Текст книги "Nerve Center"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Wearily, she punched in the commands and went to make sure the big laser printer was on. As the printing drum sucked up the first sheet of paper, Jennifer walked to the far side of the lab where Mr. Coffee sat alone on a long work bench. She took the carafe and started toward the door to fill it in the rest room down the hall. But then she realized she had the printer running; security regulations forbade her from leaving the room until it was finished, which wouldn’t be for quite some time.

Fortunately, she had a jug of water for just such emergencies. She retrieved it from the bottom filing cabinet next to the old Cray and emptied it into Mr. Coffee, leaving it out on the bench so she’d remember to refill it later. Then she spooned some grinds into the paper filter and started the machine.

Only two more filters left. Have to remember to pick some up.

Waiting for the coffee to brew, she thought about her visit back home for Christmas. Her family lived in a large farmhouse in frigid northern Minnesota. As a girl, she’d stood before the front window with its sixteen small panes of glass, watching the sun rise over the glittering field across the road, the brown heads of weeds fluttering with the wind. The light flooded into the house from the window, turning everything bright and blurring the face of the grandfather clock near the fireplace.

She missed the sun, but not the cold.

Although Nevada could be damn cold too. She shivered a little, sliding her coffee cup across the black Formica top of the table as Mr. Coffee began doing his thing.

The door to the lab whooshed open behind her. Jennifer glanced back and saw Kevin Madrone standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.

“Kevin, come on in,” she said, pulling out the carafe. A drip of coffee slipped past the drip guard on the hot plate. “Want some coffee?”

“How about aspirin?”

“Aspirin?” She filled her cup and slid the pot back into place. The coffeemaker spat a pent-up stream into the carafe, hissing loudly. “I think there’s aspirin in the ladies room down the hall. Want me to get you some?”

As she turned back to face him, she realized he wasn’t by the door anymore—he was next to her, so close he startled her. He started to say something, his hand reached for hers; confused, she jerked her hand up, forgetting she had the cup in it. The liquid flew wildly, splashing all over Madrone.

He stepped back, stunned for a moment. Then he plucked at the top of his flight suit and cursed.

“Shit! Shit! This is hot!”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, putting the cup down on the bench. “You just—you startled me.”

“Why did you do that, you bitch?” said Madrone. His face turned red and his whole body seemed to rise up. Jennifer froze, overwhelmed and suddenly powerless to move. Madrone raised his right hand, and the space seemed to shrink to nothing, her world evaporating into a void of fear. Jennifer felt her throat click; she tried to raise her hands to fend off the oncoming storm, but could not.

“What’s going on?”

The loud, sharp voice froze everything. Jennifer took a step back, glancing toward the door. Colonel Bastian was standing in the doorway.

“I uh, I spilled some coffee on me by accident,” said Madrone.

Jennifer looked up at his face. Had she imagined his anger? He looked small and meek, completely perplexed. The top of his flight suit was soaked with the hot liquid; a few drops plopped down onto the floor.

“Actually, 1 spilled it,” Jennifer heard herself say. “I was working and I didn’t quite hear Captain Madrone come in. When I turned around he was there and I’m afraid he startled me. I’m sorry, Kevin. Here, there are some paper towels right here.”

But Madrone had already started away, head down, passing Bastian and continuing out into the hallway.

“Something wrong here?” the colonel asked her.

“Oh, no.” She smiled weakly, then retrieved the paper towels to clean up the coffee from the floor.

God, he must think I’m a loony, she thought to herself.

“I was—I get wrapped up in my work sometimes,” she said. She bent to the floor and began wiping up the mess. “I can be a real slob. I think I burned him.”

“We can get someone to clean that up,” suggested Bastian.

“By the time they clear security it’ll evaporate,” she said, trying to joke. Jennifer rubbed the sodden towel on the floor, scraping her fingertips. She pulled the roll close to her, worked her way slowly across the puddle. After watching for a while, Colonel Bastian bent, picked up the pile of wadded towels, and carried them dripping to the wastebasket.

