by Dale Brown
“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 its 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.
“I’m in a whole heap of trouble,” said Dog.
“Been there before,” said Cheshire.
Not like this, thought Bastian. He couldn’t leave his daughter and he couldn’t disobey a direct order, which would undoubtedly soon be forthcoming.
His career would tank now anyway, with the loss of Galatica and its two Flighthawks on top of Hawkmother. Excuses wouldn’t matter — look at what had happened to Brad Elliott.
Screwed every which way.
He needed to help Breanna.
More than likely it was too late. He had other responsibilities.
“We’ll stay on course until we receive further orders,” he told Nancy.
Chapter 83
Pej, Brazil
7 March, 2330 (1930 Dreamland)
Zen eyed the Brazilian soldiers at the door, wondering whether their polite and even deferential air was a good sign or not. While they didn’t appear to speak English, the soldiers who had taken him off the plane were well disciplined and well briefed, inspecting not just him but the ejection seat for weapons. They had even produced a receipt for his old Colt .45, which had been holstered in his gear. And they had allowed him to wheel himself to his “guest room” — a rather large storage room in one of the hangars.
Two soldiers stood silently next to the door, rifles in hand. Others were apparently outside, since he could hear voices and occasional laughs. They had offered food and water and even some Brazilian beer, though Zen had declined it all.
An odd sound from outside startled him, and he looked toward the doorway. Something big was being wheeled down the hallway.
It sounded like one of the equipment carts in the hospital where he’d spent so much time after his accident. His stomach pinched and his side ached with the memory of his helplessness and despair.
Two soldiers wheeled in a television set with a video player on top of it. Zen expected a message of some sort; remembering Jed’s reference to the Brazilian leadership scramble, he thought he might even be treated to some sort of diatribe about local politics. But the Brazilians had loaded in a tape with old Gunsmoke reruns.
One of the guards handed his M-16 to his companion and came over to watch.
If he had his legs, Jeff thought, he could overpower the bastards.
And then what? Single-handedly take over the base? Might just as well hope for Matt Dillon to walk out of the screen, six-guns blazing.
The set of boots scraping in the hall were nearly muffled by the volume of the television. Even so, Zen recognized the scrape long before Madrone entered the room. He prepared himself, gripping the chair rests tightly to check the anger welling up. But rage deserted him when he saw the blanched and hollow-eyed face of his friend.
“What’s going on, Kevin?” said Zen.
Madrone laughed. “You know what’s going on. You tried to destroy me. You’re still trying.”
Madrone’s body moved with jerks, his hands nearly flying off his arms. He seemed about ready to fly apart.
“Kevin, it’s Zen,” he said. “Do you realize that?”
“What do you think, I’m stupid?”
“Are you all right?”
Madrone laughed.
“Why are you working with the Brazilians?” Jeff said. “What’s going on? You look like you’re a ghost.”
“You know what’s going on. I’m not working with the Brazilians. They’re working for me.”
“ANTARES has messed you up. I took the drugs too. I know what they can do. You have to come home with me.” Madrone snorted with contempt.
“Going off the drugs messes you up,” Zen explained
. “You become paranoid. Geraldo says—”
“I don’t care what she says. I’ll get her. I got Glavin. I’ll get them all. I know you’re going to get me. I understand that. But I’ll take as many of you down with me as I can. I will.”
“I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“Bullshit! Bullshit! You were part of it. You are part of it.”
Madrone’s fingers slashed the air. His skin went from white to red in an instant. It stretched taut over the bones of his face, which seemed animated by a sirocco.
“You have to let us help you, Kevin,” said Jeff softly. Madrone blinked at him, then bent closer. For a moment, Jeff thought he had gotten through.
“I’ll kill you all,” said Madrone, his voice even softer than Jeff s. “All of you.”
There was a burst of gunfire on the TV, so loud that Jeff jerked back apprehensively, turning toward the TV. When he looked up again, Kevin was gone.
* * *
Madrone’s head pounded as he walked from the building. His mind had shorn itself into splinters, each wedge manipulated by the spider in his skull. New voices yapped at him, emerging from the maelstrom between the segments of his brain.
Zen is your friend. What was he trying to say?
Jeff was a victim just as Kevin was. They’d made him a robot.
Breanna too. And the copilot.
Kill them!
Zen seemed to think he could escape. Had he said that? Or had Kevin wanted him to say that?
The shadows closed around Madrone as he walked out into the night. The jungle — he was back in the jungle.
He was in Theta, connected to ANTARES. But he wasn’t wearing the helmet, wasn’t in the airplane or his special suit. There was no computer in sight.
Where was Minerva? He needed her.
* * *
Minerva allowed herself a long moment of indulgence, staring at the mountains from her balcony. The stars seemed to have a light purple glow tonight — destiny stars, an omen.
Good or bad?
Good. Only good.
The door opened in the room behind her. Minerva took one long breath, then slipped inside.
Kevin stood in the middle of the room. “Why did you bring them here?” he demanded.
“Kevin, I didn’t bring them here.”
“Zen and Breanna — you wanted them to come.”
Minerva suppressed a shudder. “They followed you. love.” She glided toward him, striving to keep calm. “You’ve forgotten? I know you’re tired.”
She wrapped her hands around his shoulders. His muscles were hard metal; his heart pounded crazily.
His madness had grown nearly uncontrollable in the past twenty-four hours; he was no longer simply dangerous, but crazy as well.
That ought to have made it easier for her to let him go. But it didn’t.
“I always knew they were against me,” Kevin said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“They’re all bastards.”
