“Uneventful, thanks,” said Dog. “Who’s my next appointment?”
“Nothing on your agenda rest of the day.” Gibbs smiled. “I believe there was some sort of scheduling snafu that indicated your test flight was continuing until tomorrow and that you couldn’t be disturbed.”
“You’re a piece of work, Ax.”
“Thank you, sir.” The sergeant smiled again. “I do actually have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. I have this friend who has this problem. He’s an executor for a trust. All the people connected with the trust, they want him to buy some stock. He thinks the stock is lousy, but he knows that if he doesn’t buy it, they’ll can his sorry ass and hire someone who will. He kinda needs the job, and he figures if they fire him he’ll be bagging groceries. On the other hand, he likes to look himself in the mirror every morning when he’s shaving.”
Bastian shook his head. “Thanks, Ax.”
Gibbs’s face was the very model of innocence. “Sir?”
“Tell your friend to do what he thinks is right, and damn what everyone else wants,” said Bastian, getting up. “I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thank you, sir,” snapped the sergeant as Bastian snuck out the side door.
BREANNA HAD TIMED IT ALL OUT WITH THE PRECISION of a deep-strike mission against a well-fortified enemy city. The five-disc CD player had been armed with Earl Klugh and Keiko Matsui jazz artists admittedly more to her taste than his, but definitely capable of establishing a preemptive romantic mood. Two long tapers of pure beeswax sat in candleholders in the middle of the freshly polished dinette table, ready to cast their flickering soft light over the borrowed china place settings with their elegant flower patterns. A bottle of Clos Du Bois merlot sat nearby, with a six-pack of Anchor Steam Beer on standby in the refrigerator. Two salad plates—with fancy baby lettuce and fresh tomatoes from a helpful neighbor’s garden—were lined up for the initial assault. A light carrot soup would follow, with waves of seafood crepes and lamb chops to administer the coup de grâce. The lamb was running a little behind, but otherwise everything was perfect, including the long, silky dress Breanna hadn’t worn in more than a year. She glanced at herself in the hall mirror, bending and twisting to make sure she’d gotten rid of the flour that had spilled on the side. The dress was very loose now on the top and in the back; she’d lost a bit of weight since Zen’s accident, but figured that was better than the opposite.
So where was he? He had boarded the Dolphin helicopter shuttle from Dreamland for Nellis precisely an hour and a half before; she had promised dibs on the leftovers to the pilot so he’d call with the heads-up. At Nellis, Jeff would have boarded the public bus—it was a “kneeler,” dipping down to ground level to allow wheelchairs to access an onboard elevator—and ought to have arrived at the end of their condo development’s cul-de-sac ten minutes ago.
If he blows me off tonight, I’ll kill him, Breanna thought to herself.
And just on cue, she heard his key in the door.
She jumped into action, lighting the candles with the small Bic lighter, hitting the stereo, killing the lights, relighting the burner under the asparagus. Rap made it out to the foyer just as Jeff closed the door behind him.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I thought you’d like some dinner,” she said, reaching toward him. He held his briefcase out in front of him; she took it from him and then leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Well, kinda.”
“Come on,” Breanna said, backing away. “Dinner is served.”
“I guess I can’t suggest we send out for pizza,” said Jeff.
“Not if you want to live.”
He rolled forward to the table in the seating area between the kitchen and living room. Breanna rushed to unfurl his napkin, placing it gently on his lap. She let her cheek brush against his as she did.
In her fantasy about how this would go, Jeff turned his mouth toward hers and they began a long and passionate kiss, interrupted only by the buzzer announcing that dinner was ready.
In reality, the buzzer rang as soon as their cheeks met. She pecked his cheek, cursed to herself, and went and got the soup.
“Wow,” said Jeff.
“We had this at the first restaurant you took me to. Remember?”
“The first restaurant I took you to was Cafeteria Four at Dreamland.”
“Restaurant,” she said, sitting down. “Cafe Auberge.”
“Oui, oui,” he said.
“Oh, God, wine. You want wine? I have merlot. Or beer—I found a six-pack of Anchor Steam.”
“Either’s fine.”
“Why don’t we start with wine?” she suggested. “It will go with the main course.”
“There’s a main course?”
“Dahling, I am the main course.” She fluttered her eyes, laughing as she retreated to the kitchen.
DOG WROTE OUT THE DRAFT OF HIS FORMAL REPORT on a lined yellow pad as he sat at a back table in Cafeteria Four. He made a few false starts, pausing to listen as a pair of engine technicians debated whether the meat loaf or open-faced turkey was better. He considered walking over to say hello, but their embarrassed waves somehow reminded him that he was just avoiding the work at hand. He nodded, then began writing in earnest, his Papermate disposable pencil squeaking over the paper.
“Despite the great weight of politics and certain outrage that I’m sure will meet this report, I cannot in good conscience recommend that the F-119 project as currently constituted proceed,” he wrote. “I have carefully reviewed the data on the project, and have personally flown the aircraft.”
He paused, wondering if that might not sound a little conceited. Before he could decide, Danny Freah’s deep voice bellowed behind him.
“Letter home, sir?”
Bastian looked over his shoulder to find Freah grinning.
“Not exactly,” he said.
“Probably not a classified document,” said the base’s security officer, pulling up a chair.
“Probably is,” said Bastian. “But I figure you’ll bounce anyone who gets close enough to steal it.”
Freah laughed. “I’m raring for a fight.”
“How are things doing?”
“Security checks have come back clean. Hal left things in good shape.”
“I imagine he would,” said Dog.
“He’s up to his ears about now,” added Freah.
“In what sense?”
“I was watching CNN a while ago. The Iranians sound like they’re going to make a play to cut off shipping in the Gulf. Increase the price of oil.”
“Another attempt at wrecking my budget,” said Dog. He jostled his pen back and forth. “You miss the action end, Danny?”
“This is a big job, Colonel. I’m grateful for the assignment.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I didn’t realize it was a question.”
“I guess not,” said Bastian. “In a way, I guess I miss the action too. Not losing kids, though.”
“No, sir,” said Freah, suddenly serious. “That part sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, as long as everything’s secure,” said Freah, standing up.
“Looks like it.”
Dog watched Danny go to the cafeteria line. He emerged with an orange juice carton, then disappeared out the side door.
Losing kids sucked. If his concept of Dreamland were ever implemented—if it truly became a cutting-edge unit assigned to covert and non-covert actions where high-tech could leverage a favorable result—he’d be sending plenty of kids into harm’s way.
Including his daughter.
Bastian put his pencil back to the pad. He reviewed what he’d written, letting the sentence about his flying the plane stand. Then he added, “I have appended some of the relevant reports. Because of the political nature of this project, I have taken the precaution of removing the names of the authors. This recommendation is my responsibility and my responsibility only.”