Dale Brown - Dale Brown's Dreamland 04 - Piranha(and Jim DeFelice)(2003) (9 page)

 
          
“Absolutely,”
said Allen. “And contrary to all the talking heads, there’s still no guarantee
war won’t break out. I don’t trust the Chinese as far as I can spit, even with
our carriers along their coast. And, hell, even the Indians seem to be spoiling
for a fight.”

 
          
“India?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes,” said Allen. “Minor incidents so far. Saber-rattling. Frankly, I don’t
take them too seriously. But all South Asia’s boiling.”

 
          
Dog
nodded.

 
          
“Admiral
Woods is an excellent man,” said Allen. “A little competitive sometimes.
Especially if he thinks the Air Force is trying to get ahead of him. Very
competitive.”

 
          
“How
about yourself?” ask Dog.

 
          
“Never
play tennis with me.”

 
          
“I
meant, do you think the Air Force is trying to get ahead of you?”

 
          
“Piranha
is a Navy project, Colonel.”

 
          
The
accent on Colonel was sharp enough to fillet a salmon. Having to negotiate with
someone so far down in rank obviously pricked at the admiral. The fact that Dog
essentially answered to no one in the military undoubtedly irked him as well.

 
          
Their
lunch arrived. The conversation once more tacked toward more friendly waters.
Allen compared the salmon favorably to several dinners he’d had recently in
Washington, D.C.—a not too subtle hint that the admiral could muster
considerable political muscle if displeased.

 
          
“Extend
my compliments to the chef,” said Allen as the waiter cleared the plates.

 
          
“Thank
you, sir.”

 
          
“Dog,
if you run the rest of your ship as well as you run the mess, you’ll do well,”
the admiral added.

 
          
“I
can’t take the credit,” said Dog. “Brad Elliott staffed the kitchen.”

 
          
Displeasure
or sorrow—it was impossible to tell which—flicked over Allen’s face. “I’d like
a copy of the draft report,” he said.

 
          
“That
can be arranged.” In truth, Colonel Bastian would have forwarded him one as a
matter of course, since his command had been involved in the testing and had
personnel involved in the development. Had Dog not taken such a dislike to
Allen, he might also have noted, for the record, that Dreamland reports focused
on the system under study. Personalities, and what orders they might or might
not have issued during test exercises, were never included.

 
          
But
the colonel didn’t see much reason for adding that.

 
          
“You
have a nice little operation here, Colonel. No reason for us to be enemies,”
said Allen as they walked back to the SUV that would take the admiral to his
plane, which had returned after being refueled at Edwards.

 
          
“I
didn’t realize we were,”

 
          
Allen
only smiled.

 
          
Zen
pulled his wheelchair toward Hangar A, where the UMB’s control unit was housed.
Bree had promised to meet him there for lunch. He was running his standard ten
minutes later—the only place he was punctual was in the air—so it was somewhat
surprising when she was not standing impatiently outside the door.

 
          
Zen
breathed a reassuring sigh, since she was sure to get on him for being late.
Instead of justifying his tardiness, her absence presented a perfect
opportunity for turning the tables on the notoriously punctual captain; he
could claim he’d been here the whole time, waiting outside. He stopped a few
feet from the doorway and pulled his paperback from the corner of his seat,
starting to position himself as if he’d been reading in the shade.

 
          
“More
Roosevelt!” said Bree behind him.

 
          
“More
Roosevelt,” he said, closing the biography of the President. “Where you been?”

 
          
“I
was necking with Chief Parsons around the corner,” she said. Chief Master
Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was in charge of the maintenance team and old
enough to be her father—or grandfather.

 
          
“I’ve
been waiting,” he said.

 
          
“Oh,
baloney. I saw you come up.”

 
          
“
Musta
been some other pimp in a wheelchair.” Zen smiled at
her.

 
          
“So
which book is this?”

 
          
Bree
reached down and picked it up; Zen saw the opening and snuck in a kiss.

 
          
“Heavy
reading,” she said. The book was Geoffrey Ward’s A First Class Temperament.
“Whatever happened to Sports Illustrated?”

 
          
“I
only get it for the swimsuit issue,” said Zen. His interest in Roosevelt had
started by accident during his flight home from Turkey, and now he was truly
fascinated by the only man to have been elected President four times—all the
time confined to a wheelchair. He’d worked through several FDR volumes, and was
now eyeing Kenneth Davis’s five books, the definitive tome on Roosevelt’s life.
While he joked that he wanted to see how a “fellow gimp made good,” what truly
fascinated Zen was Roosevelt’s ability to get along with so many people.

 
          
His
charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being
crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico—against the
Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had
treated him like a son.

