by Dale Brown
When his clip clicked empty, he realized the machine gun had stopped.
He could feel a welt rising at the front of his head. Though a jagged line ran through the left quadrant, Annie’s visor was still working—a body lay a few feet away from the machine gun fifty yards away.
Directly above it, four hot circles edged into ellipses over the mountain pass. The Megafortress had managed to clear the C-17 on the runway.
Aboard Galatica
8 March, 0510
BREANNA’S RESTRAINTS CAME APART WITH A SNAP, slamming her hands against the seat and panel so hard, she felt something snap in her left wrist. But she ignored the pain and jumped up, launching herself across the tech station toward Madrone.
The distance was farther than she thought. She fell across the technician’s gear, grabbing Madrone’s wires and loosening them. He didn’t seem to notice, or at least made no effort to stop her. But as she squirmed to get more leverage, something grabbed her and threw her back against the rear bulkhead.
Lanzas.
“Strap the cripple into the seat and come with me,” barked the Brazilian colonel.
“He’s not a cripple. He’s my husband.”
“Do it now or you both die here.” Lanzas had a revolver in her left hand. She edged away, watching Breanna carefully as she lifted Zen up and strapped him into the seat. He seemed thoroughly out of it.
Breanna leaned toward him, intending to kiss him. The Brazilian put the pistol on her neck to stop her.
“Nice try,” said Lanzas. “Upstairs now. If you do anything, you will die. Kevin, we’re okay.”
Madrone took no notice of them. He seemed a zombie, completely oblivious.
Not sure what else to do, Breanna edged past and went up the ladder to the flight deck.
Dreamland
Secure Command Center
8 March, 0130 local (0530 Brazil)
“WE MISSED THE PLANE.”
Colonel Bastian held the receiver away from his head for a moment, not because he was disappointed with Danny—he knew stopping them on the ground was a long shot—but because he was afraid of the answer to his next question. He glanced at Major Cheshire and Captain Arjun, the two Megafortress commanders alone with him in the Mudroom. Their consoles were locked out of the secure line and they watched grimly.
“Our people?” asked Bastian.
“C-17 crew is dead. One of the Flighthawks collided with it. Two more got away with Galatica. Captain Ferns managed to roll behind some barrels on the ground before they took off, and one of the Brazilian pilots surrendered,” Danny said.
“What about Major Stockard and Captain Breanna?” he asked.
He meant to say Captain Stockard, but his emotions betrayed him.
“At the moment, we’re not one hundred percent sure,” said Danny. “We have Jeff’s wheelchair, but not him. Ferris thinks they hauled Major Stockard aboard before takeoff. It’s likely your daughter went too. We haven’t secured the entire base,” Danny added. “We will. Army Special Forces and airborne are inbound from Panama in Combat Talons and an AC-130. They should be here within twenty minutes. I’ll have the hangars secure by then.”
With only six men? But Danny wasn’t known for exaggeration.
“All right, Captain, thanks. I want you to search the base carefully. See if you can find evidence that Galatica or the Flighthawks are carrying nukes.”
“Nukes? In Brazil?”
“If there’s anything else we can do from our end, let me know,” Bastian told him.
The line snapped dead.
“There were no survivors from the C-17 crash. The Whiplash Team is intact and searching the base,” he told the others, filling them in on the situation. Cheshire rubbed her tired eyes and turned back toward the situation map they’d been studying before Danny’s call came through. The map showed the entire southern portion of the U.S., along with the defenses planned to stop Galatica.
Colonel Bastian picked up his stylus and traced it across the flat touch screen at his console, outlining in red the tracks General Olafson had given them to patrol. Raven and Iowa, a sister ship for Galatica named after the famous Naval battleship, would back up a quartet of AWACS planes that were forming a 360-degree radar picket around San Francisco. Besides their sensors—Raven’s Elint gear, which could detect C3’s radio transmissions at roughly two hundred miles, and Iowa’s admittedly unfinished T/APY radar—the planes would carry eight Scorpion AMRAAM-plus air-to-air missiles in their rotating belly launchers. They’d also have four standard AMRAAMs and four all-aspect Sidewinder AIM-9Ms on their wings.