She wanted to jump up and kiss him, feel his arms around her.

Wouldn’t that be the topper—then he’d know she was crazy.

Bastian picked up her plastic coffee mug and refilled it as she finished cleaning the mess.

“Vikings, huh?” he asked, handing it to her.

It took a second for her to realize he was referring to the logo on the mug.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m from Minnesota.” She looked into his steel-gray eyes for a moment, then glanced to the floor.

“I was wondering if you would kick on the Megafortress simulator for me,” said Bastian. “Major Cheshire has gone home and I can’t find Bree or anyone else.”

“Oh,” she said.

She would do anything for him. Anything.

The print dump. She couldn’t leave it. Security.

He wanted her too, didn’t he? His eyes said so.

No, not really. Jennifer took a sip of the coffee. “I would, but I have a job running through the printer and it’s going to take forty-five minutes. I can’t leave the room. Security.” She shrugged. “It’s a little silly, but—”

“No, no, that’s okay,” said Bastian.

He started for the door. Don’t leave, she thought. Don’t leave.

God, was she really in love?

The door whisked closed as she considered the question.

Dreamland Dorms, Pink Building

18 February, 2345

LYING ON HIS COT, KEVIN FELT A THOUSAND KNIVES JAB his head from every angle, tearing and twisting the gray matter of his brain. He’d taken four aspirin and two Tylenol besides, tried a hot shower and Geraldo’s tea, yet felt as bad as ever.

What had happened this afternoon with Jennifer? The memory was lost behind the shards of colored glass prying open his brain. Karen was there, beautiful Karen, her eyes turning into snakes, her tongue fire.

And then Christina, his daughter, lying in the middle of the floor, crying softly but incessantly. Her sob reverberated in his head, his body trembling.

He couldn’t save her.

Geraldo and her assistants had run him through a battery of tests. She said he passed them all—he knew he passed them all. But something was happening to him.

The headache. Geraldo said it was normal.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone his entire life without headaches. If he’d known Christina would die before she was two, he’d never have had her.

She rose from the floor. She walked toward him, sobbing, holding out her chubby fingers.

Kevin jerked upright. He felt as if he were still connected to ANTARES. His mind spread out before him.

He held his hand to his daughter. Her soft flesh brushed against his fingertips.

A team of doctors pulled him back as they touched. The doctors were laughing and sneering at him.

The pain flashed.

He was dreaming; he’d fallen asleep.

He could make it stop if he could breathe. He could make it stop if he could breathe.

He could breathe. Picture the air at the bottom of your lungs and push it up slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Push the air up slowly.”

It was Geraldo’s voice, but it wasn’t her. The dark woman stood at the rim of his vision, hidden in the trees. He got control of his breath, pushed the air in and out slowly, very slowly. Rain began to fall. The harsh light that had hurt his eyes retreated. He was in the forest.

“Breathe slowly,” she told him. “Gently.”

Jennifer?

No, Jennifer was thin, almost a wisp, with light hair. This woman’s shadow was thick and dark, more seductive, moving from beyond the trees. He reached for her. The pain crescendoed.

When he stopped screaming, Kevin found that he had fallen from the bed and was lying stark naked on the cold floor.

Allegro, Nevada18 February, 2352

THE DREAM WAS FAMILIAR NOW, EVEN WITH ITS SLIGHT variations. Jeff sat on the beach as the sun rose midway in the sky, its brilliant red gradually fading to black. A cube appeared to grow from the center of this blackness, shining and yet still black somehow. The cube spun slowly, revealing itself as a three-dimensional computer chip coursed by veins and arteries. Sometimes he could see the blood pulsing in the veins; sometimes he saw millions of faces like reflections in the tiny solder points on the surface of the cube. But always what happened next was the same—as the cube expanded he realized it was growing inside his brain, obliterating him.

At that point he woke up. Always.

Jeff knew the dream was about ANTARES. He’d been thinking about the project a lot, debating whether or not to volunteer as a subject.

