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a breath, and walked slowly toward it.
    I could use some water, he thought as he put the ruck containing the soil sample next to the cone.
    B Y THE TIME Sergeant Liu appeared, Boston had stretched out on the ground, his body hovering just this side of consciousness.
    â€œYo,” said Liu. He turned and started walking away.
    Boston rose and fell in behind, his limbs sore not just from the fall but from the last twenty-four hours. He managed to lean forward and break into a rough trot, catching up.
    â€œWhat’s next?” he asked.
    â€œNothing for you,” said Liu.
    â€œShit,” said Boston, but he couldn’t figure out where he had screwed up.
    The Osprey? But how else was he supposed to get across the minefield? He’d have had to leave the range, and even then, the entire cone was surrounded.
    Liu didn’t explain. A GMC Jimmy, blue light flashing, appeared in the distance, kicking up dust as it sped across the open landscape. It whipped to a stop a few feet from him. Liu pulled open the front passenger door, waiting for Boston to get in.
    There was no driver. Boston was only slightly surprised to see that—as the Whiplash veterans were fond of saying, This is Dreamland . Nor was he particularly surprised when Liu didn’t climb in after him.
    As soon as the door was shut, the vehicle started up again, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. It drove to a small building just beyond the old bone yard—a storage area for old planes at the eastern end of the base. Boston got out; when the door was shut, the vehicle backed up and drove away.
    Captain Danny Freah was waiting inside. Like Boston, Freah was of African descent, though it was clear from his demeanor that any appeal to ethnic roots was not going to cut it.
    Maybe, Boston thought, he could appeal to his mother’s side of the family. She was Sicilian. He could hint at a mafia connection.
    Probably wouldn’t cut it either.
    â€œWho told you you could climb on the aircraft?” demanded Captain Freah.
    â€œSir.” Boston snapped out the word, but he was too worn down at this point to play rogue warrior. “Uh, no one. I just did it.”
    â€œYou know how much that aircraft costs?”
    Visions of living on bread and water well into his retirement suddenly filled Boston’s head. He had heard stories about the military taking the cost of high-tech gear out of soldier’s pay, but had never believed they were true. Now he suddenly realized that they might be.
    â€œUm, I didn’t think I’d do any harm to it.”
    â€œYou didn’t think ?” barked Freah.
    Boston winced; he had given the classic— classic! —bad answer.
    â€œI thought incorrectly, sir,” said the sergeant. “I was focused on the objective, to the exclusion of other factors.”
    He could practically feel the heat coming off Freah’s face. From the corner of his eye, he saw another member of the Whiplash team joining them in the building—Sergeant Liu. Behind him came the other Whiplash veterans.
    Great, thought Boston, they’re all here for the hanging.
    â€œYou only thought of the objective?” said the captain.
    â€œYes, sir, I’m afraid I did. I’m sorry.”
    One of the Whiplash troopers—Bison—started to laugh.
    â€œHang him by his toes,” said Egg Reagan.
    Boston felt the blood rushing to his face.
    â€œAre you blushing, Sergeant?” asked the captain.
    â€œI, uh . . . ”
    â€œJeez, if I’d known he was a blusher, I woulda never voted for him,” said Bison.
    â€œMe neither,” said Egg.
    â€œWe need a blusher,” said Liu.
    It was only then that Boston realized he was in.
    Dreamland Flighthawk Simulation Hangar
6 September 1997
0245
    Z EN KNEW HE wouldn’t be able to sleep, and so didn’t even bother going home. He and Breanna had a small apartment—more like a dorm room with a