 
          
How
did he manage to get on with so many people after polio took his legs? Wasn’t
he bitter? Why didn’t bitterness come out in his relationships, which seemed to
show no trace of anger or frustration? Zen didn’t fool himself that his own
relationships were on nearly so lofty a plain; at least privately, he railed
about his condition every day.

 
          
“Ready
for lunch?” Bree asked.

 
          
“Starving.”

 
          
“Red
Room?”

 
          
“Nah,
Admiral Allen’s there, and Ax says stay away.”

 
          
“Allen?
Is that who landed on my runway?”

 
          
Zen
gave her the gossip he’d heard from Chief Gibbs: Apparently the admiral was on
a tear because his people had gotten their fannies waved during the Piranha
exercises. One of Allen’s favorite commanders, Admiral Woods, had pulled some
strings to alter the parameters of the test in his favor—and still lost. There
was justice in the world, Zen concluded. They Navy being so damned concerned
about their little egos being crushed that a top admiral had to come and
personally try to soothe things over gave Zen immense satisfaction.

 
          
It
wasn’t until they were at their table with full trays of food that Zen realized
Bree was distracted. He made a joke about her choice—salad with a side of
yogurt—then one about his—a double helping of homemade meat loaf, with extra
gravy. She hardly snickered.

 
          
“Bad
flight?” he asked.

 
          
She
shrugged.

 
          
“Something
up?”

 
          
“I
fly every day,” he said.

 
          
“You
know what I mean. Flying a robot. It’s not the same thing.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
he said. He missed a lot more than flying.

 
          
“I
don’t know if I can do it, Jeff,” she said.

 
          
“You
don’t have to,” he told her.

 
          
“It’s
a promotion. It’s important.”

 
          
Zen
slid back a little in his seat, looking at her face. Breanna was not by any
definition, a worrier. Her eyes were fraught with it now.

 
          
“Hey.”
He paused, not really sure what to say. After an awkward silence, he stumbled
on. “There’re plenty of different projects out there. You don’t have to take
something you don’t want. But if you do take it, I know you can do it,” he
added quickly. Her lips had pursed—a bad sign. “I mean you’re beyond capable of
it. I mean, that’s why you got it.”

 
          
“The
Megafortresses.”

 
          
A
sore subject, he knew, since she had hoped to inherit Major Nancy Cheshire’s
place when she left. But
Merce
Alou, who outranked
her, had been tagged.

 
          
“To
be honest with you, Bree, the EB-52, not that it’s a dead end or anything, but
it’s now, uh, mature.” Zen hated using the bureaucratese, but it did
essentially describe the program. The EB-52 was now a production aircraft; the
advances were sure to be incremental. “The UMB. Hell, that’s the future. Or
something that comes out of it. Ask anybody. But if it’s not what you want to do,
don’t worry about it.”

 
          
“It’s
a big adjustment, that’s all,” she said, poking her salad. She frowned, but
this time at him. “You’re not going to eat all of that, are you? It’s pure
fat.”

 
          
He
laughed and reached for his soda—then yawped with pain.

 
          
“Problem?”
she asked.

 
          
“Tooth.
Geez.”

 
          
“Are
you going to get it fixed or what?”

 
          
“This
afternoon.” The cold soda had shot through the nerve into every cell in his
skull, and his head reverberated with pain. He put down the glass and rubbed
the back of his jaw on both sides hoping to ease it somehow.

 
          
“Not
going to cancel this time?”

 
          
“I
didn’t cancel on purpose,” he mumbled.

 
          
Bree’s
manner had brightened; in fact, she seemed to be
suppressing a giggle.

 
          
“I’m
glad my misery is entertaining,” he told her.

 
          
“Don’t
be a sissy.”

 
          
“You
filled it with extra ice,” he said. “You knew I had the appointment.”

 
          
“Just
a coincidence,” said his wife.

 
          
Freed
from his onerous escort duty, Danny Freah took a tour of his perimeter,
checking on the security post. His body still felt the lingering effects of his
“visit” to Turkey, Iraq, and Iran a few months before; he’d been injured in a
mission that recovered data and parts from an Iranian antiaircraft laser
facility. His legs were especially bothersome—Danny had stretched and partially
torn ligaments in his right knee.

 
          
Not
that he’d taken any time off to mend. You had to break something for that. Like
your neck.

 
          
Danny
eyed the fence along the road, looking at the video cameras posted at irregular
intervals. The entire base was constantly watched. Not just by human eyes, but
computer programs, which searched for spatial anomalies, as the programmers
stubbornly referred to intruders. Additional sensors were buried in the
perimeter area. Mines and remote-controlled ground defenses—basically old M2HB
machine guns with massive belts of ammunition in modified fifty-gallon
drums—were webbed around the fences. A generation ago, it might have taken the
better part of an army regiment to provide as secure a perimeter, Dreamland
could, at least in theory, be secured with only six men, though Danny’s
security squadron was considerably larger and growing every day.