by Dale Brown
Aboard Hawkmother
7 March, 2230
HAWK ONE’S SYNTHETIC RADAR FEED FILLED THE center of his mind. Madrone watched a God’s-eye view of the battle ten miles away from 65,000 feet.
He was a god, wasn’t he? That’s why they wanted to stop him.
Missiles flared toward the big black plane. It would be over soon.
Kevin felt a twinge in his stomach, then lost the vision, his body plummeting toward the mountains below. He’d slipped out of Theta.
Aboard Galatica
7 March, 2230
BREANNA PUSHED LEFT, THEN RIGHT, THEN LEFT, nearly warping the flaps and ailerons with her maneuvers. As she whipped back right she popped the leading-edge tabs, working them like air brakes to slam the big plane downward like a pregnant whale. Her wings flipped over, the stress on the spars so great the entire plane groaned. Rap cleaned the controls and grabbed the throttle, goosing it to the max a second before jerking the stick upward.
The acrobatics worked. The first missile sailed past, wide of its target. A second and third missile whipped past, the latter detonating on default about a hundred yards away.
A fourth was so thoroughly confused, it too exploded—unfortunately about twelve feet from the plane. Hot shards of metal ripped through Gal’s fuselage, shorting some of the electronics and damaging the control surfaces on the right wing.
But it was the cannonfire of the F-5E Rap had lost track of that almost did them in. The first she knew of the close-quarter attack was a low thump behind her. Then she felt like someone was hitting the seat with a baseball bat.
The Boeing slid sideways. Bree fought it, saw the enemy’s tracers blazing across the sky, felt Gal rolling on her wing. “I have it,” she told Chris.
“Yup,” he said, broadcasting a general Mayday on the Guard frequency.
THE F-5Es SWARMED ON THE MEGAFORTRESS. ZEN pushed Three closer, nudging the throttle as the four planes dove. Another six were within two miles, homing in on the scent of blood.
With a cannon, they’d all be dead meat.
“Proximity alert,” flashed on the screen, C3 warning that he was within a hundred feet of the F-5E.
Jeff watched helplessly as the Brazilian lit his cannon. Tracers blazed across the EB-52’s tail section, gouging a large hole in the fin. Zen could feel the shock behind him.
For a brief moment, the chromium sun that had been part of his ANTARES metaphor returned. He felt a flash of heat and anger. Then he put his finger on the throttle slider, accelerating Hawk Four into the midsection of the Brazilian fighter.
THE SHOCK WAVE OF THE EXPLOSION HAD AN ODD effect on Galatica, actually helping Breanna stabilize her in level flight. Even so, there was no question that they were badly damaged. The emergency screens lit on the multi-use displays, and the computer flashed a warning on the HUD saying they had only forty-percent power capability in engines one and four.
“At least it’s symmetrical,” said Chris dryly.
The Megafortress’s twin-tailplane, which extended like a V at the rear of the plane, had been severely damaged. Breanna nudged the plane into a very gentle bank, testing her control.
“F-5’s have backed off. Zen got one,” said Chris. “He rammed it.”
“Hawk Leader?”
“I’m here, Bree. You guys okay?”
“For now,” she told him. “Can you give me a visual on our damage? Start with the tail.”
“Yeah.”
The image snapped into the screen on her lower left panel, which was preset to accept the Hawk feed.
“Looks like a half-eaten waffle,” said Chris. It was an apt description; much of the skin had been blown or burned off, leaving the honeycombed carbon-fiber guts exposed.
“We’re stable. I can turn somewhat,” Breanna told her husband. “We have to land ASAP, though. We’ve lost fuel, and we weren’t exactly full to begin with.”
“Your call,” said Zen.
“Boa Vista’s a hundred miles northwest,” said Chris.
“I don’t know.” Breanna began banking in that direction anyway.
“Okay,” said Chris, working the maps.
The plane bucked sharply.
