Nerve Center

Chapter 2

The helicopters kept getting in the way. Zen barely kept his U/MF-3 from colliding with a Blackhawk, mashing his control stick left and flailing away at the last possible instant. He was so close to the helicopter’s blades that the wash whipped his wings into a nearly uncontrollable spin, despite the computer’s efforts to help him steady the plane.

Before he could fully recover, he found himself in the middle of a stream of lead, thrown by the two ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns he was assigned to hit. Fortunately, the guns were being sighted manually and the gunners couldn’t keep up with Zen’s hard zag back to the right. But the sharp maneuvers made it impossible for him to lock on his target. Zen pressed the trigger as the four-barreled mobile antiaircraft unit on the left slid through his targeting pipper, while he simultaneously tried to walk his Flighthawk back into the target by sticking his rudder with a quick jerk left. That might have worked — might have — in a plane like an A- 10A Thunderbolt, built for low-speed, low-level target-thrashing. But the U/MF-3 Flighthawk was a different beast altogether, originally designed for high-altitude, high-Mach encounters.

Not that she couldn’t fly down here in the mud. Just that she didn’t necessarily appreciate it. Zen found himself fighting for control as the small craft jerked herself right and left, shells bursting from beneath her belly as she tried to follow his commands. The spin had taken him too low, and his cannon fire had slowed him down. The unmanned aircraft was in serious danger of turning into a brick.

Stubbornly, Zen ignored the computerized voice that warned of an impending stall. He goosed off enough slugs to nail the flak-dealer, then tossed off a few prayers to get the Flighthawk’s nose pointing skyward. The antiaircraft gun exploded with a brilliant crimson glow just as the assault leader announced that the helos were on the ground.

But before Zen could draw a breath to relax, the radar-warning receiver in the lead Flighthawk went berserk, screaming that an enemy fighter had somehow gotten close enough to launch AMRAAM air-to-air missiles at the helicopters Zen was supposed to be protecting.

MAJOR MACK “KNIFE” SMITH GRINNED AS HE POPPED his F-16 up over the mountains he’d been using to mask his approach. He’d snuck in behind the two fighters tasked to keep him at bay; the four helicopters carrying the enemy assault force floated naked in front of him. Four helicopters, four missiles, four turkeys ready to be gassed.

A quartet of AMRAAMS slid off his wings in quick succession. Preset for the encounter, the missiles turned on their active seekers, each homing in on their targets as their solid-fuel rockets burst them forward at speeds approaching Mach 4. It was overkill really — the helicopters were less than five miles away; the missiles barely lit their wicks before nailing their targets. The helos were history before their pilots even realized they were targeted.

Mack didn’t have time to gloat. One of the helicopters’ escorts flashed for his tail. Its pilot — Jeff Stockard — had been caught with his pants down, and now he wanted revenge.

Of course, the fact that he didn’t have time to gloat did not actually mean that Knife wouldn’t gloat. On the contrary — he flicked on his mike and gave a roar of laughter as he took his Viper into a nearly ninety-degree turn, pulling close to thirteen g’s. The “stock” plane would quite possibly have rattled apart; Knife most certainly would have blacked out from the force of gravity pelting his body. But nothing at the Air Force High Technology Advanced Weapons Center — aka “Dreamland” — was stock. The F-16’s forward canards and reshaped delta wings were fashioned from an experimental titanium-carbon combination that made them several times stronger than the ones the factory had first outfitted her with. Mack’s flight suit was designed to keep blood flowing evenly throughout his body at fifteen g’s, negative as well as positive.

It couldn’t keep his heart from double-pumping as he took the turn and managed to get his pursuer in his sights. He got off a half-second slap shot as the enemy zigged downward. The odds against hitting the small, nimble U/MF fighter were at least a hundred to one, but he got close enough to force the SOB to break downward, keeping it an easy target for the F-16. Knife laughed so loud his helmet almost came off — he hadn’t had this much fun in months.

Zen worked hard now. His breath grew short and the muscles in his shoulders hardened into cannonballs as he tried desperately to break his airplane out of the low-energy scissors he’d been tricked into.

Not tricked exactly. He’d blundered into it, failing to use his airplane properly. Failing to use his head — truth was, he’d been surprised twice in the space of ninety seconds. He was stuck now in a three-dimensional game of follow-the-leader where being the leader meant you had a fifty- or sixty-percent chance of landing in the other guy’s gunsight.

The pursuer had to be careful not to be sucked into a turn or even a loop that would send his plane shooting ahead, effectively changing places. This was a real danger since the U/MF could turn tighter than even the high-maneuverability F-16 Knife was flying. Mack was no sucker, nor a fool, hanging back just far enough to stay with him, but still close enough to cut off any fancy stuff with gunfire.

Zen had three other Flighthawks hurrying to his rescue. Eventually, they’d force Mack to break off, turning the tables on the hunter. But eventually seemed to be taking forever.

The problem was, he couldn’t control four of the robot planes at one time, not easily anyway. It was especially hard when they were tasked with different missions in different places. Changing mental gears wasn’t bad enough — the U/ MFs’ control gear took forever to cycle into the right plane. Forever being ten nanoseconds.

Three months ago, Jeff had saved Mack’s sorry butt and oversized ego with a near-impossible foray into Libya. Shot down and captured while taking part in a covert operation, Smith had been headed to Iran to have his head chopped off when Dreamland’s Spec Ops team, “Whiplash,” intervened. Controlling the still-experimental U/MF-3 Flighthawks from a hastily modified weapons bay of an EB-52 Megafortress, Zen had found Smith and his captor in a small plane over the Mediterranean. When Smith was finally rescued, he was more grateful than a groom on his wedding night.

For about thirty seconds. Now they were back in their usual places, clawing each other at the nation’s top center for weapons development. It didn’t matter that this fight was being played out in a massive computer, projected on a series of screens in a high-tech hangar. Both men went at it like boxers competing for a ten-million-dollar winner-take-all purse.

