Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Attack them,” said Minerva.

“We can get by them,” suggested Breanna. “It will be safer.”

“Do it.”

“Hold on. I’m going to take us out of this turbulence. Computer—”

“Don’t change the course,” Minerva hissed, leaning toward her.

“Do you want to get by them or not?”

“Don’t change the course, or the altitude.”

“I just have to get out of this storm.”

Minerva grabbed her hand.

The Flighthawk screen showed the Eagles in a standard search sweep, running well off to the west. A standard B-52 would be clearly visible to them, but Gal had the profile of a barn swallow, and unless the plane made a sudden movement, the interceptors were likely to miss it.

“They’re off my radar,” said Kevin.

“If we switched our radar on, we’d see threats two to three hundred miles away,” Breanna told Lanzas.

“Three hundred miles?”

“How do you think we were able to track you to Brazil? Gal is testing a—”

“The radar would also allow our enemies to see us coming,” said Lanzas, her voice tired. “Please, Captain, do not test me further.”

JEFF CURSED AS THE F-15S PASSED OUT TO SEA, another chance lost.

“I know you’re watching me, Jeff,” said Madrone. His voice came from a small speaker in the console ordinarily used only by the Megafortress’s systems. “Put the headset on.

Slowly, Jeff pushed upright and reached for the headset. His sore upper body moved like the works in an old rusted clock, creaking and cracking.

“Kevin, how did you manage to use that speaker?” he asked. “It’s not part of ANTARES or C3.”

“There are no boundaries I can’t cross, Jeff.”

“You flew Hawkmother too. How? Through the gateway?”

“I’m beyond ANTARES, Jeff. I don’t need the computer.”

“Show me. Take off the control helmet.”

“Don’t try and trick me. I’m not stupid.”

“Withdrawal from the Theta drugs makes you paranoid,” Jeff said. He turned and looked across the bay at the man who had been his friend. “It did it to me. It still affects me.”

“It’s not paranoia when people are really out to get you.”

“I thought I could feel my legs,” said Jeff. “It really tricked me.”

“You’re the only one playing tricks.”

“I can’t feel my legs, Kevin. It was a dream—a desire or something I can’t control. It’s not too late,” he said. “Geraldo can help you. Take us back to Dreamland and surrender. I’ll help you. I swear 1 will.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Stoking Madrone’s anger was the only weapon Jeff had. Down here there’d be no one to stop him. Zen couldn’t walk, but he would pit his upper body strength against anyone’s. As soon as Madrone lunged, he’d grab his neck and strangle him. Whatever it took to subdue him, he’d do.

Whatever it took to help him, he’d try; he hadn’t been lying about that.

“You going to hit me?” he told Kevin. “Come on, Monkey Brain. Hit me, Twig.”

Madrone didn’t move.

“What are you waiting for, Monkey Boy?”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jeff.” Madrone’s voice sounded sad, and far away. “You tried that before and it worked. But it won’t work now. No.”

“Come on, Monkey Brain. Microchip Head. Mack Smith nailed it for once. Come on. You’re a wimp. Come on.” But Madrone no longer spoke to him.

Pej, Brazil

8 March, 0647 local

BISON’S HANDS SHOOK AS HE ANGLED THE screwdriver blade beneath the small metal band. He nodded. Danny closed his eyes.

Something snapped. But there wasn’t an explosion. “Okay, we’re ready to work on the native timer and lock mechanism,” said Bison. “It’s hot.”

As Danny relayed the information to Annie, he saw that his sergeant’s hands were shaking violently.

“Undo the LED panel on the code-lock assembly right next to the explosive that launches the pellet,” said Annie. “You see it?”

Danny told Bison. The munitions expert nodded, then pushed a Phillips-head screwdriver down toward the light green panel.

The blade slipped and clattered on the floor.

Danny grabbed Bison’s arm as he reached for the screwdriver. “Kevin, let me try.”

“I’ve d-done this a million times.”

“I know. Let me take the responsibility, though. It’s not just us who’s blowing up.”

“We evacuated the Army guys, Captain,” said Bison, but then he slid back.

The panel wouldn’t come off.

Bison held the Satcom to his head. “Now what, Annie?” said Freah.

