Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

VII

DOOM

 

Pej, Brazil

7 March, 2300 (1900 Dreamland)

AS SHE WALKED TOWARD THE AMERICAN PLANE, Minerva’s anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of awe and even envy. The massive black plane loomed from the dark shadows like a mythic beast, its sleek nose a sword thrusting from massive shoulders. The plane towered above her on its gear, with smooth skin like a dark shark in the night. It was so big it seemed like another part of the mountain, pulled down in an avalanche. Yet the F-5 pilots reported the big bomber could turn as tightly as they could. Had the plane been armed, the outcome of the battle would have been far different.

The two men guarding the hatchway snapped to attention when they saw their commander approaching. She gave them a salute, then took hold of the railing and walked upward into the reddish glow of the interior.

The lower deck looked like a television studio control room, with a wide array of monitors and a bank of computers and other gear along the walls. She guessed this was the place where the robot planes were controlled from joystick controls and extensive video banks sat in front of both seats, somewhat similar to the arrangement in Hawkmother. The seat on the right turned on a special rail; the crippled commander must sit there.

Minerva climbed to the flight deck slowly. Madrone said the Megafortress had started as an old B-52, but this didn’t seem possible—the cockpit belonged in something from the twenty-first century, or maybe the twenty-second. A smooth glass panel covered the entire dashboard area; there were no mechanical switches or old-fashioned dials on its surface. Screen areas, instruments, and controls were all configurable, either by touch or voice command. The throttle bar between the pilot and copilot did not move, but responded to pressure input. Control sticks rather than wheels guided the plane once airborne; textured areas indicated sensor switches built directly into the stick surface. Dull yellow letters in the windscreen showed clearly that the heads-up display, rather than being mirrored from a projector, was actually part of the window surface.

The plane’s potential as a scout, as a bomber, as the leader of a squadron of interceptors was limitless. With one Mega-fortress, she could dominate not merely Brazil, but all of South America.

But she had to give it back.

More than that. She had to find a way to get it back to the Americans without being implicated in its theft.

She would fly it first certainly.

And then?

Minerva slipped into the pilot’s seat. She would never give it back if she took off. No pilot could. To fly this plane would be to relive the first moment, the first dream of flight. She could never give it back.

But she had to. The Americans would never let her be if she kept it. They would take the plane back by force and dispose of her like a cockroach who had wandered into their home.

She could fight off the Americans. She could destroy them.

Desire erupted inside her, the darkness of her soul spreading everywhere. She would keep the plane, she would keep Madrone, she would destroy anyone who dared oppose her.

With great difficulty, Minerva forced herself from the seat and out of the plane. She had to let go of Kevin before he destroyed her. Even if it meant cutting her chest open with her nails and tearing out her heart.

Aboard Raven

Over the Gulf of Mexico

7 March, 2100 local (1900 Dreamland)

“OUR TANKER IS SET,” COLONEL BASTIAN TOLD NANCY Cheshire, quickly reviewing their position on the Megafortress’s navigation screen. “They’ll run a track as far south as possible. We have about an hour on our present course and speed.”

“Good enough,” said Cheshire.

“I think being copilot may be more difficult than piloting this plane,” said Bastian. Even though they had two operators aboard to handle the EB-52’s radio-eavesdropping gear, Dog was responsible for many functions that would have been handled by the navigator and weapons operators in a standard B-52. Granted, the computer did much of the grunt work, but just calling up the proper panels on the multi-use screens seemed an art.

“You’re doing fine,” said Cheshire.

“I’m going to check back with the Nimitz,” Dog told her. “See if their planes picked up anything.”

“Go for it.”

Raven’s gear made it possible for him to communicate with literally anyone in the world, as long as they could directly access satellite connections. Dog had preset the frequencies they were using for the search, and found himself speaking to a Navy flight commander in the southwestern Caribbean a half second after punching the buttons.

Nothing to report.

Southern Command had tracked Galatica to Venezuela. F/ A-18’s from the Nimitz had heard Chris Ferris, Gal’s copilot, as the plane approached Brazil, though he hadn’t answered their own hails. After that, the plane had disappeared without a trace.

Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela had all been enlisted in the search, though they were told only that they were looking for a B-52. Brazil had been fairly forthcoming, volunteering two squadrons for the search and detailing the country’s two Grumman Trackers to help out, even though the radar planes were optimized for naval operations and had only limited SAR capabilities.

The Venezuelans had fairly limited resources, but were also cooperating. Colombia, on the other hand, had balked, claiming to be very busy with an outbreak of guerrilla attacks in the south.