At the end of the day, both men would go home with the knowledge that they’d helped test and perfect the next generation of front-line weapons for the country. More importantly — as far as they were concerned, at least — one would go home the winner, the other the loser.

Or, as Mack would put it if he won, “the peahead loser.”

Tracers flared over Jeff’s Flighthawk, arcing to his left. The burst of red ignited an idea in Zen’s brain — he yanked hard on the stick, pointing his nose straight up, directly into Mack’s path.

Kevin Madrone edged what was left of his thumbnail against his tooth, watching the bird’s-eye view of the dogfight on the large display screen. The Army captain could see that Mack had the advantage, but it wasn’t quite enough to nail Zen. Their dogfight was incidental to the overall exercise, but he couldn’t help watching. They were like old-fashioned gladiators, flailing at each other in the Colosseum, willing to go to any lengths to beat their opponents. There was something irresistible in their single-mindedness, something attractive in the danger they faced.

And frightening as well. Madrone whittled his nail, nervously razoring two sharp V’s on the cartilage. Blood pricked from his finger as he finally broke away from the conflict to glance at the screen on his right, where one of the computers monitoring the encounter was kicking up data.

“Weapons test complete,” declared the computer.

As the test supervisor, Madrone ought to end the encounter. But instead he turned back to it, drawn by the swirling energy and fascinated by his own fear.

The Flighthawk suddenly veered straight up. Mack’s F-16 seemed to stutter in midair, less than two hundred feet from the smaller craft. The planes seemed to collide. Then it became obvious that the F-16 had veered off at the last possible instant, wings spinning violently. The Flighthawk somehow managed to flip its nose downward, lighting its cannon. Three or four slugs ripped through the F-16’s wing, but Mack managed to zip off in the opposite direction, the craft in an invert.

The two pilots cursed at each other.

“You stinking cheater. You used a hole in the programming!” snapped Mack.

“Oh, like you didn’t to nail the helos.”

“Knock it off,” said Kevin, snapping into his role as mission boss. “Exercise over.”

Neither pilot acknowledged.

Chapter 3

“You have to keep your speed up or you won’t get off the ground.”

“I’m not stupid,” snapped Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, struggling to get the big EB-52 off Dreamland’s Runway Number Two. The big plane was trimmed for takeoff, its four freshly tuned engines humming at maximum takeoff power. He even had a crisp takeoff kind of wind at eighteen and a half knots in his face.

And still he couldn’t coax the plane into the sky. The mountains loomed ahead.

Worse — the computer-pilot-assist droned a stall warning in his ear.

“Daddy. “

“I have it, Breanna,” he snapped to the copilot, Captain Breanna “Rap” Stockard. Bree was not only acting as his mentor on his first flight in the big plane; she also happened to be his daughter. “I have it,” he repeated.

But Colonel Bastian didn’t have it. The Megafortress’s nose stubbornly remained horizontal and its wheels on the pavement. He was nearly out of runway, and nothing he did — nothing — would get his forward speed over seventy-eight knots. Way too slow for anything but disaster.

Dog started to curse. In the next second, the plane magically lifted her chin, instantly gaining momentum. It wasn’t until he went to clean his landing gear a few seconds later that Bastian realized what had happened — the computer had taken over.

His copilot, meanwhile, was having serious trouble stowing a smirk.

“What the hell, Bree?”

“You tried to take off with only one engine.”

“What do you mean, one engine? They were all in the green.” The colonel ignored a query from Dreamland Tower, which was monitoring the airplane’s progress toward Range DL/2. “The controls—”

“You never punched it out of Sim-2,” said Breanna. “You were looking at old numbers.” She laughed uncontrollably.

They had used the plane’s command computer’s simulator module to run through a few mock takeoffs before starting down the field. The colonel realized now that he had failed to authorize the computer to switch back into real mode for takeoff. Obviously, Breanna had counted on the Megafortress’s safety protocols to get them off the ground safely.

Which, of course, they had.

“That’s dirty pool, Breanna,” Dog told her. “You shut off the engines.”

“No. I just dialed them down to ten percent. You weren’t paying attention,” she added. There was no trace of humor in her voice now — she was the veteran flight instructor verbally whacking a greenie pilot. “You didn’t ask for a check, which you should have, because as you can see, my screen clearly indicates the proper output. Inattention is a killer. In any airplane except the Megafortress, you would have bought it.”

“Any other plane and there’s no way you could have done that,” said Dog angrily. “You tricked me with a bogus reading.”

“Your screen clearly says sim mode. You didn’t go through the checks properly,” she said. “This was a dramatic way to point that out. I’m sorry, Daddy,” she added, her voice suddenly changing.

The change in tone killed him.

“No, you were absolutely one-hundred-percent right,” said Bastian. He practically spat the words through his clenched teeth, then sighed. She was right, damn it — he hadn’t dotted his stinking i’s and it could have cost him his plane, his crew, and his life. “Can I get control back?”

Breanna reached to her panel. “On my mark, Daddy.”

“Don’t call me Daddy.”

Chapter 4

The Flighthawk and F-16 swirled in the sky, cat and dog locked in a ferocious match. Neither could gain enough of an advantage over the other to end the battle. Then the big screen at the front of the room flashed white and a loud pffffffff cracked the speakers — Captain Madrone had cut the feed.

“I said, knock it off” Madrone stood back from the console, folding his arms in front of his chest. At five eight and perhaps 140 in a winter uniform with boots, thermals, and two sweaters, Madrone hardly cut an imposing figure. Even for an engineer he was considered shy and quiet, and most people at Dreamland who knew him even casually could mention several nervous habits, beginning with his nail-biting. But somewhere in the recesses of his personality lurked a young lieutenant who had faced down a pair of tanks in Iraq. The same ferocious snap that had led his team to wipe out the tanks with nothing more than hand grenades now brought the joint-services team that had been fighting the mock battle on a new simulation system to rapid attention.

Except for the two men at the heart of the battle, that is.

