And on and on and on until Englehardt thought he would puke.
It was his fault. He should have been on the mission himself, at least a copilot. He’d acted like a jerk. Bastian had blindsided him, taking over the plane, but still, he should have kept his mouth shut.
Not that it was fair. But now his days at Dreamland were probably numbered.
“You shoulda been there, Mikey,” said Sullivan as they entered the dormitory-style building they’d been given for personal quarters. “What a wild night.”
“I wanted to be there,” said Englehardt.
“Yeah.” Sullivan immediately turned away.
“Next time,” said Englehardt, trying but failing to sound optimistic.
Colonel Bastian rubbed his eyes and started to get up from the communications console in the Dreamland Control trailer.
“Hold on there, Tecumseh,” said General Samson, his voice vibrating the speakers over the unit. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were done,” said Dog. “I was thinking—”
“There are a few things I wanted to speak to you about in private.”
“I’d really like to catch some sleep,” Dog told Samson. “I just got back from my mission.”
“That’s number one — what the hell are you doing flying missions?”
“What?”
“You have plenty of pilots out there now. Put them to good use. Yes, I understand the need for a commander to lead from the front,” added Samson, his voice somewhat more sympathetic. “But you’re spending far too much time in the air to actually do your job — your real job — of supervising the men. All the men, not just one plane crew.”
Dog was too tired to argue — and Samson didn’t give him much of an opening, moving right on to his next subject.
“I want full reports on all of the programs Dreamland is conducting. And a personnel review. How long will it take you to get that all together?”
“As soon as I get back I can—”
“I want you to start working on it immediately.”
“I have a mission here to run.”
“Devote as much time as possible to it. If you’re not flying, you’ll have more time. Those Whiplash men — I want to talk to them before they talk to Admiral Woods. Do you understand? They’re part of my command. I talk to them first. Not as a Navy admiral. Now do you understand?”
“Sure.”
“And another thing…”
Samson paused, obviously for effect. Dog felt so tired he thought he would teeter toward the floor.
“Briefings will now be done through me,” said the general finally.
“Which briefings?”
“Briefings with administration officials,” said Samson. “That’s my job. You provide the information to me. I interface.”
“Anything you want, General,” said Dog.
He reached over and hit the button to kill the communications. Then he got to his feet, suddenly feeling ten times more tired than when he’d come into the trailer, and he’d been pretty tired then.
“Bedtime,” he muttered, going to the door — where Mike Englehardt practically knocked him over.
“Colonel, can we talk?” said Englehardt.
“What is it, Mike?”
“Colonel, I want to, uh — apologize. I was a — I mean, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t sweat it, Mike.”
Dog started to push past. Englehardt grabbed his shoulder.
Surprised, Dog looked the pilot in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” said Englehardt. “I really want to fly. Pilot, copilot, whatever you say. As long as I’m in the cockpit.”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re going to take the
The day was warmer than the one before, but less humid, and if not for their extreme circumstances, he might have considered the weather perfect. Trying not to think of his thirst, Zen made several radio calls and rearranged the rocks that helped support their tent so a bit more sunlight fell on Breanna. Finally he began moving down to the water, intending to swim back to the spot where he’d caught the turtle the day before. He was just getting into the water when he heard a shout.
One of the boys was back, paddling his small boat.
“Bart Simpson!” called the youth. It was the youngest one, the first one he’d spotted.
“Hey, Bart!” Zen yelled back. He did his best to hide his surprise that the kid had returned.
The wooden hull of the boy’s boat skidded against the shore and he climbed out, pulling a pack with him.
Zen’s heart jumped.
“You brought a phone?” Zen asked. “Cell phone?”
“Phone? No.”
The boy dropped to his knees in front of him, plopping the bag between them.
“Eat for you,” said the kid, pulling a fist-sized package from the bag. It was wrapped in brown paper. A strong odor announced it was fish. The flesh looked purple.
“For me?” asked Zen.
“You.”
Zen devoured it. The fish tasted like bad sardines drenched in coconut and vinegar, but he would have eaten ten more handfuls had the boy brought them. He was so hungry he licked at the paper.
“So,” he said finally. “No phone, huh?”
“Why do you want phone?”
“I want to call my friends.”
“No phone. Who are you? Not Bart?”
Zen guessed that the boy had been quizzed by his parents or other adults when he went home with the turtle. They might be waiting for his answers now, to decide what to do.
He had no idea what was going on in the world beyond this atoll. He wondered if the Chinese had managed to use their nuke, and if so, if the Indians would blame them for the destruction.
“Is there a war?” Zen asked the boy, not sure how to phrase his question.
“War?”
“Did people die?”
The boy looked at him blankly. He was old enough to know what war was, but maybe his village was so isolated he had no idea.
“Where do you live?” Zen asked the child.
“Where do you live, Bart?”
“Where do I live? Las Vegas,” said Zen. “Near there.”
“Vegas?”
“Slot machines. Casinos. Las Vegas.”
“Springfield?”
Springfield was the fictional setting for
“That’s not a real place, kid,” blurted Zen. “I live near Vegas. That’s real.”
The boy’s face fell.
