Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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And one pass was all he needed.

But not today. Today he had to swing around the back, just as they’d mapped it out.

Make more sense to mount a front-quarter attack, rake the SOB. Not a high probability in a conventional fighter, but the Flighthawks and C wouldn’t miss.

The computer glowed at the top of his head.

Why not do it, just for giggles? Frost that asshole Smith and his jerk-face smirk.

Aboard Sharkishki

18 February, 1145

MACK RAN HIS EYES OVER HIS INSTRUMENTS. HIS RIGHT engine had the temp indicator pegged at the extreme edge of the acceptable range, a bit hotter than the left. Fuel burn seemed constant, and the two power plants seemed to be working in unison. Mack suspected the gauge was flaky—he was always suspecting gauges were flaky.

As he looked back at the windscreen, he realized the two Flighthawks had deviated from the planned course. Instead of flying in the planned arc, they were heading straight for him.

Oh, real funny, Zen.

“Yo, Gameboy, we sticking to the program or do I get to shoot these suckers down?” he asked.

“Gameboy to Hawk Leader,” boomed Zen over the circuit. “Kevin, you’re off course. Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, like I believe you and Monkey Brain didn’t cook this up on your private line,” said Mack.

He said it, but he didn’t transmit. He rolled the MiG, accelerating at the same time as he swooped around to outfox Zen and his nugget sidekick controlling the U/MFs.

Aboard Hawkmother 18 February, 1153

MADRONE COULDN’T TELL AT FIRST WHAT THE MiG WAS doing, and C3 offered no clues. He started to cut power, then realized Sharkishki would try to slice behind his two planes. Kevin nudged Hawk One north, intending to send the two planes in opposite directions, ready for anything Mack might pull.

Pain crashed into his skull, pushing him back in his chair. He gave the computer full control of the two robots. The fight drifted to the edge of his consciousness as the heavy control helmet seemed to shear his skull in half. The crankshaft of an immense engine revolved around and around at the top of his head, its counterweights smashing against his cranium, pounding through the bone into the gray matter beneath. Ma-drone tried to relieve the pressure, but couldn’t, felt himself weighted down, pushed back by the pain.

He heard a tapping noise somewhere in the corn set.

Rain.

His Theta metaphor.

Relax.

He tried to conjure the jungle, the rain just beginning, the dark shadows around him.

“Knock it off! Knock it off!” screamed Zen.

The rain surged, but the pain backed away. Madrone realized he was hyperventilating. He controlled his breaths, let his shoulders droop, found Hawk One and Two under control, approaching from opposite ends toward the MiG; the computer had followed his directions without being distracted by his pain.

“Knock it off!” repeated Zen.

“Hawk Leader acknowledges,” said Madrone, retaking control of the planes and sending them back toward their prearranged course.

“What the hell happened there?” said Zen.

He seemed to be talking to Kevin, but it was Mack Smith in the MiG who responded.

“Microchip Boy came at me for a front-quarter attack,” said Smith. “I just waxed his tail.”

“You were out of line,” said Zen.

“I held the wrong course a little too long,” said Madrone. The pain was gone; it had been an aberration, probably because he’d been breathing too fast. “Let’s try it again.”

“I think we ought to go home,” said Stockard.

“Jeez Louise, 1 can’t make a mistake?” Madrone snapped. “Come on, Zen. Don’t be a baby,” said Mack. “Just because I spanked Junior.”

“I think we could run through the scenario again,” said Geraldo. Her voice sounded like a soothing whisper; Kevin caught a glimpse of her, standing at the side of him, long hair, much younger.

How did he see her beyond his visor array?

His mind projected her, just as it did with the Flighthawks. No, not like that. But it felt the same.

His memory created the image. But it had distorted it as well. She didn’t really look like that; he’d never seen her that young.

“You sure, Kevin?” asked Zen.

“Let’s go for it,” said Madrone.

