Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Mack knew from experience that the Flighthawks would hunt in two-ship elements. Mack guessed the second plane would be about a mile behind the first, and when he saw a flash on the IRST he quickly kicked off his second and last Alamo.

MACK’S SIMULATED ALAMO AIR-TO-AIR MISSILES activated their radars the instant they launched, so even though he hadn’t turned his own radar beacon on, Knife had effectively given away his position by firing.

Which was half the point of Zen’s display with the Flight-hawk.

The other half had been achieved by dropping the delayed-fuse illumination flare, which Mack had hastily mistaken for the second Flighthawk.

A tiny cheat perhaps. But now Sharkishki was down to four missiles, all short-range Archers.

Not that the Vympel R-73 heat-seekers were to be taken lightly. On the contrary—the all-aspect, high-g missiles were more capable than even the most advanced Sidewinders. But they had to be fired from very close range, severely limiting Mack’s choice of tactics.

Zen told the computer to take over Hawk One. As good as C3 was, its evasive maneuvers were unlikely to be enough to evade the missiles. But he’d already accepted its loss. Jeff jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was flying a preset course with Hawk Three at the eastern end of the range. He swung the nose to the north five degrees, heading for an intercept with Sharkishki. Three, flying three feet behind Two, tight to its left wing, followed the maneuver precisely.

The Army helicopters, meanwhile, reported that they were five minutes from their landing zone. Zen jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Four, which was just starting the far leg of an orbit near the LZ. He poked up the nose of the plane, twisting toward the target area. As he climbed through two thousand feet, he shot out a double shot of radar-deflecting chaff. He ticked the wing up again, hit more chaff, and turned his nose toward the target, giving the Army Super Black-hawks a feed of their target area over the new system.

“Good, good, good,” sang one of the Army observers.

Jeff turned Four back over to the computer and concentrated on Mack. The ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns protecting the target area wouldn’t be a problem for at least three minutes.

MACK CURSED INTO HIS MASK. THE FLARE HAD BEEN A clever trick, forcing him to waste his last Alamo.

Zen would be counting on him to waste time looking for the other Flighthawk: more than likely it was lurking near the ridge where he’d found the first, undoubtedly hoping to get behind him for a tried-and-true rear-quarter attack.

That wasn’t going to work, though, because he was going to ignore it. He goosed his throttle to dash ahead, eyes pasted on the passive IRST. Mack got two quick contacts out near the helo target area—the U/MFs, which were at twelve miles.

Damn, these Dreamland mods were good—his F-15 next-generation demonstrator couldn’t find them with its passive gear until they were within five miles, pretty much dead-meat territory.

There wasn’t much sense trying to lock them up at this point, since he had only the heat-seekers and was much too far to fire. Mack nudged his speed down. He wanted the package to come to him, and wouldn’t commit to the attack until he knew where the helicopters were. Assuming he found them soon, he’d open the gates on the afterburners for a few seconds, shoot forward, and dust by the U/MFs. From there he’d take a wide turn and listen for the growl of his heat-seekers as they found the helicopters in the chilly morning air.

Most likely he’d pick them up as his nose passed the ridge. Thirty seconds.

Forever.

No amount of Dreamland magic could uncramp the MiG’s cockpit. On the tall side for a fighter pilot, with broad shoulders and thick pecs, Mack had to poke his elbow practically through his side to get a comfortable angle on the throttle lever, whose slide seemed notched in the plane’s external skin. The handle was directly over the emergency power settings and just ahead of the flaps—he glanced to make sure he had the proper grip, not wanting to screw something up. He settled his hand in place, looking back to the front in the poorly laid-out cockpit. The Russians knew a lot about mechanics, but they were light-years behind in ergonomics.

Now here was a mistake—a Flighthawk, coming at his nose, four miles away, without its wingman.

