by Dale Brown
“Bullshit. Those are my base hormone levels on your chart there.”
“Major, you happen to be the only person who has gone through both the old and new protocols,” said Geraldo. “It’s not directed at you. But there’s a clear difference between your present charts and the ones from the past incarnation of the program. The levels of dopamine, serotonin, and other neurotransmitters are clearly different, as are the brain patterns.” She turned toward Jeff. “I don’t know if we should terminate ANTARES completely. That may eventually be my recommendation. I need time to correlate it.”
“There’s no sense shutting down,” argued Jeff, trying to keep his voice even.
“We’re going to have to put ANTARES on hold,” said Bastian. “Doc, draw up a plan —
“That sucks shit,” said Jeff, jerking his head toward him.
“Major,” snapped Dog. He glared down at him, then turned his gaze back to Geraldo. “Draw up a plan to review the effects. Reinstate the Phase II psychological studies. Take Major Stockard off the drug protocol immediately.”
Jeff grabbed his wheels angrily. Bastian glared at him.
Everyone is against me, thought Jeff. They want to keep me a cripple.
But that couldn’t be true. Bastian had gone out of his way to help him.
“All right,” Jeff said finally. “I think it’s a mistake, but I’ll go along with it. Remove the chip. I’ll stop taking the drugs.”
“You can’t just stop taking them,” said Geraldo. “We have to back you off gently. If you were to stop taking them, your body would try to keep up the level of neurotransmitters on its own. They’d actually increase for about a week, perhaps two. At some point, you would crash. As for the chip — I think it’s safe to leave it in. You’ve had it for so long now, and removing it might cause complications.”
“All right,” said Zen, finally looking away from Bastian’s gaze.
* * *
Dog folded his arms in front of his chest. In less than three weeks, Zen had gone from a somewhat skeptical critic to the program’s biggest booster.
Short of Secretary Keesh. Who was going to have a cow when Bastian told him the program was on hold.
So? It was the right thing to do, very clearly. Yet Dog had hesitated to say so just now, looking for the right words. The stress of running a high-powered command was turning him into Colonel Milquetoast.
“All right,” he told Geraldo. “Give me a timetable for a report. Thanks,” he added, dismissing them.
Geraldo started to say something, but Ax’s sharp rap at the door interrupted her.
“Colonel, I’m sorry — you need to pick that phone up right now,” said the sergeant. “Line three. It’s an open line.”
Dog punched the button and held the phone to his ear.
“Colonel, this is Mack Smith. I’m at Glass Mountain. It’s just been attacked.”
“Mack?”
“I’m calling from a pay phone, Colonel. A Department of Energy test range, dummy nuke testing — two hours ago, a little more, we came under attack by Flighthawks.”
“What are you saying?”
“Flighthawks. They attacked a base in south Texas, Department of Energy District 2, Test Area 6.”
“Hold on a second.” Bastian stopped Zen and Geraldo, who were heading for the door. “Jeff, Doc, listen to this.” He punched the button for the speakerphone. “Mack, do you have access to a scrambler?”
“Colonel, I’m on a fuckin’ highway in God’s country. I had the Ranger troop car stop so I could make this call.”
“Can you get to a secure phone?”
“It’ll be hours.”
“All right. Jeff Stockard and Dr. Geraldo are here with me. Tell us everything you know.”
Chapter 70
Dreamland
5 March, 1814
Danny Freah looked down at his belt as his alphanumeric beeper began to vibrate. He was already en route to see Colonel Bastian, but the STAT notice took him by surprise.
So did the location — the secure video conference center in the Taj basement.
Danny quickened his pace toward Taj, the low-slung concrete building, its entrance glowing ever so faintly with the low-emission yellow lights. He strode past the security desk to the elevator.
“Subbasement Three,” he told the automated system as he stepped in.
The elevator itself wasn’t particularly fast, and the security scans that were required before it would move took forever. Danny waited impatiently, and not just because of Dog’s message. He was supposed to call his wife in exactly twenty-five minutes.
Finally, the elevator lurched and began grinding its way downward. The doors hissed open, and Danny double-timed the short distance to the conference room, whose entrance was flanked by two of his Whiplash team members, Kevin Bison and “Egg” Reagan. Bison nodded, looking desperate for a smoke.
Inside, Jed Barclay’s pimpled face filled the large screen at the front of the room.
“Mr. Freeman is still tied up in meetings on Brazil,” Barclay said as Danny came in, referring to the National Security Advisor. “But the NSC has already scheduled a meeting on this for, uh, like, nine, uh twenty-three hundred hours our time, which is, uh, eight o’clock your time, I mean—”
“You don’t have to convert it for us, Jed,” said Colonel Bastian dryly.
“Thank you. Hi, Captain,” Jed said to Danny, seeing him come in on his monitor.
“Jed.” Danny nodded toward the glass slot below the screen, where a moving video camera focused on his face. Then he nodded to the colonel and Major Stockard, who was sitting grim-faced in his wheelchair. Dr. Geraldo and Lee Ong, the scientist responsible for the Flighthawk’s physical systems, were sitting at consoles behind him.