“All right. Everybody back to their starting positions. This time, exactly as we planned.”

Aboard Raven

18 February, 1213

“WHAT HAPPENED?” BREANNA ASKED JEFF AS SHE began the bank at the end of the racetrack pattern they were flying.

“Kindergarten bullshit.”

Bree said nothing as she pulled the Megafortress through the lazy turn. They were at thirty-five thousand feet, well above the action. Jeff s annoyance was interesting; while it was true that Madrone and Smith had disregarded the planned scenario, Jeff himself had said during the briefing that they could freelance as circumstances allowed. Granted, it was early in the exercise, but the fact that Madrone had taken the initiative there seemed to her a good thing.

Kevin had definitely changed since ANTARES began. He was more confident, more self-assured. He seemed to be working out; his chest and arms had bulked. She was annoyed with him, though—he’d made, but then blown off, a date with her friend Abby.

Very un-Madrone-like. But people did weird things when they were in love.

“They’re in position,” said Chris Ferris, her copilot.

“Try it again,” said Jeff over the shared circuit.

Aboard Hawkmother

18 February, 1227

KEVIN STEADIED THE TWO ROBOT PLANES ON THEIR course. Actually, the flight computer did—he simply acquiesced to its suggested course.

Maybe Mack was right. Kevin was just a monkey here; the computer could fly the planes without him.

True enough, but that didn’t make him useless or unimportant. On the contrary. He could go anywhere. He had no limits. He told the computer what to do, and it did it.

What had the red shock of pain been? He didn’t have control over that. It was a storm that had struck without warning. He could go anywhere. He hadn’t completed an actual refueling yet—that was on tomorrow’s agenda. But he had no doubt he could master it. And then, what were the limits?

Whatever his mind flowed into, ANTARES, the gateway, C3—those were the limits.

He could get beyond them. He didn’t want to be tethered to dotted lines laid out on maps. He wasn’t a monkey boy or microchip brain or whatever Smith decided to call him—he was beyond that.

Madrone felt a twinge in his temple, the hint of the headache returning. He concentrated on his breathing, and the twinge receded into the pink space beyond the edge of his vision.

Where did it go’? He slid out toward it, focusing his thoughts into a kind of greenish cone, his curiosity forming into a shape. But he couldn’t penetrate the haze; his vision darkened and he began falling out of Theta.

He heard the rain of the forest, returned to full control. He moved the Flighthawks farther apart, closing on the MiG at ten miles.

C3 gave him a warning: “Connection degrading.” The Flighthawks had extended to nearly twenty miles ahead of Hawkmother. The 777 couldn’t keep up.

He backed off his speed. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. He had to learn to segregate his thoughts, to monitor the computer but to think beyond it as well.

The difficulty was the pain.

Maybe. He didn’t have control of everything, not even his own mind, not yet anyway. It worked in a way he didn’t completely understand or control.

The MiG sat at the apex of a V. dead meat between his two planes, his two hands.

If his curiosity were a snake, it would slither beyond the edge of his brain, over the round seam that marked the end of his universe.

The autopilot system of the Boeing. Thick metal levers and motors.

No vision, but the radar.

Safety protocols suspended. The autopilot was off. It was helpless, just watching.

Could he switch it on?

No. Yes?

No. It was off.

Could he be in all three planes at once? Guide them all? Hawkmother’s seat felt foreign to him, deliciously unfamiliar, spiking his taste buds.

He slipped. His body began to sink.

He could hold it.

The tingle again. A harsh red circle around his head. A massive band of pressure, thick oily pressure erupting below his head, his neck on fire, the flames of pain consuming the center of his being.

Aboard Sharkishki

18 February, 1250

MACK’S ALTITUDE HELD STEADY AT 7,500 METERS, roughly 22,500 feet. The Flighthawks passed by and began banking for their attack. Monkey Brain was doing it by the book this time, and so did he, flying exactly on the prebriefed course.