“Try it again,” she said.

“Shit.”

“It’s either that or reattach the timer and reset the detonation time.”

“Jesus.”

“You sound nervous, Captain. We will try sorting through the wires. Just don’t cut them all. As I told you before, complete power loss will trigger—”

There was a click and the line went dead.

“Annie? Annie?”

“I think that storm’s blocking the satellite,” said Bison, working the radio. “Time’s down to two minutes,” he added.

Danny stared at the back of the LED panel. The large integrated circuit had several small solder points at the back, but nothing that gave any clue about how it worked.

“Let’s short the thing out,” offered Powder from behind him. “Dump it in water. I got a bucket right here.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Powder?” said Freak “You were supposed to bug out.”

“None of us are going to leave you, Captain,” said Liu. “Don’t tell me you’re all here. Are you?”

“No, sir. We’re not here,” said Reagan.

Danny turned his attention back to the Satcom. “Annie? Annie?”

Nothing.

He leaned over the bomb. He could cut the wire that connected the LED lock mechanism. Annie had said that doing that would probably kill power to the spytron, the highly sensitive and accurate trigger that activated an accelerating explosive lens around the “catcher’s mitt” of uranium once the radioactive seed was launched toward it. But the explosive that sent the radioactive seed into the rest of the material would still ignite, as would the lens itself—a nanosecond or two too late to start a chain reaction maybe, but definitely in time to kill them.

“Everybody out of the hangar,” Freah shouted, taking the thick combat knife in his hand and reaching it across the thick wires. “That’s a fuckin’ order. Get out of here.”

“Captain!” shouted Powder.

“Go!”

“Nuke’ll get us anyway, Captain,” Bison said. “Rather be able to tell St. Peter I didn’t run away.”

“Just the explosive is going off,” said Danny. “Go!”

“Klondike said that might not work.”

“Go!”

“Thirty seconds,” said Bison, studying at his own watch.

“Here, Captain,” shouted Powder, running across the floor with a ceramic cup and a plastic gallon jug of water. He slipped on the smooth concrete, managing a leg-first slide near the bomb. He held the cup and jug out in front of him. “Douse it. We got nothing to lose.”

“Twenty seconds. He might be right,” said Bison.

Powder spilled water from the jug into the cup, his hands wobbly as he tried to slip it in place under Freah’s hand.

Would that work?

If it didn’t, he’d cut the wires.

Danny hesitated.

Do both at the same time.

“Fifteen.”

One way or the other, everyone in the hangar would die.

Bison reached over, trying to steady Powder’s hands. But he was shaking just as bad.

“Go!” Danny yelled.

“No time!” shouted Liu.

Danny closed his eyes and pulled back on the knife, sliding the blade through the collection of wires. He waited for the long millisecond before death, heard the fizzle of the explosion as it began.

But it wasn’t the explosion at all.

“Jeez, Louise, that was close,” said Powder. He pulled the LED into the water.

The fizzle had come from the clock circuit shorting.

“Captain, did you cut the wires?” asked Liu.

“They’re cut,” said Freah, looking at them.

“Shit,” said Powder.

“Got Ms. Klondike!” yelled Liu.

Danny sat back on the floor. The fluorescent lights in the hangar seemed very yellow. Liu came over on his knees and held the handset to Danny’s ears.

“Where have you been?” Annie asked.

“I cut the wires,” he said. “Powder dumped the timer in water and shorted it. I think that saved us.”

“No,” said the weapons expert. “The mechanism is impervious to moisture. Water wouldn’t have done anything.”

“It fizzled.”

“You cut the wires. It is odd, though—at least one end of the device should have exploded when all current was lost, unless the designer was completely inept. Are you sure you cut all the wires?”

Danny looked over at the harness. Fourteen of the sixteen wires had been cut clean; two remained.

“Shit,” said Danny. Then he told her what he saw.

“Out of curiosity, Captain, what’s your birthday?”

“Why?”

“I was thinking one of us ought to run down to Las Vegas and play those numbers on the roulette wheels.”

