“Camp Paradise, huh? Pack a bathing suit, and a raincoat — there’s monsoons this time of year.”
“Thanks. Make sure everything’s in order. Is Major Ascenzio still in the secure center?”
“Far as I know, Colonel. How long will you be gone?”
“A few days.”
“Just wanted to know how many signatures I’ll need to forge.”
“Very funny, Ax.”
Dog punched the phone button and got a tired-sounding lieutenant on Admiral Allen’s staff.
“The admiral wants to speak to you, sir,” said the lieutenant.
“That’s why I’m here,” said Dog.
“Tecumseh, what the hell is going on?” said Allen, coming on the line a few seconds later.
“Not exactly sure what we’re talking about, Admiral.”
“I hear from my sources you’re looking for authority to fire at Chinese vessels.”
“Not at all, Admiral.”
“Don’t give me that crap. What are you trying to do, Colonel? Start World War III?”
“Admiral — I don’t know where that rumor came from,” said Dog. “I haven’t asked for authority to do anything.”
“What happened with the tanker?” asked Allen.
“The Chinese aircraft were firing at an Indian submarine,” Dog told him.
“Which conveniently disappeared.”
“We have tape of the incident,” said Dog. He wondered if Allen was being sabotaged by enemies over at the Pentagon — or if
“They haven’t. I want to see it.”
“I’m sure if you called over to the NSC—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” said Allen.
“Admiral, my hands are tied.”
“From now on, you check with my people before running any more missions.”
“I can’t do that, Admiral,” said Dog. “And I won’t.
the line went dead.
From the way he looked at him, Zen could tell Stoner was wondering how he managed to get from his wheelchair to inside the airplane, and how he maneuvered once there. It was the sort of question everyone had, though almost no one asked.
There were a lot of things no one asked. At first, this was fine with Zen — he couldn’t stand bullshit sympathy, which was always in the air whenever an AB — an able-bodied person — asked about his useless legs. Gradually, however, people’s avoidance of the topic began to annoy him, as if by not saying anything they were pretending he didn’t exist. Now his attitude was complicated. Sometimes he thought it was funny, sometimes he thought it was insulting, sometimes he thought it was ridiculous, sometimes he thought it was almost endearing. Watching how a person handled the awkwardness could tell you a lot about them, if you cared.
In Stoner’s case, he didn’t. he didn’t like the CIA agent, probably because he’d copped an attitude toward Danny. He was one of those “been-there, done-that” types who spread a know-it-all air everywhere he went. Stoner had suggested he come along to get a firsthand look at things; Major Alou and Bree had thought it a good idea.
“We go up the ramp, Stoner,” Zen told him, pushing his wheelchair toward the ladder that led down from the crew area of the Megafortress. When Zen reached the stairway he swung around quickly, backing into the attachment device the Dreamland engineers had added to all of the Flighthawk-equipped EB-52’s. The Zen Clamp, as they called it, hooked his chair into an elevator they’d rigged to work off electricity or stored compressed air, so no matter what was going on with the plane he had a way in or out. Two small metal panels folded down from the sides of the ladder; Zen backed onto them and then pulled thick U-bolts across the fronts of is read wheels.
“Gimps going up,” said Zen, hitting the switch. He had to push back in the seat to keep his balance and avoid scraping his head; there wasn’t a particularly huge amount of clearance and, once moving, the elevator didn’t stop.
His greatest fear was falling out onto the runway. While it might be more embarrassing than painful, it was one bit of ignominy he preferred to avoid.
At the top, he backed onto the Flighthawk deck. He’d put on his speed-suit already, but Stoner would have to take one of the spares they kept during Whiplash deployment. He unlatched the wardrobe locker at the back of the compartment — an Eb-52 special feature — then wheeled back as Stoner came up.
“You have to put on a suit,” he told the CIA officer. “We pull serious Gs. Helmet too. I’ll show you how to hook into the gear when you sit down.”
Stoner selected the suit closest to his six-foot frame, pulling it over his borrowed jumpsuit. Zen stopped him when it was done, inspecting to make sure it was rigged right. It was, and he knew it was since he ‘d watched him suit up, but something about the spook’s presumption ticked him off.
“Life-support guy will be here by tomorrow,” said Zen, clearing Stoner to pass. “He’ll measure you up for a suit if you’re going to be flying with us.”
“This is fine.”
“Your seat’s on the left. Don’t touch anything.” Zen watched Stoner slip into the straight-backed ejection seat and begin to snap up. Ordinarily, he sat first — it was easier to maneuver into his seat if he could lean all the way over into the other station, but he could do it just as well with someone sitting there.
“Incoming,” he said, backing his wheelchair against his own seat. He set the wheel brake on the left side, then pushed his weight forward, beginning the pirouette into his seat. The techies had tried several modifications, including an experiment with a sliding track that let the ejection seat turn. They’d also played with a wheel-in arrangement that allowed Zen to use a special wheelchair during the mission, but they couldn’t make it ejectable.
Of course, he wouldn’t stand much chance going out. Unless, ironically enough, it was over water, where he could use his upper body to swim — something he did a lot during rehab.
He swung into place, curling his chest across and landing slightly off-kilter, but it was close enough. He wedged himself into place and pulled on his straps, then turned to Stoner, who’d already worked out the oxygen and com hook-ins on his own.
“All right,” Zen told him over the interphone. “Preflight’s going to take a while. You’re just a spectator.”
“Yes,” said the CIA officer.
“You see how to adjust your headphones?”
“Got it.”
“You can check the oxygen hookup—”
“Yes, I know.”
Been-there-done-that. Right.
Zen punched up C? and went to work.
Upstairs on the flight deck, Breanna finished going through the main preflight checklist, then stretched her neck back and turned to Chris, who was doing another double check of the mission course they’d programmed earlier.
“So?” she asked.
“Ready to rock, Boss. You think we ought to give these atolls names?”
“Numbers are fine.”
“I’m thinking rock songs with a common theme. Say all Rolling Stones songs. Get it?”
“No,” she said.
“First up, ‘Angie.’ A, Angie. Get it?”
“Chris, maybe we should do the preflight again.”
“Your call. Next rock would be ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ ”
“That’s a Beatles song.”
“You are into this, huh?”
