Evacked to Germany for medical observation, Mack had no trouble convincing the doctors that he was fine. Or rather, he would have convinced them if he’d stayed around long enough to listen to their excuses about why someone in perfect health needed to take umpteen tests. He checked himself out—more precisely, he waved at the people at the desk as he strode into the lobby—and found himself the first flight back to the States, and from there, to Dreamland.
His bad experiences in Germany were only part of his motivation. He had surmised from the paperwork that changes in the Dreamland Command structure were afoot.
A call back to the base informed him that the changes were even broader than he had thought, and he decided that the sooner he shook the new commander’s hand, the higher up on the food chain he’d find himself when the dust settled.
Mack was so anxious to get back that he even accepted a C-130 flight into Nellis, sitting in steerage—that is, on the floor in the cargo hold of the notoriously loud aircraft. By contrast, the Dauphin helicopter that took him from Nellis to Dreamland was a sleek limo, and he found himself bantering with the pilots, telling them how great a place Diego Garcia was, with the sun always shining and girls fawning over him 24/7.
Half of the story was true, after all; how much more could they expect?
As he made his way over from the landing “dock” to the Taj, he developed a cocky spring in his step. Dreamland’s new commander wasn’t a fighter jock; he flew Boners, as the go-fast community disparagingly called the B-1B Lancer.
But he was a general, and as such, Terrill Samson would 388
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have a lot more muscle than Lieutenant Colonel Bastian—a decent guy and a fellow fighter pilot, but when all was said and done, a lightweight in the political department. And politics was the name of the game these days.
Mack sailed into the base commander’s outer office, gave a quick wave to the cute secretary at the far desk, ignored the bruiser at the close one, and stuck his head into the open door, where Samson’s name had replaced Colonel Bastian’s.
“Hey, General,” he said. “Got a minute?”
“Thanks for the promotion,” said Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs, who was arranging folders on the general’s desk.
“Hey, Axy,” said Mack, sauntering inside. “Where’s the majordomo?”
Ax cleared his throat. “Major General Samson is on Diego Garcia.”
“No shit. I just left there. Well, not just.” Mack went around to the desk and plopped into the general’s chair. “So he already kicked Dog out of his office, huh? I figured he would.
Too nice for a colonel.”
“Colonel Bastian has an office down the hall.”
“What’s that for, transition? Where’s the old Dog headed next anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Ax.
“Jeez, Axy, I thought you knew everything.”
“From what I understand, it hasn’t been decided. Is there something I can do for you, Major?”
“Just enjoying the view,” said Mack, spinning from side to side in the seat. “Not bad.”
Ax frowned.
“You know what your problem is, Chief?” Mack asked, getting up.
“I couldn’t guess.”
“All you chiefs—you think you outrank everybody, even a general. But don’t worry.” Mack slapped Ax on the back.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’m most obliged,” said Ax.
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Tehran
0110, 21 January 1998
(1410, 20 January, Dreamland)
“YOU SEEM TO HAVE LOST YOUR SPIRIT, GENERAL.”
Sattari blinked at the dark shadow in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure where he was.
In Tehran somewhere, of course, but where?
The seat he was sitting on was hard. There were several people in the room besides the man talking.
“You should be quite proud of what you accomplished,”
continued the man. “Soon, you will have struck a blow against the Americans that will be remembered for all time.”
“Why did you not let me fly the plane?” said Sattari.
“General, a man such as yourself is very valuable. Our country needs you. And what do you think would happen when the Americans found out that a general of the Iranian air force—an important man in our country—was at the controls? We could say you were a rebel, but the Americans would not believe it. This will be much easier for them to accept. There will be trouble, of course, but we will overcome it.”
Sattari finally recognized the voice. It belonged to Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaj, an important member of the National Security Deputate, Iran’s national security council.
“My nephew,” said the general.
“Your nephew was proud to be chosen. He will be a great martyr. Of course, we will say he was crazy, but we will all know the truth in our hearts.”
“He’s too young.”
“You did not seem to feel that was a concern when you asked him to be your copilot.”
Sattari felt a stab of guilt. He should not have enlisted the young man. He shouldn’t have let Val lead the mission to provoke the Indians either.
So many things he shouldn’t have done. He should not have trusted Hassam, above all.
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Sattari’s eyes finally came into focus. He was in a small basement room. He didn’t recognize it, but guessed it was in the government complex.
“Was I drugged?” he demanded.
Mohtaj waved his hand. “Do not concern yourself with the past. You must work for the future. You have many important tasks ahead. Many. You’re not an old man.”
“I want revenge against the bastards who killed my son,”
said the general. With every breath, his mind became sharper.
“You will have it. And the longer you live, the more revenge you will have.”
It wasn’t going to be enough—this wasn’t going to be enough.
Sattari rose from the chair. The men behind the Ayatollah jerked forward, submachine guns suddenly pointed in his direction.
“He means no harm,” said Mohtaj calmly. “He is back among friends.”
“I need time to think,” said Sattari.
“By all means. As long as you need.”
Mohtaj smiled, then turned and left the room.
Sattari thought of Kerman, then of Val.
It wasn’t going to be enough, destroying Las Vegas and Dreamland. Someday, he would drink his enemy’s blood.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Pacific Ocean
1410, Dreamland
DOG FOLDED HIS ARMS AND LEANED AGAINST THE BACK OF
the ejection seat in the lower bay of the Bennett, trying to stretch a few kinks from his legs and neck. He’d thought vaguely about sleeping on the flight back, but the cots upstairs seemed almost claustrophobic, and his nervous adrenaline just wouldn’t let him rest.
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That was the way his life ran: Every time he was really tired, he was too busy to sleep, and when he wasn’t busy, he wasn’t tired.
Starship seemed equally antsy, sitting in the seat next to him, monitoring the flight. Since it was highly unlikely they’d be needed, the Flighthawks were stowed on the wings to conserve fuel.
“Shoulda brought a deck of cards, huh?” said Starship as Dog settled back.
“That or a nice stewardess, huh?”
Starship laughed.
“You have a girlfriend, Starship?” asked Dog. He knew almost nothing about his junior officer’s personal life.
“Uh, no, sir. Not at the present time.”
“You can relax, Starship. I’m not going to bite you.”
“Yeah, Colonel. Um, no. I did. I mean I’ve had a couple, but things didn’t work out that well. You know, like, I was traveling and stuff.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’ll probably get married someday,” added Starship. “But pretty far in the future, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t mind kids. But, in the future.”
“I know what you mean,” said Dog again. But what he was thinking was how small a place the future sometimes could be.