Dumb even for Jeff; he’d prematurely committed himself to an easily deflected attack, while leaving only one plane to guard the Super Blackhawks. Worse, the U/MF was an easy shot for an Alamo, whose all-aspect targeting gear made a front-quarter shot very tempting as they closed.

Too tempting to miss. He had four of the air-to-air missiles. Even if he used them all against the Flighthawks, he could take out the helicopters with his cannon.

The Alamo practically jumped up and down on his wing, begging to be launched. Poor Jeff. He was so anxious to nail him he’d gotten sloppy. Knife pressed the trigger on his stick, launching the Alamo.

As it left the rail, the Flighthawk split in two.

JEFF FURLED HIS EYES AT THE VISOR IMAGE. THIS WAS the tricky part—the MiG could outaccelerate the Flighthawks, and if Mack played it smart, he’d just get on his horse and shoot into the clear. That would leave only one Flighthawk to get between him and the essentially defenseless helicopters.

But Mack was Mack; he couldn’t resist easy pickings. Sure enough, the U/MF’s enhanced optics view caught a flare beneath Mack’s wing; within two seconds C3 had interpreted and calculated the threat. By then, Jeff had already pulled the two Flighthawks away from each other.

For about ten seconds, he controlled them simultaneously. He twisted and turned in opposite directions, pouring on the speed, flares kicking in every direction. The baffled Alamo thought its target had exploded.

Now Mack would be pissed that he’d been tricked for a second time, and go all out for the Flighthawks. But which one?

The closest. Sharkishki whipped onto Hawk Three, its superior acceleration quickly narrowing Jeff’s brief lead. But the Flighthawk’s thrust-vectoring tailpipe narrowed its IR signature, meaning that Knife had to get within three miles of the plane before he’d be able to launch. Zen verbally selected God’s-eye view in his main screen, asked for distances—and then just as Mack entered firing range, he cut Hawk Two across the MiG’s path.

MACK INTENSIFIED HIS STREAM OF CURSES AS HE closed on the target. The war-game dummies had been made from actual R-77 “Archer” all-aspect infrared missiles; while the Dreamland team had jettisoned the cumbersome helmet system the Russians used, they had retained (and improved) the targeting-handoff system, allowing Mack to simply designate the target and let the computer worry about firing. While that took a bit of initiative away from the pilot, it allowed him to concentrate entirely on his enemy—useful against the tricky little Flighthawks.

True, he knew when to fire better than any damn computer. But the automated system meant he’d be able to lock up both Hawks quickly. He’d launch, swerve, and find the other U/ MF, which was climbing and looked to be angling for a turn behind him.

Bing-bang-boing. Dead Flighthawks all over the field.

Except it didn’t work that way.

As Mack edged Sharkishki left, he designated Hawk Three, handing off to the computer. Within five seconds, the U/MF fell into the middle of his pipper. The missile growled, then barked; the AAM dropped from its rail. As Knife raised his eyes toward the sky where he thought the second bandit had flown, the system growled and fired another missile, and then a third.

Just as the computer had fired, the second Flighthawk had veered into his path, disgorging flares like a pyromaniac—prompting the automated system to lock on the extra targets. Stockard had taken advantage of a bug in the programming.

“Override, override,” Mack screamed, trying to turn off the automatic firing feature.

As the computer acknowledged, a green flare lit the sky ahead. His first missile had simulated a splash.

Another flare ignited moments later in the vicinity of the second Flighthawk.

Served the damn cheater right—both his planes were splashed. The helos were dead ahead, defenseless.

Mack whipped his head backward, making sure the last Flighthawk hadn’t caught up. It was nowhere in sight.

This turkey shoot was going to be very tasty, he thought, turning his gaze back toward the target area.

ZEN STRUGGLED TO HOLD HIS HEAD STRAIGHT UP, forcing as slow a breath as he could out of his lungs. His neck and shoulder muscles had gone spastic, knotting and cramping, pulling half of his spine out of whack, shooting pain all across his back. He felt disoriented, momentarily losing the connection between his body and his mind, as if he were truly in the cockpit of one of the Flighthawks, as if it truly had been shot down.