Geraldo had suggested that he start the sessions again at some point, though she hadn’t brought it up.

Getting back into Theta would be easy. He still had the chip with its connections to his nerve endings implanted in his skull.

He’d thought of having it removed when he returned to Dreamland. But while he’d been told the operation wasn’t particularly difficult, he feared it could harm his vision and hearing. His legs were useless; he couldn’t survive any other loss.

Bree said something in her sleep and rolled over, away from him.

Did he want to fly like that, though, using ANTARES? Letting the computer come into his head, suggest things—it wasn’t flying. He might as well be at a desk, checking off to-do lists.

Was what he did now flying? Strapped into a special chair, pushing a pair of joysticks and watching the world through a high-tech video screen?

Zen shifted his head on the pillow. ANTARES didn’t take over your brain. You did the thinking yourself, sending impulses the way you would move your legs and arms. Ultimately, you were responsible for everything—including your dreams and fears.

So why was he afraid of it? Why hadn’t he insisted that he be the subject?

He knew that as he was currently the only Flighthawk pilot available, shifting to ANTARES full-time would have set the U/MF program behind schedule. But he could have insisted.

Was he scared? He’d done okay with ANTARES, but had never particularly liked the sensation. Now Geraldo had added powerful new drugs to the mix, actually changing body chemistry.

Kevin had changed in the short time since he’d been in the program. He’d become more—what was the word? Not just aggressive exactly, more just a jerk.

ANTARES? More likely a side of him Zen had never noticed before.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Geraldo. Not about Madrone—about becoming a subject again, or at least getting ready. He’d have to clear it with Bastian, of course, but in the end, he’d do it. There was no other choice.

Breanna rolled over again, this time toward him. She pushed her arm over his chest and back around his neck, nuzzling close. Zen turned his head to kiss her, slipping back toward the heavy blanket of sleep.

Dolphin Helicopter Transport

Approaching Dreamland

19 February, 0600

MACK SMITH FOLDED THE NEWSPAPER BACK IN DISGUST, just barely stopping himself from flinging it onto the floor of the helicopter.

“Team lose?” asked his fellow passenger, a jet-propulsion engineer named Brian Daily.

“Hardly,” said Smith. He gave Daily a sideways glance. Ordinarily he wouldn’t bother with him, but the story had pissed him off. “Fucking L.A. Times. You know what it says?”

Daily shrugged. The freckles on his face seemed to blanch a bit as Mack unfolded the paper and pointed to the article.

“Israeli Defenses Stand Down from Full Alert,” said Daily, reading the headline. The article was a longish analysis of the state of the Israeli military, with three typos that Mack had seen without even paying much attention.

“No, it’s this bullshit that pisses me off,” said Smith. “Pound for pound, the best air force. Pound for pound, my fucking ass.”

Daily tried peering at the article while at the same time leaning away from Mack in the seat. “I don’t think they mean that as a slam.”

“It’s bullshit,” said Mack.

“Jeez, relax back there, Major,” said the copilot, twisting around from the front. “What’s got you frosted?”

“Ah, nothing,” said Smith. He twirled his arms around each other, pushing his head down toward his chest.

Why was he so frosted? Things like that were total crap, written by jerks who didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. No disrespect toward the Israelis, who after all were kick-ass pilots, but pound for pound the best? Better than the American Air Force, which had whipped Saddam’s butt a few years before? Hell, the stinking Marines were better, pound for pound. Even the Navy, for christsake.

No offense intended to the Israelis.

His rage was so great, Mack began racking his brain to see what he really was angry about. Not having a job—that was the problem.

And really, he’d been hard on Bastian the other day. He ought to apologize. And see if maybe Bastian had something for him yet.

Fresh off the helo, Mack headed to Bastian’s office, jostling past the obnoxious Sergeant Gibbs and sailing into Dog’s inner sanctum with a half knock and a hearty “Hey, Colonel.” He slid over one of the visitors’ chairs, leaning forward with his elbows on the armrests.