Aboard EB-52 M-6

Dreamland

8 March, 0351 local

BOTH MCADEN AND FENNER INSISTED ON STAYING WITH M-6 even after Bastian ordered them to stay on the ground; he finally decided it didn’t make much sense to argue with them. No one would blame them for flying, and besides, Magnus’s order applied to him, not them.

McAden wasn’t all that happy about taking the copilot’s seat, but there Dog had an easier argument—Dog had very little experience using the EB-52’s weapons systems, which were more easily handled from the copilot’s station.

As they got ready to fly, a black SUV hurtled up the ramp toward them, blue light flashing.

Dog watched the Jimmy screech to a halt. Undoubtedly Magnus had gotten to the security people somehow; he was about to be placed under arrest.

He edged his hand toward the throttle bar. As soon as the men were out of the car, he’d hit the gas and lurch away. By the time they got back in the vehicle he’d be on the runway.

But instead of heavily armed security men, a thin figure jumped out of the Jimmy. Dog stared at the shadow, which seemed to have small wings.

Or just very long hair.

Jennifer Gleason. She waved frantically and ran toward the plane. Another person jumped from the SUV—Dr. Geraldo.

“What should I do, Colonel?” asked McAden.

“Let’s find out what they want,” said Bastian.

McAden dropped the ramp. Gleason appeared on the flight deck a few seconds later.

“Colonel, let me aboard,” she said.

“We’re just flying backup,” he told her.

“I can override C3,” she said. “I can send feedback through the command link. It’ll break the connection with ANTARES and disable the Flighthawks.”

“That’ll work?”

“It’s either that or you’ll shoot them down, isn’t it?”

“Colonel!” yelled Geraldo from below.

“And what exactly is your plan?” he asked the psychologist as she came up.

“I want to try talking to him,” said Geraldo.

“It’s not going to work.”

“Better than shooting him down.”

“We almost certainly will have to,” said Dog.

Neither Gleason nor Geraldo said anything else.

“This won’t be a joy ride,” he said finally.

“I fly in Megafortresses every day,” said Jennifer.

“Shut the hatch,” Bastian told McAden. “Jen, show Dr. Geraldo how to strap herself in downstairs.”

Aboard Galatica

Approaching U.S.

8 March, 0805 local (0705 Dreamland)

THE FINGERS OF THE AWACS GROPED THE AIR, reaching for him, desperately trying to grab him. Two F-16’s cruised not five miles to his left, at less than five thousand feet, determined to ferret him out.

The bastards would all miss. He was within sixty minutes of San Francisco, sixty minutes of having revenge.

And then?

Then they could kill him. He wouldn’t even bother to run.

“Losing connection,” warned C3.

“Closer,” he screeched on the interphone.

“But—” Breanna began.

“Closer!”

The Megafortress lurched upward and to the left. C3’s warning flashed off.

“AWACS tracking,” warned the computer.

“Impossible,” Madrone muttered. The threat screen on the Flighthawk showed he was clear.

Breanna had tricked him—the F-16’s had seen the Mega-fortress.

“F-16’s being vectored for mother ship,” said the computer. “Attempting to activate ident.”

Madrone started to slip out of Theta. His view of the U/MF screen went blank.

Kevin took a deep breath, felt himself relaxing. The feeds returned. But he couldn’t feel Galatica across the gateway. He was too drained, and his brain worked in slow motion—he had too much to hold in his mind.

“We’re being targeted by a pair of interceptors,” he told Minerva.

“What?”

“This!” He flashed the computer’s threat screen into the cockpit HUDs.

He’d have to take over Galatica as well as the Flighthawks. He’d have to find the strength somehow.

ZEN SAW THE F-16S ON THE FLIGHTHAWK SCREEN AS they turned to target the Megafortress just under forty miles away. But the slippery black plane danced at the edge of their radar coverage; they would have to ride much closer to lock on. Most likely their rules of engagement demanded visual identification before firing anyway.

Or maybe not. The launcher indicators on the Flighthawk went red. Sparrow radar missiles were in the air.

BREANNA PUSHED DOWN ON THE STICK, AIMING TO USE the confusion to her advantage. But the plane moved in the opposite direction—Kevin had somehow taken control.

