Nerve Center d-2

by Dale Brown

  “What?”

  “I’d think it was just a loony, but there’s a TIFF file attached.”

  “What’s a TIFF file?”

  “Tagged graphic. Very low resolution and primitive algorithms, no security at all. But basically, it’s a photograph or a video frame. It’s a picture of an EB-52 with damage to the rear. I’m guessing it’s the one you’re searching for, but there’s no way to authenticate the picture or the e-mail definitively.”

  “Where did the message come from?” Dog asked.

  “At the moment, I’m not sure. We’ve traced the e-mail back to Italy, but it probably didn’t originate there.”

  “Okay,” said Bastian. “Jed, have you been able to organize that surveillance via the satellites?”

  “Yes, nothing there yet. I’ll get to that in a second, Colonel,” added Barclay. “There was another file attached to this e-mail. It had a line drawing. I’m not an expert, but it looks like a nuclear warhead. I’m trying to have it checked out now.”

  “What did your boss say?”

  “He’s en route to the White House to inform the President right now.”

  Chapter 85

  Aboard Dreamland Combat Transport C-17/D “Quickmover”

  Over the Caribbean

  2240 local (1940 Dreamland)

  Danny nearly slipped off the crew ladder as he descended into the belly of the C-17. Sergeant Talcom suppressed a laugh at the base of the ladder, but the rest of his Whiplash team members guffawed so loudly he could hear them over the whine of the transport’s four powerful engines.

  “All right, listen up,” Freah said. “We’re putting down for a while in Panama.”

  “We got a target?” asked Bison, practically jumping off the plastic bench.

  “No. We’re working on it. We have to refuel and the powers that be are gathering some intelligence.”

  “Translation: Some jerkoff in D.C. wants to go to bed,” said Powder.

  The others started to laugh again.

  “You know, Sergeant, I hear the latrines here are a very interesting place to spend an evening. All sorts of yummy bugs to check out.”

  Danny had so much venom in his voice that not one of the others dared to as much as titter as he climbed back up to the flight deck.

  Chapter 86

  Pej, Brazil

  March 8, 0100 local (March 7, 2100 Dreamland)

  Breanna had sat on the wooden chair for what seemed like several hours, exchanging glares with the male guards. They made no move to attack her, and had even been delicate searching her for a weapon; if she’d had anything besides her bulky Beretta, she would have been able to conceal it easily. Still, her vulnerability felt like a physical thing, pricking at her skin.

  She worried about Jeff. He was due for another round of the diluted ANTARES drugs in two hours. Geraldo had told her that he had to take them within five minutes of her carefully worked out schedule, or else he’d begin to feel effects of withdrawal.

  A burly airman appeared at the door carrying her flight and survival gear. He placed it on the floor next to the guard, but the soldiers waved her back into her seat when she rose to examine it. A few minutes later the same airman came in with a large bowl of food. This, at least, she was allowed to have. Despite the toughness of the beans, she ate it quickly, and slurped the thin broth at the bottom. She was done by the time Chris was led into the room a few minutes later. One of his guards carried his gear, placing it next to hers by the door.

  “You’re eating that shit?” he said.

  “Better than starving.”

  “You don’t think it’s drugged?”

  “If they were going to drug it, they would have made it taste better,” she said.

  “Think they’ll release us soon?”

  Breanna shrugged. She could hear Zen’s wheelchair in the hallway.

  Jeff rolled into the room, an ironic smile on his face. Before she could ask what was possibly so funny, a tall man entered behind him and began giving orders in Portuguese. The guards quickly grabbed the flight gear and thrust it at Breanna and Chris, though mixing up who belonged to what.

  “We’re being released,” said Chris.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Zen, still wearing his bemused expression. It was a mask he sometimes used; maybe it meant he was planning something.

  “Where’s your gear?” Breanna asked.

  “They made me leave it in the plane.”

  “What’s so funny?” she said.

  “I got a TV and you didn’t,” he said, then added, “They think I’m going to help fly the Flighthawks.”

  “What?”

  “He speaks English,” said Zen in a stage whisper. “He says we’re going back north. They think we’re going to help.”

  “That wasn’t quite what he said.”

  Breanna looked up and saw Kevin Madrone standing in the doorway.

  “He said you will assist me or be killed,” said Madrone. “Hello, Breanna. Captain Ferris.”

  “I’m not helping you, Kevin. Your head’s screwed up.” Zen wheeled around to face him. “You’re going through withdrawal from the drugs. ANTARES blew up your mind. Take it from me. You’re screwy. Nuts.”

  Kevin glared at him, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. And then he launched himself at Zen, flying across the room and swinging wildly. Jeff swung in his chair and managed to slip back so that Madrone fell to the floor. But this only enraged Kevin more. Breanna jumped to help her husband as Madrone’s punches started to land, but found herself in the arms of one of the security guards. Another guard had a pistol in Chris’s chest.

  “Stop it! Stop!” she cried.

  The soldiers tried to break up the fight. A rapid burst through the ceiling from an automatic rifle finally caught Madrone’s attention, or perhaps his fury ran out; he allowed himself to be dragged off Zen.

