aircraft filled Tecumseh Bastian with a quiet passion.
He was going to need it. He sensed that the crew resented his replacing their captain. They were too well disciplined and professional to do anything to jeopardize their mission, of course, and Dog knew that he could rely on them to do their best when and if things got hot. But the quick snap in their voices when he asked a question, the forced formality of their replies, the lack of takers when he offered to get coffee and doughnuts from the galley — a thousand little things made it clear that he might have their respect and cooperation, but not their love.
Then again, in his experience, love could be overrated.
“Flighthawks ready to start their pass,” reported the copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan.
“Roger that. Flighthawk leader, proceed.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Starship downstairs. “I hope we’ll find something.”
“Me too.”
They had laid out their course north through the search area where Breanna and Zen were thought to have parachuted, hoping to put the long leg to some use.
It had been Englehardt’s suggestion.
“Flighthawks are at fifty feet, indicated,” said Sullivan. “Ocean appears empty, as indicated by radar.”
Was Breanna really gone? Dog struggled to push away the feeling of despair. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford a moment of weakness.
“How are we looking, Airborne?” he said, trying to focus on his mission.
“Only friendlies, Colonel,” said Sergeant Rager at the airborne radar.
“Very good,” said Dog.
“Waymarker in zero-one minute,” said Sullivan, noting they were approaching a turn that would take them away from the search area. “Colonel, you want to extend the search?”
For the first time since they’d boarded the plane, Sullivan’s voice sounded almost normal.
“Much as I’d like to, Sully, I’m afraid we have other business,” said Dog. “Starship, we’re coming up to our turn.”
“General, i’d heard you would be visiting sometime next week.”
“You heard wrong,” snapped Samson. He frowned at the scrawny major, then looked past her toward the massive screen at the front of the room. According to the legend, the display showed a swath of land in Pakistan as it was being surveyed in real time by one of Dreamland’s Flighthawks.
The scale and clarity were unlike anything Samson had ever seen, even at the Pentagon. He could literally count blades of tumbleweed, or whatever the desert vegetation was called.
“This is part of the search for the disabled warheads,” added the major. “We’re providing assistance to the team assembled by the Seventh Fleet.”
“Yes,” said Samson. He turned his attention to the rest of the situation room, which the Dreamlanders called Dreamland Command. Workstations were set up theater style, descending down both sides of a center ramp toward the screen. Each desk was big enough for five or six operators, though in no case were there more than two people working at them. Most had a single person. With only two exceptions, the operators wore civilian clothes, appeared less than kempt, and were clearly not military — including a gorgeous blonde Samson had trouble taking his eyes off of.
No wonder Bastian wanted to keep this all to himself, he thought. The place was the military equivalent of the world’s biggest entertainment center.
“With all due respect, sir,” said a tall, skinny man in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite, “I’d request that you didn’t look too closely at the displays or question the scientists.”
“You’d request what?”
“Frankly, you shouldn’t be in this room at all, not during a mission.”
“Who the hell are you?”
The man fidgeted, his fingers moving up to his earlobe nervously. Samson was startled to see that he had an earring there.
An earring!
And
“Who are you?” demanded Samson again.
“Ray Rubeo. I’m the head scientist. And I’m afraid that while your security clearance may allow you to observe the operations themselves, it does not cover the specific weapons that are being tested as part of the operations. As a result—”
“Weapons tests?”
Rubeo frowned at him. “General, you really should leave. This is not a good time.”
“Now listen, mister—” began Samson.
“That would be
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a brain surgeon.” Samson turned to Catsman. “Major, what the hell is this?”
“Ordinarily, no one is permitted inside Dreamland Command during an operation,” she said.
“I’m your new commander. Do you understand what that means?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“If you’re interfering with the mission,” said Rubeo, “you’re going to have to leave. The President controls Whiplash missions once the order is given, not the Air Force.”
“Who made that rule up? Bastian?”
“The procedures predate him,” said Rubeo testily. “Check Presidential Order 92–14.”
Samson turned to Catsman, whose face had turned crimson.
Samson folded his arms, trying to control his anger. He was tempted — sorely tempted — to have the room cleared. But interfering with the mission was the last thing he wanted to do — especially since he could then be blamed for anything that went wrong. He forced himself to be silent, and stayed just long enough to keep his dignity and authority intact. Then with an abrupt “Carry on,” he left the room.
The shallow water at the west of the atoll didn’t seem to hold any fish. As he moved toward the southern end of the atoll, Zen spotted some seaweed growing a few feet from the sand. He pushed into the water and got a surprise — one of the rocks began to move.
It was a turtle, about two feet long, with a brown and white oval-shaped shell. Zen froze for a moment, unsure what to do. By the time he had unsheathed his knife, the turtle was gone.
There must be more turtles here, he thought. Or maybe some fish this one was feeding on.
Zen stopped moving and focused on the water. When he was sure there was nothing in front of him but seaweeds and rocks, he moved to his left, pushing through the water gingerly.
Nothing.
The most difficult part of being a fisherman was patience. Zen had the patience of a fighter pilot — which was to say, none.
He slid onto his side, pushing along in the water. Something moved to his right. He leaned over toward it.
Another turtle, this one only twelve or fourteen inches.
Zen swatted at it with his knife, but the creature dove away. Mud and rocks swirled up in a cloud. He fished in the water, then pulled back as the turtle’s beak suddenly appeared.
The turtle squirted away. Zen lunged and managed to get his left hand under it. He flung it upward, sending it crashing against a group of rocks closer to shore.
Pulling himself through the rocks and water as the turtle flailed upside down, he raised his knife, then stopped, paralyzed by the small creature’s struggle. Then his own instinct for survival took over and he plunged the knife straight down into the underside of the turtle’s shell.
The blade penetrated, but the turtle continued to struggle. It snapped its beak wildly, cutting the air as if it were its enemy.
Zen tried to pull the knife from the turtle but it was stuck. Unsure what to do, he let go of the knife. When he