The Megafortresses represented the last line of defense. A full squadron of F-15Cs, along with ANG F-16’s and F-4’s, Marine aircraft, and two Navy tracking planes manned the front lines. Meanwhile, a flight of F-15’s, accompanied by a tanker, were working south, as were planes from two aircraft carriers in the Caribbean. Surface-to-air-missile batteries throughout the Southwest and ships all along the Gulf Coast had been alerted.
In theory, it was an impenetrable gauntlet no conventional aircraft could penetrate. But Madrone wasn’t flying a conventional aircraft. He had a Megafortress, arguably the most capable bomber in the world. He also had two Flighthawks escorting him.
One Megafortress and two U/MFs against the entire U.S. military. Dog might take those odds. Surely a madman would.
Assuming it flew near top speed, the EB-52 would approach the mainland a little more than six hours from now. Nancy and Arjun, who would pilot Iowa, went over some fine points in strategy and timing their refuelings. Though he was essentially superfluous to the discussion, Dog followed it with as much interest as he could muster.
The alternative was to worry about his daughter.
“Let’s do it,” said Cheshire. She punched the kill codes on her terminal, deactivating the console, and stood.
Arjun rose as well.
“There’s one thing I want to make clear,” said Bastian, still in his seat. “If it comes down to it, if Galatica is there, you take your shot. Absolutely take your shot.”
Arjun nodded.
Bastian looked at Cheshire, whose cheeks seemed to have hollowed out. “Major?”
“Yes, Colonel, I will.”
The room’s silence felt oppressive. “M-6 will back you up,” he said. “Captain McAden is en route to fly it. We’re still hunting down a copilot.”
“Fenner should be here shortly,” said Cheshire.
Dog nodded. M-6 was so new it hadn’t completed its test flights. It hadn’t even been given a name. Configured as an Elint-gatherer like Raven, she had two Flighthawk control decks like Iowa and Galatica, though only part of the U/MF equipment had been installed.
Bastian followed the others out into the hall and waited for the elevator to arrive. When the doors finally sprang open, Mack Smith nearly knocked them over.
“Colonel, a word,” said Smith, marching preemptively down the corridor as if he were the one running the base.
“Why am I being shut out of this?” he demanded when Bastian joined him.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Madrone. The Flighthawks. Our Megafortresses are going to shoot him down. Why I wasn’t I informed?”
“Why the hell should you have been?”
“I’m the best fighter pilot on the base,” Smith sputtered. “I’m head of the defense squadron. Shit, I’m one of less than a dozen active guys who has a shoot-down in the entire Air Force.”
“Hold on, Mack,” said Bastian. “First of all, I believe the defense squadron you’re referring to was abolished before I even came to Dreamland. Years ago.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
Dog turned toward the elevator. “Go to bed.”
“This is because you think I sold out, huh?”
“Smith, there are times when you are just a pain in the butt, you know that?” Bastian pushed the button for the elevator to return. “And then there are other times when you are the biggest
asshole in the world.”
“Colonel, seriously.”
“I am being serious.”
“You have to let me help. There’s nobody that knows what those Flighthawks will do like me. I’ve been flying against them for more than a year. Half of their damn programs are what I taught them. And Jeff,” he added belatedly. “Come on—I can wax Madrone’s fanny. Ask Jeff. I’ve done it already.”
“Jeff isn’t available to ask.” Dog pushed the elevator button again.
“Where is he?”
“We’re not sure.”
Smith had a point, though Bastian couldn’t help but remember the coincidences Danny had pointed out. Freah hadn’t had time to follow through with any of his investigations.
“He’s in on this, right?” said Mack.
“Jeff and Breanna are probably aboard Galatica, which Madrone seems to have taken control of. It will be shot down if it tries to attack.”
“You can’t shoot down Jeff and Bree.”