Not to jump to any conclusions, but it seemed the obvious place to concentrate their efforts. Unfortunately, it was currently out of range of the Nimitz and her planes. A second task force, which included a Marine MEU, was heading east from the southern Pacific, but they were still a good way off.

The com system flashed a line on Dog’s screen, indicating that they had an incoming text message from Quickmover, the Dreamland C-17 dedicated as the transport for the Whiplash assault team. Bastian touched the glass surface next to the message, and the text appeared in its place.

“On station.”

“Danny and his boys are orbiting off Mexico,” Bastian told Cheshire.

“Transmissions, too far to get a fix, very weak. Could be a distress signal,” said one of the operators.

“Give me a heading,” said Cheshire.

“Lost it, ma’am,” said the operator, Senior Airman Sean O’Brien.

“No way to pin it down?” Bastian asked.

“The problem is, Colonel, on those line-of-sight transmitters, you’re dealing with very weak signals and at this point, really what you’re trying to do is figure the bounces. This could have been fairly far away, possibly even in Brazil.”

The computer flashed a message on the corn line of the HUD:

“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”

Dog had to give a voice command to allow Raven to unscramble the transmission. It was piped only into his headset. “Colonel Bastian, this is Jed Barclay.”

“Go ahead, Jed.”

“Stand by for Assistant Secretary McCormack.”

Raven’s antennas provided a precise, clear pickup over the secure long-wave communications system, which had been originally developed for use by the President and the top brass in the event of a nuclear war. The transmission, conveyed at a slight delay because of the nature of the radio waves used and the distance they traveled, was nonetheless so clear that Dog felt his eardrums melt with McCormack’s anger.

“What the hell are you doing, Colonel?” she demanded.

“We’re conducting a search for Hawkmother and Galatica, an EB-52 that tracked her south after the raid on Skull Valley. I sent word of that quite some time ago,” said Dog. “I’ve been in communication with Jed—”

“Colonel, the Secretary wants you to return to your base immediately. Immediately.”

“Is that an order?”

“You know damn well I can’t give you a direct order,” she snapped. “General Magnus will contact you shortly.” The line went dead.

“What’s up?” Cheshire asked.

“I’m in a whole heap of trouble,” said Dog.

“Been there before,” said Cheshire.

Not like this, thought Bastian. He couldn’t leave his daughter and he couldn’t disobey a direct order, which would undoubtedly soon be forthcoming.

His career would tank now anyway, with the loss of Galatica and its two Flighthawks on top of Hawkmother. Excuses wouldn’t matter—look at what had happened to Brad Elliott.

Screwed every which way.

He needed to help Breanna.

More than likely it was too late. He had other responsibilities.

“We’ll stay on course until we receive further orders,” he told Nancy.

Pej, Brazil

7 March, 2330 (1930 Dreamland)

ZEN EYED THE BRAZILIAN SOLDIERS AT THE DOOR, wondering whether their polite and even deferential air was a good sign or not. While they didn’t appear to speak English, the soldiers who had taken him off the plane were well disciplined and well briefed, inspecting not just him but the ejection seat for weapons. They had even produced a receipt for his old Colt .45, which had been holstered in his gear. And they had allowed him to wheel himself to his “guest room”—a rather large storage room in one of the hangars.

Two soldiers stood silently next to the door, rifles in hand. Others were apparently outside, since he could hear voices and occasional laughs. They had offered food and water and even some Brazilian beer, though Zen had declined it all.

An odd sound from outside startled him, and he looked toward the doorway. Something big was being wheeled down the hallway.

It sounded like one of the equipment carts in the hospital where he’d spent so much time after his accident. His stomach pinched and his side ached with the memory of his helplessness and despair.

Two soldiers wheeled in a television set with a video player on top of it. Zen expected a message of some sort; remembering Jed’s reference to the Brazilian leadership scramble, he thought he might even be treated to some sort of diatribe about local politics. But the Brazilians had loaded in a tape with old Gunsmoke reruns.

One of the guards handed his M-16 to his companion and came over to watch.

If he had his legs, Jeff thought, he could overpower the bastards.

And then what? Single-handedly take over the base? Might just as well hope for Matt Dillon to walk out of the screen, six-guns blazing.

The set of boots scraping in the hall were nearly muffled by the volume of the television. Even so, Zen recognized the scrape long before Madrone entered the room. He prepared himself, gripping the chair rests tightly to check the anger welling up. But rage deserted him when he saw the blanched and hollow-eyed face of his friend.

