Nerve Center (29 page)

The bitch must have some way of reading his mind while he was hooked up into the machine.

They’d always said that was impossible. They’d claimed they could only see waves.

But hell, if it meant walking again, he’d put up with it. He could put up with anything.

“The doctors have been pretty much universal that I won’t walk. And, yes, it seems pretty evident, don’t you think?” He reached for his tea. He smelled it, could tell from the steam rising that it would be too hot, held it in his lap. “Everyone is in agreement that walking isn’t in my future.”

“But you don’t agree.”

Zen laughed. He really did like her; she really did remind him of his grandmother. “The fact of the matter is, Doc, even if I thought I could walk—hell, if I wished to right now—it wouldn’t change a damn thing. I’d still fall flat on my face and you’d laugh your ass off.”

“I wouldn’t laugh at you, Jeffrey,” she said, so seriously that he couldn’t do anything but sniff once more at the tea.

Dreamland Hangar 1
27 February, 1000

LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE AT DREAMLAND, THE SURVIVAL shop was on the cutting edge. While there were no masseuses on duty, pilots suiting up for test flights had nearly every other conceivable amenity. Their flight gear, of course, was custom-tailored; the men and women who prepared their suits could embarrass a team of London tailors with their speed and accuracy. The survival gear itself—parachutes, etc.—was mostly standard issue, and received the same standard of care administered at any U.S. Air Force facility: in other words, the best possible. But the experts attending pilots before and after their test runs included a nurse who helped make sure the legs and arms and chests fitting into the suits were in top condition. She had certificates in sports medicine and nutrition as well as aviation medicine.

She was also as free with her advice as Ann Landers. Which meant that Dog got the full harangue as he dressed before taking the new EB-52 for a flight.

“You’ve put on two pounds since you’ve come here, Colonel,” warned Nurse Yenglais. “Too much of the good life.”

“Good life?” Dog slid his helmet liner on his head. “Are you implying I’m getting fat, Maria?”

“Six thousand calories,” she said, undeterred. “At this rate, you will be outside of your ideal weight range in two years.”

Which would still leave him about ten pounds lighter than nearly everyone in the Air Force at his rank. But Dog knew better than to voice that objection, and merely winked at the nearby staff sergeant who was performing what amounted to a quadruple check of his safety gear.

“See you all in exactly ninety minutes,” said Dog, taking his helmet and striding for the plane.

The practice sessions that had started because he wanted to prove to his daughter that he could fly anything had become welcome escapes from the rigors of his desk job. In the space of two weeks, Bastian had made himself into an excellent Megafortress pilot, and in fact an important fill-in for test flights. The plane’s flight computers even rated him the third-best EB-52 skipper on the base.

Which irked him no end. He didn’t mind—much—that his computer scores were lower than Major Cheshire’s. She’d been flying big jets forever, and had helped build the plane and spent more time at the helm every day than he spent at his desk.

But ranking behind Breanna was another matter. Never mind that Bree also had considerable experience in multiengined jets, or that she too had worked with the designers and whiz kids on the Megafortress. Dog wanted to beat her.

Not too bad, of course. Just enough to show he was better.

“Colonel, you have five?” shouted Danny Freah just as Dog touched the ladder to board his plane.

“I can spare about three,” he told the captain.

“Just, uh, can we talk over here?” asked Freah, gesturing with his thumb. Dog followed Freah a short distance away, out of earshot of the techies completing last-second checks of the new plane, which had been dubbed “Galatica.”

“I’ve been talking to Jed Barclay over at the NSC. We have
a
weird theory about the 777.”

Dog squinted into the sun. “More hiker reports, or has the Navy found something?”

“No. The Navy contacts turned out bogus, just as you predicted.”

Despite several promising leads, the search teams had failed to turn up any wreckage in the Sierras, and the search had been extended to the Pacific, where the Boeing and Flight-hawks could theoretically have flown after the pilots ejected. The fact that the big plane did not appear on any radars and had not been sighted, of course, argued against it continuing to the Pacific, but it had to have landed somewhere.

“You’re going to think this is nuts,” added Danny.

