade cannolis from the only Italian bakery within five hundred miles. As Jeff finished his, he leaned back in the chair and watched her sip her wine.

“You’re beautiful, Bree. Really, truly, beautiful,” he told her.

“Nice of you to notice,” she said. The line had once been a joke between them, usually applied to something like doing the dishes or vacuuming without being asked. Now it sounded off-key, almost sorrowful. “You want some more wine?”

He shook his head. “Maybe that beer.”

“Fine.”

A twinge ran through him. He didn’t really want the beer. He was stalling. Damn, he’d become good at that, hadn’t he?

Still, he waited until she came back, the beer in a frosted pilsner glass.

“You thought of everything,” he told her.

Stall, stall, stall.

Just go for it.

Bree seemed to sense what was coming. “Jeff, I want us to work,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “I know it’s been hard. I know it’s going to be tough—”

Something deep inside him took over, a calm forcefulness that pushed him to take care of things as he knew they had to be taken care of. Jeff held his finger up to her lips. “Bree—”

“D-don’t—” she stuttered.

“I saw you the other night with Mack Smith.”

“You saw me where?” She straightened, suddenly stiff. “I saw him come out of your suite at Dreamland. Our suite.”

“No—”

“It’s okay, Bree. It really has nothing to do with anything.”

“But—”

“Look, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I decided a long time ago—six months maybe. You don’t need me, Rap. I’m going to hold you back.”

“That’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit,” she said. Her face was flushed; she practically spat as she spoke.