“You will carry out your attack in the morning using their plane. The repairs will be finished in time. I’m positive of it,” she added, more to convince herself than him. “They will help.” Minerva ran her hands across his shoulder, then slipped her fingers beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, sliding them to his flesh.
“They won’t help me,” he said fiercely.
Fear froze her hand. He might resist — he might even turn against her.
“The Lawrence Livermore Laboratories in San Francisco,” she said. “Isn’t that where they poisoned your daughter for the final time? Perhaps she was only sick until then — and that was where they killed her.”
He’d told her several times about the treatment, performed near but not actually in the lab. Always he had spoken with anger, clearly wanting to destroy the place. It should have been his deepest desire now, the simplest way to hold him in her fingers.
But not today.
“I’m not going,” he said calmly.
She slid her hand away, drifting back toward the chair in the corner of the room. The gun was beneath the cushion. If she killed him, what would she do?
Destroy the planes, get rid of the others. There would be no trace.
Better — take some of the remains and scatter them north near the border. Her people were already helping the American searchers and offering to do more. Of course, their every move had to be cleared with her.
It wouldn’t be as convincing as her plan to send him back with the plane after pretending he had attacked her base. But luck seemed finally to have turned against her.
Still, the benefits were worth another risk. Her hand easing toward the pistol, she gathered herself to try again to persuade him.
“Whether you go or not, it is your decision,” Minerva told him. “If you do, I will give you a weapon that will guarantee their destruction. I have two warheads,” she added. Even as she said it — even though she knew it was merely part of her own plan to get rid of him — she felt a certain undeniable excitement, a lust for destruction that he provoked.
“The warheads have nuclear bombs. They are small and were designed for artillery shells. But you could adapt them. Take one. I need the other here, in case they attack.”
Madrone drew back. She sensed she’d lost him, and fought the impulse to go to him. She felt a tinge of fear, shame at her own desire
And then she continued to speak.
“Do they still do those hideous experiments there?” she said. “They must have known what it would do to her. Perhaps they lied from the beginning.”
“No!”
Kevin’s whole body shook so violently that Lanzas reached for her gun. But Madrone only collapsed on the floor.
“They’re my friends,” he murmured as she folded herself over him.
He bawled like a baby on the floor. She loved him, she truly loved him.
“If they are your friends, they will help you,” Minerva told him. “You’ll take off before dawn. The plane will be repaired then. The skin on one of the rear stabilizers is being replaced with aluminum, which perhaps will alter the flight characteristics, but it should be manageable.”
“What if they won’t help me?”
“Then our men will fly the plane. Or you can,” she said. “We’ll do whatever we have to.”
“Give me the bombs,” said Madrone. He took a breath and raised his head.
“They are warheads only. I thought perhaps they could be placed on the tank missiles as you did with the explosives. They’re about the same size. But there’s no time.”
“There’s time. I can fix it.” He’d changed back into the dervish, the determined avenger. His voice was resolute; the insanity had receded. “I’ll destroy Livermore, and I’ll destroy Dreamland, the base where they invaded my brain.”
“We have to reserve one warhead for here, in case they attack,” Minerva told him. “Could you rig it to explode from a timer or remote control?”
“Child’s play. Quickly.” He jumped up.
She realized she should let him go, but something deep inside her made her reach out and grab his arm. “Let’s make love first.”
Chapter 84
Aboard Raven
Over the Gulf of Mexico
7 March, 2130 local (1930 Dreamland)
The radar operator had just finished telling Dog that the scans were clean when the yellow bar on the HUD flashed.
“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”
Bastian snapped on the transmission.
“You’ve lost your mind,” said Magnus.
“No, sir,” said Bastian. “What I’ve lost is an EB-52.”
“I’m not going to be able to bail you out of this one, Dog,” said the three-star.
“I’m not asking you to bail me out, General.”
“You are to set a course for Dreamland and return there without delay. The search will be handled properly, through official channels.”
“I am official channels. As per—”
&n
bsp; “Colonel!”
“Yes, sir,” said Bastian. “We’re heading to refuel anyway.”
“Who’s your copilot?”
“I’m the copilot.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Major Cheshire is acting under my orders,” said Dog. “She filed a protest. It’s in the log,” he added, hoping they could add it retroactively.
“That may not save her either. Let me talk to her.”
“You have to authorize it on your end,” Bastian told him.
The line was silent for a moment, apparently while the general consulted with whatever technician was helping him complete the transmission.
“Is he going to yell at me?” Cheshire asked.
“I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor.”
“The condemned always joke before the hanging.”
“Major Cheshire?”
“Yes, General.”
“You get home. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bastian, contact me when you’re an hour from base. I’m in D.C. Find me. Out.”
“Doesn’t sound too pleased,” said Cheshire.
“Probably had a long day,” said Dog.
“What are we doing, Colonel?”
He couldn’t leave Breanna; he just couldn’t.
But it was senseless to stay here. Even without Magnus on his back, he ought to return. They had no transmission, no beacon, no sign of Galatica.
“Message, Colonel,” prompted Nancy.
Dog looked up and saw the alert code, indicating the line was scrambled and from D.C. Sighing, he once more authorized the line. He was surprised to hear Jed Barclay’s voice, not the general’s.
“Uh, Colonel, I have e-mail here, came through the NSC public system. I believe you got a copy too at Dreamland. But I want to read it to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen. ‘Deposit sixty million U.S. dollars in the following account by 0600 Pacific Coast time, or Lawrence Livermore Labs will be destroyed, along with San Francisco.’ There’s some account numbers too, which seem to be linked to a bank in the Caymans, though I haven’t been able to trace it yet. It’s signed by Madrone.”
