He was relieved. More than that. He did still love her. he hadn’t stopped.
The Megafortress stopped just short of the hangar area, mobbed by crowd. The ventral entry hatch and ladder snapped open.
“Make them walk the gangplank!” somebody yelled.
They cheered as the first passenger, a staff sergeant from the motor pool, ducked out from under the plane. The President wouldn’t have gotten a warmer welcome than Breanna when she finally emerged.
Zen started to wheel forward. He was about five yards from the bottom of the stairs when Mack Smith ran up. Smith had escorted Fort Two down in his Eagle, landing moments after her.
Zen stopped. Smith caught Breanna a step from the plane. He twirled her off her feet and then they embraced like lovers.
One or two people near Zen turned and stared at him. He pretended not to notice.
He’d managed to unclench his teeth by the time she appeared before him. She was smiling, unaware of what he’d seen.
“Jeff,” she said.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” he told her as she put her arm around his neck. He realized as he pulled back that his mouth tasted metal again.
You did a hell of a job landing that plane,” Breanna’s father told her a few hours later in his office. Her clothes were soaked with sweat. Between the impromptu celebration and all the debriefings, she hadn’t had a change to shower yet. “A hell of a job.”
She felt a shudder of cold run through her body. As if the air conditioner had just kicked on high. Everything was starting to hit her now.
“I think Sergeant Parsons saved us,” she said. softly. “Him and Rubeo. They figured out how to bypass the blown circuitry.”
“Funny, Parsons didn’t take any credit at all. Neither did that blowhard Rubeo. Captain Ferris says you took control the instant the computer went down. We’re investigating,” the colonel added quickly as a slight tremor swept into his voice. “There’s a possibility a spike from the Army tests disrupted your gear, but some of the engineers say they’ve had trouble with computer interfacing throwing voltage around for the past week. I expect this is the sort of thing that will take, uh, a while to work out. The planes are grounded until we have a definitive answer.”
Breanna nodded. She thought of saying something to her father, something corny, but the words stayed in her throat. She knew how he would react.
“I’ll tell you, Bree,” he started. “I’ll tell you –”
He obviously intended to go on, but the words simply died.
“You did hell of a job, Captain,” he said finally.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, spinning quickly and leaving his office, wanting to take no chance he would se her cry.
Washington, D.C.
10 October, 2030
Jed Barclay pulled his arms around his thin jacket, trying to keep warm as he waited outside the posh Georgetown restaurant. He contemplated going and waiting inside, but realized that his presence might inadvertently tip off any number of D.C. denizens that something serious was up. His boss, National Security Advisor Deborah O’Day, wouldn’t like that.
Barclay had spent the last two winters in New England – Harvard, to be exact – and told himself he shouldn’t feet cold at all; October in Washington was balmy by Massachusetts standards but his twenty-two-year-old frame was practically trembling with the cold.
Finally, O’Day’s Marine Corps bodyguard emerged from the restaurant. The woman tensed as she spotted him, then gave him a disapproving frown.
“Jed, what are you doing here?” said Ms. O’Day, emerging behind her.
“I, uh – you’re going to want to see this,” he said.
he unfolded his hands to reveal a yellow manila envelope. O’Day took the envelope and moved over to the yellowish light thrown by a faux-antique streetlight. Meanwhile, her date – Brad Elliott, a recently retired three-star general Air Force general – emerged from the building. Jed nodded at the general, who nodded back semi- affably.
“That’s Iranian base,” Jed said helpfully.
“Yes, thank you, Jed. What the hell are you doing with this outside of the basement?” his boss added.
“It’s not classified,” he said. “It’s off the Russian satellite.”
O’Day frowned deeply at his dodge. The Russian made a limited number of satellite images available through a public European service, which, of course, the NSC had a subscription to. Primarily useful for agricultural purposes, the images did not precisely duplicate U.S. optical spy coverage – nor were they anywhere near as precise – but they were close enough. Since they were open-source, there was no prescription against carrying them off campus, as it were.
“The launchers have been dismantled,” said O’Day.
“Yes, ma’am. The image is two days old.”
“And they’re where?”
“We’re not sure. I mean, CIA isn’t sure, and the Pentagon, well, they say not to worry. But I – well, I don’t know.”
“You’re not on my staff to keep your opinion to yourself. Come on. It’s cold out here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, it’s difficult to be definitive. I mean, since we took our main satellite off-line for repairs two weeks ago, we’ve been cobbling things over Northeastern Africa together. Between that and the clouds – ’
“Jed,” she said sternly.
“There were two tankers off Bandar three days ago. They’re approaching Somalia now.”
O’Day didn’t bother asking for any other information.
“Contact Madcap Magician,” she told him. “Have them put Ironweed into action. Whatever units they need. Full-bore. I’ll be back at the NSC in an hour.”
“Yes, ma’am, he said, glancing at the general before retreating back toward the Metro stop.
Dreamland
10 October, 1730 local
The thick door to the Handheld Weapons Lab opened and Danny Freah found himself staring down at a white-haired woman old enough to be his mother’s mother.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Captain Freah. I have a appointment with one of the engineers, Dr. Klondike. I may be a little late,” he added apologetically.
“You’re two hours late, Captain,” said the old lady, shuffling back to let him in. she wore an ancient gray lab coat that looked a great deal like a housedress on her. “Fortunately, we were told that was your MO unless you were under fire. Come in.”
Danny gave her an embarrassed smile and stepped into the long, narrow hallway as the steer door slid quietly shut on its gliders behind him. He had a tough time forcing himself to go slow enough to keep from running down the old lady.
Over the past few days, Danny had learned that Brad Elliott had run Dreamland with an iron fist, not only recruiting the best of the best but allowing almost no chaff – no political appointments, few ‘favors’ to the contractors. But this old lady was obviously an exception; she had to be somebody’s relative, given a job either to keep her off food stamps or fill out a pension requirement. Captain Freah liked that – it was good to know that even a tough three-star like Elliott had a little compassion.
“This way now, Captain,” said the old lady, showing him into an immense, cement-walled room. There was a long firing range with a target track at the far end. She walked toward a large metal box that looked like an oversized mechanic’s tool chest, with double-keyed pullout drawers.
“Thanks,” said Danny. “When’s Dr. Klondike getting here? Maybe I’ll get some target practice in while I’m waiting for him.”
“I’m Klondike,” said the old lady.