“I was a jerk the other day, cutting in front of the egghead,” he told Bastian, waiting for the colonel to quickly persuade him that he was wrong.

“Why are you here?” Bastian replied.

“I was a jerk,” Mack told him, still waiting.

Bastian glanced toward the door, where Sergeant Gibbs was standing.

“I will have a cup of coffee, Sergeant,” said Smith, following the glance. “That’d be nice.”

The barest hint of a frown appeared on Gibbs’s face before he retreated into his own domain.

“They broke the mold,” said Mack, gesturing toward Gibbs. “Fortunately.”

“Yes,” said Dog. Even ramrod straight in his chair, Bastian was not a tall man. Still, he dominated the space, his eyes hard in a face that seemed squared at the edges. He wasn’t particularly handsome, Mack thought, but looking at him you could tell he was the kind of guy who made a decision and stuck to it.

The colonel slowly reached for his coffee. He took a sip, then spoke.

“As a matter of fact, Mack, I have made a few calls on your behalf, despite our recent interview.”

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing immediate that comes up to your level of expertise.”

“Thanks, Colonel.” Mack smiled, expecting Bastian to go on, but he didn’t.

Sergeant Gibbs appeared with the coffee.

“Two lumps, huh, Major?”

“I like it sweet, yes,” said Mack, taking the cup. He stirred the metal spoon around, tapped it a few times, then took a sip.

Have to give this to the sergeant—he made a mean cup of joe.

“You’re on base early this morning,” noted Bastian.

“Yes, sir. Running some last tests on the MiG.”

“You still working with ANTARES?”

“Don’t know that they’re flying again today,” said Mack. “But if they want me, I’m ready. We’re about to shut down Sharkishki anyway. Couple more flights at most.”

Someone must have told Bastian about his son-in-law’s screwup yesterday, Mack realized. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

Time to change the subject.

“Obviously, I’d like to command a squadron, even if that’s not possible right away,” Knife told Bastian. “What I thought might work would be to go in as number two somewhere, you know, with a guy about to move out. Probably over in CentCom,” he added, referring to Central Command, which had charge of a number of tactical squadrons and where, he believed, Dog had numerous connections. “Like to hit Italy. Couple of squadrons there, no?”

“Might work,” said Bastian. “In the meantime, I have something for you. It’s a political plum—temporary assignment with the Department of Energy, inspecting test facilities that are either slated to be closed or already are. They need a report on their suitability for Air Force bases. You can guess what the report’s supposed to say,” the colonel added.

“Sounds kind of like a—”

“It’s definitely a holding pattern, definitely bullshit, but you’ll interface with some Pentagon brass along the way,” continued Bastian. “If that goes well, I may be able to swing something much better.”

“Like?”

“Everything in due time,” said Dog.

Mack fought down the impulse to try and wheedle more information.

Hell, he had been a jerk, getting down on the Air Force. Even playing ground FAC with some dusty Army unit in Korea would be a million times better than becoming a civilian. Quit the service and he’d end up flying 727’s and learning to play golf.

No disrespect intended.

Mack jumped up, took a long swig of the coffee, and placed the half-full cup on the colonel’s desk. “It better be a kick-ass one or I’ll farm myself out as a free agent,” he joked. “Maybe I’ll go to Brazil—some old geezer tried to recruit me last month as a consultant.”

Bastian said nothing.

Mack laughed. “Hell, maybe I’ll go to work for the Russians. I can fly their planes too. Don’t you think, Dog?”

Still nothing from the colonel. Some guys were just humor-impaired.

“Well, listen, Colonel, I won’t keep you,” said Knife, backing his way toward the door. “I appreciate your trying to help me. Anything you can do, I appreciate it.”

Dreamland Flighthawk Hangar

19 February, 0630

“YEAH, RIGHT,” SAID SCHNEIDER WITH A LAUGH AS ZEN wheeled into the Flighthawk hangar. “Like you could hit a barn from that distance.”