“Just to review quickly for Captain Freah,” said Bastian, “there’s been an attack at a small Department of Energy base in southeastern Texas, formerly used to test short-range nuclear-delivery systems. We believe Flighthawks were involved.”
“Well, that’s not exactly, uh, with all due respect, Colonel,” stuttered Barclay. “There has been an incident there, but officially we’re not sure what the nature is. The state authorities believe it was terrorism.”
“Mack Smith was there. He saw Flighthawks,” said Dog.
“Mack?” Danny realized he’d practically shouted. It was too late to bite his tongue, so he sidled into a seat without saying anything else.
“Bunker-penetration weapons and napalm,” said Bastian. “And they strafed one of the buildings.”
“The U/MFs are capable of carrying AGMs,” said Ong. “However, that limits their performance. Additionally, they would require modification. Even if Hawks One and Two—”
“Which we lost,” said Zen.
“Well, even in theory, if they were capable,” said Ong, “their flight characteristics would be very degraded.”
“But an attack could have been carried out by them,” said Bastian. “Danny, can you lay out your Mexican theory?”
“There really is no theory,” said Danny, hesitating. Ong and Geraldo had the highest clearances possible, and obviously Bastian had already made the decision that they could hear everything he knew about the possibility that Madrone had somehow escaped. But the fact that Smith had reported the attack had just set off an alarm bell in his brain.
“A large plane landed and stole fuel at a regional jetport on the Mexican coast the day Hawkmother disappeared,” he told the others. “It was not necessarily our 777. In fact, some witnesses said it was a 707. We’ve had the entire area checked with U-2’s without turning up anything.”
“Satellites as well,” noted Jed.
“The Flighthawks could never have gotten to southern Mexico,” said Ong.
“They could have refueled off Hawkmother, right, Jeff?”
“It’s possible,” said Jeff, a little too defensively for Danny’s taste.
“If that was him,” said Ong, “where did he go next?”
“No idea,” said Freah. “Like I said, there really is no theory.”
“So he controlled the Boeing as well as the Flighthawks?” asked Ong. “Hard to believe.”
“There have been some anomalies,” said Geraldo. “And remember, the flight computers are actually the ones that guide the plane. The subject merely directs.”
“Captain, maybe you should head out to Glass Mountain,” said Barclay. “And maybe Major Stockard.”
“How quick can you get out there, Danny?” asked Dog.
Texas was the last place he should be, but before Danny could think of a graceful objection, Dr. Geraldo looked up.
“Glass Mountain? I thought this was a Department of Energy site.”
“Actually, the site is owned by an agency connected with the Department of Energy,” said Barclay. “The Army conducted some tests there a few years ago.”
“Colonel, Kevin Madrone was stationed at Glass Mountain. That’s where he was when his daughter died.”
* * *
Jeff watched Barclay’s face as Geraldo continued. Jed was his cousin, and Jeff felt odd watching him on the screen, as if a home movie had suddenly become part of his work life. He could remember swinging him around by the legs only a few years ago, and adjusting his arms on a bat to hit right.
Jed probably still couldn’t hit a good fastball. But he’d always been smart. And somehow he managed to land on his feet — against all odds, he’d not only managed to stay on in the Martindale Administration, but apparently had even more authority than before.
If Jed and Geraldo and Danny were right, Madrone was still alive.
But why would Kevin do this?
To screw Jeff up maybe. This would kill any chance of continuing with ANTARES.
Jeff saw the others glancing toward him every so often, as if he carried a disease.
Kevin wouldn’t hurt people.
ANTARES enhanced your mental capabilities. It didn’t change you. Geraldo had said that over and over. Hell, everybody knew that — Maraklov had been a traitor before he arrived at Dreamland; ANTARES didn’t turn him into one.
Maybe losing his daughter had twisted Kevin somehow.
Had Jeff s losing his legs done the same to him?
* * *
In Dog’s opinion, the video conference with Barclay had accomplished little. Freeman and Defense Secretary Keesh were unavailable because of a crisis in Brazil, where a three-way conflict between the Navy, Air Force, and government was coming to a head. Apparently the conflict was going to be resolved by giving a number of Air Force generals an important role in the government — though why any military person in his right mind would want that was beyond Bastian.
Barclay would present Freeman and the other members of the National Security Council with the theory that the Flight-hawks had survived and were involved in the attack. He’d also recommend that all of the places Madrone had worked in the past — starting with Los Alamos — be heavily guarded. In the meantime, Dog had to call his own boss, General Magnus, and update him.
Magnus wasn’t going to like this at all. Or maybe he would. It would undoubtedly hurt Keesh and his sidekick McCormack.
It would also damage Dog, though at least he’d advised against proceeding with ANTARES in writing.
I’m thinking like a politician and a bureaucrat, Dog told himself. That’s not who I am. I’m a pilot.
“Frowning a lot, Colonel,” said Danny, waiting for him near the door to the conference room.
“Yeah.”
“I have something I have to talk to you about,” said Freah. He gave a short wave to Zen, who was just approaching. “it’s trivial. Base stuff. But—”
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Won’t take that long. Minor discipline problem. But I need advice.”