He’d caught Mack by surprise, but Smith had managed to hold on to his last missile, giving him a decided advantage as he zoomed toward the helicopters. Zen selected Hawk Four’s cockpit view for his main screen, preparing to rise off the deck and confront the aggressor. The C3 flight-control and strategy computer had already taken over piloting the “downed” planes, flying them along a preplanned route back to one of Dreamland’s runways to land. Their cockpit view screens sat at the top left-hand corner of his visor, shaded slightly in red.

As Zen quickly checked on them, he noticed something he hadn’t counted on. Hawk One was still alive—C3 had managed to duck Mack’s radar missile.

Cavalry.

“Attaboy!” said Zen out loud, his muscle cramps suddenly disappearing. He turned Hawk Four over to the computer, telling C3 to keep it on the preprogrammed course behind the helicopters as they came in, where it would be impossible for Sharkishki’s radar to locate it. Then he pulled One out of the neutral orbit the computer had set, recording twelve g’s as he rushed toward Knife’s butt.

Twelve g’s would have wiped out any normal pilot—and probably smashed most aircraft to bits. But the Flighthawk’s stubby wings and thick fuselage were designed to withstand stresses approaching twenty g’s. The plane stuttered in midair as its vectoring nozzle slammed it on course; inside five seconds Hawk One was galloping for Sharkishki’s tail.

Slowed by the encounter with the other Flighthawks, the MiG was roughly six nautical miles ahead as Zen popped over the ridge—dead meat for a missile shot in a teen jet. But the Flighthawks’ only weapons were cannons; while the guns had good range—roughly three nautical miles even in a maneuvering dogfight—he was still too far away. Zen had the throttle to the max, but couldn’t gain on the MiG, which was now pouring on the kerosene as it closed on the Army target zone.

Ten miles. Mack would have the Blackhawks before the Flighthawk caught up.

“Helos hold,” Zen ordered the Army pilots, hoping to keep them out of danger. As they acknowledged, he jumped into Hawk Four, swinging her up and over them, rising to meet Mack.

MACK’S HUD RADAR DISPLAY PAINTED A FLIGHTHAWK ahead, rushing to protect the helicopters.

Interesting. Zen had broken his usual pattern, letting two of the U/MFs operate alone. He was learning.

But the curve was steep. The Flighthawk would be dead meat as soon as Brother Archer growled on the wing tip.

Mack nudged his stick left, intending to take an angle into the target area that would let him swing toward the helicopters after he launched his Archer at the robot. As he did, his rear-looking radar found the small plane trailing him.

What the hell. Taking advantage of computer glitches was one thing, but bringing a plane back from the dead was total bullshit.

Should have expected nothing less from the stinking SOB. What a pathetic egotist, determined to win at all costs.

Knife would expose him to everyone, including his buddy Twig Boy. And his wife, though God knows how she put up with what she did.

No way he was losing to a cheater. Mack reached for the afterburner. The Mikoyan flashed ahead with a sudden burst of speed, its pilot quickly revamping his attack plan.

ZEN SMILED AS THE MiG SHOT AHEAD.

“Helos go. Go!” he demanded.

“Hawk Flight—we have a bogey at two o’clock. Request—”

“Go! Go! Go!” screamed Zen. There wasn’t time to explain. He jumped into Hawk Four, yanking straight up. Mack didn’t fire, continuing to accelerate as he avoided the rear-quarter attack.

“Computer, Hawk One on air defense at LZ. Plan Two.”

“Plan Two, acknowledged,” said C3. It took control of the Flighthawk immediately, nosing it down to attack the two simulated ZSU antiaircraft guns on the ground.

Zen, meanwhile, concentrated on Sharkishki, banking in a wide turn in front of him. Zen pushed off left, then cut back, aiming to intercept from the side. Knife could have simply powered his way past and taken out the helicopters—but that wasn’t Mack. Jeff knew he’d gun for the Flighthawk, concentrating totally on showing him up.

