Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“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.”

“I hope you’re all enjoying yourself,” said Rap, pushing the Megafortress into the long slope that would launch the U/ MFs.

At least Jeff seemed in a good mood today.

“Flighthawk launch in zero-five,” she told her husband. “Prepare for alpha maneuver.”

“Rosin the bow, maestro.”

THE AIR LAUNCH OF THE FLIGHTHAWKS WENT OFF without a hitch, as did the first refuel, despite the increased turbulence generated behind Gal by the new engine configuration. When Dreamland Control asked them to shift ranges to accommodate another flight, Jeff was happy for the break.

“Trail One,” he told C3 as Breanna brought the EB-52 southwestward. The computer informed him it was complying, and Jeff slid his flight-control helmet up over his head. He glanced at the console to make sure it duped the controls—it did—then eased back in the seat.

With both Jennifer and Ong tied up on other projects, they were flying without a techie aboard today. While Zen thought the minders had long ago become superfluous, he did miss having someone on the deck to joke with—or hand him a Gatorade during downtime.

He fumbled for his small thermos cooler stowed between the two stations, barely within reach from his seat in the widened Flighthawk control bay. The original B-52’s had three different crew areas. The pilot and copilot sat on the flight deck at the top front of the plane. The electronics warfare officer and gunner had a cabin on the same level behind them, where their side-by-side seats faced the rear of the plane. Below and roughly between these two areas was a bay for the navigator and radar operator.

In the Megafortress, the pilot and copilot—along with the extensive array of flight computers and advanced avionics—could handle all of the offensive and defensive duties as well as fly the plane. This allowed the other compartments to be modified and adapted according to the plane’s specific mission. Raven, for example, had been intended as a test bed for advanced ECM warfare and Elint-gathering craft, and her upper rear bay included extensive gear for that mission.

Gal, intended from the start as a dedicated Flighthawk “mother” with AWACS-like tracking capabilities, had duplicate U/MF control consoles in the upper compartment as well as the lower, where Jeff sat now. Lengthening and reshaping of the plane’s nose area during the remodel added two more seats on the flight deck, which would be used for the operators of the plane’s long-range surveillance radars. The changes had also made the lower Flighthawk bay somewhat more spacious than the offensive weapons station of a B-52G, though most of the extra space was taken up by test equipment and recorders.

Gal’s T/APY-9 surveillance radar had been installed, but its programming was not yet complete. For now, only the system’s most rudimentary capabilities were available, though even these were impressive for a fighter jock used to the traditional limits of small-area pulse-Doppler units. Operating in F band like the AN/APY-2 in the AWACS/E-3, Gal’s next-generation slotted, phased-array antenna was twelve feet wide, rotating in a slight bulge at the bottom of the fuselage roughly where the strike camera and ECM aerials would be located on a standard B-52. While only a third of the diameter of the APY-2, the radar had nearly the same range and capability as the earlier AWACS, with Pulse Repetition Frequency and environmental modes helping it pick up fighters “in the bushes” at fairly long range. At present there was no way to slave its inputs into C; Jeff had to manually send the feed to one of the multi-use display areas, read the plot, and take appropriate action. While most combat pilots would kill to have what amounted to their own personal AWACS unit, the procedure felt somewhat clunky in the Flighthawks’ otherwise seamless overlay of information and control.

Jeff popped the top on his soda and sipped slowly, watching the control panel. The U/MFs sat in their trail positions as precisely as a pair of Blue Angels preparing for a flight show.

The T/APY-9 required a few minutes to “warm up”—the revolving radar unit slowly accelerated from idle (one turn every four minutes) to operational mode, which was four revolutions per minute. The spinning disk changed the plane’s flight characteristics, and the pilots had to adjust their control surfaces and in some regimes their engine settings to compensate for it.

Jeff checked the unit’s status on panel two of the starboard station, then told Bree that he was about to gear up.

