Nerve Center

by Dale Brown

“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.

  “Let’s rock,” he said impatiently. “Madrone, get with it.”

  Hawkmother

  19 February, 0954

  MADRONE SAW THE MiG FAT IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS head, precisely midway between the two Flighthawks as they approached. The computer had yesterday’s track duplicated exactly, making a minor adjustment to accommodate the MiG’s slower airspeed.

  It was going well. His headache hadn’t reappeared, and the fatigue had slipped away once the metal band of the ANTARES helmet liner slipped over his skull. Even the stiff flight suit, with its spike running up and down his back, didn’t bother him today.

  If anything, he was bored. The computer flew with minimal input, tracing the course. He could, of course, think himself into either cockpit. He could roll quickly, shoot downward, climb, launch a front-quarter attack, obliterate Sharkishki.

  Madrone leaned back in his seat. If he’d thought that yesterday, C3 would have carried out the commands. Today it didn’t. He’d learned to partition his thoughts, keep different strands going.

  A new level. Even greater control. More possibilities.

  The headache and the dreams were growth pains, his mind bouncing against the ceiling of the next level, breaking through it.

  There were so many other things he could do. He could reach out through ANTARES and go beyond it.

  Kevin could feel the autopilot for the Boeing, hovering in the background. He saw it beyond the gateway.

  He could use ANTARES to walk into the room and see the levers there. Once he saw them, he could work them.

  Metaphors. Mastering ANTARES was a matter of finding the right metaphor—inventing the right language.

  Madrone snaked into Hawkmother’s cockpit. The radar inputs felt like small twitches on the base of his neck. He could almost see himself.

  Ignore the returns painting the Flighthawks. It’s too confusing. The controls are difficult enough. Difficult but exciting.

  “Coming to Point Delta,” said Zen somewhere far away. Kevin jumped back to the Flighthawks and acknowledged. It was like passing between different rooms.

  Or different parts of the forest. Lightning screeched in the distance. Madrone took a breath, suddenly anxious that the headache might return.

  It might. He would deal with it.

  The dark woman beyond the edge of his vision would help him.

  Breathe, she said. Breathe.

  The Flighthawks continued past the MiG as they had yesterday. C3 threw up a dotted line, proposing that they turn and fly toward Sharkishki’s tail. Madrone assented.

  He could fly the Boeing if he wanted. The systems were complicated, but the plane itself was more inherently stable, easier to control than the Flighthawks. He could feel the control yoke in his hand.

  A tremendous jolt of pain crashed into the back of his head, nearly taking away his breath.

  Rain, she told him. Stay in Theta.

  Rain.

  Rave19 February, 1005

  ZEN GLANCED QUICKLY AT THE FEED FROM THE Flighthawk cockpits, then pushed the headset’s mouthpiece closer to his face. “Repeat, Hawk Commander?” he asked.

  “Nothing. No transmission. Sorry,” said Madrone. He sounded like he was out of breath.

  Jeff called up the optical feed from Hawk One as the two U/MFs approached the MiG. The overhead plot had everyone precisely in place. The planes passed each other and the Flighthawks began to bank behind the MiG.

  How would an engagement like this go if there were thirty or forty planes in the air? Could Madrone really control it all?

  Could he?

  Zen studied the instrument feeds as the two Flighthawks spun around and began to close on Mack. The planes were in perfect mechanical condition, all systems in the green.

  Damn hard just sitting here and watching, using the tubes instead of his visor. He ought to be in the cockpit.

  That meant getting back into ANTARES. Two years from now, maybe even sooner, it would be the only way to control the Flighthawks. It was clearly the future.

  Zen hit the toggle on the video feed, bringing the enhanced satellite view onto the main screen. He forced himself to focus on his work. The Flighthawks duplicated yesterday’s near miss.

  “Here we go,” said Mack, tipping his wing.

  “Breaking off,” said Madrone. The two Flighthawks shot downward, rolling on opposite wings in a graceful arc back toward the other end of the range.

  “Got it,” said Lee Ong from the other station. Ong was watching the Flighthawks’ computer systems. “I think that’s what she wants.”