What Jeff didn’t expect was Sharkishki’s nose suddenly yanking in his direction and growing exponentially. Mack had him fat and slow; there was little Hawk One could do.

Except make Mack waste fuel. Sharkishki started with 3500 kg of jet fuel, killing nearly four hundred just to take off. The engagement rules called for Mack to reserve a thousand kg to get home, even though he needed far less with Dreamland’s many runways nearby. Between his low-level flight and afterburner use, he ought to be nearing bingo, the point at which he had to give up and go home.

Knowing this was his enemy’s Achilles’ heel, Zen had had C3 keep track.

“Calculated time for enemy bingo is ninety-eight seconds at present flight characteristics,” said the computer. “Enemy craft has Archer-type missile loaded and prepared to fire.”

Jeff turned Hawk Four south and launched diversionary flares. Mack followed, steadily closing the gap as Zen zigged and zagged. He needed to get closer to guarantee a hit.

Jeff ran out of flares as the MiG narrowed to four nautical miles from his tail. He pulled eleven g’s trying to gun the Flighthawk back toward Sharkishki, but it was too late; the Archer ignited below the MiG’s wing.

Jeff left the plane to the computer, returning to Hawk One. While he’d been leading Sharkishki away from the helicopters, C3 had been carrying out the attack on the ZSUs. It had been close—the computer had splashed both guns, but not before the lead Super Blackhawk took a simulated hit, causing minor damage but leaving the helo and its crew in the game.

“Bogey is at bingo,” declared the computer.

“Helo Flight, you’re cleared,” said Zen, rushing over them in Hawk One. “You’re bingo, Mack, bye-bye,” said Zen. “Sorry to see you go.”

“Fuck you I’m bingo,” said Mack, winging toward the helicopters.

“Flight rules—” declared Madrone.

“Suck on your flight rules, Soldier Boy.”

Dreamland Commander’s Office

10 January, 1205

“RESPECTFULLY, I HAVE TO DISAGREE. DISAGREE.” Martha Geraldo shook her head and turned toward Colonel Bastian at the head of the conference table. “Ray is prejudiced against humans,” she continued. “It colors everything he says. It is as bad as a mommie complex.”

Steam seemed to shoot out of Dr. Rubeo’s ears. Dog had learned day one that the scientist hated to be called “Ray.” There was no way Geraldo didn’t know that; she was obviously pushing his buttons.

Then again, she ought to be good at that sort of thing.

“I think calling it a complex is a pretty strong statement,” said Bastian, even though it was fun to see Rubeo speechless.

They’d spent more than a half hour discussing the best way to proceed, or not proceed, if ANTARES was restarted as part of the Flighthawk project—a given, based on Dog’s brief conversation with General Magnus this morning. Magnus was clearly angered by Keesh’s end run. But while he sympathized with Dog’s protest against ANTARES, he’d ordered Dog to proceed with the program “as expeditiously as possible.” A contingency budget line—black, of course—had already been opened for the program. Magnus seemed to be playing his own brand of politics, trying to swim with the currents.

“I would prefer that we left psychological innuendo out of the discussion,” said Rubeo, his voice so cold it was a wonder his breath didn’t frost. “The interface is neither stable nor dependable. We don’t even know precisely how ANTARES works.”

“One of the biggest drawbacks with the present control system employed by the Flighthawks is the human element, as Dr. Rubeo has noted on several occasions,” said Geraldo, ignoring Rubeo’s last point—which was technically true, despite reams of data and elaborate theories. Her crisp tones matched her starched blue suit; military personnel aside, she was probably the most conservative dresser of any Dreamland worker, the scientists especially. With a rounded face and frosted hair, she looked like a slightly older, slightly more distinguished Bette Midler. She’d come from Cuba as a girl, though the only trace of an accent was a slight tendency to roll her is when excited.