“I did it,” insisted Foster.

The two techies were responsible for the robot planes’ engine systems. A few other members of the maintenance and prep team were hanging around, reviewing their punch lists and warming up to the day with coffee and some Danishes.

“Hey, Major,” said Schneider, turning to Jeff. “Foster here claims he nailed a buck between the eyes from five hundred yards last November back in Pennsylvania with a pistol.”

“Three hundred yards, with a Remington rifle,” said Foster.

“I could believe that,” said Zen, helping himself to some of the coffee but skipping the sweets.

Tough, though. A pineapple Danish practically winked at him.

“And I didn’t shoot it in the eyes,” added Foster. “You don’t aim at a deer’s head if you want to hit it.”

“You mean you hit it by accident?” said Schneider.

Foster waved his clipboard at his friend. “Twenty-one points, and that’s no lie,” he told Zen. “You hunt, Major?”

Foster tried to swallow his words; Schneider shuffled his legs nervously. One or two of the other men glanced toward Jeff’s wheelchair.

“I’m not much of a hunter,” said Jeff, sipping his coffee as nonchalantly as possible. “Freezing my butt off in the woods isn’t my idea of recreation. Chair’s cold enough as it is.”

“Yeah.” Foster laughed nervously.

Jeff took a sip of his coffee. When he had first returned to active duty, the awkward silence would have annoyed him—he didn’t need, and didn’t want, pity. But he’d come pretty far in the last few months. He wasn’t at peace with the loss of his legs; that was never, ever going to happen. But the awkwardness of others didn’t offend him anymore.

If he’d been in a better mood—if he’d gotten more sleep—he might have made another joke, probably at Schneider’s expense; doubtless the coffee fiend couldn’t hit anything he was aiming at, starting with the urinal in the bathroom. But Zen just changed the subject, asking what kind of shape the planes were in. The crew dogs fell to with quick and very positive status reports. Four Flighthawks were now considered at full flight status; two more would join them late next month, with another pair ready for static tests and check-flights the month after. Components for additional U/MFs were said to be en route; by summer Dreamland would boast enough Flighthawks to mount a full squadron.

Satisfied, Zen pushed himself over to the elevator, riding down to the lab level and his office in “Bunker B.” One of the project members had tacked a large poster of a Frankenthaler painting on the door; he’d thought it pretty weird when he first saw it, and his opinion hadn’t changed all that much. It was called “The Human Edge,” and he supposed it was meant to be a metaphor or something. All he saw were some colors splotched on a large sheet of paper; not too much human about that.

Zen opened the door and spun his wheelchair sideways to angle through the narrow passageway. He left the door open while he checked for e-mail. Jennifer Gleason had left a long note discussing yesterday’s exercises; she had found an apparent glitch in C3’s interface with the ANTARES gateway, but needed some fresh tests to see if she was on the right track.

So it wasn’t Kevin’s fault at all. Or Mack’s, for that matter. Jeff checked the time on the note. Jennifer had sent it at 4:45 A.M.; she’d worked all night.

They could rerun the test tomorrow afternoon, assuming Madrone was up to it and Zen could find a free range. Between the Russian spy satellites and Dreamland’s increasing activities, spur-of-the-moment test flights were getting harder and harder to arrange.

The weather module on Dreamland’s automated flight-scheduling system gave him another caution—a serious storm had stalled over the mountains to the west. Except for a bit of turbulence, their test range should remain clear during their flight window, but the front was fierce and looked to hang around for a while. Ordinarily the U/MFs didn’t operate in the flight areas that far west, but more routine test craft sometimes did, and the storm could complicate scheduling for some time.

Better to try and get it done ASAP. Jeff picked up the phone to start rounding up the troops.

But he found himself punching the extension for the ANTARES project offices instead.

Dr. Geraldo herself picked up.

“Doc, this is Jeff Stockard,” he said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer to reinitiate the ANTARES sessions.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “Whatever we need to do.”

