“We’ll have to find something better,” said Bastian as the doors finally closed. “With the amount of time this takes, people will be looking for shortcuts.”

“Yes, sir,” said Freah. He smiled—he had come to the same conclusion.

They had barely started downward when Bastian reached over to the panel and pulled out the stop button. The car halted immediately.

“How’s morale here, Danny?” asked the colonel.

“Colonel, I’ve only been here three days,” said Freah. He could tell from the way Bastian pursed his lips that wasn’t going to do.

“To be honest, I’d say they’re waiting to be nuked or closed down. They’d probably prefer to be nuked.”

Bastian nodded. He might have wanted more, but Freah had nothing more to add. He honestly couldn’t blame the men and women assigned here for feeling so dejected. While the scientists were a bit flaky, by and large everyone at Dreamland ranked in the top percentiles of intelligence and ability. They were the elite, charged with an elite mission—take cutting-edge ideas and turn them into usable hardware. But in the last few months, they’d seen their ability, work, and even loyalties questioned. A spy had been discovered in one of Dreamland’s top projects.

The spy hadn’t been just anyone. He’d been the top pilot on the top project at Dreamland: the XF-34A DreamStar next-generation interceptor and flight-control system. He’d stolen the plane, doing irreparable damage to the program and the careers of maybe a hundred people, including the three-star general who had run the place. As if the scandal and investigations weren’t enough, the budget cutters’ ax had arbitrarily slashed Dreamland’s funds so severely even toilet paper was in short supply. And things were bound to get worse. Rumor had it that Bastian had been tasked with slicing Dreamland’ s budget even further—and ultimately closing it down.

But it wasn’t Freah’s job to complain, nor was it his way. And while he’d actually majored in math for a while as a college undergraduate, he’d just as soon let someone else put the numbers in a row. So he merely stood at attention, waiting for his boss to reset the elevator.

“Hal Briggs says hello,” Bastian told him when he finally pushed the button. “I saw him in Washington last week.”

Freah nodded. Briggs had headed security at Dreamland until the spy scandal. It was an ironic twist. Briggs had mentored his career, and Freah felt more than a little awkward succeeding him.

Typical Briggs: He’d found out about the offer somehow and immediately called Freah to urge him to grab it. “Even if they close the base,” Briggs had told him, “it’s a plum assignment. Go for it.”

Briggs had somehow landed on his feet after the DreamStar debacle, getting an assignment so classified he couldn’t even hint about it. They kept in fairly constant touch—especially during football season, when they traded weekly and sometimes daily predictions about games. Briggs had sent him a secure e-mail message about Bastian just yesterday, detailing an account he’d heard from someone in Washington about how many arms Bastian had had to break to get his personal “pilot check” F16. It was thanks to that message that Freah was ready for the colonel’s early arrival.

“The major’s office will be this way,” Freah told them as the elevator stopped on Underground Level One, which was devoted to administration and support. “I’ll take you there, and then alert people about the meeting. Major’s a nice guy, but as you probably know, strictly a caretaker. He was about the only one left standing after the scandal and political BS, outside of the pilots and scientists.”

“Yes,” said Dog, stepping out.

* * *

“I EXPECT THAT A FEW OF YOU HAVE HEARD OF ME. I’M a pilot by avocation. A zipper suit. That means I don’t accept no for an answer. I have an engineering background, but I don’t pretend to be as scientifically adept as any of you. Frankly, that’s not my job.”

Dog took a step away from the podium, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in. Nearly two hundred men and women had crammed into the bowl-shaped lecture hall. Most had been either just going off duty or already at home, which in some cases meant Las Vegas, some miles to the southwest. A few looked like they had been sleeping. There were sharp divisions in the crowd, and not just between civilians and military. Air Force officers who had strictly administrative functions at the base were front-row-center. Two knots of senior noncoms filled the flanks, wearing respectful though perhaps slightly skeptical expressions. The scientists filled most of the middle and the back rows; their eyes betrayed a “now-what” attitude. That sentiment was common too among the senior officers standing along the back row. Unlike the civilians near them, they stood ramrod-straight—though Dog suspected this was more because they didn’t want to touch their neighbors than out of any respect toward him.

And then there were the pilots, sitting in the two rows nearest the door, barely concealing smirks, each undoubtedly teeming with wisecracks.

Dog gave them his most severe frown before continuing.

“You’ve taken a lot of shit here in the past six or seven months,” he said. “I know all about Maraklov—or Captain James, as he was calling himself.” Dog made sure to spit out the name of the traitor, who had wreaked so much havoc during his so-called Day of the Cheetah. “I’m not going to belabor the point. You’ve all had to put up with enough BS on that account. Dreamland is in trouble. You know it. I know it. People are talking about closing it down. Important people, including Congress. And including the President.”

The requisite jeers followed. Dog let them get them out of their system for a moment before putting his hand up.

“I can tell you right now, that’s not going to happen.”

The jeers turned to silence, and then something deeper, as if his words had created a black hole in the room, as if they had sucked every sound and every potential for sound away.

“I’m here to kick some ass,” Bastian said quickly. “And I’m going to put Dreamland back at the top of the agenda. Anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of that, leave now.” He waited a beat, then continued. “Good. At 0600 hours tomorrow, we’ll start mission-orientation flights. That means everybody—engineers, scientists, security, secretaries—hell, everybody, even the cleaning people—every last person on this base is going aboard an aircraft to see just exactly what the hell it is we do.”

Dog ignored the murmurs of approval from the staff people and turned to Major Thomas, who had been acting as base director of operations until his arrival. “Major Thomas will work with whoever needs to be worked with to make it go off smoothly.”

Thomas looked at him as if he’d just declared war on Canada. But Dog wasn’t about to get into a discussion.

“Dismissed,” he said, waving his hand. “I’ll see you on the tarmac in the morning.”

Dog hadn’t actually expected applause, but he took it in stride. The surprising thing was that it seemed to have started with the NCOs. He buttoned his mouth tight against a grin, gesturing to Thomas so he could explain what he had in mind while people started to file out of the room.

“No offense, Colonel,” said Thomas, whose forehead was dotted by beads of sweat, “but I would have appreciated, uh, maybe a heads-up?”

“You just got it,” Dog told him. Assuming Dreamland survived, Dog intended on picking his own staff and Thomas wasn’t going to make the cut. Still, he meant him no ill will. “There’s no problem with arranging flights, is there?” he said, trying to modulate his voice into something almost friendly.

“Well, we have to work around the spy satellites. And the pilots aren’t going to like it,” sputtered Thomas.

“I’ll take care of the pilots,” said Dog. He smiled. “I speak their language.”