Like now.

“Those drawbacks, which Dr. Rubeo has himself outlined, can be overcome with ANTARES. I have kept abreast of the latest exercises, Colonel; four planes cannot be handled adequately with the present arrangement.”

“Four can be. We should put our resources into the next generation of control computers,” said Rubeo. Tall and rangy, in certain lights he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln.

This wasn’t that kind of light. He looked and sounded a bit like an out-of-control animatronic character at Disney World.

“ANTARES made C3 possible,” said Geraldo.

“Piffle.”

“You’re suggesting that the computers would completely fly the planes,” said Geraldo.

“They already do,” said Rubeo.

“You cannot remove human beings from the equation.” Geraldo held out her hands and looked at Bastian triumphantly, having played her trump card.

“I can’t say I disagree with that,” admitted Dog, “though I’m not sure I accept ANTARES as fully human.”

“It’s as human as language,” said Geraldo. “That’s all ANTARES really is—a very special language. A way of talking to a computer, which happens to control an airplane. Or several.”

“Piffle,” repeated Rubeo. “It takes over three quarters of the subject’s brain. Tell me that’s human—tell me that’s better than using computers as tools designed to do a specific job. Computers that we can document every function of, every byte of information and logic.”

Bastian leaned over the table toward Geraldo. She reminded him a bit of the dean of students at his college, an almost matronly sort who could outdrink any sorority on campus.

“If we build on the previous program, what would be the next step?” he asked.

“First, we need a subject. My preference would be someone who is ‘clean,’ someone who not only hasn’t worked with ANTARES before, but who doesn’t know how to fly. If we work with a clean slate, we won’t have barriers or bad habits to break. I believe from my review that the biggest hurdle to joining with the computer has been the learned patterns associated with flight. To use my language metaphor again—when you learn a new language, the old one gets in the way. And that goes for ANTARES as well. 1 would propose a whole host of changes from the old program, including some bio enhancements.”

“Drugs,” sputtered Rubeo.

“Yes, drugs,” said Geraldo. “Supplements actually, designed to enhance neural and other brain functioning. The tests have already been conducted.”

“Mmmm,” said Dog noncommittally.

“On the other hand, using someone already familiar with the procedure would cut down on the start-up time.” Geraldo nodded as if responding to an argument Dog hadn’t made. “At present, there’s only one person on base who has used ANTARES, and that is Major Jeff Stockard.”

Geraldo opened the folder in her lap, consulting her notes. “I’d prefer to have someone else,” said Bastian. “Jeff is the only pilot presently assigned full-time to the Flighthawks.”

He also didn’t want to waste him on a project that, in his opinion, might—or should—end up being a dead end.

“But a non-pilot?” he added. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong? Who takes over the plane?”

“C3,” said Geraldo. “The computer defaults have been well tested. C3 is very capable, Colonel; I actually agree with Dr. Rubeo that for all intents and purposes it could fly the planes. Just not as well.”

She smiled at Rubeo, but he wasn’t buying the bouquets.

“And unlike DreamStar, the ANTARES pilot will not actually be aboard the U/MFs,” Geraldo added. “So there really is no necessity for the subject to be a pilot.” She glanced at her folder notes. “I have also recorded a steep learning curve for pilots transitioning to the Flighthawk program. According to the records, there were three test pilots who washed out before Major Stockard. The last full-time pilot, Jim DiFalco, had a great deal of trouble right up until he transferred out of the program, and he had been a civilian test pilot. My suspicion is that the problem is very similar to the one with ANTARES—my language metaphor.”

Dog nodded. DiFalco—a top engineer as well as a highly rated test pilot—had earned the nickname “Rock” while with the program.

“According to the simulation exercises,” continued Geraldo, “with the exception of Major Stockard, the best raw scores in the Level 1 qualifying tests for the U/MFs were compiled by non-pilots.”