The elevator finally arrived. Bastian entered; Mack followed. Both looked toward the ceiling, which in theory made it easier for the scanning devices to verify their identities. Still, the process took excruciatingly long.
“You have to let me do something,” said Mack as the elevator finally began moving upward.
“What exactly do you want to do?” said Bastian.
“Help plan the defense at least. Be in the ball game. Come on. Use me. I know more about fighting the Flighthawks than anyone.”
“I’m not in charge of the defenses,” said Bastian. “They’re already set.”
“You think I’m a traitor, don’t you?”
The elevator arrived at Sublevel One. Dog got out.
“Major?” asked Bastian.
“Put me in the game.”
“It’s too late, Mack,” said Bastian as the doors closed.
Pei, Brazil
8 March, 0540 local
POWDER COVERED LIU WHILE HE RAN UP TO THE EDGE of the hangar building. One or two Brazilians had retreated here, though most of the Brazilians had fallen back to the far end of the base, far away from Hawkmother and the dilapidated hangars. Three low-slung buildings were visible there, defended by at least two small armored cars and some machine guns. For the moment, they seemed to be saving their ammunition.
Which was fine with Powder. Give the Army something to do when they finally got around to showing up.
Liu reached the edge of the building, then gave Powder a hand signal to come forward. Powder humped the ten yards so fast he nearly lost his helmet.
“Two guys, that way,” said Liu.
“That it?”
“There was a light machine gun there, but Egg got him,” said Liu, referring to another member of the team, Freddy Reagan.
“You see Captain Freah?” Powder asked.
“No,” said Liu. “He hasn’t been on the circuit since the planes took off.”
“I heard him talking to Bison. They were setting up the Satcom.”
“Maybe he’s back by the C-17 wreckage, checking it out,” said Liu.
“Doesn’t look like they’re too organized,” said Powder.
“I hear something,” said Liu.
“Uh-oh—duck!” shouted Talcom as an armored car rolled around the corner of the hangar and began firing at them. The ENGESA EE-11 was a very simple, no-frills truck equipped with a very basic machine gun.
And an equally basic but tremendously destructive grenade launcher, which fired a charge point-blank at the two Whiplashers.
Fortunately, it sailed past them, exploding nearly a hundred yards away.
“Next one ain’t gonna miss,” said Powder, already running toward the truck. He pulled a phosphorus grenade from his belt as he ran, thumbing away the tape that safed the pin and fuse. He set the grenade, tossing it at the last possible second as he threw himself to the ground.
The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the EE-11’s armor, but Powder merely wanted to blind the gunners with the flash while he and his teammate attacked from behind. The machine-gun fire ceased as soon as the grenade went off. Powder, head down, jumped back to his feet and raced around to the rear of the truck.
Liu stood there already, staking it out. One of the vehicle’s doors opened. Powder tensed, then realized that the hand that emerged held a white handkerchief.
“We ought to flatten the bastards,” he said to Liu over the corn unit.
“Just make sure they’re surrendering,” said a deep and commanding voice. He glanced back and saw that Captain Freah had joined them.
Aboard Galatica
8 March, 0545
MINERVA LASHED THE WOMAN PILOT’S HANDS BEHIND her with the string from her boot, wrapping the lace over Bree’s wrists and then around a bolt at the side. It might not hold for long if she strained against it, but the American’s struggles would at least warn her.
Where would they go? For now, they were running along the course Madrone had plotted. But that was suicide.
Mayo nodded nervously as she slipped into the seat beside him. He began reading off bearings and instrument numbers—a status report. Everything was in perfect order.
“Why ten thousand feet?” he asked abruptly.
“Not now, Lieutenant. Just hold the course.”
Mayo started to say something, but thought better of it. Minerva folded her arms, staring at the darkness before her.
Pei, Brazil
8 March, 0550
DANNY MADE SURE POWDER AND LIU HAD THE PRISONERS under control, then approached the hangar building cautiously. He flipped Annie’s CIV visor back into IR mode. There was one person in the hangar that he could see; he lay prone on the floor behind a desk or some boxes with a view of the doorway.