“What’s going on, Kevin?” said Zen.

Madrone laughed. “You know what’s going on. You tried to destroy me. You’re still trying.”

Madrone’s body moved with jerks, his hands nearly flying off his arms. He seemed about ready to fly apart.

“Kevin, it’s Zen,” he said. “Do you realize that?”

“What do you think, I’m stupid?”

“Are you all right?”

Madrone laughed.

“Why are you working with the Brazilians?” Jeff said. “What’s going on? You look like you’re a ghost.”

“You know what’s going on. I’m not working with the Brazilians. They’re working for me.”

“ANTARES has messed you up. I took the drugs too. I know what they can do. You have to come home with me.” Madrone snorted with contempt.

“Going off the drugs messes you up,” Zen explained. “You become paranoid. Geraldo says—”

“I don’t care what she says. I’ll get her. I got Glavin. I’ll get them all. I know you’re going to get me. I understand that. But I’ll take as many of you down with me as I can. I will.”

“I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“Bullshit! Bullshit! You were part of it. You are part of it.”

Madrone’s fingers slashed the air. His skin went from white to red in an instant. It stretched taut over the bones of his face, which seemed animated by a sirocco.

“You have to let us help you, Kevin,” said Jeff softly. Madrone blinked at him, then bent closer. For a moment, Jeff thought he had gotten through.

“I’ll kill you all,” said Madrone, his voice even softer than Jeff s. “All of you.”

There was a burst of gunfire on the TV, so loud that Jeff jerked back apprehensively, turning toward the TV. When he looked up again, Kevin was gone.

MADRONE’S HEAD POUNDED AS HE WALKED FROM THE building. His mind had shorn itself into splinters, each wedge manipulated by the spider in his skull. New voices yapped at him, emerging from the maelstrom between the segments of his brain.

Zen is your friend. What was he trying to say?

Jeff was a victim just as Kevin was. They’d made him a robot.

Breanna too. And the copilot.

Kill them!

Zen seemed to think he could escape. Had he said that? Or had Kevin wanted him to say that?

The shadows closed around Madrone as he walked out into the night. The jungle—he was back in the jungle.

He was in Theta, connected to ANTARES. But he wasn’t wearing the helmet, wasn’t in the airplane or his special suit. There was no computer in sight.

Where was Minerva? He needed her.

MINERVA ALLOWED HERSELF A LONG MOMENT OF indulgence, staring at the mountains from her balcony. The stars seemed to have a light purple glow tonight—destiny stars, an omen.

Good or bad?

Good. Only good.

The door opened in the room behind her. Minerva took one long breath, then slipped inside.

Kevin stood in the middle of the room. “Why did you bring them here?” he demanded.

“Kevin, I didn’t bring them here.”

“Zen and Breanna—you wanted them to come.”

Minerva suppressed a shudder. “They followed you. love.” She glided toward him, striving to keep calm. “You’ve forgotten? I know you’re tired.”

She wrapped her hands around his shoulders. His muscles were hard metal; his heart pounded crazily.

His madness had grown nearly uncontrollable in the past twenty-four hours; he was no longer simply dangerous, but crazy as well.

That ought to have made it easier for her to let him go. But it didn’t.

“I always knew they were against me,” Kevin said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“They’re all bastards.”

“You will carry out your attack in the morning using their plane. The repairs will be finished in time. I’m positive of it,” she added, more to convince herself than him. “They will help.” Minerva ran her hands across his shoulder, then slipped her fingers beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, sliding them to his flesh.

“They won’t help me,” he said fiercely.

Fear froze her hand. He might resist—he might even turn against her.

“The Lawrence Livermore Laboratories in San Francisco,” she said. “Isn’t that where they poisoned your daughter for the final time? Perhaps she was only sick until then—and that was where they killed her.”

He’d told her several times about the treatment, performed near but not actually in the lab. Always he had spoken with anger, clearly wanting to destroy the place. It should have been his deepest desire now, the simplest way to hold him in her fingers.

But not today.

“I’m not going,” he said calmly.

She slid her hand away, drifting back toward the chair in the corner of the room. The gun was beneath the cushion. If she killed him, what would she do?

Destroy the planes, get rid of the others. There would be no trace.

Better—take some of the remains and scatter them north near the border. Her people were already helping the American searchers and offering to do more. Of course, their every move had to be cleared with her.

It wouldn’t be as convincing as her plan to send him back with the plane after pretending he had attacked her base. But luck seemed finally to have turned against her.