Kick on the afterburner, tuck down, head for the open sea. Be over the Pacific in what? An hour?

Easy. Except with the afterburner he’d blow through his fuel and bail out over Baja.

Go west, young man—buzz L.A. Why the hell not? His career was toast anyway.

If the future really was bleak, maybe he should look up that Brazilian geezer. Or just hang it all and fly airliners for a living.

Yeah, right. That was fine for some guys. Hell, you couldn’t argue with the bucks or the time off. But Mack needed more; he needed the edge.

The Flighthawks roared up behind him, closing to pointblank cannon range. They were directly behind his wings, vectored at a slight angle.

“Bang-bang you got me,” he said over the radio.

Then he realized they weren’t stopping.

Aboard Hawkmother

18 February, 1257

GERALDO’S VOICE BURST ALL AROUND HIM.

“You’re off the chart,” she told Kevin. “The peaks are overlapping. Your heartbeat is at one-fifty. Your brain waves are off the chart.”

Did she mean he was out of control? Pain pressed against him from all different directions. His head was a block of glass being broken into a million jagged pieces.

Except that if it were glass, the pain would have stopped. Madrone tried to breathe, tried to relax—he forced himself back into the jungle, into his Theta metaphor, the pathway for his control.

Someone spoke to him, a woman with a deep voice. From behind the greens and browns and blacks. She spoke Geraldo’s words, urging him to breathe slowly, but it wasn’t the middle-aged psychiatrist speaking; it was a dark woman, a beautiful woman.

Karen, his wife.

No, not Karen. Someone infinitely more beautiful. He could see her through the dark trees. Rain streamed down her naked body, coursing over her breasts and hips.

Come to me, darling. Come.

The Flighthawks were above him. They had a target in sight, closing on a collision course.

C3’s safety protocols had been suspended.

Who did that? Had he?

The pain flashed in waves. Madrone tried to push himself back into the Flighthawks, back into control.

Aboard Sharkishki

18 February, 1301

MACK PUSHED HIS LEFT WING DOWN, DROPPING THE MiG into a violent, sliding dive. The Flighthawks had caught him flat-footed; they were closing so fast he couldn’t even hit his afterburner and rely on his superior speed to get away. All he could do was duck.

He slammed the MiG through a series of hard rolls, taking close to ten g’s as he jerked violently down, the MiG just barely controllable. Gravity pirouetted against the sides of his body, punching so hard that even the advanced flight suit he wore couldn’t ward off all of the pressure. A black cowl closed around his head. His eyes stopped working together; he saw the world as two circles of spinning blue and brown in a thick bowl of grayness. Knife lost sight of his instruments, of the cockpit; he flew by dizzy feel, the stick his only consciousness.

Somehow he pulled out as the spin threatened to overwhelm him. Somehow he managed to get the MiG moving in the direction opposite the one he’d started in, gaining speed.

Knife pushed his wings flat. The world expanded around him, the effects of oxygen deprivation receding. One of the Flighthawks shot ahead, well off his left wing, but where the hell was the other?

He started to move his head around the cockpit, and belatedly realized he was flying upside down. Still disoriented, he swooped right, losing three thousand feet in a roll that brought him nearly to the desert floor.

The second U/MF was on his tail, over him about five hundred feet, still trying to close.

Knife knew he should call time-out, push the mike button and yell knock it off. He might already have done that—his brain was so scrambled he couldn’t remember whether he had or not.

But Goddamnit. If Zen and his shadow were going to play for keeps, so was he.

He forced his hand to the throttle, notching his speed back. He could feel the Flighthawk trying to close.

He’d pull his nose up at the last second, send the son of a bitch right into the dead lake bed. Easy as pie, as long as he kept his head clear and his speed up high enough to avoid stalling.

Madrone would smash the $500-million Flighthawk to bits. Let him explain that, the SOB.