The rest was automatic. Tinsel shot from Gal’s backside as its ECM computer zeroed in on the AIM-7Ms and knocked them senseless with a blast of Gangsta Rap fuzz. At the same time, Galatica accelerated toward the F-16’s to keep its connection with the Flighthawks. The Air National Guard F-16 Vipers launched another salvo of missiles at approximately twenty miles; these two were easily confused.

Thirty seconds later, Hawk One began a front-quarter attack on the lead Viper. The fireball trailed across the left windscreen; as it flared out, a second appeared on the left.

“Why are you doing this, Kevin?” Breanna said.

“I’m destroying Livermore,” he said. “They poisoned my daughter there with their radiation. They claimed they were treating her, but it was a lie.”

“You’ll destroy all San Francisco.”

“So be it.”

HE WANTED SAN FRANCISCO TO BE DESTROYED. HE saw it, saw Karen there, shriveling in the flash as the nuke went off. That would serve her right for giving up on him.

Maybe she’d been in on it.

He saw his wife crying at the graveyard, sobbing as she knelt on the fresh-packed dirt. Then he saw Christina, helpless on the gurney, head shaved, the tape for the lead shields still dangling on her skin.

She screamed like he’d never heard her. The two nurses came to wheel her away. He jumped for her, but some bastard grabbed him and held him back.

Kevin fell from the sky, tumbling backward into the jungle. He landed flat on his spine, staring up at the sun overhead. The red orb pulsated, then began to descend. He tried to get up, but couldn’t.

IT TOOK JEFF A MOMENT TO REALIZE THAT NOT ONLY had the Flighthawks defaulted to Trail One, their favored preset mode, but that ANTARES was no longer hooked into C3. When he finally saw it, he grabbed for the controller with his right hand and threw his left on the two rockers that connected his microphone with the computer.

“Command authorization Zed Zed Zed,” he said, telling the computer to recognize him. “Zero Stockard Zero.”

“Zed Zed Zed.”

“Erase ANTARES plug-ins.”

“Command unrecognized.”

“Computer: Delete the connection with ANTARES!”

“Command unrecognized.”

“Manual control, Hawk One,” he said, pulling back on the controller. The cockpit cam showed the rear of the Megafortress in the moonlight, flying above an array of jagged peaks.

Down, he thought, pushing the stick forward so hard it nearly snapped out of its socket.

HE NEEDED TO BE IN THETA NOW.

Christina’s face floated in the dim blue void before him. Her mouth moved.

Daddy, she said. Daddy.

I’m here.

It’s the computer. It took me away.

ANTARES?

Yes.

But how?

It sucked me out from inside you.

Christina?

It stole me. The computer stole me. It took me from your memory and destroyed you. That was their plan all along—to kill me by killing you.

Her eyes and mouth faded, leaving only the outline of her face. Lightning flashed behind him and he fell back in the tower. The last bits of his daughter disintegrated in front of him.

She was right. It wasn’t Livermore he had to destroy. It was ANTARES.

BREANNA PULLED BACK ON THE STICK AS THE PLANE began plummeting toward the mountain peaks. She had the yoke pressed against its stop, but the plane didn’t respond, its dive continuing.

Then, with a violent shudder, its nose began to jerk upward, and in the space of a few seconds it became a streaking roller coaster, whipping upward as the aerodynamic forces overpowered it.

Minerva was screaming next to her.

“Don’t let the plane go through ten thousand feet. No!”

Breanna grabbed the stick back, not sure if Kevin had let go or not. They whipped up to 8,500 feet, going through 8,600 and accelerating.

“Help me,” yelled Minerva. “We can’t go above ten thousand feet.”

“I have to override the flight computer,” lied Breanna, who now had control.

“Do it!”

“Computer: override course settings, override command settings. Lock out autopilot section. Authorization Rap One-One-Two.”

“Confirmed.”

“Navigation screen.” Breanna tapped the panel up and quickly hit the beacon code. In the meantime, she leveled off at 9,200 feet.

“What’s so special about ten thousand feet?” she asked after checking the plane’s systems.

Minerva didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.

“We’re booby-trapped, aren’t we? Did you hear that, Kevin? Your lover wanted to blow you up.”