Still, the benefits were worth another risk. Her hand easing toward the pistol, she gathered herself to try again to persuade him.

“Whether you go or not, it is your decision,” Minerva told him. “If you do, I will give you a weapon that will guarantee their destruction. I have two warheads,” she added. Even as she said it—even though she knew it was merely part of her own plan to get rid of him—she felt a certain undeniable excitement, a lust for destruction that he provoked.

“The warheads have nuclear bombs. They are small and were designed for artillery shells. But you could adapt them. Take one. I need the other here, in case they attack.”

Madrone drew back. She sensed she’d lost him, and fought the impulse to go to him. She felt a tinge of fear, shame at her own desire

And then she continued to speak.

“Do they still do those hideous experiments there?” she said. “They must have known what it would do to her. Perhaps they lied from the beginning.”

“No!”

Kevin’s whole body shook so violently that Lanzas reached for her gun. But Madrone only collapsed on the floor.

“They’re my friends,” he murmured as she folded herself over him.

He bawled like a baby on the floor. She loved him, she truly loved him.

“If they are your friends, they will help you,” Minerva told him. “You’ll take off before dawn. The plane will be repaired then. The skin on one of the rear stabilizers is being replaced with aluminum, which perhaps will alter the flight characteristics, but it should be manageable.”

“What if they won’t help me?”

“Then our men will fly the plane. Or you can,” she said. “We’ll do whatever we have to.”

“Give me the bombs,” said Madrone. He took a breath and raised his head.

“They are warheads only. I thought perhaps they could be placed on the tank missiles as you did with the explosives. They’re about the same size. But there’s no time.”

“There’s time. I can fix it.” He’d changed back into the dervish, the determined avenger. His voice was resolute; the insanity had receded. “I’ll destroy Livermore, and I’ll destroy Dreamland, the base where they invaded my brain.”

“We have to reserve one warhead for here, in case they attack,” Minerva told him. “Could you rig it to explode from a timer or remote control?”

“Child’s play. Quickly.” He jumped up.

She realized she should let him go, but something deep inside her made her reach out and grab his arm. “Let’s make love first.”

Aboard Raven

Over the Gulf of Mexico

7 March, 2130 local (1930 Dreamland)

THE RADAR OPERATOR HAD JUST FINISHED TELLING DOG that the scans were clean when the yellow bar on the HUD flashed.

“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”

Bastian snapped on the transmission.

“You’ve lost your mind,” said Magnus.

“No, sir,” said Bastian. “What I’ve lost is an EB-52.”

“I’m not going to be able to bail you out of this one, Dog,” said the three-star.

“I’m not asking you to bail me out, General.”

“You are to set a course for Dreamland and return there without delay. The search will be handled properly, through official channels.”

“I am official channels. As per—”

“Colonel!”

“Yes, sir,” said Bastian. “We’re heading to refuel anyway.”

“Who’s your copilot?”

“I’m the copilot.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Major Cheshire is acting under my orders,” said Dog. “She filed a protest. It’s in the log,” he added, hoping they could add it retroactively.

“That may not save her either. Let me talk to her.”

“You have to authorize it on your end,” Bastian told him.

The line was silent for a moment, apparently while the general consulted with whatever technician was helping him complete the transmission.

“Is he going to yell at me?” Cheshire asked.

“I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor.”

“The condemned always joke before the hanging.”

“Major Cheshire?”

“Yes, General.”

“You get home. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bastian, contact me when you’re an hour from base. I’m in D.C. Find me. Out.”

“Doesn’t sound too pleased,” said Cheshire.

“Probably had a long day,” said Dog.

“What are we doing, Colonel?”

He couldn’t leave Breanna; he just couldn’t.

But it was senseless to stay here. Even without Magnus on his back, he ought to return. They had no transmission, no beacon, no sign of Galatica.

“Message, Colonel,” prompted Nancy.

Dog looked up and saw the alert code, indicating the line was scrambled and from D.C. Sighing, he once more authorized the line. He was surprised to hear Jed Barclay’s voice, not the general’s.

“Uh, Colonel, I have e-mail here, came through the NSC public system. I believe you got a copy too at Dreamland. But I want to read it to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen. ‘Deposit sixty million U.S. dollars in the following account by 0600 Pacific Coast time, or Lawrence Livermore Labs will be destroyed, along with San Francisco.’ There’s some account numbers too, which seem to be linked to a bank in the Caymans, though I haven’t been able to trace it yet. It’s signed by Madrone.”

“What?”