“You fucking cheated,” Zen told Mack, tossing off his Flighthawk control helmet. A control cable caught the custom-built device about a millimeter from the ground, just barely keeping it from turning into a bucket of ridiculously expensive but busted computer chips.

“I didn’t cheat,” said Smith, standing from his station on Madrone’s left. “I just flew under the radar coverage. How is that cheating?”

“You flew beyond the parameters of the plane,” said Zen. “You pulled over ten g’s twice. And besides, no way no how could you have gotten past the F-15’s at Mark Seven.”

“The computer let me take the g’s,” said Mack. “As for the F-15’s, where were they?”

“He got past us,” admitted Captain Paul Owens, who’d been handling the F-15 combat air sweep from one of the back benches. “The damn simulator has a hole in the radar coverage big enough to fly a 747 through. You can’t see anything under a thousand feet.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Dr. Ray Rubeo, one of the scientists overseeing the simulation, leaned over the railing at the back of the room. His voice had the world-weary tone a kindergarten teacher would use at the end of a long week. “I believe we have our data for today. I suggest everyone take the afternoon off to play with their Tinkertoys. Live-fire exercise in the morning. Tomorrow, please, keep the WWF routine on the ground.”

Rubeo turned and walked from the room, shuddering slightly at the doorway, as if shaking a great chill from his body.

“Easier to walk away than fix the holes in the sim program,” muttered Zen.

“I think he was right,” said Madrone. “We all pretty much know what we have to do tomorrow.”

He turned to Captain Rosenstein and Lieutenant Garuthers, who were to pilot the actual helicopters they would test tomorrow. The Army commanders were here to test new helicopter upgrades and combat communications in something approaching real conditions; they cared little for what they called the “Hair Force testosterone show,” and were only too happy to knock off early.

Knife and Zen, meanwhile, traded snipes across the floor.

“You were lucky today,” said Zen. “Tomorrow we’re in real planes.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to kick your ass all over town, you peahead loser,” promised Knife. “I can do things in the MiG that would tear an F-16 apart, even with Dreamland’s mods.”

“1 can nail a MiG with my eyes closed,” said Zen.

“We’ll see,” said Mack. He popped the CD that had recorded his part of the exercise out of the console near him and left the room, practically whistling.

Zen wheeled toward his helmet, still shaking his head. He picked it up and handed it to Jennifer Gleason, one of the computer scientists on the Flighthawk project. Gleason smiled at him, pushing a strand of her long, brownish-blond hair back behind her ear. The computer screens bathed her face and neck an almost golden yellow; she looked like a nymph emerging from bed. A genius nymph — Dr. Gleason was among the world’s leading authorities on AI circuitry and intelligence chips — but a nymph nonetheless.

Madrone stared at the curve of her two breasts in the slightly oversized black T-shirt she wore. Lowering his eyes to her hips, he watched them sway slightly while their owner went over some of the details of the encounter with Jeff. Madrone turned back to his station, pretending to sort through his papers, pretending not to be driven to sense-crushing distraction by an expert on gallium arsenic chips.

“We’re seeing you tonight, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Madrone said, still distracted.

“You okay, Kevin?” Zen asked.

“I’m fine. Have to, uh, sort all this out, you know.”

“Yeah. Listen, don’t worry about the holes in the simulation program. Jennifer will work them out. Nail’s bleeding,” Zen added, smiling. “Bad habit.”

Madrone nodded sheepishly. Stockard gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled himself back a foot or so. The others had left the control area, but Zen still made a show of looking around, a car thief checking if the coast were clear. “Listen, I have to give you a heads-up on tonight. Bree’s playing matchmaker.” Zen rolled his eyes and shrugged apologetically. “You know how it goes.”

Madrone suddenly had a vision of Jennifer Gleason sitting on the Stockards’ couch in a short, wispy skirt, breasts loose beneath a silk white polo shirt.

“Abby Miller,” added Jeff.

The vision evaporated.

“I’m sorry, Zen. What’d you say?” asked Madrone.

“Abby Miller. She’s a civilian. She works over at Nellis in the public affairs office. I think she used to be a reporter or worked for a magazine or something. I’m not exactly sure how Bree first met her. You know Rap — she knows just about everybody. Uh, nice personality.”

Madrone folded his thumb beneath his other fingers, holding his fist close to his side. “If Breanna likes her, she’s okay,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.” Zen gave him another sardonic grin, then began wheeling away. “Seven P.M. sharp. Bree’ll have dinner timed out to the half second. Bring the wine.”

Madrone suddenly felt real fear. “Wine? What kind?”

But Zen was halfway out the door and didn’t respond.

Chapter 5

Nowhere is it written that pointy-nose fighter jocks are better than all other pilots. No military regulation declares that just because a man — or woman — regularly subjects himself to eight or nine negative g’s and hurtles his body through the air at several times the speed of sound is he — or she — better than those who proceed in a more considered fashion. Not one sheet in the mountains of official Air Force paperwork covering piloting and flying in general includes the words “Teen-jet jocks are superior to all others.”

But every go-fast zippersuit who ever strapped a brain bucket on his head believes it is true. He — or she — did not get to fly the world’s most advanced warbirds by being merely good. Personal preferences and luck aside, front-line fighter pilots in the U.S. Air Force are the best of the best. And most would have no problem telling you that.

Lieutenant Colonel Bastian was, more than anything else, a front-line fighter jock. It did not matter that his last mission in combat had been more than five years ago during the Gulf War. Nor did it matter that that mission was actually in a bomber — the F-15E Strike Eagle, at the time one of the newest swords in the weapons trove. It did not even matter that his present post as a commander — a ground commander — was several hundred times more important than anything he had done during the war.

What mattered was that he was a fighter pilot. Dog thought like a fighter pilot. He talked like a fighter pilot. He walked — some might say swaggered — like a fighter pilot. One who had seen combat. One who had big hours in F-16’s as well as F-15’s. A fighter pilot who had flown F-4’s, F-111’s, and even an A-10A once or twice. A fighter pilot who had taken the stick of an F-117 and a turn in an F-22 demonstrator. In short, a zippersuit who could fly and had flown anything the Air Force had to offer, and had done it very well.