“Hang tight a second, Zen. We need to run through a systems check up here,” she replied.

“Roger that.”

Zen listened in as the two pilots worked through a short checklist; the procedure mostly consisted of his wife saying something and her copilot replying “in the green” or simply “green,” indicating that the item was at spec. But the snap in her voice fascinated Jeff, giving him a window into part of her that he hadn’t seen before the Megafortress and Flight-hawk projects were wed. He loved his wife for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that she was an excellent pilot and a fine officer; in fact, while he’d known that those things were true when they dated and married, he hadn’t paid much if any attention—they’d worked in what were then completely different areas. But over the past few months he had come to admire her on a professional level as well. There was a certain satisfaction listening to or watching her work, as if her efforts justified some judgment he had made: My wife is not only beautiful and a great lover and companion, but she can kick ass too. Zen knew it was probably just a selfish ego stroke, but he couldn’t help smiling to himself as she and her copilot cleared him to start the radar.

“We’ll be at the next mark in, oh, call it three minutes,” Bree told him.

“Looking good,” said Jeff, sliding on his Flighthawk control helmet.

“Sitting that close to the radar,” joked Chris, “you won’t need birth control tonight.”

“Ha-ha,” said Jeff.

“Fuel burn?” said Bree in her most businesslike voice.

Jeff jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Three and began descending, watching the radar plot on the left side of the screen supplied by T/APY-9. The feeds were being recorded and the diagnostics were all automated, but Zen didn’t see the point of having the damn thing on and not using it. Smaller and stealthier than a normal fighter, the Flighthawk had a radar cross-section about the size of a sparrow’s, but the T/APY-9 followed it easily as it slid downward. Jeff’s rudimentary controls allowed him two views—full and close-in—as well as query and non-query mode, which attempted to identify targets through ticklers or ident gear. The finished product would be able to fall back on a profile library for planes that didn’t respond, a feature C3 already had.

Close-in mode painted the Flighthawk at two thousand feet AGL, five miles distant, which was the test spec.

“Gal, I’m going to push Hawk Three out to ten miles and then dial the radar down to ten percent, see if we can follow it. Give the radar a real run. What do you say?”

“Simulating a hundred-mile scan?”

“Two hundred radius, give or take.”

“That’s going to put you outside the test range, Hawk Leader.”

“Roger that.”

“Wilderness area,” said Chris. “Sometimes they run tour helicopters up across the lake and around the mountain.”

“I’ll scan it first,” Jeff said. He clicked the Flighthawk’s radar into long-range search and scan while lowering his airspeed, making sure the air ahead was clear. Then he clicked the tactical AWACS radar’s plot into long-range view as well.

Clear.

He tucked the Flighthawk on her right wing, nudging toward a vast orange-colored plateau. There were times when he flew that the universe seemed to open up; he forgot he was sitting in the belly of a lumbering bomber, totally absorbed in the experience projected on his visor. He forgot about everything and just flew.

There was a valley about a mile south. Ducking into its recesses would give the T/APY a real workout. Jeff nudged the fuel slider on the underside of the control stick, picking up speed before plunging with a glorious roll down into the canyon.

A rock outcropping jagged off the side ahead. He had to pull hard left. He tried hitting the rudder pedals, didn’t get a response.

Of course not. His legs were useless. He had no rudder pedals.

Damn, he thought to himself, I haven’t done that in months.

ANTARES.

They were still weaning him from the drugs. Sometimes he thought of saving all the pills, taking them together, seeing if that might do it.

Zen pushed the idea away, concentrating on the flight, but he’d lost the magic. He began to climb mechanically, easing back toward Galatica as the bar showing the signal strength edged toward critical.

The Flighthawk was fat on the radar. But there was something else on the screen, at the far edge, something low and very small.

Not blue, as a civilian plane should have been coded by the gear.

Red with a black bar.

Another Flighthawk.

A spoof or bizarre echo.