“Well, you should begin with the drug protocol, and we’ll have to talk to Colonel Bastian—”

“Let’s do it.”

Dreamland Dorms, Pink Building19 February, 0806

SLEEP WAS A COUNTRY OF GRAY-SHROUDED HILLS, PALE yellow light, and a harsh sun, its purple-red globe directlyoverhead no matter how Kevin turned. Animals stalked the shadows, their low growls sifted by the rustle of the leaves into hints of human whispers. Snakes slinked just out of sight, ready for him, watching.

Madrone rolled over and over on his bed, got up in the dark and paced, threw himself back onto the mattress. Finally he realized it was after eight o’clock. He went quickly to the shower, standing in the stall stoically as the water first froze and then nearly scalded him. When he got out, he realized he had left his underpants on; he stripped them off quickly, embarrassed.

His daughter had insisted on wearing her underpants into the bath. Karen had screamed at him for letting her.

The phone rang. It was Geraldo. But rather than demanding why he was late, she asked if he could report to Hawkmother for another flight. They wanted to redo some tests, if he was up to it.

“Yes,” he said. He hung up the phone and quickly dressed. Then Madrone hurried over to the Boeing’s hangar, skipping breakfast, head pushed down on his chest. He felt as if it were raining around him.

“Kevin, hello,” said Dr. Geraldo, greeting him as he walked across the tarmac toward Hawkmother. The crews were tending to the plane as it sat at the edge of the ramp.

“You look tired,” Geraldo said. She touched him gently on the arm. Her fingers cleared the rain away; he felt as if he’d taken off a heavy hat. A smell like the smell of cookies baking filled the room, soothing him.

“I didn’t sleep,” he confessed.

Geraldo looked at him as if she were disappointed. She was counting on him, needed him, and he was hurting her. He could feel it—he didn’t want to hurt her.

“It’s okay,” he said. He tried to laugh. “I just couldn’t sleep. Too much coffee yesterday. Gave me that headache.”

Her own eyes were heavy, with thick rings below them. He wanted to tell her about the nightmares, but he’d hurt her if he did. She was counting on him; she needed him.

As Christina had needed him. He couldn’t fail again. “Well, let’s get going,” he told her.

“Are you sure?” Geraldo asked him.

“Come on, Doc,” he said, giving her a light tap on the back.

“You’re staying on the ground today, right? I’m ready to solo.”

“Well—”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m okay,” he said, starting to feel more sure of himself. “Cut the apron strings.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’re just rerunning the tests, right?”

“Jeff wants to rerun yesterday’s encounter. There was some sort of computer glitch they need to take care of. If you have time, they want to start working on the refuels.”

Kevin shrugged. “Cool.”

Geraldo nodded. “After the flight is over, I’d like to run another full physical review. We need some fresh electroencephalograms and the standard EKGs. The whole physical suite,” she told him, her voice still faintly tentative.

“Two days in a row?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“My cholesterol too high?”

Geraldo smiled. “No, you’re perfect. You’ve gained weight; we should probably do a body-fat analysis and another stress test. You’re probably in better shape than when you started.”

“I’m telling you, Doc, we’re going to cure the common cold.”

Madrone realized she was looking at his thumb. He spread his hands and held them up for her to see. “No more nail-biting either. No cigarettes. I’m a new me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Kevin. He put his hand on the rail to climb up into Hawkmother. “See ya when school’s over.”

Hawkmother Cockpit19 February, 0840

TRENT ‘TRUCK” DALTON CURSED SOFTLY AS THE CAP ON the Diet Coke slipped around the top of the bottle, stubbornly refusing to break open. Fortunately, there were ways of dealing with problems like this—he reached his hand into his survival vest and pulled out his long knife, gingerly setting the bottle on the top of the control yoke to saw the plastic retaining snaps in two.

“You’re out of your mind,” said the 777’s copilot, Terry Kulpin. Kulpin had gotten up out of his seat and was pacing on the spacious flight deck behind him.