“I heard,” said Madrone.

And once more, even though locking out the autopilot should have isolated command at her console, Breanna felt the plane veer out of her control.

HE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT MINERVA ANYMORE. HE’D BEEN confused by ANTARES, the drugs, the computer, everything. Confused and tricked and used.

No more. Madrone eased back in the seat, in full control of the planes. Now that he knew what he had to do—now that his daughter had made it clear to him—he felt very calm and very strong.

He gave C3 and the Megafortress the new course, then pushed up his visor, looking across at Zen. His friend flailed at the control panel, trying to take command of the robot planes. He didn’t seem to understand that Madrone and ANTARES could override any of his commands.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he struggled to keep from feeling helpless.

“That’s enough, Jeff,” Kevin said finally. He pulled his pistol out.

“Shoot me,” said Zen.

“I don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” said Zen sarcastically.

“You’re right about ANTARES. I think you’re definitely right,” he said. “I’m going to fix it, once and for all.”

Aboard M-6

Near Dreamland

8 March, 0715

DOG WAS A HUNDRED MILES SOUTH OF DREAMLAND when one of the AWACS in the net announced that it had found Galatica.

It had had a little help—the Megafortress had turned its locator beam on.

A quartet of F-15Cs scrambled to intercept. The controllers began jockeying other elements around, lining up the defenses.

Two of the Eagles had to turn back because of fuel. A pair of Navy jets moved up to take their place. Dog pushed M-6 to accelerate, but they were at least a hundred miles from the action.

“Swinging back—shit—Rock Two has contact!” blurted out one of the F-15 pilots. “Shit! Shit! Tally at five hundred feet, two o’clock. Jesus.”

“Rock Two, clear to engage,” answered the controller calmly, authorizing the pilot to shoot down the Megafortress.

“Rock Three to support,” said the wingman, following his commander.

Dog closed his eyes.

“Break right! Break right!” shouted Rock Three. “Band—flare! God, oh, God!”

There was static.

Dog guessed that the F-15’s had just been jumped by one or both of the Flighthawks. The AWACS vectored the Navy interceptors toward the Megafortress, then announced it had lost the locator beam.

“Plot an intercept for San Francisco,” Dog told McAden softly. “Make sure it’s good.”

“Colonel, no. Stay on this course,” said Jennifer. “I have the C3 signal. They’re eighty miles dead ahead. They’re not going to San Francisco.”

Aboard Gal

8 March, 0723

MADRONE HAD TO REFUEL THE FLIGHTHAWKS. WHILE the computer told him he could make it to Dreamland from here, another encounter would push the U/MFs into their reserves, depriving him of his margin of error.

Dreamland was barely two hundred miles from here. If he squinted just right, he’d probably see Las Vegas glowing at the edge of the desert.

He reduced throttle on the Megafortress, swinging Hawk Three up toward the tail even as the automated boomer lowered the straw.

It was sneaky of Breanna to turn the beacon on; he hadn’t understood what it was until the AWACS latched on. He couldn’t blame her, though. Under other circumstances, he might have done the same thing.

It didn’t matter now, not in the least. Dreamland’s point-defense MIM-23 I-Hawk SAMs wouldn’t pick up the stealthy Megafortress until it was approximately ten miles from the base. Even with the long missile beneath it, Hawk Three ought to be able to get to within five miles before the batteries detected it. By the time they locked and launched, he would already have pickled, ending ANTARES forever.

He nuzzled the U/MF into the boom and began working through the refuel.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0740

“THEY’RE STILL COMING,” JENNIFER TOLD BASTIAN OVER the interphone. “Distance, approximately sixty miles.”

“You ready, Devin?” the colonel asked McAden.

“I’ll turn the radar on as soon as you give the signal,” answered the copilot. “Won’t take me ten seconds to target the Scorpion after that.”

The Scorpion AMRAAM-plus air-to-air missile had a one-hundred-pound warhead and a radar that could track multiple targets, rejecting all but the tastiest. Like the stock model that had been in use for roughly five years, Dreamland’s improved version moved at over four times the speed of sound and had a range of forty nautical miles—though in actual practice against a target as slippery as the Megafortress, the missile was best launched between ten and twenty miles away, or just beyond visual range. Assuming Gal stayed on course, and assuming McAden could get a lock, that would be three minutes from now.