Except for today, when he was sitting at the helm of an antiquated, out-of-date, obsolete, lumbering, slow-as-a-cow-going-backward BUFF. A plane as old as he was, and twenty times as creaky.

Actually, if it had been simply a B-52, Dog might not have felt as bad. The Stratofortress’s vintage controls took a hell of a lot of getting used to. Levers and knobs stuck out at all angles, the dash looked like the display case in a clock shop, and there was no way to get comfortable in the seat until a dozen hard landings form-fitted your butt. But the B-52 he was flying had been rebuilt from the fuel tanks outward as an EB-52. Rebuilt and reskinned, reengined and recontrolled, the Megafortress retained the soul of the old machine — the most capable and durable bomber of the Cold War era. But she flexed twenty-first-century muscles. It was like having the wisdom and experience of a sixty-five-year-old — and the muscles and reflexes of a twenty-one-year-old young buck.

As Breanna somewhat gushingly put it after they landed.

“I can do without the metaphors, thank you, Captain Stockard,” snapped Dog, unhooking himself from the seat restraints.

Or rather, trying to unhook himself. Damn, he couldn’t even undo a stinking belt buckle today.

“All I’m saying, Daddy, is that Raven takes a little getting used to. It’s not your average F-16. I know that with a few more flights, you’ll be right on top of it.”

The restraint finally snapped clean. Dog unfolded himself from the seat, struggling to maintain what little was left of his dignity as he left the plane. The other crew members — he had foolishly agreed to fly with a navigator and a weapons officer — wisely made their way out the ventral hatch well ahead of him.

“Daddy—”

“And another thing, Captain.” Bastian twisted at the back of the flight deck before starting downward. “Do not, under any circumstances, while we are on duty — at work — ever refer to me as Daddy, Dad, Pop, Poppy, Father, Papa, or anything in that vein. Got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

The Megafortress’s stealthy carbon-resin skin was specially treated to withstand high temperatures. The runway apron, however, seemed to melt as Dog stalked from the plane, which was being refueled for a flight by another crew. He headed toward the ramp to the Megafortress’s subterranean hangar, where a state-of-the-art simulator waited to replay his flying mistakes in bold colors.

A black Jimmy SUV with a row of flashing blue lights whipped off the access ramp to his right, speeding toward him. Dog stopped, thankful for the interruption, even if the flashing lights boded a problem. The Jimmy belonged to his head of base security, Captain Danny Freah. Danny was loath to use the blue lights — he claimed they made the truck look like it was leading a fire department parade — so something serious must be up.

But instead of Freah, Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs pulled down the driver’s-side window as the truck rolled up.

“Colonel, you have visitors,” said the sergeant.

“Visitors who?” snapped Dog.

“Secretary-to-be Keesh for one,” said Ax. “A whole pack of muckety-mucks nipping at his heels.”

An ex-Congressman, John Keesh was the new Administration’s nominee for Defense Secretary. Bastian knew him vaguely from Washington, but hadn’t seen or spoken to him for months. He was expected to be confirmed next week.

Last November’s elections had completely rearranged the defense landscape, removing Bastian’s chief patron and booster, National Security Director Deborah O’Day. Her likely replacement, Philip Freeman, was unknown to Bastian personally. The only ranking holdover from O’Day’s staff was Jed Barclay, a young Harvard whiz kid who had more pimples than experience. His official title was Deputy NSC Assistant for Technology and Foreign Relations, though he had been more of a freelance troubleshooter for O’Day.

“Why the hell didn’t somebody tell me Keesh was coming?” Bastian asked Ax.

“Advanced warning systems completely smoked,” admitted the sergeant. “Captain Freah’s already giving them the two-dollar tour.”

Taken off guard, Dog settled for the passenger’s seat as he contemplated what the surprise VIP tour might mean. That was a mistake, as Ax’s screeching takeoff quickly confirmed. Bastian grabbed desperately for the door handle, trying to keep himself from shooting through the windshield as the sergeant threw the truck into reverse and whipped back toward the access road back to the main area of the base. Gibbs had no peer when it came to organizing an administrative staff and handling the paperwork of command. Driving was a different story.

“Flight go okay?” asked the sergeant. His voice sounded innocent, but Dog suspected it was anything but.

“It did not. Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Yes, sir. Papers for you to sign,” added the sergeant, thumbing toward the console between them where three thick folders were wedged tight.

“I’ll read them if you’ll slow down,” said Dog as Gibbs took a turn on two wheels.

“Ah, I keep telling you, you don’t have to read the stuff I give you. Requisitions for toilet paper and that kind of stuff.” Gibbs jerked the Jimmy onto the road to Taj, Dreamland’s command complex. “Anything important I forge.”

“I hope you forged me a will,” said Dog, gripping his handhold tighter.

“‘Xcuse me, Colonel?”

“Just watch the road.” Dog finally managed to buckle his seat belt. “Now why the hell didn’t you radio me when the Secretary’s plane was inbound? And didn’t someone on General Magnus’s staff call to give us a heads-up?”

“Well, thing is, Colonel, number one, the Secretary didn’t come by plane, he came via limo from Nellis. Second thing is, he just showed up there too, and made a beeline out to us without telling the base commander. Everybody is peed. General Magnus’s staff didn’t know anything about it. I think Captain Granson may lose a bar over it,” added Ax. “Sergeant Fulton says it was his turn to keep track of the brass’s brass.”

Dog’s stern frown cut Gibbs off in mid-chortle. Granson was an aide to Lieutenant General Magnus, Colonel Bastian’s immediate superior in the streamlined chain of command established when Dreamland and its Whiplash Action Team became operational some months ago. Until the last election, Magnus had seemed on the short track to head the Air Force and maybe the Joint Chiefs. The fact that Keesh didn’t give him a heads-up before inspecting one of his commands obviously meant he was off the track, at least for now.