“If Jed Barclay came up with it, I will.”

“It’s more my idea,” said Danny. “A few hours after Hawk-mother and the Flighthawks disappeared, there was an incident at a small national airport in Mexico. A large plane set down there, using the registration and ID of a 707. A gang stole some fuel, killed a man, and blew up a tanker before taking off.”

“A gang?”

“It’s not a good fit, I know. But one of the reports states that other planes were involved, and that one swooped in low and tried to shoot up some of the security vehicles. It could have been a Flighthawk.”

“I don’t know, Danny. I’m still thinking it’s in the mountains somewhere, buried under the snow.”

“With no beacon?”

“Disabled in the crash.”

“I checked some of the technical data out. Hawkmother could have reached Mexico. The airport is down the peninsula, in the western mountains not far from the sea.”

“The Flighthawks would never have made it that far.”

“They could have refueled,” said Danny. “I checked that out too. There would have been just enough fuel for all three to have made it. It would explain why we can’t find the planes, Colonel.”

Bastian looked back at the sun. Sabotage had, of course, been considered from the start. But theft was a different angle, and most unlikely. Madrone was the only other person on the plane; it seemed almost inconceivable that anyone else had snuck aboard. The Army captain had no experience as a pilot beyond ANTARES, and even if he had been an ace, he would have had a difficult time in the cockpit once the ejection seats were gone.

“Maybe the computer was programmed to fly the plane away,” suggested Danny. “Maybe ANTARES is the target. The Russians know about it. They obviously want it. I talked to Dr. Rubeo,” added Freah. “He says it would have been impossible to preprogram the computer to take the plane without it showing up in the preflight dumps. Apparently, they download the memory before taking off for some sort of baseline check.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” said Dog.

“Except that there were transmissions that the Flighthawk team can’t account for. Rubeo told me to talk to Jennifer Gleason. I think there’s something here, Colonel.”

“If the plane were in Russia, you don’t think we would have heard by now?”

“Maybe it’s been cut up and shipped by boat.”

“You realize the satellites have checked every airfield it could land on.”

“Has to be somewhere. I don’t believe in the Bermuda Triangle. Or space aliens.”

“You’re not angling to go down to Mexico, are you?” asked Dog.

“I have an FBI contact that can smooth the way. She speaks Spanish too. If you authorize it, we’ll hop a plane this afternoon.”

“She?”

“Debra Flanigan.”

“Nothing I have to inform your wife about, right?”

“Colonel. Come on.”

“It’s far-fetched, Danny. More than likely the planes are lying in a million pieces and buried under a few feet of snow. There’s been plenty of crashes like that.”

“I think it’s worth a shot, Colonel.”

Bastian glanced at the waiting Megafortress, and thought of all the work that waited for him back at his office. Among the pink telephone message slips there were bound to be several from the Pentagon asking what was up with the search.

“Take a shot at it if you think it’s worth it,” he told Danny, lifting his flight helmet to his head.

Pej, Brazil
27 February, 1700 local

HE PLUNGED INSIDE HER AGAIN AND AGAIN, PUSHING himself against her body. Minerva’s breasts curved against his chest and her lips pressed into his, warm electricity bathing his body. Madrone felt himself beginning to climax and tried to hold back, unwilling to let go of the moment, unwilling to lose the immersion in the beautiful dark breathlessness of her body. Her fingers reached across his back, the sharp nails teasing his muscles. Minerva’s perfume eased into his lungs and he exploded, coming with a violent surge that shook her to orgasm as well. The warmth of the jungle settled around them; Madrone floated as the energy slowly dissipated. Finally, he rolled onto his back, lying on the bed as she nuzzled her face against his chest.

Lanzas had appeared at the bottom of the steps when he landed the Boeing. At first he’d thought she was an apparition, part of an ANTARES-induced dream. But she had proven very real, personally nursing him back to health, taking him to bed that first night. She had restored the plane, marveling at the Flighthawks. She had filled him with incredible energy and love and strength. She was not the dark woman of the Theta metaphor; she was better.

“Time now, my darling,” she said. “Time to begin.”