Aboard Hawkmother

18 February, 1307

KEVIN’S THOUGHTS AND IDEAS STREAMED THROUGH THE blue sky, comets jittering and disintegrating. He thought of sending the Flighthawks crashing into the MiG.

The idea remained there, a contrail in the jungle sky. He grabbed for it desperately, trying to wipe it away.

“Knock it off! Knock it off!” Zen yelled.

The red disappeared. The sky and rain forest disappeared. And then he felt Hawk Two, felt the wind coursing below his wings. He relaxed, put his nose up, and circled away from the MiG, breaking pursuit.

Kevin’s head pounded; his heart thumped against his chest. He wanted to turn the two robot planes back over to their flight computer, but he dared not. He couldn’t be sure what other ideas sat out there, ghosts ready to jump in and take control.

“What the hell’s going on, Kevin?” asked Stockard.

“Hawks One and Two returning to base,” he answered. “Requesting permission to land.”

Aboard Raven

18 February, 1313

ZEN PUNCHED THE TRANSMISSION SWITCH ANGRILY. THIS time it had clearly been Kevin’s fault; Mack had flown the pattern perfectly until the Flighthawks homed in on his tail. If anything, Mack had waited too long to take evasive maneuvers. It was a miracle there hadn’t been a collision, and at least a minor miracle that he hadn’t lost Sharkishki.

Jeff had screwed up too. He hadn’t told them to knock it off soon enough, hadn’t taken over the Flighthawks the instant his command wasn’t obeyed.

Why? Because he thought he’d been a little too harsh on the first go-around?

“What are we doing, Gameboy?” asked Mack. He sounded winded, his voice hoarse.

“Calling it a day,” said Jeff. “Return to base.”

Dreamland Security Office

18 February, 1315

DANNY SLID INTO HIS DESK CHAIR AND OPENED THE folder of FBI foreign-contact alerts in his lap. Officially known as Monthly Referral of Foreign and Suspicious Contacts (Form 23-756FBI/DIA), the five pages of eight-point single-spaced type strained Danny’s eyes as well as his patience. The report compiled rumors and rumors of rumors about base personnel and their alleged contacts with foreigners; he was required to acknowledge any that pertained to Dreamland personnel and indicate what he intended to do about it. If the report had added anything to base security, he might have at least felt more comfortable about it, but the real goal was clearly COA—cover our ass—on the FBI’s part. Every conference a Dreamland scientist attended was listed, along with a roster of foreigners; any potential contact was noted by Bureau spies or sources. An engineer who found himself in the same cafeteria line with a British journalist would rate a paragraph. If he’d been served by a Mexican national, he’d get two paragraphs. And if he’d had the misfortune to be at the cashier when a Russian scientist entered the room, he’d get an entire page.

Danny skimmed through the report with as much attention as he could muster, looking for “his” people. Lee Ong had been to a lecture sponsored by the Department of Energy on utilizing computers for some sort of nuclear-test thing; someone from Taiwan had been there. Blah-blah-blah.

Freah yawned his way through the rest of the report until he came to a three-paragraph account detailing a “contact meeting” between Major Mack Smith and a high-ranking member of the Brazilian defense establishment. The details were trivial—the FBI agent fussed over the cigars they had smoked—Cuban Partagas, blatantly illegal, blah-blah-blah.

Brazil was said to be trying to buy MiGs from the Russians, the agent added, almost as an afterthought.

Danny hit a combination of keys on the computer, calling up a file that compiled data from foreign-contact forms—official paperwork that was supposed to be filed by certain key personnel when they were approached by a foreign national.

Smith hadn’t reported the incident.

Not necessarily a big deal. Except that he was assigned to the top-secret Advanced MiG project.

Danny reached to the end of the desk, pulling over his thermos to pour a cup of coffee while the computer fetched Major Smith’s personnel records.

Flighthawk Control Bunker

18 February, 1400

ZEN PUSHED THROUGH THE CONFERENCE ROOM DOUBLE doors so fast he nearly slammed into Chris Ferris, who was reaching for one of the doors.