“Last but not least,” added Gibbs, “you left explicit orders not to be disturbed.”

“Ax, if the President came, would you have radioed me?”

“Probably. Ought to be down in the Mudroom by now,” added Gibbs, jerking the SUV to a stop so quickly it was a wonder the air bags didn’t deploy. “Senator Densmore looks like he had a bumpy flight, Colonel. Might offer him a cocktail. Also, Congresswoman Timmons is wearing very expensive perfume, so she may have intentions. She’s a widow, you know.”

“Anything else, Ax?”

“Just my papers, sir.”

Dog frowned at the folder. “I have to read them.”

“Seriously, Colonel, they’re just routine. You know, sir, if I can say something out of line—”

“You were born out of line, Sergeant.”

“You’re wasting your time on a lot of diddly-shit with the papers. I’ll bring the stuff you really need to deal with to your attention. As for the rest—”

“Not my way, Ax.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Mudroom — only Gibbs called it that — was a secure command center on basement level three of the Taj. Dog found Danny regaling the visitors with tapes of Dreamland’s successful Whiplash raid into Libya three months before.

Not too subtle.

Dog stood for a moment at the railing on the observer’s deck at the rear of the room, watching the tape run on the composite screen. The entire twelve-by-twenty-one-foot surface was given over to a feed from one of the Flighthawks as it surveyed the bunker complex where American prisoners were being held. Keesh, five lawmakers from Congress, and an aide were standing about five feet from the screen, completely mesmerized by the action. A roof began moving on the left; puffs of smoke and small flames, carefully rendered by the equivalent of more than 250 laptop TFT displays, filled the big screen. The camera veered off, and Whiplash’s assault team arrived in a combat-outfitted Osprey at the left corner of the screen.

“Just getting to the good part, I see,” said Bastian from the railing.

Danny jerked his head around, surprised that Bastian had managed to come in so quietly. “Colonel,” he said, pushing the remote control to freeze the video.

“It’s okay, Danny. Don’t stop now.” Bastian rolled his arms together in front of his chest.

“We know how it ends,” said Keesh, readjusting his thick, brown-framed glasses. They matched his brown suit. “But it is impressive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Dog, not sure how to address him. “We did get some breaks.”

“I was referring to the equipment,” said Keesh, who obviously didn’t mind the title.

“I think the colonel and his people deserve a compliment,” said Congresswoman Timmons, the ranking member on the Defense Appropriations Committee.

“The colonel has already been complimented,” said Keesh. “He’s in charge of the most prestigious command in the Air Force.”

Uh-oh, thought Dog, his crap detector snapping from search-and-scan to dogfight mode.

Nella McCormack stepped forward. Identifying herself as the Assistant Secretary for Technology “elect,” she introduced the colonel to the rest of the delegation. “Colonel, we’re on a tight schedule this afternoon,” she said after Bastian pumped the hand of the Washington lawmaker. “We’d like to speak to you in confidence. Perhaps we could pick up the tour in your office?”

As he led the delegation back up to his office suite, Dog wondered if they had come to sack him. Prior to his arrival, Dreamland had been run by a three-star general. Bastian was almost certainly the lowest-ranking officer in command of a mainland base in the Air Force. Dreamland wasn’t exactly a remote operating area either. HAWC had two main tasks: developing next-generation weapons for the Air Force and much of the rest of the military, and projecting that technology into trouble spots via Whiplash, its combined action squadron. Whiplash had a ground component headed by Danny Freah, and could draw on any of a number of high-tech planes, including the Megafortress and Flighthawks.

Ordinarily, the person heading such an operation would have a shoulder lit — some would say burdened — by at least two stars. So Bastian half expected that, once the new Administration got settled and figured out where everything was, he would be patted on the head and replaced. But Keesh wouldn’t have brought an audience to can him, would he?

“Nice desk for a colonel,” said Senator Densmore as they passed through Bastian’s personal office to get to the conference room.

“It was actually the last commander’s,” said Bastian, placing his palms on the exquisite cherry of his desktop.

“Tecumseh, let me apologize for barging in on you unannounced,” said Keesh as they all took seats around the two large tables in the conference room.

“We’re here to give you some good news,” said Congresswoman Timmons.

Dog felt a sudden pang. They couldn’t be here to promote him, could they?

“We’re going to greenlight an expansion of the U/MF program,” said Densmore. “Both the Senate and the House will include it in their budgets, and of course the Administration is behind it.”

“Well, that is good news,” said Bastian. He meant it — the robot planes, in his opinion, were potentially the biggest development in aerial combat since AWACS. But he wasn’t exactly sure why that news had to be delivered in person — nor why Magnus had been cut out of the loop. His confusion only grew as Keesh praised the Megafortress and JSF programs as well. Dog waited for the punch line, but none came.

“We have to be in our hotel at six,” said Keesh finally. He rose. “Perhaps we could see the Flighthawks before we go? And the Megafortress?”

“Of course,” said Bastian. He pulled the phone off the table and dialed Ax.

“Major Cheshire is waiting out here to give the nickel show,” said Gibbs as soon as he clicked on the line. “Major Stockard seems to be tied up with another project today. I couldn’t find him.”

That had to be a lie, or at least a fudge; no one escaped the omnipotent intelligence of Chief Master Sergeant Terence Gibbs. On the other hand, Nancy Cheshire was the perfect tour guide. She headed the Megafortress project, but had worked with the Flighthawks enough to sing their praises. She’d also give the men in the delegation something to look at if they got bored. The fact that she had received the Air Force Cross for her role in the Libya action, as well as a Purple Heart, wouldn’t hurt either.

Besides, while Nancy had a way with VIP types, Stockard tended to get impatient with people he thought were airheads. Which pretty much summed up his definition of anyone in Congress.

“Very good, Ax,” said Dog. “We’ll meet her at the elevator.” As he put down the phone, he noticed Keesh nod to McCormack. So he wasn’t surprised that McCormack touched Bastian’s sleeve and signaled that she wanted to talk as the others filed out.

“My sergeant has some papers for me to sign,” Dog told them. “I’ll catch up with you at the hangar.”

He closed the door.

“You’re very smooth, Colonel,” said McCormack.

“Actually, I think I was pretty obvious,” said Bastian. “As were you.”

“It’s a game we play. Washington.” She laughed. In her late thirties and not unattractive, she wore a light gray tweed pantsuit that made her look several pounds heavier than she probably was.

“So what’s going on?”

“The Secretary is very impressed by your work here. He wants to make sure that the base is properly funded. He sees very big things in your future.”

If it hadn’t been for his combat training, Dog would have responded with a terse “bullshit” and asked her to get to the point. As it was, he strained several muscles keeping his mouth shut. McCormack finally filled the silence.

“We’re very impressed with the U/MFs. We’d like to see two dozen in the air by the end of the year.”

“Two dozen by the end of the year? That’s quite optimistic. At the moment, I only have four, and don’t even have the funds to train more pilots.”

“That can be taken care of.”

“Okay,” he said cautiously.

“We’d like them all in the air at the same time. The Secretary is very impressed with the Air Armada concept.”

Dog suddenly sensed where she was going, but held his tongue.

“We believe ANTARES should be revived to control them,” said McCormack.

“Oh,” said Dog.

ANTARES stood for the Artificial Neural Transfer and Response System, and was a method for merging electronic data with a pilot’s senses. It allowed a pilot to see — some suggested “feel” was more descriptive — radar data, engine-performance readouts, weapons status, and flight data in his brain. It also promised to allow him to control planes with just his mind. The multifaceted project had led to huge advances in computer-assisted flight controls, and in fact the Flighthawks’ C and the computer autopilots in the Megafortress were outgrowths of ANTARES. But after stupendous early success, ANTARES had been placed on permanent “hold” after being compromised by a Russian spy.

“Multiple-plane control was part of the original plan, under the Nerve Center option. It’s quite all right, Colonel,” McCormack added, obviously reacting to Bastian’s hesitation. “I’m up to speed. I was part of the original team that came up with the concept several years ago.”

“You knew Maraklov then.”

“Captain James, yes.” McCormack said the name so lightly she could have been talking about a friend from kindergarten — not one of the most devastating intelligence moles in history. “Colonel, let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?”

“Please.”

“Joining the Flighthawks to the Megafortress was a brilliant idea, a stroke of genius. Now we can move ahead and make the Flying Armada concept a reality. Nerve Center will give us a twenty- or even thirty-year lead on every other country in the world. Conflicts such as the Gulf War or Bosnia could be fought bloodlessly, at a fraction of the present costs.”

“As long as we’re being blunt,” said Dog, “I think ANTARES is a big, big mistake. Fifty years from now, maybe. But the computers we have, and maybe the human brain itself — maybe I’m just an old dog, but I don’t trust it. There were a lot of problems with the program.”

McCormack smiled smugly as he continued.

“If you’re talking about putting major resources into the project, reviving flight testing and that sort of thing, I think our money could be better spent in a million ways,” said Bastian. “The Flighthawk controls are heavily computerized as it is. Besides, there are only a dozen people or so with ANTARES experience left on the base, and all of them have other duties.”

“Dr. Geraldo would be the logical person to revive ANTARES,” said McCormack. “She was involved in the early stages before returning to NASA, which gives her the necessary experience while avoiding the James taint. I understand she has already done some work on it since transferring here in November.”

Martha Geraldo was a former NASA astrophysicist and psychologist with expertise in computer-human interaction. Her present assignment at Dreamland concerned development of the interfaces with flight computers. Dog had been aware of her ANTARES connection when she arrived, and in fact had asked her to prepare a study on what might be salvageable from the project. Now he realized that her transfer might have been part of a backdoor plot to revive the program all along.

“You’ve spoken to Dr. Geraldo about this?” he asked.

“No,” said McCormack. She said it quickly, but with enough of a neutral tone that Dog couldn’t tell if she was being honest. “That would be improper until I’m confirmed. But bluntly, Colonel — the new Secretary is very much in favor of ANTARES.”

“What if I’m not?”

“Then someone who is will be found to fill this command.”

Chapter 6

Mack leaned back against the rail, squinting at the hills in the direction of Nellis Air Force Base, waiting for the Dolphin to arrive. Technically an Aerospatiale SA 366G Dauphin, the French helicopter had entered service as a Coast Guard recovery craft, and through a tortured series of events and horse trading, had come to serve here as part of the ferry service between Dreamland and Nellis. Known in military dress as a “Panther,” the whirlybird was a smooth and steady performer that made quick work of the trip to the larger, “open” air base. But there was only one helicopter, and it did not always run according to schedule. Even a patient man could find himself cursing as he counted the rivets in the Plexiglas shed that served as the Dolphin’s waiting area.

Major Smith was anything but patient. He paced, he turned, he muttered. He cursed. He kicked at the cracks. He stared at the mountain and the dry lake beds. He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the shelter, willing the stinking helicopter to appear.

It did not.

Two more passengers approached the platform from the hangar area. Mack glanced at them, saw they were civilians — and more importantly, male — and glanced away, uninterested. One of the two men stood in the shed for a second, lighting a cigarette, then nervously approached him. Mack turned and stared at him for a few seconds before realizing it was Kevin Madrone, in jeans and a baseball cap.

A Yankees cap. Figured.

“Hi, Major,” said Madrone, taking a long pull on his cigarette.

“Hey, Twig.”

Madrone winced at the nickname, which Mack had recently invented. It hadn’t stuck yet, but it would.

Knife had worked with Madrone a lot during his earlier hitch at Dreamland. The Army wanted a secure weapons link with the Joint Strike Fighter, allowing it to provide target data to ground units and receive data from them. Madrone had come to the project as a weapons expert, but had proven adept at dealing with all sorts of complexities; he’d actually engineered part of the link himself when problems arose. But he seemed abnormally quiet, even for a geek.

“Major, you mad I killed the exercise?” Madrone asked Mack.

“Ah, shit, no,” said Knife. “Don’t worry about what Stockard says. He’s so fucking competitive. He doesn’t know when to turn it off, you know?”

Madrone shrugged.

Stockard probably chewed his ear, Mack thought. Just like the SOB. Zen was a good pilot — not great, but good, certainly. But like a lot of guys Mack knew, he had a serious ego problem. He just couldn’t accept that anyone was better than him.

“Think we’ll get off tomorrow? Weather’s supposed to be bad,” said Madrone. “Storms in the mountains. Worst winter in years, they say.”

Talking about the weather. Poor guy was probably desperate to make conversation. Who could blame him, though? It sucked horse meat to stand out here waiting for the damn Dolphin.

“I’m thinking clear skies,” said Mack.

“You’re flying that Fulcrum?”

“Shit, yeah. I’ll cook Stockard’s ass. You watch.”

“Problem is, he can’t control four planes at once.”

“I’d cook his butt one-on-one,” said Mack. “I have plenty of times.”

Madrone took off his baseball cap and looked at it, as if trying to decide whether to wear it or not. Finally he folded it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Smart move, thought Mack. He considered saying something about how Jeff had screwed up so badly one time that it had cost him his legs, but he held off. He didn’t like to hit a guy when he was down, even if it was true.

Besides, Stockard had helped save his butt in Africa. So maybe he owed him a little.

“The way they’ve reworked the MiG,” he told Madrone, “it’s a pretty nice piece of hardware now. I can outaccelerate an F-15. Stock F-15 anyway. Tough little customer. Anything less than an F-22, I think you’d have a tough time one-on-one. The simulated F-16 we were using? That’s not even half as capable as the Fulcrum, not with Dreamland’s alterations. Shit. We only used that model because they couldn’t code the Fulcrum in — it was too far off the charts. Damn plane is beyond even the computer boys, it’s so hot. Simulates what the Russkies will be flying in 2030 — assuming they’re not part of Iowa by then. Which they will be if they ever try and start something.”

Madrone nodded. Almost down to the filter on his cigarette, he took one more pull, then tossed it to the ground.

“Of course, it all depends on the pilot,” Mack went on. “Right pilot in an F-5E could take out the wrong pilot in a Raptor. All depends on using your plane. Knowing it. That’s why I beat Stockard today. That’s why I always beat Stockard.”

“Yeah,” said Madrone. He glanced in the direction the Dolphin ought to be coming from, as if trying to decide whether or not to have another cigarette.

“See, nothing against Zen personally,” said Mack, “but he’s a bit of an egomaniac. You know, figures he’s the hottest stick on the patch, that kind of thing. Now with Libya — which, nothing against Zen, but hell, think about who we went against. Qaddafi? Come on. Guy wears dresses, for Christ-sake. So Jeff did well, or at least well enough, and that inflated his head. Shrink would probably tell you it’s because he had a fragile ego to begin with. Penis envy or something like that.”

Mack laughed, though he was only half kidding. Madrone seemed to smirk, then reached into the pocket of his shirt for another pack of cigarettes.

“Now his wife, Breanna? She’s not that good a pilot at all. But she’s lucky, and that’s a lot more important. That, and she has one hellacious set of knockers.”

Madrone lit his cigarette without saying anything. He didn’t seem to be that bad a sort, just a little shy. And Army, but you could overlook that.

The Yankees thing, though. Well, he did come from New York, so maybe you could excuse that too.

“Say, I’m thinking of heading into Vegas tonight,” said Mack. He unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Check out MGM, maybe pick up some women. Been a while since I been to the City of Sin.” He laughed — it had been a while for a lot of things. “Want to tag along?”

“Can’t, sorry,” said Madrone, lighting up.

“Heavy date?”

“Kinda,” said the Army captain. He took a puff, then turned to his left — the Dolphin was just clearing the range. “Shit. I just lit this.”

“Bad for you anyway,” said Mack. “Who’s the lucky girl?” Madrone shrugged. “A friend of a friend.”

“And?”

“It’s Abby something or other. Rap is setting me up.”

Mack suddenly got the picture. “Rap as in Bree Stockard?”

“Yeah. Zen and Breanna invited me to dinner.”

The roar of the approaching helicopter helped drown out the sound of Mack grinding his teeth.

Chapter 7

Breanna smoothed the sheet of aluminum against the top of the pan, her fingers sweeping the edges taut. The clock clicked over and now she had exactly sixty seconds to ignition. Plenty of time — she grabbed her freshly sharpened chef’s knife and whipped through the scallions, stockpiling a supply of perfect two-mm-long ovals at the side of her chopping block. The timer binged and she hit the burner to finish steaming the carrots.

Of course, if Madrone didn’t show up in ten seconds, she was going to have to put everything on hold. The carrots would survive, but the rice was iffy — it had only ten minutes to go.

Kevin was late. Not too late — she’d guessed that he’d be about fifteen minutes late, and had calculated dinner accordingly. But the outside parameter of her estimate was rapidly approaching.

Could it be that Jeff had warned him about Abby?

Not that Abby deserved a warning. On the contrary. But sometimes men were such geeks about meeting people of the opposite sex, especially when they were obviously perfect for each other.

If he didn’t show in thirty seconds she was going to use the knife on him. And the ovals she cut wouldn’t be pretty.

The doorbell rang. Breanna felt a surge of adrenaline and relief as she snapped into action. The four ruby-red pieces of fresh tuna were plucked from their marinade and deposited on the foiled broiling pan; fresh marinade was ladled on them, a dash of soy, a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds, ginger shavings, the scallions. Oven open, broiler on, another dash of ginger and a pinch of sugar for the carrots, check the rice — bing-bang-boing. Breanna had it so well timed that she was ready at the kitchen door just as Madrone approached to greet her, holding a bottle of wine.