“What?” said Dalton. The plastic was so stubborn he had to use considerable force to finally get through the edge.

“You’re going to cut off your hand. Then we’ll have to scrap the mission totally and Stockard will kill us.”

“Nah.” Truck rolled the bottle and the knife did slip; fortunately, it missed his fingers. Kulpin whistled behind him. “Relax. See? I got it open. Hungry? There’s some Twizzlers in my kit back there.”

Dalton gestured with the knife toward the gym bag he’d stowed in the auxiliary station directly behind the copilot’s seat. There were mounts for temporary jump seats there, but in the Boeing’s present configuration the extended flight deck was just surplus real estate, adding to the ghost-town feel of the big plane.

“I don’t like licorice.”

“Suit yourself.” Dalton stowed the knife and took a long slug of soda.

“Looks like hydraulic fluid,” said Kulpin.

“Maybe that’s what you saw yesterday—Coke.”

“Very funny,” said the copilot. Kulpin had noticed—or thought he’d noticed—a small trace of hydraulic fuel on the ground below the left engine during yesterday’s preflight test. That had necessitated a massive hunt for a problem, delaying takeoff and almost scrubbing the mission. But no problem had been found, and the plane had flown perfectly.

“You keep drinking that stuff, you won’t fit through the ejector hatch,” said Kulpin.

“You planning on getting rid of me?”

“Depends on how I’m feeling.”

Unlike conventional airliners and transports, the Dreamland Boeing was equipped with ejection seats for emergencies. The system included an emergency computer initiative or ECI that they had been testing before being drafted for the ANTARES test; once armed by verbal command from the pilot, the computer could pull the handle if it sensed the pilot had become unconscious. To the pilots, this was a bit like a James Bond device for getting rid of obnoxious backseat drivers. While there were several layers of safety procedures, they didn’t particularly like the system. Preliminary tests showed that it, like the advanced autopilot it was part of, worked well.

“Man. You’re finishing the whole bottle?” asked Kulpin.

“I’m thirsty.”

“You don’t think you’re going to have to pee?”

Truck shrugged. “I never have to pee when I’m flying. I was a Hog driver, remember? You drive a Hog, you grow your bladder.”

“Wing tanks.”

“Exactly.”

Not equipped with an autopilot until recently, the bare-bones A-10A Warthog was a very difficult plane to take a leak in; you had to work the piddle-pack into position while keeping the stick steady with a combination of body English and wishful thinking.

“You think I should go back to the ANTARES pod and check on Madrone?” he asked. “He’s all alone back there.”

“Probably jacking off.” They both laughed—Madrone was a bit of a cipher. “Might as well work your way back and make sure he’s okay. This is the first time he’s flown without a baby-sitter back there,” added Trent. He tossed the empty bottle to his copilot. “Just don’t get lost.”

“I may trip over something,” said Kulpin. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I fall behind one of those black boxes you’ll never see me again.”

Ten seconds after he disappeared through the bulkhead, Dream Tower gave the go to launch.

Sharkishki

19 February, 0950

MACK GLANCED AT THE SMALL FLIGHT BOARD ON HIS knee, where he’d mapped out a cheat-sheet with the parameters of his flight. He was supposed to duplicate yesterday’s final run exactly, or as exactly as possible. It was trickier than it sounded, since he had to duplicate something he’d winged, and didn’t have the high-tech-computer assistant pilots to guide him.

As usual, the computer geeks wanted the tests done a certain way, but hadn’t bothered to explain exactly why. Undoubtedly, they thought the universe worked like one of their programs—plug in the values and go.

“Gameboy to Aggressor,” said Zen in his helmet headset. “You’re looking good.”

“Aggressor,” acknowledged Mack. He spun his eyes around the cockpit, checking his instruments. He needed to come up five hundred feet if he was going to do this right; he coaxed the throttle so he wouldn’t lose any speed as he nudged his nose upward. The Flighthawks were ahead somewhere, still undetected by his radar.