“Fuel problem,” said the copilot, punching his instruments. “Management panel won’t come up for me.”
“I have it. Find us a landing strip—even a highway at this point.”
“Got an FAB strip five miles south of us. Primitive at best.”
“Jeff, there’s a strip at the edge of the jungle five miles south of here. Can you check it out?”
“Done.”
It didn’t much matter how long the strip was—they might not even make it that far. Two tanks had been shot out; the Boeing’s automated fuel-management system had isolated the tanks, but apparently they were leaking somewhere in the feed lines as well. As Bree stabilized the engines, the monitor warned she was dry.
She thought of saying something to Jeff—maybe apologizing for not accepting his apology before. But the words didn’t come and there was too much to do, keeping the plane steady.
“One of the fuel bags the system shut off sealed,” reported Chris. “I’m trying to get it back on line manually.”
“Give it a try.”
“How long did you say that strip was?” Zen asked. “Less than twelve hundred,” said Chris.
“Try five thousand,” said Jeff. “It’s long, level, and concrete.”
“Give me a vector,” Bree said.
“You’re nearly dead on. It’s hidden by the ridges there. Sharp drop. Check the low-light feed.”
The runway looked brand-new. Everything else—a few buildings, two hangars—looked ramshackle, even from Four’s orbit at five thousand feet. An old propeller transport sat off the ramp.
“No tower that 1 can raise,” said Chris. “Trying Guard. Trying everything.”
“There are people there,” said Zen.
“We’re landing one way or the other. We’re on final,” she added as the moonlit runway suddenly came into view over the mountain.
She blew a tire as they landed, probably because it had been damaged during the attack. Chris struggled with the crosswind readings at the last minute, and Breanna lost engine one completely when she applied reverse thrust, but she still managed to hold the runway. A wide ramp sat at the far end; she felt her body starting to collapse as she headed for it.
“So, what happens now?” Chris asked.
“We call home,” said Breanna.
“The question is, why did the F-5’s attack?”
“The country’s in the middle of a crisis,” said Jeff on the interphone. He landed the Flighthawk and taxied behind them. “There’s been a military coup.”
“Just what we need,” said Breanna.
“Shooting at us still doesn’t make sense,” said Chris. “Unless they thought we were on the other side.”
“Which side is the other side, though?” said Bree.
A jeep waited ahead. A soldier stood in the rear, waving at them.
“Looks like he’s smiling,” said Chris. “What do you think? Pop out and have a chat?”
“Think he’ll speak English?” asked Bree.
“Got me.”
“Those fuckers tried to shoot us down,” said Jeff.
“It wasn’t exactly these guys,” said Breanna. “Doesn’t look to me like the F-5’s came from this base. No support facilities.”
“We’re going to have to talk to them sooner or later,” said Chris. “It’s not like we’re at war with Brazil.”
“No?” said Jeff sarcastically.
The men in the jeep jumped out, waving and smiling. They weren’t carrying weapons.
“One of us is going to have to try talking to them,” said Breanna. “We have to at least get to a phone.”
“I don’t know, Bree,” said Jeff.
“Sitting here doesn’t make any sense,” said Chris. “I mean, if they want to, they can just blow us up. But those guys down there don�
��t look hostile.”
“I think I’ll go talk to them,” said Breanna. “What do you think, Jeff?”
She could practically hear him debating it, tossing his head back and forth the way he always did. If the attack had been a case of mistaken identity, then going out was the obvious thing to do. Chris had broadcast their position, but there was no indication that any American units had received it; even if they had, it would take hours or even days for them to be found. In the meantime, their radio’s range would be severely limited by the mountains.
On the other hand, the F-5 attack had hardly been a friendly gesture.
“I think our options are either to blow up the plane or talk to them,” Breanna said when Jeff didn’t answer. “And we don’t have anything on board to blow up the plane.”
“Blowing up the plane doesn’t make sense,” said Zen finally.