  “Kevin, what’s happened to you?” Breanna demanded. Madrone shrugged off the guards, then shook his head, catching his breath. “I didn’t think you’d be in on this, Bree.”

  “Be in on what, Kevin? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not listening to you. I know you’re going to get me, but I’ll take you down too. I’ll take enough of you down to hurt you.”

  “Are you involved in the revolt against the Brazilian government?” said Jeff. His voice was so calm he sounded as if he were a graduate student asking a question at a seminar.

  Jeff had provoked the attack, perhaps thinking the surge of emotions would break through, Breanna realized. But it hadn’t worked, at least not the way he’d hoped.

  “There’s no revolt,” said Madrone.

  “Sure there is. There’s a new government already. You helped take over the country with Hawkmother and the U/ MFs.”

  “People attacked us, and we neutralized them,” said Ma-drone. “We’re going to do that now.”

  “Christina died from a cancer that had nothing to do with you or your work, Kevin,” said Zen. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It was just — horrible luck. Look at me.”

  “Get them aboard the plane,” Madrone told the guards. “Handcuff the ones who can walk.”

  “Who are you working for?” Chris asked.

  “I’m not working for anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t trust them,” said Chris.

  “I don’t,” said Madrone, leaving the room.

  * * *

  Outside, Kevin stopped and fell against the side of the building, gasping for air. Had they been his enemies from the beginning? Or had they turned against him?

  Betrayal was the worst crime. To go against your friend or your family or your lover — what could be worse?

  To kill your own daughter.

  He hadn’t killed her. They had. The bastards.

  When they closed in, he would kill himself. He would borrow a pistol from one of the men. He would get as much revenge as possible. Then cheat them.

  They would come after Minerva to aveng
e their losses. She was still naive — she thought they would escape together when he returned, but he, wouldn’t return.

  They would destroy her too. Worse, they would make her suffer as Christina had. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

  Kevin felt his body relax, the last vestiges of the headache sifting away. It was finished. He hurried to check on the men working on Minerva’s weapon.

  Chapter 87

  Dreamland

  7 March, 2200 local

  They landed precisely at ten P.M., having pushed Raven to the max. Dog slipped out of the cockpit dead tired, and went straight to the waiting Hummer without bothering to stop to change out of his gear.

  The inimitable Ax was waiting at the door to his office suite with a cup of very black coffee.

  “Hey, Chief. Big shots want to bark at you,” said the sergeant.

  “What the hell are you doing up?”

  “Never miss a hangin’,” said Gibbs, who despite his bonhomie, wore traces of worry and fatigue in the cracks around his eyes. “You’re supposed to plug into a conference call on the scrambled line. Mudroom’s all set up downstairs.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll be down with the coffee soon as it finishes perkin’. Captain Freah landed in Panama,” added Ax. “Standing by for your orders.”

  “Okay.” Dog took a long swig from the coffee, then handed the cup back to Ax for a refill. “What, no paperwork?”

  “At this hour SOP is to forge your initials.”

  Downstairs, Dog nodded at the pair of MPs covering the door and went inside the empty control room. Cleared into the secure video conference circuit, he found the others were already talking together.

  “Colonel Bastian has joined us,” said Jed Barclay in the White House basement.

  “Colonel,” said General Magnus gruffly.

  “Good evening, Colonel.” The screen flickered and a new face appeared on the screen at the front of the room. It was the President, Kevin Martindale.

  “Sir.”

  “How real is this threat?” Martindale, dressed in a cardigan sweater, sat in a thick chair aboard Air Force One. Philip Freeman, John Keesh, and a grim-faced aide sat nearby.

  “I’m afraid it’s very real, sir,” said Barclay.

  “I want to hear Colonel Bastian,” said Martindale. “Is ANTARES responsible?”

  Bastian hesitated. “I’m afraid it appears likely ANTARES was involved. We’re still trying to connect all the dots.”

  “ANTARES is nothing but grief. Promising poison. It’s to end right now, on my order. This overrules any directive you may get from anyone else, no matter who it is.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bastian.

  Keesh scowled in the background but said nothing.

  “We’ve set up a net with ANG and regular Air Force units guarding San Francisco,” said Magnus, apparently speaking from aboard another Air Force plane. “They won’t get close.”

  “I think that’s the idea,” said Dog.

  “What do you mean?” said the President.

  “They’ve basically told us the target and when to expect them,” Bastian said. “Either it’s a decoy, or we’re meant to shoot them down.”

  “We can’t not shoot them down,” said Magnus.

  “We can’t let them attack the laboratory or San Francisco,” said Dog. “But there’s something else going on. I had some of my people at the base examine the diagram. I’ve only spoken to them by radio, but they say it’s very primitive, possibly attached to a very short-range-missile system. Even if it were fired from a Flighthawk — difficult but not impossible — the controlling ship would have to be within ten miles.”

  “If it’s dropped by a bomber, it will be overhead,” said Magnus dryly.

  “Absolutely,” said Dog. “As long as we know they’re coming, we can cordon off an area twenty miles away, and be fairly confident of finding the plane, even a Megafortress.”

  “Maybe the attack will be carried out elsewhere,” said Jed.