  “Close enough?”

  “She didn’t say to scrape paint,” said the scientist. “All she really wants to see are what commands fired.”

  Zen checked his watch. They had exactly an hour and a half of time on the range left.

  Might as well put it to use.

  “Mack, what’s your fuel?”

  “You want kilos or you want pounds?”

  “How’s about time?”

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  “What are we doing here, Jeff?” asked Madrone in his now-standard snot-ass tone.

  “I’m thinking we can practice some tanker approaches. First we’ll try a couple with the MiG.”

  “Why?” asked Mack. “Why not use the Hawkmother?”

  “Because I want to work on theory first, then worry about dealing with the vortexes the Boeing kicks off,” said Jeff. “Kevin, I want you to fly the plane, not C3.”

  “Shit. He’s going to have more trouble pulling up behind me than the 777,” said Mack.

  “Even if that were true, you’ve demonstrated twice now that you can get out of the way fast.”

  “Oh, thanks. Hear that, Junior? Dad doesn’t think you’ll be careful with his car.”

  “What’s the course?” answered Madrone.

  Jeff laid it out for them, setting Mack into a long racetrack orbit at eighteen thousand feet. Smith was almost surely right—the Fulcrum, with its closely spaced engines and knifelike wing surfaces and fuselage, threw wicked vortexes off its wings. It also didn’t have a lighting system to help guide Madrone in.

  But Zen stuck with it stubbornly. Mack gave another grouchy harumph before settling into his track, flying it flawlessly as the two Flighthawks closed behind him. Hawk One pulled to within twenty feet of the MiG’s right wing, as briefed, held its position for ten seconds, then dropped back.

  “He let C3 handle that completely,” said Ong. “Did you want that?”

  “Hawk Leader, rely a little less on the computer assist with Hawk Two,” said Zen.

  “Hawk.”

  Zen glanced back at Ong as Madrone began his approach. Jennifer would have been hunched over one of the laptops, punching the keyboard furiously. Ong just sat back and watched, occasionally making notes on a yellow legal pad.

  Hawk Two, now totally under Madrone’s control, pulled to within twenty feet of the MiG, holding its position for ten seconds. Then it ducked down twenty feet, accelerated, and reemerged exactly under the fuselage of the plane. Madrone—fly
ing without the direct aid of the flight computer’s automatic pilot sections—held the pattern through Mack’s banking turn.

  “Okay, Kevin, impressive,” said Zen.

  “Hawk.”

  Hawk Two fell back.

  “Getting some wild fluctuations in the command centers,” said Ong. “I’m not sure what’s going on there, Jeff.”

  Before he could answer, Bree broke in over the interphone. “Zen, Boeing is off track. Something’s up with him.”

  Hawkmother

  19 February, 1015

  THE SHARDS CAME AT MADRONE LIKE BULLETS OF HAIL in a storm, bits and pieces of the Boeing pelting his head. He put his hand out to catch them—Kevin felt the metaphor in his mind, saw his palm extending and the hail landing, landing and building slowly and steadily. He stared at the hail, concentrating his thoughts—a snowball congealed from the mass, cold and wet but thick despite the heat of the rain forest around him.

  He could feel the plane’s wings. He saw himself in the air, gliding along at 10,322 feet, the back of his neck rumbling with the engines.

  A great thirst.

  I need fuel, he told himself. I can find fuel where?

  A needle at the top of his head connected to a run of numbers—a computer link to the database, a CD listing of hex numbers recording possible emergency bases.

  AH345098BC333.

  Lightning spiked through his eyes. Metal began to boil at the sides of his temples.

  Madrone’s heart skipped erratically. His lungs, caught somehow out of synch, began to choke. He felt himself moving sideways, twisting though the air.

  He had to analyze what had just happened. He’d crossed some sort of threshold, but he didn’t have control of it.

  It’s all in the way you think about it, she coached him. Find the right metaphor to organize your thoughts. They will extend themselves. You must be yourself not the computer.

  His chest began to swell. His heart pounded out of control.

  There were different levels to the brain. You didn’t think about how your heart worked, but you could control the beat with the right sequence of thoughts.