A flash-bang in his hand, Danny went to the entrance and crouched down. He couldn’t see the man now—the boxes were too thick. He reached up with his grenade hand and flicked the visor into enhanced starlight mode. The aiming triangle appeared; he lowered his aim toward the boxes, then stepped forward, slowly turning his attention around the hangar.
Empty.
Something moved behind him.
He threw himself down, then saw it was only Powder.
“Shit, sorry,” said his point man through the laser com.
“Down,” hissed Danny, pointing toward the boxes.
Powder nodded, then began working his way sideways to the left. Danny slid toward the opposite wall.
“Get away from the gun, motherfucker!” shouted Powder, who’d come up behind the Brazilian.
Danny rose slowly. The Brazilian didn’t move.
“He’s dead, Captain,” said Powder, moving in slowly.
“Hold on. Stop,” said Danny. He clicked the CIV visor control, examining the object in front of the dead Brazilian. It looked like the guts of a small rocket, or maybe a large artillery shell.
“What’s up?”
“There’s a bomb or something sitting in the middle of the floor. It’s got a timer. Go see if you can find some lights. No, wait a second.” Freah lowered himself to his knees. There was a radiation symbol on the interior of the metal casing, heading about a paragraph’s worth of closely printed letters. “You read Portuguese, Powder?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Go get Bison,” Danny said. “Tell him we have a bomb to disarm. Tell him it may be a tricky one, and to bring his full set.”
“Sniffer too?”
“Especially the sniffer. And Powder, get the Satcom. Go very fast.”
Dreamland
8 March, 0200 local (Brazil 0600)
MACK PACED OUTSIDE TM, TRYING TO CONTAIN HIS fury.
He knew exactly what Madrone would do, how he would fly. He’d get around the F-l5’s if they weren’t careful.
Hell, even if they were careful. Because they’d be too damn full of themselves.
Been there, done that himself.
To be put on ice. Bullshit. Bullshit!
He could have the MiG
fueled on his own authority.
Not armed, though. That would take an order from Bastian. Technically. Odds were no one would question him if he said it was approved.
God, they couldn’t just leave him on the ground. At least let him talk to some of the pilots, give them advice. They friggin’ thought he was a traitor. Damn them all.
Pej, Brazil
8 March, 0613 local
“CAPTAIN, I’M ASSUMING THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT.”
“Annie, I need your help,” Danny said. The Army transports were just arriving outside, making it difficult to hear. “I’m looking at what I think is a nuclear warhead wired to a timer that’s supposed to go off in thirty-seven minutes.”
“Why do you think it’s a warhead?”
“Our sniffer says it’s full of uranium.”
“Read me the scale level.”
“Okay. Uh, hang on.” He fumbled with the small Geiger counter, clicking it through its modes. About the size of a lunchbox, the field unit could detect the depleted uranium used for A-10 cannon shells at about fifty yards. Whiplash carried similar units for toxic chemicals and known gas agents. “497.83,” said Danny, “on the, uh, hundredths, no, thousandths scale.”
“That’s fine,” said Annie. “How large is the device?”
“About the size of an artillery shell.”
“How far away are you?”
“About three feet, max.”
“Tsk. I believe your unit may be doubling the reading.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“Well, you’re the one looking at it. The reading is certainly high enough. Interesting—you’re in Brazil?”
“Interesting? What should I do?”
“Technically, Captain, I am not an expert on nuclear devices.”
“The NSC is supposed to be getting me one,” Danny told her. “But right now, you’re the best I got, Annie.”
“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, Captain.” Annie sighed. “What does Sergeant Bison think?”
Bison came on the line and described the setup of the wiring to her. Danny squatted down on his knees about a foot from the timer, which he had uncovered by pulling the top off the trunk that was inside the boxes. The timer had several folds of wires running off it, including one that led to a large brick of C-4. Bison thought that was a booby trap, and Klondike agreed.
