“I was thinking I’d save the jogging for after breakfast.”
Breanna shifted her weight back and forth. The ligament connecting the muscles and bones together had been severely strained, but not torn. Still, it did hurt enough for her to fight back a wince.
The doctor had her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “Frankly, Breanna, I don’t understand how you managed to avoid breaking your leg, let alone ripping the knee to shreds. How are your ribs?”
“Solid.”
“And your head?”
“Still hard as a rock.”
Dr. Rosenberg frowned. Breanna’s lower right ribs were badly bruised. Her injuries had come after ejecting from her Megafortress, though their exact origin was something of a mystery—the doctors believed she had hit something, probably the bottom of the plane as she jumped, though Breanna thought it had happened much later, when she hit the water. She had a good memory of leaving the plane, jumping through the open hatchway in the Flighthawk bay with Zen. She could see him falling with her, diverted slightly by the slipstream of wind below the fuselage. His chute opened. She felt the tug of hers, looked up and saw the blossom above her …
The rest was a blank. Zen had found her in the water, pulled her onto a small atoll off the Indian coast, gotten her food and helped get them rescued.
“Breanna, really, you have to take it easy,” said the doctor.
“Seriously, Bree.”
18
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Something about the doctor’s tone of voice–it was very unprofessional, almost pleading—caught Breanna off guard.
“I’m OK,” she told her.
“You’re not OK. You’re getting better. And to keep getting better, you have to go slow. Bit by bit.”
“My mother’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?”
A smile fluttered across Dr. Rosenberg’s face. It didn’t last—her professional mask was quickly put back in place, the lines of her mouth sloping downward slightly, as if she were ready to frown.
“The doctor did call and ask a few questions,” admitted Rosenberg. “But you’re my patient, and these are my concerns. A walk, with your cane, to stretch your legs,” she added, retrieving the cane. “A short walk. With the cane. All right?”
Breanna took the cane and began making her way out of the room. Dr. Rosenberg walked at her side.
“I know it must be hard for you to throttle back,” said the doctor as they stepped into the hallway. “You’re a Type A personality. But sometimes —”
“She’s A to Z,” said Zen, stopping just before rolling into them.
“Hey,” said Breanna.
“Where are you going?” said Zen. “I thought we were having breakfast.”
“We are as soon as I work up an appetite.”
Zen looked over at the doctor. “How’s she doing?”
“I think she’s aiming for a breakout.” The doctor’s grimace turned into a broad smile. Her manner changed; Breanna couldn’t help thinking she was flirting with Zen, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy.
“You aimin’ to bust outta this dump?” Zen asked her.
“Ain’t no prison can hold me, Sheriff.”
“Another two days. You were unconscious for an awfully long time,” said Dr. Rosenberg. “Days.”
“Two days. I was sleeping,” insisted Breanna. It wasn’t REVOLUTION
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clear what had happened to her; the neurologist believed she’d suffered a concussion, though the length of her “incident,” as he called it, could also suggest a coma. She had no obvious sign of brain damage, and the series of tests failed to find anything subtle.
Her body was still somewhat depleted from exposure and dehydration, however, and it reminded her of it with a shake as she began walking down the hall. Determined not to let Zen or the doctor see, she gripped the top of the cane firmly, pausing just a moment.
The doctor missed it, but Zen didn’t.
“Problem?” asked her husband.
“I’m waiting for you, slowpoke.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“I’m going to leave you in the custody of your husband,”
said Rosenberg. “Jeff, she can make one circuit, then back to bed. Her knee really shouldn’t be overstressed. And she should take those clothes off.”
“I’ll see what I can do about that.”
Rosenberg, belatedly recognizing the double entendre, started to flush, then nodded and walked away.
“She’s got a crush on you,” Breanna told her husband.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“You are so conceited.”
“It’s the chair. All babes fall for crips. Can’t resist us.”
Breanna’s breakfast had arrived while they were out. Zen snickered at the overcooked croissant and told her he’d be right back. It took him more than a half hour to get to the cafeteria and back, but when he returned, he had a plate of bacon, a large helping of scrambled eggs, some home fries, toast, and a full carafe of coffee.
“What, no tomato juice?” said Breanna, pulling the cover off the plate of eggs.
“They’re saving it for the Bloody Marys,” Zen told her.
Breanna dug into the food greedily. The eggs were a little rubbery, but acceptable under the circumstances.
20
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“All right, off with your clothes,” growled Zen when she finished.
“What?”
“Doctor’s orders.” He smiled at her—then reached his fingers beneath her T-shirt. “What do you say?”
“They’ll hear us out at the nurses’ station.”
“I’ll close the door and put a do-not-disturb sign on it.”
Zen’s cell phone started to ring as he swung toward the door.
“You better answer that,” she said.
“Why?”
“No one calls you on your cell phone unless it’s an emergency.”
“It’s too early for an emergency.”
“Jeff. What if it’s my father?”
“You’re legal age.” Zen pulled out the phone, checked the number, then answered. “This is Zen. What’s going on, cuz?”
Breanna could tell from her husband’s voice that he was talking to Jed Barclay, his cousin and the President’s liaison to Dreamland.
“Wow,” he said, his eyes opening wide. “Here, tell Bree.”
Breanna took the phone.
“Breanna how are you feeling?” asked Jed.
“A lot better than when I talked to you the other day.
What’s going on?”
“You guys are getting big-time medals. And your father, Colonel Bastian? The Medal of Honor. No shit. ”
Dreamland
0728
MAJOR GENERAL TERRILL “EARTHMOVER” SAMSON TOOK
the last gulp of coffee from his cup, folded his arms and surveyed his office. The far wall was lined with photos of his past REVOLUTION
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commands, along with a selection of pictures of him with superior officers, two Presidents, and a Hollywood movie star who’d visited his base to find out what pilots were really like.
The wall to the right, until recently lined with bookshelves, now had framed commendations he’d received, along with a few oil paintings of the aircraft he’d flown. The furniture—which had arrived the day before—was sleek glass and chrome, very futuristic, just the right tone for Dreamland, Samson thought.
He wasn’t quite done—he’d need a few models of aircraft to adorn his desk—but the office now bore his stamp.
The command itself would take a little longer. The first order of business was to organize Dreamland along traditional Air Force lines, which meant establishing a base command and a set of air wings to oversee the actual operations.
To do that, he needed people. The base side was already taken care of: Colonel Marie Tassel was due at Dreamland in two weeks. She was a no-nonsense taskmaster who’d worked in the Inspector General’s Office. Her job would be to run the physical plant, overseeing everything from day care for the dependents to purchasing paper clips, and Tassel was just anal enough to get the place shipshape in no time.
Samson had also chosen someone to head the science and engineering group—a military officer who would oversee the collection of civilian eggheads and hippies working on the high-tech toys Dreamland was famous for. Colonel John Cho was an engineer by training; he undoubtedly could speak their language while increasing their productivity. He’d also served as a tanker pilot early in his career and had done a stint with airlift. Cho was due in a few days, as soon as he finished up his present assignment at the Pentagon.