“Exactly,” said Rubeo. His face was no longer red, though he couldn’t quite be called calm. “If a pilot has difficulty controlling the planes, then logically—”

“Logically we try someone other than a pilot,” said Geraldo. “I’ve already worked up a likely profile. Thirty years old, male, single, technically oriented, in reasonable but not athletic shape, with a slightly beta-male outlook, someone willing to follow rather than lead. On the other hand, he would need to have survived conflict, so that he could draw on that experience for confidence. And of course, he will have to have volunteered, so he can use that as motivation.”

“Witchcraft dressed up as psychobabble,” muttered Rubeo.

“Let’s give it a try,” said Bastian, even though part of him agreed with Rubeo.

Dreamland, Range 2

10 January, 1205

MACK HAD NINE HUNDRED KG OF FUEL LEFT, OR JUST under two thousand pounds in American measurements. That was enough to fly the Fulcrum’s goosed engines roughly a hundred miles, landing at his theoretical base.

But the way he looked at it, his base wasn’t a hundred miles away. In fact, he could run the damn engines dry and glide down from here.

Almost. And almost was good enough at the moment, because he was going to nail that stubborn cheating SOB Stockard even if it meant getting out and pushing the MiG home.

Knife let his left wing roll down slightly, tucking into a circle behind the remaining Flighthawk, trying to get the bastard in his boresight. The small plane couldn’t outrun him, but its tight turning radius made pursuing it tricky. Mack took a quick snap shot as the Flighthawk slashed right. But he was going too fast—he nosed down desperately as the smaller plane jerked to his right, trying to get a shot off before sailing beyond the Flighthawk. He lost his enemy, guessed where he’d be, goosed the throttle and shoved down, just ducking Hawk One’s barrage.

Firing the cannon cost the robot considerable flight energy; it started to wallow as it angled to pursue Mack through a hard series of turns. Knife gained momentum, then flung the MiG back around, getting off a shot before the Flighthawk barreled away.

The helicopters were escaping south.

So be it; it was Zen he wanted.

As Knife banked to regroup, he found the tail end of the Flighthawk at the top of his HUD, just out of range. He squeezed the throttle for more power, nearly unsocketing his elbow as he jerked his arm.

He had the bastard now.

“TERMINATE,” SAID MADRONE CALMLY OVER THE common frequency.

Zen flicked his stick, flashing the Hawk’s nose upward before jerking into a steep dive, complying with Madrone’s order.

Even if the engagement hadn’t been terminated, he was confident he would have escaped—at best, the MiG could only get off four or five shots before sailing past the pesky Flighthawk.

Mack cursed in his ears as he swung his wings level. “You’re a fuckin’ cheater, Stockard. Twig saved your ass.”

“I’m a cheater? You’re about six hundred kilos past bingo. You’re walking home.”

“At least I didn’t resurrect a plane.”

“You didn’t hit it.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The Alamo missed. Two Alamos—the other was in the same frickin’ area and would have caught a whiff.”

“Hey, ask the computer.”

Mack’s curse was cut off by another transmission from Madrone, calmly congratulating everyone for a successful “event.”

That was one of the reasons Zen liked Madrone. Had someone else—anyone else—been running the gig, he would undoubtedly have scolded them.

Probably they deserved to be scolded, since they had pushed the envelope of the exercise, but that was how you learned, wasn’t it?

The hopped-up MiG was a pretty hot plane, and Mack had flown it well. Still, by the parameters of the exercise, Zen had won, preserving the Super Blackhawks. He let the computer direct Hawk One back to base. He was exhausted, physically and mentally beat—more tired, in fact, than he had been during the actual fight in Tripoli.

“You okay, Jeff?” asked Jennifer Gleason over the interphone, the Megafortress’s internal com system. She was sitting at the techie station a few feet away.

“Ready for a shower and a cold one,” he told her.

“Shower, yes. I can smell you up here,” put in Bree from the cockpit.

