Nerve Center (33 page)

“There have been some anomalies,” said Geraldo. “And remember, the flight computers are actually the ones that guide the plane. The subject merely directs.”

“Captain, maybe you should head out to Glass Mountain,” said Barclay. “And maybe Major Stockard.”

“How quick can you get out there, Danny?” asked Dog.

Texas was the last place he should be, but before Danny could think of a graceful objection, Dr. Geraldo looked up.

“Glass Mountain? I thought this was a Department of Energy site.”

“Actually, the site is owned by an agency connected with the Department of Energy,” said Barclay. “The Army conducted some tests there a few years ago.”

“Colonel, Kevin Madrone was stationed at Glass Mountain. That’s where he was when his daughter died.”

JEFF WATCHED BARCLAY’S FACE AS GERALDO continued. Jed was his cousin, and Jeff felt odd watching him on the screen, as if a home movie had suddenly become part of his work life. He could remember swinging him around by the legs only a few years ago, and adjusting his arms on a bat to hit right.

Jed probably still couldn’t hit a good fastball. But he’d always been smart. And somehow he managed to land on his feet—against all odds, he’d not only managed to stay on in the Martindale Administration, but apparently had even more authority than before.

If Jed and Geraldo and Danny were right, Madrone was still alive.

But why would Kevin do this?

To screw Jeff up maybe. This would kill any chance of continuing with ANTARES.

Jeff saw the others glancing toward him every so often, as if he carried a disease.

Kevin wouldn’t hurt people.

ANTARES enhanced your mental capabilities. It didn’t change you. Geraldo had said that over and over. Hell, everybody knew that—Maraklov had been a traitor before he arrived at Dreamland; ANTARES didn’t turn him into one.

Maybe losing his daughter had twisted Kevin somehow.

Had Jeff s losing his legs done the same to him?

IN DOG’S OPINION, THE VIDEO CONFERENCE WITH Barclay had accomplished little. Freeman and Defense Secretary Keesh were unavailable because of a crisis in Brazil, where a three-way conflict between the Navy, Air Force, and government was coming to a head. Apparently the conflict was going to be resolved by giving a number of Air Force generals an important role in the government—though why any military person in his right mind would want that was beyond Bastian.

Barclay would present Freeman and the other members of the National Security Council with the theory that the Flight-hawks had survived and were involved in the attack. He’d also recommend that all of the places Madrone had worked in the past—starting with Los Alamos—be heavily guarded. In the meantime, Dog had to call his own boss, General Magnus, and update him.

Magnus wasn’t going to like this at all. Or maybe he would. It would undoubtedly hurt Keesh and his sidekick McCormack.

It would also damage Dog, though at least he’d advised against proceeding with ANTARES in writing.

I’m thinking like a politician and a bureaucrat, Dog told himself. That’s not who I am. I’m a pilot.

“Frowning a lot, Colonel,” said Danny, waiting for him near the door to the conference room.

“Yeah.”

“I have something I have to talk to you about,” said Freah. He gave a short wave to Zen, who was just approaching. “it’s trivial. Base stuff. But—”

“I’m a bit busy.”

“Won’t take that long. Minor discipline problem. But I need advice.”

Freah never brought minor discipline problems to him. Bastian nodded at the others, then motioned Danny to the side of the empty room. Freah waited until the doors closed.

“Everything I said just now, during the session with Barclay, was absolutely true,” Danny said. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I find it interesting that Major Smith was at Glass Mountain when it was attacked. He’s the only witness that Flighthawks were involved.”

“How many other people could ID them to begin with?” asked Bastian. “And there’s no local radar coverage.”

“My point exactly.”

“What would his motive be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the Brazilian?”

“I doubt Mack’s a traitor. And he couldn’t have stolen the Flighthawks himself.”

“Maybe working with Madrone. I’m overthinking this, I know, but Hawkmother’s pilot was found pretty far north and a good deal west of the prime search areas.”

“Happens. The search cone was based on the last course projection, but that’s always iffy.”

“Mack supplied the projection.”

“You think he purposely threw off the search?”

“I’m not saying that,” said Danny.

“No way.”