“Yes,” said Madrone, though he made no effort to move. Neither did she.

“Our first step, today.”

“Yes,” said Madrone. He had told her how everyone was against him, how the scientists and militarists were seeking to destroy not just him but the planet, turning everyone to robots with their drugs and implanted chips. He’d been their first guinea pig. Minerva had agreed, and pointed out the obvious—he would never be safe until they were neutralized.

Neither would she. His enemies were already trying to get her. The Brazilian Air Force had sent a flight of Mirages over the base yesterday, obviously looking for him. Fortunately, Hawkmother and the U/MFs were well been hidden by netting.

The bastards. Puny Mirages. They would pay.

He saw it. He could feel the Flighthawks firing their guns.

Loading the planes with shells was child’s play, a simple adjustment not worthy of his expertise. But the cannons were limited and Minerva had few other weapons—six early-version Sidewinders, a pair of runway-denial bombs, and a dozen antitank weapons “on loan” from an Army unit. Adapting them so they could be used with the Flighthawks taxed him considerably, even though ANTARES had greatly expanded his intellect.

Lanzas thought the antitank weapons were useless; they were wire-guided and meant to be fired from helicopters or ground vehicles. But Madrone was well schooled in Army weapons, and saw the TOW equivalents as the most versatile weapons imaginable—their rocket motors could be staged, the wire extended. Their slender shapes would fit well beneath the U/MF fuselages. With the proper modifications, they could carry warheads of several hundred pounds.

He saw the solutions before he did the computations. His brain unfolded in a million directions. Under Minerva’s care, without the Dreamland bastards breathing down his neck, his powers increased exponentially. He ran to each corner of his mind, vibrating with ferocious energy. He felt connected to ANTARES at all times. Even though he was no longer taking Geraldo’s drugs, he felt his hippocampus and other brain cells continuing to grow.

They couldn’t control him now that he had gotten away. They couldn’t use him anymore. He would turn the tables, destroy the bastards, all of them. And then he would be safe here, at the edge of the rain forest.

“What are you thinking?” Minerva asked, rubbing his chest.

“The cannons in the Flighthawks,” said Madrone. “Boa Vista and Manaus will be destroyed.”

“Think of something else for now.”

Lanzas’s hand slid toward his belly. Madrone drifted. He loved flying the Flighthawks, because it meant he was in Theta. But being with her was better, far better.

She rubbed his thigh with the palm of her hand. Then she pulled it away abruptly.

“You’re right. You must go,” Minerva said. “It will be late.”

“A few more minutes won’t matter,” he said, rolling on top of her. “Our victims will wait.”

Dreamland Computer Labs
27 February, 1700 local

JENNIFER GLEASON LOOKED UP FROM HER DESK TO SEE Colonel Bastian coming through the door to her lab. Instantly, her fingers felt wet and her heart fluttery; her tongue stumbled as she said hello.

“Dr. Rubeo said you might have some details about anomalies in the communications-and-control computer handling the Flighthawks during the Boeing flight,” said Bastian. He smiled, then pointed to a chair. “Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead, please.”

She picked at her hair, trying desperately to stop acting like a teenager with a full-blown crush. She was, after all, a grown woman with a full-blown crush.

Jennifer reached to her desk drawer and pulled on it before remembering that she had locked it. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she kept the key on a chain around her neck beneath her blouse. She could feel every millimeter of her skin turning beet red as she pulled the chain up discreetly and then bent to unlock the drawer. She retrieved the folders and got up, willing her legs to stop shaking.

“I think when you look at them side by side,” she said, placing the folders down on a clear lab table in the corner of the room, “you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

“You haven’t actually said what you’re talking about,” said Bastian.

For just a half second, she considered throwing herself in his arms. But the consequences of that—of his inevitable rejection—were too great. Carefully, slowly, she laid out the papers.

“These signals came across to our monitoring equipment from the Boeing. They’re broadcast through C3 via the 57Y circuit—”

“Jen.” He touched her arm and she nearly exploded. “Skip some of the technical jargon, okay?”

She managed to nod, then pointed to some of the yellow markings.