“I agree,” said Chris.
Breanna hit the console switch to automatically crack the hatch, lowering the ramp to the ground. Then she got out of her seat. “You and Zen stay with the plane,” she told her copilot. “I’ll go see what sort of donkey train we’re going to need to get help in.”
Breanna made her way to the ventral hatch without stopping to talk to Jeff in the Flighthawk bay. After so much time in the air, her legs felt a little spongy; she wobbled a bit as she put her boot on the pavement. Gal’s stilt landing gear disoriented her as well, and Breanna felt unbalanced as she turned toward the front of the plane, walking out from its shadow. A pair of two-and-a-half-ton trucks, canvas tops flapping, whipped out from behind the hangars and headed toward her.
Breanna paused to get her bearings. As she did, something large buzzed down from the air behind her, so close and sudden that she stumbled sideways and fell to the ground. The Megafortress and the ramp rumbled with the vibration.
A Flighthawk.
“I thought you landed, Jeff,” she yelled, rolling to her feet. As she rose, one of the men who had come to greet her pulled out an Uzi and pointed it in her face.
VII
DOOM
Pej, Brazil
7 March, 2300 (1900 Dreamland)
AS SHE WALKED TOWARD THE AMERICAN PLANE, Minerva’s anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of awe and even envy. The massive black plane loomed from the dark shadows like a mythic beast, its sleek nose a sword thrusting from massive shoulders. The plane towered above her on its gear, with smooth skin like a dark shark in the night. It was so big it seemed like another part of the mountain, pulled down in an avalanche. Yet the F-5 pilots reported the big bomber could turn as tightly as they could. Had the plane been armed, the outcome of the battle would have been far different.
The two men guarding the hatchway snapped to attention when they saw their commander approaching. She gave them a salute, then took hold of the railing and walked upward into the reddish glow of the interior.
The lower deck looked like a television studio control room, with a wide array of monitors and a bank of computers and other gear along the walls. She guessed this was the place where the robot planes were controlled from joystick controls and extensive video banks sat in front of both seats, somewhat similar to the arrangement in Hawkmother. The seat on the right turned on a special rail; the crippled commander must sit there.
Minerva climbed to the flight deck slowly. Madrone said the Megafortress had started as an old B-52, but this didn’t seem possible—the cockpit belonged in something from the twenty-first century, or maybe the twenty-second. A smooth glass panel covered the entire dashboard area; there were no mechanical switches or old-fashioned dials on its surface. Screen areas, instruments, and controls were all configurable, either by touch or voice command. The throttle bar between the pilot and copilot did not move, but responded to pressure input. Control sticks rather than wheels guided the plane once airborne; textured areas indicated sensor switches built directly into the stick surface. Dull yellow letters in the windscreen showed clearly that the heads-up display, rather than being mirrored from a projector, was actually part of the window surface.
The plane’s potential as a scout, as a bomber, as the leader of a squadron of interceptors was limitless. With one Mega-fortress, she could dominate not merely Brazil, but all of South America.
But she had to give it back.
More than that. She had to find a way to get it back to the Americans without being implicated in its theft.
She would fly it first certainly.
And then?
Minerva slipped into the pilot’s seat. She would never give it back if she took off. No pilot could. To fly this plane would be to relive the first moment, the first dream of flight. She could never give it back.
But she had to. The Americans would never let her be if she kept it. They would take the plane back by force and dispose of her like a cockroach who had wandered into their home.
She could fight off the Americans. She could destroy them.
Desire erupted inside her, the darkness of her soul spreading everywhere. She would keep the plane, she would keep Madrone, she would destroy anyone who dared oppose her.
With great difficulty, Minerva forced herself from the seat and out of the plane. She had to let go of Kevin before he destroyed her. Even if it meant cutting her chest open with her nails and tearing out her heart.