“I know,” said Freah. “But Major Smith has been at some very interesting places at very convenient times. It’s my job to be paranoid about it.”

“Jeff Stockard and Breanna were aboard Raven when Hawkmother went down.”

“Or was stolen.”

“Or was stolen,” admitted Bastian. “All right. I’ll get Smith back here right away. And I’ll kill his transfer to the Raptor program.

“If he were on ice for a bit, that’s all.”

“They need someone right away.” Bastian reached back behind his shoulder, stretching the tense muscles in his upper body. Personally, he hated Mack, but it wasn’t fair to screw him out of this based on a vague suspicion and coincidence.

Not fair, but it had to be done.

“Thanks, Colonel,” said Freah.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to call the boss.”

“Shit, me too.”

Pei, Brazil
6 March, 0300 local

MINERVA LANZAS CURLED HER ARMS ACROSS HER chest, pacing in the dark night. She cursed herself for giving into him.

Did she have a choice?

A tower, enemies—he was out of his mind. She’d never see him again.

The idea clawed at her. Objectively speaking, it would be easier if the American completely vanished. Yet she didn’t think she could live if that happened.

She couldn’t really be in love; she would never allow herself to be so vulnerable. And yet, there seemed no other explanation.

The ground rattled gently. The large Boeing appeared over the mountain ridge, snapping its landing lights on as it turned abruptly to line up for the field.

Minerva trembled when the rear hatch opened and Madrone walked down the ramp and into her arms.

“I was so worried,” she told him.

“Yes,” said Madrone, pressing her so tightly to his body she thought her bones would break. “They are stronger than I imagined. I must go back. They’ll never leave us alone.”

Minerva tried to undo herself from his grasp, but couldn’t. “Kevin,” she said gently. “Let me go.”

Instead of answering, he sobbed on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“They are bastards,” he wailed. “They’re everywhere. Glavin is probably telling them what to do. I know where he is. He sent me a card, a Christmas card, the bastard. I know where he is. I have to go back. I must.”

He said it so forcefully, with such finality, Minerva knew she would never convince him to stay.

Dreamland
7 March, 0800

MACK SMITH HOPPED OFF THE DOLPHIN HELICOPTER ferry feeling like a million dollars.

Or rather,
milioncino, a cool
million.
Lire.

Italiano.
Which he would soon be speaking. Because obviously Bastian had ordered him back here because a transfer had come through.

And the grapevine was already buzzing with the possibilities. Either the Raptor F-22 program, which found itself in need of a director of operations, or squadron commander with a wonderful bunch of
ragazzi
flying F-15Cs in sunny Italia.

Bene, bene.

He’d prefer the Raptors, but something told him he was bound for Italy, where wine was cheap and the babes didn’t believe in wearing tops.

To the best of his knowledge, no squadron in the Air Force was currently commanded by a major, so a promotion would quickly follow. The pay bump would be nice. Maybe he’d buy a little speedboat. Nothing outlandish just big enough to rock gently when he made love.

“Major Smith, sir, Colonel Bastian wanted to see you,” said a sergeant near the ramp. “I was to expedite you there, sir.”

Jesus, Bastian had turned into an A-one fella, Knife thought as he climbed in the black SUV the sergeant had brought to ferry him over to Taj. Mack was in such a great mood that he even took a seat when Bastian’s muck-up-the-works Sergeant Gibbs greeted him at the door.

Actually, Gibbs seemed almost deferential, at least by chief master sergeant standards, not only offering coffee, but remembering how Mack liked it. When Bastian buzzed, the sergeant showed him right in.

“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack, breezing past Gibbs and pulling up a chair. “So—what’s so fantastically important that I had to peddle back ASAP, as if I didn’t know.”

Bastian frowned at Ax, who had brought a folder’s worth of vouchers to be signed.

“So?” asked Mack as the sergeant left the room.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Major.”

It took every ounce of self-restraint that Smith possessed not to cover his ears as Bastian continued. He spoke quickly, concisely, and without bullshit—Mack was assigned to Dreamland for the immediate future.

“Uh, Colonel—there’s a slot in Italy and, uh, F-15’s and, uh, I was promised—”

“Your name was mentioned for that, yes. I’m afraid it’s no longer viable.”