  “That might be. But Livermore does fit,” added Bastian.

  “Jed has filled us in on the psychological implications,” said Freeman, the NSC head. “Jed, run down the Brazilian scenario,” he added.

  Barclay’s face came back on the screen. He had a bit of peach fuzz on his chin between the pimples, and looked as if he were going to cry. His voice shook a little as he began, but he spoke in coherent, long sentences.

  “It’s not a scenario exactly. I’ve been looking at the power struggle there, trying to coordinate some of the players against the intercepts we’ve had. The conflict between the Navy and the Air Force, that’s legendary; they spy on each other back and forth. They have for years. A few months ago, there was a kind of mini-insurrection and the Navy people quashed the Air Force. The major players were cashiered or sent out to Amazon scratch bases, which is our equivalent of being detailed to guard latrines on the moon.”

  “We don’t have posts on the moon,” muttered Magnus, making his opinion of Barclay evident.

  “Get to the point, Jed,” prompted Freeman.

  “As we know, this time fighting broke out, which resulted in a government crisis. The President resigned. Air Force people then pop up all over the place, starting with the Acting President, who was the Air Force Chief. Now it could just be the usual blackmail and skullduggery—”

  “Jed,” warned Freeman.

  “Yes, well, the Defense Minister — this is all just the acting government, remember, but anyway — a Colonel Minerva Lanzas is due to be named Defense Minister when Herule takes over. He’s the Prez. Lanzas was transferred from the biggest Air Force command to a mountain landing strip at the edge of the Amazon after the Navy brush-up, so that’s a pretty dramatic turnaround.”

  “Is that site big enough to land a 777?” asked Dog.

  “Not according to the Factbook,” said Barclay, referring to the standard non-classified directory compiled by the CIA. “But our review of Satint shows it’s been greatly expanded over the past month, maybe even more recently. You could land a standard B-52 there now, give or take. And,” added Barclay, leaning toward the camera with just a hint of dramatic flair, “there was a two-engined jet on the ground there yesterday morning. It was obscured by clouds, but it seemed to be either a 777 or an Airbus, an Airbus, uh—” He faltered, trying to remember the designation of the large European-made plane.

  “We need to hit that base,” said Dog. “Now.”

  “Too far,” said Freeman. “Too aggressive. Even if we had hard evidence—”

  “The Whiplash Assault Team is in Panama,” said Dog. “They were standing by to help a rescue. They can go there.”

  “Big risk, especially with the Brazilian government in transition,” said Freeman. “We better talk to State.”

  The President, to his right, was looking at his watch. “General Herule won’t be sworn in as Acting President until noon Brasilia time,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that’s relevant,” said Freeman.

  “I can have my Whiplash Team on the ground at that base in two hours,” said Dog.

  “I say we take a shot at it, sir,” said Magnus unexpectedly. “If young Mr. Barclay is right, it’s a logical place. I trust Colonel Bastian’s men to pull it off.”

  Keesh finally spoke up. “I have faith in Colonel Bastian as well,” he said. “But if we’re wrong, it will be a grave situation.”

  “If our planes aren’t on the runway, they don’t land,” said Dog. “Brazil has already offered to cooperate in the search. We can say this is just an extension.”

  Someone spoke off camera in the President’s plane. He turned for a moment, listening as another aide whispered something in his ear.

  “We’ll deal with that in a few minutes,” Martindale told the aide. Then he turned back to the camera. “Do it,” he said. “And keep me informed. Jack,” he added, apparently to the operator, because the circuit went gray.

  Magnus reappeared on the screen. “
This isn’t very good, Colonel.”

  “No, sir. I understand that.”

  “General Olafson will coordinate the defenses out of the Fresno ANG base. Get with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Tecumseh — no more road shows. You’re to remain at the base. You’re not a fighter pilot anymore. Your job is coordinating things from the ground.”

  The screen blanked. Dog sat in the chair, the tumult of the past few days catching up with him. He was still sitting there, legs stretched along the floor, when Sergeant Gibbs entered with the coffee a minute later.

  “We still in business?”

  “For now,” said Dog, snapping back to himself. “Get me Captain Freah.”

  “Punch line five on your doohickey thinger and you got him,” said Ax.

  Chapter 88

  Pej, Brazil

  8 March, 0401 local (0001 Dreamland)

  Minerva stood in front of the large bomber as her men worked feverishly to complete their work. They were used to fashioning spare parts for military jets, but the damaged Megafortress was an extraordinary challenge. Its wings and fuselage were made from an exotic compound that none of her experts recognized; they’d fashioned replacement panels from several sources, including Hawkmother. Madrone’s EB-52 had also furnished the tail section, which proved remarkably easy to replace — a testament to the aircraft’s design, meant to facilitate quick combat-area repairs. Her chief engineer assured her the plane would get off the ground, but would give no guarantees beyond that.

  Minerva didn’t need any. She had already constructed her own elaborate alibis and a cover story, pinning all of the blame on Madrone.

  It wasn’t the most airtight or even believable of stories, but it didn’t have to be. As Defense Minister, she would be able to control any inquiries. And the main witnesses would all be dead: