Dale Brown - Dreamland

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 the 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 though 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 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. “Café Auberge.”

“Oui, oui,” he said.

“Oh, God, wine. You want wine? I have merlot. Or beer – I found a six-back of Anchor Steam.”

“Either’s fine.”

“Why don’t we start with wine?” she suggested. “It will go with the main course.”

“There’s 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 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 checked have come back clean. Hal felt 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 as Danny go to the cafeteria line. He emerged with an orange juice carton, then disappeared out the side door.

Losing kids sucked. If this 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.”

Would that save them, though? It wouldn’t exactly be difficult to figure out who had done what.

“You look like you’re trying to untie the Gordian knot.”

Surprised, Dog looked up to find Jennifer Gleason, the young computer scientist who worked primarily on the Flighthawk project, smiling down at him.

“The Gordian knot?” he asked. “You know, I’ve always wondered what that was.”

“The Gordian knot was a complicated knot tied by King Gordius of Phrygia,” said Gleason. “Supposedly, anyway. The oracles claimed that whoever could undo it would rule Asia. So along came Alexander the Great. He hears about it, goes over to it, and without wasting a blink of his eye, slices it with his sword.”

Bastian laughed.

“Probably not a true story,” said Gleason. She flicked her head back so her long reddish-blond hair glistened at her shoulders. “But it has a certain charm.”

“Especially if you’re trying to work out a budget,” said Bastian.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No. I need interruption,” he told her, flipping the top page back over his pad so the writing couldn’t be read. “Sit down.”

She slid in across from him and took the top of her yogurt container.

“Dinner?” he asked.

“More like a late lunch.”

“No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“I hope that was meant in a professional way.”

“Touché, Doc.”

“Most people call me Jennifer or Jen, Colonel.” Gleason smiled and then spooned some of the vanilla-flavored yogurt into her mouth. “I always thought doctors were the people who were sticking stethoscopes in your face and thermometers in your chest.”

“I think that goes the other way around.”

She smirked. Dog searched for something else to say, but all he could think of was the Flighthawk project – not a good topic, since he’d already decided to recommend cutting it. and in fact he half-expected she’d sat down to make a pitch for keeping it.

“You run every morning?” she asked.

“I do actually.”

“I saw you this morning. I was going to ask if I could join you, but I chickened out.”

“I don’t bite,” said Bastian.

“I was a little worried about your pace. I only run to keep in shape for climbing. I rock-climb on weekends,” she added.