Targeting the Flighthawks, which were considerably smaller than the Megafortress, was far more problematic. They’d be fairly close to M-6 by the time Gal was targeted. Jennifer would try to interfere with the C3 link to keep them at bay.

It was possible, though just barely, that she might be able to succeed and they wouldn’t have to splash Gal. Dog didn’t dare hope that was the way it would play.

Flying without radar and maintaining radio silence allowed Dog to sneak closer to Gal without being detected; it was, he figured, the only way he was going to get close enough to nail them. But it was a calculated risk—the main defenses were still to the west, concentrating on protecting San Francisco. If they missed, the sky was wide open.

“Still on course,” said Jennifer. “Two minutes.”

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0753

JEFF FLOPPED HIS HEAD BACK AGAINST THE SEAT, exasperated. Any good fighter pilot keeps a checklist in his head to cover any contingency—engine out, do this, do that, do this. Gear jammed, do that, do this, do that.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a checklist.

No, it was the second time. The first time was after the accident that had left him paralyzed.

There had been a solution to that. Not exactly the solution he wanted, but a solution. He’d gotten out of the aircraft and lived.

And now?

If he’d had his legs, what would he do?

Leap out of the seat, throttle Madrone, disconnect ANTARES.

He turned his head toward Kevin. Madrone sat ramrod straight, his hands moving as he flew the planes. He was conducting an orchestra, not working controls.

The sitrep played on the main U/MF monitor, overlaid over a GPS map. They were about eleven minutes from Las Vegas, with Dreamland a breath beyond that.

If he had his feet, he’d undo the restraints, leap out of the seat. He’d grab Kevin with his hand and pull.

He did have his feet. ANTARES wasn’t lying. Yes, it screwed up his head—yes, it made him paranoid. But there had to be something there. There had to be. ANTARES was a computer—it didn’t invent things, it worked with what was there.

So he could use his legs. All he had to do was trust them—trust ANTARES this one last time.

Otherwise they were all dead.

Carefully, stealthily, Jeff undid his restraints.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0758

“SIXTY SECONDS BY MY WATCH,” BASTIAN TOLD Jennifer and the others. McAden jerked in his seat, rubbing his hands together.

Bastian had just missed combat over Vietnam, but he had flown missions in the Gulf and Bosnia; he had two probable kills and had ducked three different enemy missiles, including an SA-2 “telephone pole” that came within a meter of taking off his tail. By all rights, he was a grizzled veteran, and shouldn’t feel nervous.

He didn’t. Which bothered the hell out him.

“They’re tracking us!” yelled McAden.

M-6’s RWR drowned out anything else he said.

“ECMs,” ordered Dog calmly. “Jenny, go for it. Can you get them?”

“Attempting.”

“Go to active radar. Target the Flighthawks too,” Dog said.

“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,” said McAden, his voice getting progressively higher.

“Just get Galatica,” Bastian ordered. “Open bay door.”

“Opening! They have their ECMs. We’re still being tracked! 1 can’t lock them up. Attempting.”

“Flighthawk approaching,” said Jennifer. “Hold this course.”

“We’re spiked!” said McAden. One of the radars hunting for them had managed to slip around the electronic noise and locked onto them.

Ordinarily, Dog would goose some chaff and zig through the air, complicating the radar’s job before it fired. But that would complicate Gleason’s job.

So would getting shot down.

“Break it,” said Dog.

“Trying.”

“Frontal attack! It’s a U/MF!” shouted McAden, but Dog had already seen the Flighthawk on his HUD. It grew from nothing to the size of a baseball, then flashed red, firing its cannon. Dog could see the tracer arching in the air toward his windscreen as he plunged M-6 toward the earth.

“Tracking! I have him,” said McAden.

“No! No!” said Jennifer. “Feedback initiated.”

“Fire the missile,” said Bastian steadily.

The Scorpion dropped off the rotating launcher in the rear bay. Dog clicked into the command frequency, giving their position and the fact that they were engaging Galatica and had already launched a radar homer.