“Knock if off means knock it the fuck off” he said loudly, wheeling toward the large table at the front of the room where the rest of the ANTARES/Flighthawk team had gathered. Everyone in the room froze.

Everyone except the two people the comment was directed at.

“No shit,” said Mack.

“I did knock it off,” said Madrone.

“You didn’t knock it off fast enough,” Jeff told him. He pushed on the right wheel of his chair, maneuvering as if he were a fighter lining up his enemy in his gunsight. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened,” said Madrone.

“You got that close on purpose?”

“I wasn’t close.”

Zen whipped his chair around, facing Mack. He’d expected Smith to be wearing his usual smirk, but instead found the pilot frowning.

Maybe the encounter had actually done some good, instilling a sense of humility in the conceited jerk.

Fat chance.

“What’s your excuse?” said Zen to Mack.

“Aw, fuck you, Stockard. He’s the one who screwed up.”

“You didn’t break off right away.”

“I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.” Mack started for the door.

“Hey. Smith. Smith!”

Jeff wheeled after him, then stopped a few feet from the door, impotent as Mack stormed away.

He told himself to calm down—his job was to keep everything professional, not throw kerosene on the fire. Jeff wheeled back toward the front of the room, corralling his temper. The different tapes of the mission were stacked near the players; an airman assigned as one of the mission assistants waited at full attention near the machine, his bottom lip trembling. Jeff slid near him, trying to smile.

“At ease, Jimmy. Relax.” he whispered. “Breathe.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, who neither relaxed nor stopped trembling.

“Okay,” said Zen, willing his vocal chords to project their characteristically soothing, in-control tone. “Let’s go through this, from the top, bit by bit.”

BREE WATCHED HER HUSBAND AS HE STRUGGLED TO maintain control. Long before she’d met him, he’d earned his nickname “Zen” because he could be calm under the worst circumstances. That, of course, was before the accident; since then, Jeff had much less patience for minor annoyances, and tended to struggle to project his former calm.

It wasn’t just the accident. Jeff seemed uneasy with being in charge—or rather, with standing back and letting other people take control. He wanted to jump in and do it himself.

Unlike her father. Bastian wouldn’t have roared in cursing. He would have found a way to make Kevin and Mack feel like peas, if that’s what he wanted them to feel like, yet stay in the room and actually learn something.

Bree still thought Jeff was overreacting, at least a little. The review of the C3 control tapes showed that the safety parameters had somehow gotten turned off—a programming glitch that Little Miss Jennifer Gleason was responsible for, though no one seemed to want to say so out loud.

Breanna watched Gleason flick back her hair as she tried to account for the problem. She looked more like a ‘60’s hippie than a scientist on a military base.

Most of the men panted after her.

Not Jeff. And if Gleason tried anything in that direction, she’d scratch the little banshee’s eyes out.

Dreamland Administrative Offices (“Taj”), Level 1

18 February, 1545

DANNY CAUGHT COLONEL BASTIAN ON HIS WAY OUT OF his office for a lunch so late it could be considered dinner.

“Talk to me,” said the colonel, waving off Sergeant Gibbs as he headed for the door.

Freah followed silently as Bastian made his getaway. Bastian grumbled about something, passing the elevator in favor of the stairs. He swiped his card in the reader and pushed through the door, practically leaping from the landing to the steps as he did his customary double time up to ground level, where the general cafeteria was.

“So?” he asked.

“I have to talk to you in private,” said Freah. “Personnel matter.”

Bastian stopped abruptly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hard to get a word in these days.”

Dog smiled. He folded his arms around each other in front of his chest and leaned against the metal pipe of the railing, as deliberate in his nonchalance as he had been in his rush. “This private enough?”

The entire building was swept for bugs daily; everyone entering the building passed through a sensor array that beeped if a paper clip or earring was out of place. In theory, it was as secure as anywhere on the base except the command bunker.

