Read Online Piranha by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown - Free Book Online Page B

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