“Yeah, Breanna is a perfect patient. Never a word of pain. I don’t think she needs Novocain at all. Wonderful woman. You’re lucky to have her. You guys should think about kids.”
“Awrgr-kerl-wushump.”
Gideon took Zen’s garbled protest as an invitation to expound on the joys of fatherhood. He had three children, all between the ages of five and ten. They all loved to play dentist — more proof that evil hereditary.
“Due for their checkups soon,” added Gideon. “We started ’em young.”
“I thought child abuse was illegal in this state,” said Zen. With the Novocain and dental equipment, the sentence came out sounding like “thickel giggle hissss.”
“Yeah, they’re cute, all right. You ought to think about having some. Seriously.”
Gideon prolonged Zen’s agony by polishing down the filling and then using what looked and tasted like old carbon paper to perfect the bite. By the time he was done, Zen suspected the dentist could see himself in the surface.
“Very good,” said Gideon, standing back as if to take a bow. “Want to grab coffee? I’m free for the rest of the day.”
“You just want to see me with coffee dribbling down my face,” said Zen.
The actual sound was more like: “Yuwwa see muf fee dippling dowt mek fack.”
“What language are you speaking, Jeff?”
“Novocain.”
“See you in six months.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Mark Stoner shifted his eyes from the highway to the bluffs in the distance and then back, scanning every possible place an ambush might be launched from. It was the sort of thing he couldn’t turn off; ten years as a covert CIA officer on top of six years as a SEAL rewired your brain.
Not that he or Jed Barclay, the man driving the car, were in any danger of being ambushed. Coming from Washington in a scheduled flight offered expediency, but led Stoner to insist on a number of precautions, most of which caused Barclay to roll his eyes: dummy reservations, Agency-supplied false documents, even an elaborate cover story designed to be overheard — all routine precautions for Stoner. The fact they were traveling to a top-secret, ultrasecure facility changed nothing.
Stoner had never dealt with Whiplash before, and knew only vaguely about Dreamland. He tended to be agnostic about organizations and people until he saw them under fire; so he had formed no opinion on Whiplash, or even on Jed, though his youth and overabundance of nervous energy tended to grate.
Stoner noticed a small pile of rocks ahead, off on the right, seemingly haphazardly piled there.
“Security cam,” he said.
“Yeah. They’re all along the road,” said Jed. “We’re being watched via satellite too.”
Stoner cracked the window slightly, listening to the rush of air passing over the car. The road changed abruptly, taking a sharp turn down into a suddenly exposed ravine. Barclay had to slow to barely ten miles an hour as he made his way through a series of switchbacks. Undoubtedly that was the idea, and Stoner noticed the random rock piles were now much closer together.
They must have remote weapons as well as sensors here, thought Stoner.
These guys knew what they were doing, at least in terms of guarding their perimeter. There’d be holes, though. There always were.
The dirt road at the base of the slope extended for roughly a quarter mile, then suddenly trailed off. Jed drove about two hundred yards further, then stopped the car. They looked to be in the middle of nowhere. “Wrong turn?” asked Stoner.
“No. You wanted to do it the hard way. I told you, if we didn’t go through Edwards—”
“Easier to keep it compartmented.”
“If we don’t go through Edwards or get a direct flight, this is the way we have to do it.” Barclay hit his radio scan, pushing the FM frequency to exactly 100.00. all they could hear was static.
A small cloud of dust appeared directly ahead. The ground began to shake. As Stoner stared, the cloud separated into two Ospreys, roto-tipped aircraft capable of hovering like helicopters. These were unlike any Ospreys Stoner had ever seen, however; beneath their chins were swivel-mounted chain guns similar to those used in Apache gunships, and there were triple-rack missile launchers on their wings and the side of their fuselages.
Stoner started to unlock the door.
“Uh, no, not until they say it’s okay.” Jed reached across and grabbed him. “They’ll blow us up if you get out.”
Stoner let go of the door handle. One of the Ospreys whipped past, its big shadow covering thee car. The other slowed to a hover about twenty yards away. The reflection of the sun made if hard to see, but from where Stoner was sitting there didn’t seem to be a pilot.
“Blue Taurus, license plate X-ray Tetra Vector, exit your vehicle and stand by for identification,” said a sharp, clear voice on the radio.
“That would be us,” said Jed, unlocking the door. Stoner watched and then copied his actions, taking a few steps away and holding out his hands. He looked upward as the hovering Osprey moved forward slowly, its gun rotating, there was a camera pod behind the weapon.
The Osprey leapt upward. Stoner waited as the wash from the second aircraft pushed his pants and shit to the side.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Jed, who was already trotting forward. The first Osprey landed about fifty yards ahead; the second, meanwhile, had plopped down behind them, depositing two fully armed Air Force special tactics team members to inspect and investigate the vehicle.
The door to the Osprey sprang open as Jed and Stoner approached. “Welcome, Mr. Barclay.”
“Hey,” said Jed.
“There’s nobody flying this thing,” said Stoner as he climbed inside.
“This is Dreamland,” said Jed. “What did you expect?”
The silkiness of his wife’s body worked like a drug, loosening knots Danny didn’t know he had. He ran his hand slowly over her belly and breast, gently skimming along the surface. The tips of his fingers tingled, as if electricity were flowing from her. He pulled her hip toward him, rolling on top to make love again. His mouth dove into hers. Jemma’s tongue slid along the bottom of his lips; something tight in his neck let loose and he fell inside her, his whole body plunging into a warm cave. He rolled through it, luxuriating in the liberating heat.
How long it lasted, Danny couldn’t say. At some point, he felt as if he were floating at the top of an ocean; shortly afterward, he washed up on a beach, still basking in the warmth of the summer sun.
“Good,” said Jemma.
“Good,” said Danny.
“We could do this more often.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Jemma reached over to the floor, where they’d set the room service tray with its decanter of tea. Danny slide his arm under the pillow, wallowing in the decadence of the large bed. Living halfway across the country from his wife sucked — but it sure did make things sweeter when they saw each other.
“I talked to Jim Stephens the other day,” said Jemma, slipping back in bed with her tea, an herbal blend that smelled like orange and cinnamon. Its perfume added to his intoxication.
“Uh-huh,” said Danny, not really paying attention.
“There’s a primary coming up this fall. A perfect shot. Happens to be the district where I’m staying — and it’s an open seat.”
“You should run,” he said, starting to drift toward sleep.
“Not me,” she said. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” she took a sip of her tea. “You did talk to Jim Stephens, right? I know you did, because he told me he had an excellent conversation with you. And he’s very, very high on you.”