Another contact swallowed it. A large civilian plane, flying very low, less than a hundred feet from the ground.

Jeff pressed the ident gear, but the contacts had disappeared.

“Bree, change course, go to 0145,” he said, naming a vector to the southeast. “Go!”

“Jeff?”

“I need you to snap on that course,” he said.

The Boeing complied, but the contact was lost. Jeff told C3 to put Hawk Three back into Trail One, then slid his control helmet up and reached to the other panel. But he couldn’t remember the right sequence to get the radar feed to replay off the test equipment.

“On course,” said Breanna.

“Chris—a hundred, hundred and fifty miles ahead on this vector. There any military installations?”

“You’ve got us straight on for Mount Trumble and the Grand Canyon,” said Chris.

“Beyond that.”

“Have to look at the paper map.”

“What’s the story, Zen?” asked Bree.

“I think I picked up another Flighthawk.”

“Jeff, no way. The radar probably just had a shadow or something.”

“I think we have to check it out. We have the fuel, right?”

Breanna didn’t answer.

“Nothing on the map,” said Chris.

“No Army base?”

“Well, I mean, how far do you want me to look?” asked the copilot.

“Two hundred miles.”

“Zen—”

“We have to check this out, Bree. The radar picked up a Flighthawk.”

“At two hundred miles?”

“It was flying in front of a larger plane. I think it’s Kevin.”

“Geraldo said she thought he would try and hit Los Alamos. If he’s still alive. And crazy.”

“We have to check it out,” he told her.

There was another long pause.

“Gal Leader concurs,” she said finally. “Notifying Dreamland Tower. I’ll see if there are any other government facilities along the route.”

“In the general area. It could be north of our course,” he added, picturing a pair of Flighthawks hugging the terrain en route to a target.

“Copy that.”

Aboard Hawkmother

Over Hulapi Mountains, Western Arizona

7 March, 1120 (1020 Dreamland)

THE GRAY-STRIPED JAGUAR STALKED BACK AND FORTH as the wind gathered force, the trees stirring and then shaking. The cat stopped, looking upward as it scented danger.

But it was too late. Madrone opened his talons wide and caught his enemy behind the neck, twisting with a sharp jerk so hard that the sharp claws severed the head completely from the body.

The first Avibras FOG-MPN crashed through the roof and down into the floor of the reception area of the DOE building at Skull Valley; it cleared a large hole to the basement. Ma-drone managed a quick correction on the trail missile, getting it cleanly through the two holes and into the basement laboratory area where he believed Theo Glavin would be. Hawk One, which had launched the missiles, shot wildly to the right as a massive secondary explosion rocked the sky. Madrone pitched the plane upward, his sensors temporarily blinded by the massive explosion of a pressurized helium tank.

He’d blown it. Even with his modifications, using the short-range weapons had been a tremendous mistake. Minerva had been wrong—she’d tricked him somehow, keeping him from his revenge.

Madrone felt himself falling from the plane, tumbling toward the parched desert. He was out of Theta, about to die.

I just want to be left alone, he thought. I want to be at peace. I don’t want to be a robot—I don’t want revenge or to kill anyone. I just want peace.

I want to die.

Christina stood before him, crying.

But warm hands clamped around his shoulders, and Minerva whispered in his ear. I want you. I want you.

Even though he did nothing to initiate it, even though he didn’t think of his Theta metaphor or try to control his breathing—Madrone snapped back into Theta, back in control of the Flighthawks.

Hawk One circled above the roaring flames of the Skull Valley DOE facility. Hawk Two, still carrying its missiles, hit its IP two miles from the target, approximately six miles from Hawkmother.

The security shack was the only part of the facility left intact. Madrone zeroed in on it from Hawk Two and fired one of the Avibras FOG-MPNs. As the missile sped toward its target, he saw a small culvert on the roadway about a half mile south. He targeted it and pickled, wiping out the only approach to the lab.