“I’d think it was just a loony, but there’s a TIFF file attached.”

“What’s a TIFF file?”

“Tagged graphic. Very low resolution and primitive algorithms, no security at all. But basically, it’s a photograph or a video frame. It’s a picture of an EB-52 with damage to the rear. I’m guessing it’s the one you’re searching for, but there’s no way to authenticate the picture or the e-mail definitively.”

“Where did the message come from?” Dog asked.

“At the moment, I’m not sure. We’ve traced the e-mail back to Italy, but it probably didn’t originate there.”

“Okay,” said Bastian. “Jed, have you been able to organize that surveillance via the satellites?”

“Yes, nothing there yet. I’ll get to that in a second, Colonel,” added Barclay. “There was another file attached to this e-mail. It had a line drawing. I’m not an expert, but it looks like a nuclear warhead. I’m trying to have it checked out now.”

“What did your boss say?”

“He’s en route to the White House to inform the President right now.”

Aboard Dreamland Combat Transport C-17/D “Quickmover”

Over the Caribbean

2240 local (1940 Dreamland)

DANNY NEARLY SLIPPED OFF THE CREW LADDER AS HE descended into the belly of the C-17. Sergeant Talcom suppressed a laugh at the base of the ladder, but the rest of his Whiplash team members guffawed so loudly he could hear them over the whine of the transport’s four powerful engines.

“All right, listen up,” Freah said. “We’re putting down for a while in Panama.”

“We got a target?” asked Bison, practically jumping off the plastic bench.

“No. We’re working on it. We have to refuel and the powers that be are gathering some intelligence.”

“Translation: Some jerkoff in D.C. wants to go to bed,” said Powder.

The others started to laugh again.

“You know, Sergeant, I hear the latrines here are a very interesting place to spend an evening. All sorts of yummy bugs to check out.”

Danny had so much venom in his voice that not one of the others dared to as much as titter as he climbed back up to the flight deck.

Pej, Brazil

March 8, 0100 local (March 7, 2100 Dreamland)

BREANNA HAD SAT ON THE WOODEN CHAIR FOR WHAT seemed like several hours, exchanging glares with the male guards. They made no move to attack her, and had even been delicate searching her for a weapon; if she’d had anything besides her bulky Beretta, she would have been able to conceal it easily. Still, her vulnerability felt like a physical thing, pricking at her skin.

She worried about Jeff. He was due for another round of the diluted ANTARES drugs in two hours. Geraldo had told her that he had to take them within five minutes of her carefully worked out schedule, or else he’d begin to feel effects of withdrawal.

A burly airman appeared at the door carrying her flight and survival gear. He placed it on the floor next to the guard, but the soldiers waved her back into her seat when she rose to examine it. A few minutes later the same airman came in with a large bowl of food. This, at least, she was allowed to have. Despite the toughness of the beans, she ate it quickly, and slurped the thin broth at the bottom. She was done by the time Chris was led into the room a few minutes later. One of his guards carried his gear, placing it next to hers by the door.

“You’re eating that shit?” he said.

“Better than starving.”

“You don’t think it’s drugged?”

“If they were going to drug it, they would have made it taste better,” she said.

“Think they’ll release us soon?”

Breanna shrugged. She could hear Zen’s wheelchair in the hallway.

Jeff rolled into the room, an ironic smile on his face. Before she could ask what was possibly so funny, a tall man entered behind him and began giving orders in Portuguese. The guards quickly grabbed the flight gear and thrust it at Breanna and Chris, though mixing up who belonged to what.

“We’re being released,” said Chris.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Zen, still wearing his bemused expression. It was a mask he sometimes used; maybe it meant he was planning something.

“Where’s your gear?” Breanna asked.

“They made me leave it in the plane.”

“What’s so funny?” she said.

“I got a TV and you didn’t,” he said, then added, “They think I’m going to help fly the Flighthawks.”

“What?”

“He speaks English,” said Zen in a stage whisper. “He says we’re going back north. They think we’re going to help.”

“That wasn’t quite what he said.”

Breanna looked up and saw Kevin Madrone standing in the doorway.

“He said you will assist me or be killed,” said Madrone. “Hello, Breanna. Captain Ferris.”

“I’m not helping you, Kevin. Your head’s screwed up.” Zen wheeled around to face him. “You’re going through withdrawal from the drugs. ANTARES blew up your mind. Take it from me. You’re screwy. Nuts.”