Still, it was a stairwell.

“Go ahead, Danny,” prompted Bastian. “What’s bothering you?”

Danny told him about Smith and the Brazilian official. No one knew what the two men had been talking about, but the Brazilians had been inquiring about MiG sales with the Russians. At the same time, there were rumblings in the Brazilian government about military takeovers and coups.

“None of what you’ve said implicates Mack in any way,” said Bastian when he was finished.

“I know that,” said Danny. “Except that he didn’t report the contact.”

“You sure somebody didn’t start this as a rumor to nail him? Smith is not the most liked person in the world.”

Freah shrugged. His team had pulled Mack out of the Mediterranean during the Somalian matter, rescuing him after disabling the plane his kidnappers were fleeing in. Otherwise, Freah had had very little contact with the man.

“I’m not accusing him of anything except not noting the contact,” said Freah. “In and of itself, that doesn’t call for the death penalty. However—”

“However it’s not good,” agreed Bastian. “What do you suggest?”

“Full security check for starters. Tail him when he’s off base. Do the phones, the whole shebang.”

“Pretty big invasion of privacy for forgetting to fill out a form.”

Danny didn’t say anything. Bastian finally sighed.

“All right. Go for it,” he said. “I have a temporary assignment for him as a liaison with the Department of Energy; it’s due to start in a week or two.”

“I don’t know, Colonel. It’s classified?”

“Yes, but it’s one of those BS things—it involves reviewing sites that are about to be closed for possible test sites. It was mandated by the last Congress, but the Administration has pretty much already dictated what the report should be. It’s a holding pattern for him until a prime spot comes up.”

“Doing what?”

“F-22. Mack would go in as the operations director on the test squadron. Important job—assuming he takes it. He’s turned down everything anyone’s offered so far.”

“I don’t know if I’d sign off security-wise.”

“Well, the liaison thing will give you time to form a definite opinion, no?”

Danny nodded.

“You really think he’s a traitor?” said Dog, his voice more incredulous than before.

Freah shrugged. “I learned when I was a kid you can never read somebody else’s mind.”

“Well, my mind says I’m hungry. How about some lunch?”

“Colonel, it’s almost dinnertime.”

Bastian smiled as if he were apologizing for having so much to do he couldn’t get out for lunch.

“I have to get this going,” said Danny. He took a step down. “I’m going to need you to sign the finding,” he added, referring to the paperwork that allowed the procedures to proceed.

“After lunch I’m going over to the Megafortress simulator,” said the colonel, glancing at his watch. “Half hour there, maybe forty-five minutes, then back to the office. Catch me and I’ll sign.”

“Can’t get enough of the Megafortress, huh’?” asked Danny. “Hey, the computer tells me I’m getting good,” said Bastian, resuming his upward jog.

Dreamland Bunker B, Subbasement

18 February, 1545

KEVIN PUNCHED THE SIDE OF THE HALLWAY WALL AS HE walked to the elevator. He hated Jeff. Who the hell did he think he was, criticizing him? No one else in the freaking fucking world had mastered ANTARES, and the Flighthawks, and the interface, and all the other crap so quickly, so easily as he had.

Damn him. Damn him.

“Kevin, excuse me.”

Madrone turned and saw Geraldo, hurrying toward him. He felt an impulse to jump into the elevator and shut the door, but resisted, waiting for her.

“Thank you,” she said. As they got into the car, he saw how old she was, how old and small. He’d never noticed it before.

“What happened during the last exercise?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I told you. Nothing.”

“I saw wave patterns I’ve never seen before. Explain to me what you felt.”

“I felt, you know, like I was flying. I had control of the planes.”

“Did you?”

“I may not be as good a pilot as Zen or Smith,” he said, “but I’m getting there.”

She looked at him oddly. He resisted the impulse to keep talking—that was how they got you.

Was she one of them?

“How have you been sleeping?” she asked.