“Viable? Viable?”

“Nor is the Raptor slot open. The Pentagon wants more flight testing with the MiG-29’s. You’re on that assignment indefinitely,” said Bastian.

“Who screwed me? What the hell’s going on here?”

“I don’t know that anyone screwed you, Mack.”

“Oh, bullshit, Colonel. This isn’t about the attack at Glass Mountain, is it? I’m getting screwed by somebody here,” said Mack. He just barely stopped himself from jumping to his feet, rising slowly instead. “Colonel, can’t you do anything? I mean—my record, Somalia. I’ve been a team player.”

“I told you before, I will do something. And while we’re talking about your record, why don’t you tell me about the Brazilian you met in Las Vegas?”

“I told you about that. He wanted to know about MiG-29’s. I told him to fuck off.”

Bastian said nothing.

“That’s what this is about?” Mack was too incredulous to believe it. “Asshole buys me a drink and gives me a cigar? I don’t even smoke cigars.”

Bastian pushed a button on his phone, and Ax appeared at the door. “The sergeant will see to anything else you need.”

Confused as well as furious, Knife got up and made his way out of the office, barely controlling his temper well enough to avoid punching anything until he got into the elevator.

Aboard EB-52 BX-5 Galatica
Dreamland Range 34
7 March, 1000

BREANNA GLANCED AT HER COPILOT AS THE EB-52 reached twenty thousand feet. Galatica was similar to Raven in general layout, though the Dreamland wizards had continued to tinker around the edges. The most critical upgrades were larger fuel stores and super-cruise engines, which were based on a Pratt & Whitney design for the F-22. In the fighter, the engines helped conserve fuel at Mach-plus speeds. Tuned somewhat differently and shortened considerably for the Megafortress, they nearly tripled the model’s combat radius. With careful fuel management, Gal could take off from Dreamland, fly a mission to Russia, and return without refueling—while providing fuel to a pair of Flighthawks through an automated boom in the tail.

The refueling boom was one of a long list of items to be tested today. They were going to air-launch two Flighthawks, which hadn’t been done from Gal yet, and run through an automated test suite on Galatica’s tactical surveillance radar. That done, they’d burn off some fuel with a few crash dives and climbs to make sure the airframe and engines were up to the stress. Bree had in mind taking a shot at eighty thousand feet, which was currently the unofficial Megafortress altitude record.

“Handling like a fighter, even with all the extra fuel weight,” said Chris Ferris, her copilot. “I thought the leading-edge flap was a little sluggish when we started to climb, but the computer recorded the specs at Dash-1.”

“What about the gear?”

“Cleaned fine.”

“I don’t like the extra tires,” said Breanna. “It all felt kind of storky.”

“I guess. I kind of like the higher view.”

The plane stood roughly four feet higher off the ground than the other models. Changes in the landing gear made heavy landings more manageable, an important consideration if the plane were carrying a full load of fuel and had to quickly return to a combat base. At the same time, the gear further protected the engines and any carriaged Flighthawks from debris at a less than perfectly groomed airfield during takeoff.

“All instruments in the green,” Ferris reported, running through the indicator screens.

“Go for it.”

“Dreamland EB-52 BX-5 Galatica to Dream Tower,” he said immediately, clicking on the radio. “We’re on station and preparing to dance. Cue the band.”

Breanna rolled her eyes as her copilot and the tower controller exchanged a series of excruciatingly poor puns. When the controller reported that the weather was “sans polka bands, with trombones blowing from the west at two notes an hour,” she decided she had had enough.

“Chris, we don’t have all day.”

“Just trying to keep everybody loose,” said Ferris.

His poorly concealed smirk indicated that he had probably been waiting for her to reach her breaking point for some time. It was not out of the realm of possibility that he and the controller had some sort of bet riding on her reaction.

“Hawk Leader to Gal,” snapped Jeff over the interphone. “Yo, are we dancing today or what?”

“Not you too,” said Breanna.

“Hey, if the waltz fits, dance it.” He’d laughed, saying the words so quickly it was obvious he’d rehearsed them.

“Oye.”

“Let’s rumba.”