Kevin glared at him, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. And then he launched himself at Zen, flying across the room and swinging wildly. Jeff swung in his chair and managed to slip back so that Madrone fell to the floor. But this only enraged Kevin more. Breanna jumped to help her husband as Madrone’s punches started to land, but found herself in the arms of one of the security guards. Another guard had a pistol in Chris’s chest.

“Stop it! Stop!” she cried.

The soldiers tried to break up the fight. A rapid burst through the ceiling from an automatic rifle finally caught Madrone’s attention, or perhaps his fury ran out; he allowed himself to be dragged off Zen.

“Kevin, what’s happened to you?” Breanna demanded. Madrone shrugged off the guards, then shook his head, catching his breath. “I didn’t think you’d be in on this, Bree.”

“Be in on what, Kevin? What’s going on?”

“I’m not listening to you. I know you’re going to get me, but I’ll take you down too. I’ll take enough of you down to hurt you.”

“Are you involved in the revolt against the Brazilian government?” said Jeff. His voice was so calm he sounded as if he were a graduate student asking a question at a seminar.

Jeff had provoked the attack, perhaps thinking the surge of emotions would break through, Breanna realized. But it hadn’t worked, at least not the way he’d hoped.

“There’s no revolt,” said Madrone.

“Sure there is. There’s a new government already. You helped take over the country with Hawkmother and the U/ MFs.”

“People attacked us, and we neutralized them,” said Ma-drone. “We’re going to do that now.”

“Christina died from a cancer that had nothing to do with you or your work, Kevin,” said Zen. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It was just—horrible luck. Look at me.”

“Get them aboard the plane,” Madrone told the guards. “Handcuff the ones who can walk.”

“Who are you working for?” Chris asked.

“I’m not working for anyone.”

“I wouldn’t trust them,” said Chris.

“I don’t,” said Madrone, leaving the room.

OUTSIDE, KEVIN STOPPED AND FELL AGAINST THE SIDE of the building, gasping for air. Had they been his enemies from the beginning? Or had they turned against him?

Betrayal was the worst crime. To go against your friend or your family or your lover—what could be worse?

To kill your own daughter.

He hadn’t killed her. They had. The bastards.

When they closed in, he would kill himself. He would borrow a pistol from one of the men. He would get as much revenge as possible. Then cheat them.

They would come after Minerva to avenge their losses. She was still naive—she thought they would escape together when he returned, but he, wouldn’t return.

They would destroy her too. Worse, they would make her suffer as Christina had. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

Kevin felt his body relax, the last vestiges of the headache sifting away. It was finished. He hurried to check on the men working on Minerva’s weapon.

Dreamland

7 March, 2200 local

THEY LANDED PRECISELY AT TEN P.M., having pushed Raven to the max. Dog slipped out of the cockpit dead tired, and went straight to the waiting Hummer without bothering to stop to change out of his gear.

The inimitable Ax was waiting at the door to his office suite with a cup of very black coffee.

“Hey, Chief. Big shots want to bark at you,” said the sergeant.

“What the hell are you doing up?”

“Never miss a hangin’,” said Gibbs, who despite his bonhomie, wore traces of worry and fatigue in the cracks around his eyes. “You’re supposed to plug into a conference call on the scrambled line. Mudroom’s all set up downstairs.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be down with the coffee soon as it finishes perkin’. Captain Freah landed in Panama,” added Ax. “Standing by for your orders.”

“Okay.” Dog took a long swig from the coffee, then handed the cup back to Ax for a refill. “What, no paperwork?”

“At this hour SOP is to forge your initials.”

Downstairs, Dog nodded at the pair of MPs covering the door and went inside the empty control room. Cleared into the secure video conference circuit, he found the others were already talking together.

“Colonel Bastian has joined us,” said Jed Barclay in the White House basement.

“Colonel,” said General Magnus gruffly.

“Good evening, Colonel.” The screen flickered and a new face appeared on the screen at the front of the room. It was the President, Kevin Martindale.

“Sir.”

“How real is this threat?” Martindale, dressed in a cardigan sweater, sat in a thick chair aboard Air Force One. Philip Freeman, John Keesh, and a grim-faced aide sat nearby.

“I’m afraid it’s very real, sir,” said Barclay.

“I want to hear Colonel Bastian,” said Martindale. “Is ANTARES responsible?”

Bastian hesitated. “I’m afraid it appears likely ANTARES was involved. We’re still trying to connect all the dots.”

“ANTARES is nothing but grief. Promising poison. It’s to end right now, on my order. This overrules any directive you may get from anyone else, no matter who it is.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bastian.