Freah never brought minor discipline problems to him. Bastian nodded at the others, then motioned Danny to the side of the empty room. Freah waited until the doors closed.
“Everything I said just now, during the session with Barclay, was absolutely true,” Danny said. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I find it interesting that Major Smith was at Glass Mountain when it was attacked. He’s the only witness that Flighthawks were involved.”
“How many other people could ID them to begin with?” asked Bastian. “And there’s no local radar coverage.”
“My point exactly.”
“What would his motive be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the Brazilian?”
“I doubt Mack’s a traitor. And he couldn’t have stolen the Flighthawks himself.”
“Maybe working with Madrone. I’m overthinking this, I know, but Hawkmother’s pilot was found pretty far north and a good deal west of the prime search areas.”
“Happens. The search cone was based on the last course projection, but that’s always iffy.”
“Mack supplied the projection.”
“You think he purposely threw off the search?”
“I’m not saying that,” said Danny.
“No way.”
“I know,” said Freah. “But Major Smith has been at some very interesting places at very convenient times. It’s my job to be paranoid about it.”
“Jeff Stockard and Breanna were aboard Raven when Hawkmother went down.”
“Or was stolen.”
“Or was stolen,” admitted Bastian. “All right. I’ll get Smith back here right away. And I’ll kill his transfer to the Raptor program.
“If he were on ice for a bit, that’s all.”
“They need someone right away.” Bastian reached back behind his shoulder, stretching the tense muscles in his upper body. Personally, he hated Mack, but it wasn’t fair to screw him out of this based on a vague suspicion and coincidence.
Not fair, but it had to be done.
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Freah.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to call the boss.”
“Shit, me too.”
Chapter 71
Pei, Brazil
6 March, 0300 local
Minerva Lanzas curled her arms across her chest, pacing in the dark night. She cursed herself for giving into him.
Did she have a choice?
A tower, enemies — he was out of his mind. She’d never see him again.
The idea clawed at her. Objectively speaking, it would be easier if the American completely vanished. Yet she didn’t think she could live if that happened.
She couldn’t really be in love; she would never allow herself to be so vulnerable. And yet, there seemed no other explanation.
The ground rattled gently. The large Boeing appeared over the mountain ridge, snapping its landing lights on as it turned abruptly to line up for the field.
Minerva trembled when the rear hatch opened and Madrone walked down the ramp and into her arms.
“I was so worried,” she told him.
“Yes,” said Madrone, pressing her so tightly to his body she thought her bones would break. “They are stronger than I imagined. I must go back. They’ll never leave us alone.”
Minerva tried to undo herself from his grasp, but couldn’t. “Kevin,” she said gently. “Let me go.”
Instead of answering, he sobbed on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“They are bastards,” he wailed. “They’re everywhere. Glavin is probably telling them what to do. I know where he is. He sent me a card, a Christmas card, the bastard. I know where he is. I have to go back. I must.”
He said it so forcefully, with such finality, Minerva knew she would never convince him to stay.
Chapter 72
Dreamland
7 March, 0800
Mack smith hopped off the Dolphin helicopter ferry feeling like a million dollars.
Or rather, milioncino, a cool million. Lire.
Italiano. Which he would soon be speaking. Because obviously Bastian had ordered him back here because a transfer had come through.
/> And the grapevine was already buzzing with the possibilities. Either the Raptor F-22 program, which found itself in need of a director of operations, or squadron commander with a wonderful bunch of ragazzi flying F-15Cs in sunny Italia.
Bene, bene.
He’d prefer the Raptors, but something told him he was bound for Italy, where wine was cheap and the babes didn’t believe in wearing tops.
To the best of his knowledge, no squadron in the Air Force was currently commanded by a major, so a promotion would quickly follow. The pay bump would be nice. Maybe he’d buy a little speedboat. Nothing outlandish just big enough to rock gently when he made love.
“Major Smith, sir, Colonel Bastian wanted to see you,” said a sergeant near the ramp. “I was to expedite you there, sir.”
Jesus, Bastian had turned into an A-one fella, Knife thought as he climbed in the black SUV the sergeant had brought to ferry him over to Taj. Mack was in such a great mood that he even took a seat when Bastian’s muck-up-the-works Sergeant Gibbs greeted him at the door.
Actually, Gibbs seemed almost deferential, at least by chief master sergeant standards, not only offering coffee, but remembering how Mack liked it. When Bastian buzzed, the sergeant showed him right in.
“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack, breezing past Gibbs and pulling up a chair. “So — what’s so fantastically important that I had to peddle back ASAP, as if I didn’t know.”
Bastian frowned at Ax, who had brought a folder’s worth of vouchers to be signed.
“So?” asked Mack as the sergeant left the room.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Major.”
It took every ounce of self-restraint that Smith possessed not to cover his ears as Bastian continued. He spoke quickly, concisely, and without bullshit — Mack was assigned to Dreamland for the immediate future.
“Uh, Colonel — there’s a slot in Italy and, uh, F-15’s and, uh, I was promised—”
“Your name was mentioned for that, yes. I’m afraid it’s no longer viable.”
“Viable? Viable?”