“Fine.”

She put her hand to his skull where the spider had been implanted. Her touch was gentle, but still he winced. “Headaches?”

“No.”

“This doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re afraid when I touch?”

“No.”

She pulled her hand down, smiling as if she had caught him in a fib. “We have a battery of tests we need to do.” She glanced at her watch. “Eat first. I’ll see you in an hour from now.”

“Yup.” He fixed his gaze on the floor. His head had been fine until she asked about headaches—now his temples felt like they would implode.

“Are you ready to fly without me?” she asked.

“You don’t think I can handle ANTARES alone?”

The words came out so harshly they snapped her back. Madrone felt her stare stoking the pain in his head.

He couldn’t afford to have her as an enemy.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little tired. The, uh, the exercises wear me out.”

“Of course. I understand,” she said in a tone that suggested otherwise.

The elevator arrived at the main level. He smiled, ducking his head against the light, letting Gerald() go first. “I’m going to get some lunch,” he told her.

She nodded and walked out of the hangar.

Madrone remained standing a few feet from the elevator on the long cement ramp. He put his hand on the metal rail, felt its coolness. He was tempted to put his head on it, let the cold metal soften the throb, but there were others around; they’d think it odd.

Aspirin, he told himself. He needed to get something for the headache.

He didn’t have any back at his quarters.

Quarters—a stinking tiny little room the size of an old-fashioned phone booth.

He deserved better—he deserved a mansion with a pool and someone to fix dinner, someone to greet him at the door in a silk nightgown, fold him into her arms, lay back while he bonked her brains out.

Red railroad spikes smashed into his head.

He didn’t want violent sex. He wanted to wrap himself in the warm rain, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to breathe slowly, he wanted to escape. escape, escape.

Dreamland Bunker B, Computer Lab

18 February, 1600

JENNIFER GLEASON PULLED THE LAPTOP CLOSER TO her, punching the function buttons to redisplay the graphs. Sometimes it was easier to use the visual displays of the different control segments to catch anomalies in the programming, but the graphs were smooth.

The fact that C3 had turned off the safety protocols bothered the hell out of her. The fact that she couldn’t figure out why bothered her even more. But she believed she could isolate the problem; there was a flood of integer overflows in the code mandating approval of the pilot that either accounted for the error or would show where it started.

More worrisome was C3’s decision to ram the aggressor.

Assuming it had been C3. Tracking Madrone’s commands through the electroencephalogram graphs and the gateway registers could be tricky and time-consuming; ANTARES kicked up a lot of back-and-forth and superfluous code. But the major commands were all marked out clearly.

There was no indication C3 had given the command either.

Jennifer slid over to another display, keying up a set of numbers that corresponded to command flags originating in the robots themselves. Even when flown directly by the remote pilot, the Flighthawks actually carried out many of the flight functions themselves. To lessen the communications burden between the main computer—C3—and the planes, most of these were precoded in the robots’ onboard brains. The Flighthawks, for example, could be told to land at such and such a place and would do so without further instruction, setting their own speed, trimming control surfaces, etc. Several two-and four-plane formations were hardwired in, as was the command to close on another plane’s tail. Combining different commands would lead the planes to recognize an enemy, close to gun range, and fire.

Perhaps the error was in the fire command itself, or the combination, she realized. It seemed far-fetched, since the presets had been thoroughly tested without incident for nearly two years.

The fire flag was not depressed.

But that didn’t make sense—it should have been set by C3 at the top of the exercise.

The flags directing the planes to close weren’t set either.

C3 could have sent a flow of commands to the planes for each movement. In other words, it had either not realized the command was in its library—unlikely—or decided not to bother with the preset—even more unlikely.

Jennifer wound a thick stalk of hair at the back of her neck around her forefinger and pulled at the roots. She was going to have to dump all of the coin code from that sequence and go over it line by line. And she was going to have to do it on hard copy. It would take all night, at least.