“Target destroyed,” he told the Boeing’s pilots. “Return.”

He felt the pull of gravity as the pilots jerked the plane into a tight bank and hit the rocket-assist pods to accelerate. It felt good. He needed to get home, needed to wrap himself around his lover, sink deep inside her.

Aboard Galatica

Over Arizona

7 March, 1130

DREAMLAND TOWER HAD JUST REQUESTED ADDITIONAL information when the sky exploded fifty miles ahead of Breanna’s left wing. The flare of the explosion seemed to tear the bluish haze in half.

“Holy shit,” said Chris.

“Get a fix on the location. Tell them,” Breanna said.

“I have Hawkmother on the T/APY,” Zen told Breanna over the interphone. “That’s definitely him. Seventy-five miles, correct five degrees south.”

“Can you feed me the radar image?” asked Breanna as she worked onto the course.

“Negative,” said Jeff. “Come on. They’re pulling away.”

“We’re at the firewall.”

“You’re not going to let him get away, are you? Come on, Rap. Kick some butt.”

Breanna touched the throttle slider, even though she knew it was useless—the engines were at the max. They were moving at nearly 565 nautical miles an hour, or Mach .95. That was a good deal faster than a standard B-52 could muster in level flight at 35,000 feet, and it was in fact fairly quick even for a Megafortress. They ought to be able to catch Hawk-mother easily; the Boeing’s top speed was “only” about 520 knots.

“We’re falling back,” said Zen.

“Are you sure you have live contacts?” Bree asked. “There’s no way he could outaccelerate us.”

“He is.”

“You’re positive it’s Hawkmother?”

“Stay on this course.”

“Gal Leader.”

Dreamland Commander’s Office

7 March, 1135

DOG HAD JUST STARTED TO THINK ABOUT GOING IN search of lunch when his phone buzzed.

“Bastian,” he barked as he brought the receiver to his ear. “Urgent transmission for you, Colonel,” said Ax. “Tower on the line.”

“Punch it through,” said Bastian. He braced himself for the inevitable bad news. In the half second it took for Gibbs to punch the button and make the connection, he thought of Breanna and felt a twinge of fear.

“Colonel, Major Stockard thinks he’s found Hawkmother. They’re trailing them south of here,” blurted the controller.

“What?”

“Hawkmother—there’s been an attack.”

“Okay. All right, I need this line—wait,” he said quickly. “What other planes do we have in the air?”

“None at this time, sir. Satellite window reopens in ten minutes. Raven’s due up at 1500.”

“They don’t have clearance to take off until I give it to you directly, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the controller.

Bastian jumped to his feet and slammed down the phone. They’d outfit Raven and he’d go after them.

“Ax, tell Danny Freah to meet me over at the Megafortress hangar,” he said, pushing into the outer office where his chief worked. “Call over there, find out who’s on the duty roster. No, never mind—tell Major Cheshire to get there quickly. And have that plane fueled to the max. Go.”

Madeira Hotel

Pôrto Velho, Brazil

7 March, 1435 local (1035 Dreamland)

WHEN GENERAL HERULE ENTERED THE ROOM TO BEGIN the meeting, Minerva felt astoundingly light-headed, barely able to believe she had lived to see this day. The general’s personal bodyguard—wearing freshly adopted purple berets and matching epaulets as insignia—marched smartly into the hotel ballroom, flanking the doors. Their freshly polished boots reflected the sparkling chandeliers; the thick-paneled walls behind them showed off the sharp green of their khaki uniforms. Herule strode to the row of conference tables that had been set up in the exact center of the elaborate inlaid wood floor, standing at perfect attention. The sleepy town had been chosen as the site for the meeting because it was far from the capital; the hotel, finished only a few months before, because it could be easily secured. But in that moment it seemed to Minerva that there could not have been a more perfect and grand setting; the general filled the room with an air of majesty and power.