“That’s probably Major Smith.” Jennifer laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face at the debrief.”

“Maybe Bree will take pictures,” said Jeff.

His wife didn’t acknowledge. Maybe it was because they had, after all, lost three of their four planes.

Or maybe, he thought, she just didn’t like Jennifer.

Dreamland Briefing Room 1

14 January, 1005

KEVIN MADRONE HAD CALCULATED THAT HE HAD JUST enough time to sneak a cup of coffee before heading to the meeting. But his math had been too optimistic—everyone’s head turned as he came through the door. He quickly headed down the central aisle of the small amphitheater and slipped into a seat, staring down at Colonel Bastian, who was standing in front of the lectern. As he settled into his seat, Madrone saw that Jennifer Gleason had an empty seat a few rows further down and across from him. It was too late to change places, though.

“What we’re looking at is expanding the Flighthawk program to include some of the project work that was originally sketched out under ANTARES,” said Bastian. “Now I realize that that’s going to seem controversial because of circumstances we’re all too familiar with, which is one of the reasons I want to make sure we’re all up to speed about what’s going on. The promise of ANTARES itself isn’t debatable. And we seem to be reaching a ceiling on the U/MFs.”

“I disagree with that,” said Jeff Stockard. He was sitting in his wheelchair at the lower right corner of the room. “We’ve gone from controlling two planes to four. We have plans in place to go to eight.”

“Granted,” said Bastian. “And there are other ways of tackling the problem. This will proceed in tandem.”

Bastian continued to talk, but Madrone found his mind wandering as he looked up from Jeff and at Jennifer Gleason. The fluorescent lights of the briefing room made her strawberry-blond hair look almost pinkish; she twirled one side with her fingers, pushing it back behind her ear. As she did, she happened to glance back in his direction, caught him staring, then smiled.

Kevin smiled back, or at least he tried. His stomach was fluttering—he was back in junior high, listening to some endless history lecture, hopelessly in love with Shari Merced.

Kevin put his thumbnail to his lips, even though he’d sworn off the bad habit five times already today. He was so damn awkward with girls—with women. The other night he’d been tongue-tied with Abby. She’d seemed interested when he was talking about the time Don Mattingly had signed his scorecard. But he’d felt so stinking nervous that when she dropped him off, he’d blown his chance for a kiss.

He could have kissed her, he should have kissed her, he might have kissed her. She wasn’t his type, a little too giggly and talkative, he thought, but still—he could have, should have, would have kissed her.

But didn’t.

What if he had the same chance with Jennifer? Would he take it?

Hell, yes. He hadn’t always been this stinking nervous, this much of a wreck and a dweeb. Damn—she turned back in his direction and he quickly averted his eyes, pretended to be interested in something on the floor.

He’d never get into that situation with her. She didn’t notice him. Why should she? It was like being back in junior high—the jocks, aka pilots, were the ones who got all the attention. He was just a nerd.

He had to find a way to get her to notice him.

“SO WE’LL SEEK VOLUNTEERS. THERE’LL BE PROFILE testing, physical, mental, that sort of thing.”

Jennifer watched Colonel Bastian pace at the front of the room as he spoke, barely able to control his energy. He wasn’t very tall, but his shoulders were wide, and swung back and forth with implicit urgency. His hands cut through the space around him as if they were the fighters he’d flown.

She leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her Diet Coke. The cold metal of the can stung her lip. For some reason the AC was cranking in the room, and Jennifer felt a slight shiver run through her as she swallowed the soda.

She’d nearly melted the other morning when Colonel Bastian had touched her. She’d wanted him to sweep her up in his arms, smother her. A million volts had seemed to snap between them—but he’d done nothing. He saw her as just another scientist, a well-meaning geek probably.

He was damn smart, wise in ways you wouldn’t expect. Like this—knowing people would worry about ANTARES, knowing there were reservations, he dealt with them head-on, got everyone aboard, made them part of the team.