Aboard Raven
Over the Gulf of Mexico
7 March, 2100 local (1900 Dreamland)
“OUR TANKER IS SET,” COLONEL BASTIAN TOLD NANCY Cheshire, quickly reviewing their position on the Megafortress’s navigation screen. “They’ll run a track as far south as possible. We have about an hour on our present course and speed.”
“Good enough,” said Cheshire.
“I think being copilot may be more difficult than piloting this plane,” said Bastian. Even though they had two operators aboard to handle the EB-52’s radio-eavesdropping gear, Dog was responsible for many functions that would have been handled by the navigator and weapons operators in a standard B-52. Granted, the computer did much of the grunt work, but just calling up the proper panels on the multi-use screens seemed an art.
“You’re doing fine,” said Cheshire.
“I’m going to check back with the Nimitz,” Dog told her. “See if their planes picked up anything.”
“Go for it.”
Raven’s gear made it possible for him to communicate with literally anyone in the world, as long as they could directly access satellite connections. Dog had preset the frequencies they were using for the search, and found himself speaking to a Navy flight commander in the southwestern Caribbean a half second after punching the buttons.
Nothing to report.
Southern Command had tracked Galatica to Venezuela. F/ A-18’s from the Nimitz had heard Chris Ferris, Gal’s copilot, as the plane approached Brazil, though he hadn’t answered their own hails. After that, the plane had disappeared without a trace.
Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela had all been enlisted in the search, though they were told only that they were looking for a B-52. Brazil had been fairly forthcoming, volunteering two squadrons for the search and detailing the country’s two Grumman Trackers to help out, even though the radar planes were optimized for naval operations and had only limited SAR capabilities.
The Venezuelans had fairly limited resources, but were also cooperating. Colombia, on the other hand, had balked, claiming to be very busy with an outbreak of guerrilla attacks in the south.
Not to jump to any conclusions, but it seemed the obvious place to concentrate their efforts. Unfortunately, it was currently out of range of the Nimitz and her planes. A second task force, which included a Marine MEU, was heading east from the southern Pacific, but they were still a good way off.
The com system flashed a line on Dog’s screen, indicating that they had an incoming text message from Quickmover, the Dreamland C-17 dedicated as the transport for the Whiplash assault team. Bastian touched the glass surface next to the message, and the text appeared in i
ts place.
“On station.”
“Danny and his boys are orbiting off Mexico,” Bastian told Cheshire.
“Transmissions, too far to get a fix, very weak. Could be a distress signal,” said one of the operators.
“Give me a heading,” said Cheshire.
“Lost it, ma’am,” said the operator, Senior Airman Sean O’Brien.
“No way to pin it down?” Bastian asked.
“The problem is, Colonel, on those line-of-sight transmitters, you’re dealing with very weak signals and at this point, really what you’re trying to do is figure the bounces. This could have been fairly far away, possibly even in Brazil.”
The computer flashed a message on the corn line of the HUD:
“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”
Dog had to give a voice command to allow Raven to unscramble the transmission. It was piped only into his headset. “Colonel Bastian, this is Jed Barclay.”
“Go ahead, Jed.”
“Stand by for Assistant Secretary McCormack.”
Raven’s antennas provided a precise, clear pickup over the secure long-wave communications system, which had been originally developed for use by the President and the top brass in the event of a nuclear war. The transmission, conveyed at a slight delay because of the nature of the radio waves used and the distance they traveled, was nonetheless so clear that Dog felt his eardrums melt with McCormack’s anger.
“What the hell are you doing, Colonel?” she demanded.
“We’re conducting a search for Hawkmother and Galatica, an EB-52 that tracked her south after the raid on Skull Valley. I sent word of that quite some time ago,” said Dog. “I’ve been in communication with Jed—”
“Colonel, the Secretary wants you to return to your base immediately. Immediately.”
“Is that an order?”
“You know damn well I can’t give you a direct order,” she snapped. “General Magnus will contact you shortly.” The line went dead.
“What’s up?” Cheshire asked.
