Free Piranha by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown Page A

           “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.
                 He
turned off the perimeter road, driving up a short hill toward a bunker halfway
between the underground hangars and the main gate. A brown slant of cement
marked the entrance to the hardened security monitoring station. Lieutenant
William McNally and two airmen were inside, reviewing the security feeds and
drinking coffee, not necessarily in that order.
                 “Hey,
Boss,” said McNally as Danny came through the doors. “How’s the admiral?”
                 “Looked
like he was searching for a boat.”
                 “Can
we shoot down his plan next time? Razor guys say they had it nailed at twenty
miles.”
                 Danny
grunted. He checked through the logs, then told McNally he was going over to
the weapons lab to check on his gear. His smart helmet and body armor had been
damaged in Iran; its custom-fitted replacement was due for a final fitting.
                 McNally
stopped him, saying a message had come for him while he was with the Admiral.
                 “Just
leave it in my cue,” Danny told him.
                 “Actually,
it was a voice message, uh, your wife,” said McNally. “She decided to talk to
me.”
                 “And?”
                 “Says
she’ll be out here this afternoon, Said something about a hotel.”
                 “Okay,”
Danny told him. Jemma knew exactly what Danny did,
and had gone through her own security check before Danny was allowed to take
his post. Technically, she could come to Dreamland and stay at his quarters on
the base. However, the procedure