In the twenty or so seconds it took for him to do all that, the Flighthawk had flown over the Megafortress, curled back, and dived for their tail. The Scorpion’s rocket motor ignited; the missile zipped ahead, then flipped back. But it was no match for the agile little plane with its vectored thrust and finely tuned airfoil. The Flghthawk flicked right and closed on M-6 as the AMRAAM-plus passed by.

“Air mines,” Bastian told McAden. The copilot was half a step ahead of him, and had the Stinger tail defenses already on his screen. The air mines were a twenty-first-century version of the tail gunners who had cleared the skies behind Flying Fortresses fifty years before—they literally peppered the air with exploding mines.

There was only one problem—their range was three miles, the same as the U/MF’s cannon.

“I have the Flighthawk circuit,” Jennifer said, her voice level. “I’m applying feedback. Leave it alone. Hold our course.”

“Acquiring target!” said the copilot.

“Fucking trust me on this, Dog. If I have one I can get the other. Fuck!”

Somehow, the word “Dog” didn’t sound right coming from her mouth.

As for “fuck”…

“Colonel?” asked McAden.

“Stand by. Have you found the other Flighthawk?” he asked him.

“Negative. Gal is now locked, but the ECMs may make the missile miss from this distance. We can close.”

Before Bastian said anything else, the U/MF behind them opened fire.

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0809

SOMETHING FOUGHT HIM, SOMETHING HE’D NEVER FELT before. Images flashed before Kevin’s eyes, strange sensations—the tower, the jungle, the jaguar, the dark woman, all being strangled.

A snake wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing.

Madrone began to fall from Theta. He conjured his metaphor, then heard Geraldo call to him.

A woman in a flowing dress with long, strawberry hair stood before him.

Jennifer Gleason.

She morphed into a massive cobra, its large mouth looming.

Then her fangs grabbed him from the side.

*   *   *

JEFF LAUNCHED HIMSELF BY SLAMMING HIS ARMS against the rests, screaming as he flung his body sideways out of the seat.

His legs would work. They had to.

He hung suspended in the air, balanced perfectly between thought and action, between will and reality. He thought he could do it and he would; he willed his legs whole and they were.

But Zen’s legs were irretrievably paralyzed, and whatever he had felt while under ANTARES, whatever he wanted to feel now, he couldn’t make them cooperate. The distance between the two stations was too great to jump across, even for his well-developed arms and shoulders.

Jeff Stockard crumbled in the aisle, the long scream twisting into an agonized plea to his legs, to God, to any power that could make him whole. In that instant he would have made any bargain, paid any price, for the thinnest, poorest connection between his mind and his legs.

But no bargain could be made. He crashed down against the floor, his hands flailing until they hit one of the connecting cables to Kevin’s ANTARES gear.

He hadn’t the strength or momentum to break the cable, but as he fell his weight and agony yanked it backward, pulling the ANTARES feed from its socket.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0811

“GOT IT! GOT IT! GOT IT! “ SCREAMED GLEASON. “NATIVE mode. Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, I have them. Fuck fuck fuck. Hawk One is in native mode. It’ll circle Dreamland. Locking in. My password. She’s secure. Shit! Shit! We got it!”

“Is it carrying a missile?” Dog asked quietly.

“Hold on. No. Shit, no. Fuck. Looking for the other. Damn—what do you mean, not on the circuit?”

“Jen?”

“The other Flighthawk! Where is it?”

“Something in Galatica’s shadow,” said McAden.

“It’s in preset,” said Gleason. “It’s native because the connection broke. I can’t get feedback until C3 is back on the line because of the codes. What the hell is he doing?”

“Colonel?”

Bastian glanced at McAden.

“Shoot her down,” said Bastian.

“Let me try contacting them!” said Geraldo.

“Shoot her down,” repeated Bastian.

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0811

BREANNA FELT SOMETHING CLUNK AND PULL BEHIND her, as if the leading-edge flaps on the wings had suddenly extended.

They had.

She grabbed hold of the stick, barely managing to take control of the plane as it did what could only be called a belly flop in the sky. Two of the engines surged, the starboard flap deployed—Gal seemed to be having a nervous breakdown.