“Can you do it?”
“With my eyes closed,” said Greasy Hands.
After walking around the aircraft with Breanna and the pilot, Greasy Hands went inside and looked over the Ospreys. Ostensibly, he was making sure they were secured properly. In reality, he was indulging himself in a little bit of Dreamland nostalgia.
The MV-22/G Ospreys were upgraded versions of the tilt-rotor aircraft used for heavy transport by the Marines and some Air Force units. The M designation alluded to the fact that these Ospreys were designed for special operations and, among other things, included gear for night missions, extra fuel tanks, and armor plating. The aircraft were also outfitted with cannon; missiles and a chain gun could also be mounted on the undercarriage or the forward winglets, which were specific to the G version. Besides these goodies, the G Block models included uprated engines and provisions for autonomous piloting, another Dreamland innovation that allowed them to be flown by only one pilot or, if the situation warranted, completely by remote control. Finally, they were designed specifically for easy transport in the MC-17/DS “Stretch.”
The transport’s nickname alluded to the most obvious of its improvements over the standard airframe — namely, its fuselage had been lengthened to nearly double the cargo bay, bringing it to 140 feet. Its portly belly was also another two feet wider. The changes had been designed specifically to allow the transport to carry two Ospreys or an Osprey and two Werewolf II UAV gunships, along with crew and a combat team. With everyone aboard, the fit could be a bit cozy, but the configuration allowed the U.S. to project considerable power into hot spots with very little notice.
Greasy Hands had worked on the Osprey project for several years, before the arrival of Colonel Bastian and Dreamland’s renaissance. The aircraft and its tilt wings were the bastard children at the facility then, a project no one wanted. Everyone agreed the Osprey had incredible potential; they could land where standard helicopters could, but fly twice as fast and several times as far. Reaching that potential, though, seemed impossible. The planes were expensive, difficult to fly, and an adventure to maintain.
When several were detailed to Dreamland as part of a Defense Department program to help the Osprey “reach its full potential,” Greasy Hands was assigned to the team. He’d tried to duck it at first but within a few weeks was the aircraft’s biggest fanboy. He was responsible for suggesting that weapons be added, and even worked with the engineers on some of the mechanical systems. Then he’d helped Jennifer Gleason refine the computer routines that allowed the complicated aircraft to fly itself, an accomplishment that cinched his promotion to chief.
He thought about Jennifer as he looked at the aircraft. He hadn’t been as close to her as some of the people at Dreamland, but the memory of her still choked him up. He finished looking at the Ospreys, then went back upstairs to the flight deck.
Breanna and the pilot, Captain Luther Underhill, had just finished the preflight checklist.
“Have a seat, Chief,” said Breanna. “We’re about to take off.”
As he walked toward the seat behind the pilot, Greasy Hands’s attention was caught by the zero-gravity coffeemaker in the small galley. It looked suspiciously like the design they had pioneered at Dreamland some twenty years before.
“Mind if I grab a cup of joe?” he asked the crew chief, Gordon Heinz.
“It’s there for the taking.”
Greasy Hands found a cup in the cabinet next to the machine and poured himself a dose.
“Just like old times again, huh, Bree?” he said as he slid into the seat. “Even the coffee’s the same.”
49
As Tarid had feared, he did not sleep at all after the call from Aberhadji. He tossed and turned, then finally gave up all pretense of resting several hours before morning prayer.
With the meeting set for 1:00 P.M., he knew he had a long, torturous wait. Karaj was located a little over a half hour outside of Tehran, and it would be senseless to get there too early. He needed something to do.
Had it not been for Aberhadji’s tone, he might have spent the time in the lobby, where the wait would have been quite enjoyable. Simin was working in the office, but her father, not used to the late night, had slept in. Aberhadji’s stern voice lingered in his ears. Clearly, his boss had spies in the capital. Perhaps the hotel owner was one of them — it would not have surprised Tarid at this point — and so he had to be on his best behavior.
“I am going across for some breakfast,” he told the girl. “If anyone is looking for me.”
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No one in particular.”
Danny lingered in the aisle of the bazaar, watching as Hera looked through the basket of buttons in the nearby stall. The bazaar was the Middle Eastern equivalent of an American shopping mall, covered and divided into dozens of alleys, each lined with shops. Most weren’t open yet, but as Hera had predicted, a good number that catered to household necessities were.
She looked at the black buttons, turning each over before tossing it back into the basket.
She selected a half dozen, all very similar, all subtly different. She turned and looked at the material, ignoring Danny’s exasperated glances, before showing the buttons to the woman who ran the stall.
“Is that your husband?” asked the woman.
“No,” said Hera. “Just a friend.”
“Hmmmph,” said the woman.
Hera wasn’t sure whether she disapproved because they weren’t married or whether the fact that he was black bothered her. There weren’t many black faces in Tehran.
The woman told her the price. Hera opened her mouth to object — generally, it would be considered odd for a native not to at least attempt to haggle — but the woman told her there would be no negotiating. She frowned, then took out a note large enough to pay for half the entire basket.
The vendor rolled her eyes.
“I can’t change this,” she said. “Something smaller.”
Hera turned to Danny and told him, in Farsi, that she needed change.
The Voice translated. Danny dug into his pocket and handed over a few coins. The woman who owned the booth gave him a smirk. Hera counted out the money, then waited while the woman found a small paper bag for the buttons.
“Come on, come on,” hissed Danny under his breath. He started walking for the exit.
“We’re supposed to be shopping,” said Hera, catching up. “Relax.”
“The hell with that. Tarid just went to breakfast.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What was I supposed to do, use ESP?”
“Everyone on the team should be hooked into the Voice,” said Hera. “It would make things much more coordinated.”
“They don’t have enough units.”
Hera thought that was bull — in her opinion, Reid and Stockard simply didn’t trust everyone — but kept her mouth shut.
As they neared the exit, Danny spotted a stall selling tools. Among the items on display was an engraving tool. He veered toward it, looked at the box, then discovered a small Roto-Zip knockoff nearby that came with some grinding tips. He took it and a clamp he could use as a small vise, gave them to the merchant, then reached for his wallet and the two million rial the tags indicated.
“Hold on,” said Hera in Farsi just as the shop owner was about to grab for the money. “How much are you paying?”