Cabernet Sauvignon. Just bottled too. Oh, well.

She took the bottle and hugged him. He was actually shaking a little from nervousness.

A good sign, she thought.

“Have you met Abby?” she said, putting the wine down on the counter and ushering him back into the living room.

“We just said hello,” said Madrone.

“Abby used to work for CNN, didn’t you?” she prompted, gently easing Kevin toward the couch.

Jeff frowned at her from his wheelchair. She smiled into his stare as Abby explained that she had worked for CNN Headline News Radio, and that she hadn’t been anyone important, had actually been little more than an intern.

“But I’ll bet it was exciting,” suggested Bree.

“Sometimes,” said Abby.

Breanna nudged the stereo a bit louder, hoping it would drown out her husband’s snort. As much as she loved him, Jeff could be amazingly unsupportive at times.

“You just returned from a trip to Europe, didn’t you, Kevin?” Bree prompted.

“Uh, couple of months ago. Business thing with, uh, NATO.”

“NATO,” said Bree, underlining its importance. “Get any sightseeing in?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Key. What about that laser-sighting system the Germans were trying to sell,” said Jeff.

And the worst thing was, Breanna thought, he did it with such a straight face.

“Honey, why don’t you open that excellent bottle of wine Kevin just brought,” Breanna said, going to him and running her hand over his shoulder. Before he could object, she tucked her fingernail into his neck — an accepted signal that lives and possibly the sports channel rental were on the line if he refused.

“Good idea,” he said, wheeling to the kitchen.

“You’ve been to Europe too, haven’t you, Abby?”

“Rome,” she said. “But it was years ago.”

“Rome’s a beautiful city,” suggested Breanna. “Maybe not as romantic as Paris.”

She glanced at Kevin. One of her timers buzzed and she quickly excused herself, having left him the perfect opening.

“Hey, your nail hurt,” said Zen as she walked in. “You going to bite me next?”

“I may if you don’t keep your voice down,” Breanna hissed. “Don’t be negative, Jeff,” she added, going to the oven. “I think they’re good together.”

“Oh, a regular Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Sshhh.”

The tuna was perfect — she flipped the steaks over for a quick sear to finish them, then pulled the rice and the carrots from the stove, placing them in serving dishes.

“This is the good china,” said Jeff.

“Well, you didn’t think I’d use paper plates, did you? Get out there with that wine. No, wait — bring the sake too. We’ll have a toast.”

“Sake? A toast?”

“Every dinner has to have a toast.”

“You trying to get them drunk?”

“If it’ll help, yes.”

Zen left shaking his head, but he did take the sake. Unfortunately, he was the only one drinking it when she came out with dinner.

“You sure this fish is cooked?” Jeff asked. “Looks raw.”

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Bree told the others. “Jeff is a great pilot, but he doesn’t know food. His idea of a meal comes in a box with a toy.”

“I know raw, Bree.”

“Actually, marriage is a wonderful thing,” said Breanna. “We get along really well.”

Even as a joke, it was a tactical mistake, quickly thickening the silence. Jeff had mentioned that Kevin had been married briefly before, though he was vague on the details. She took a heavy slug of the wine Zen had poured. It was acceptable, even if it was about two days old and clashed with the ginger and scallions.

As he finished dessert, Madrone’s head started to float. It wasn’t the wine; he’d had only had a few sips. It was the food — he’d never had tuna like that before. And a chiffon chocolate soufflé for dessert. The Army captain wasn’t exactly sure what that was, just that it was really, really good. Good-looking, a great cook, smart, funny, loving — Jeff had been out-of-his-mind lucky to find Breanna.

It was impossible to feel jealous of him. But seeing how perfect Breanna was, and what a great thing the two of them obviously had, did hurt.

It hurt because he’d had that himself.

Or thought he had.

But that was another lifetime now. Two lifetimes.

Abby wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t a dog either. She started talking about a movie she’d seen, a comedy — it seemed interesting, but Kevin couldn’t think of any way to get into the conversation.

It was nice to see bree go down in flames every so often. Zen sipped his beer, observing Kevin and Abby on the couch. It was obvious they weren’t hitting it off. Abby talked about movies she’d seen and some plays she’d gone to when she was in London a year ago. Kevin had a dumb smile on his face, the kind you wore when you wanted to be anywhere but here.

Breanna kept trying to coax the conversation along. He could practically see the wisps of smoke coming from behind her ears.

Zen emptied the bottle and wheeled his chair around to the kitchen for another. Maneuvering through the tight hallway had come to seem almost natural, the movements so familiar that not even the effect of sake and a few beers slowed him down. He’d come a long way in the year and a half since the accident — and in just the last five months since returning to Dreamland.

Lying in the hospital, he didn’t think he’d ever make it. He certainly didn’t think he’d be here, back in his apartment, back with Bree. He hadn’t thought it would be fair to her, living with a cripple.

He wasn’t a cripple. Oh. he definitely was a cripple, but not a cripple. There was a difference. He’d come to realize that.

Thanks to Bree mostly. She didn’t make it okay that he couldn’t walk — but having her made a huge, huge difference.

Jeff opened the refrigerator and took out a Sierra Nevada. Bree, yes. The right woman made all the difference.

There was no reason Kevin and Abby shouldn’t get along. Kevin was a bit shy and, admittedly, geeky, but Abby was shy too. Hell, they had plenty in common — starting with Bree and Jeff. It was just a question of getting down to it.

Zen popped the cap on the bottle and wheeled back into the living room, where a treacherous silence had descended. “Hey,” he said, “let’s talk baseball.”

“Baseball?” said Bree. She gave him a look that, roughly translated, meant she would kill him when they were alone — if she could wait that long.

“Yeah,” said Jeff, wheeling next to Abby. “Your father used to know Mickey Mantle, right, Ab?”

“Oh, sure,” said Abby. “He worked for him. It’s because of my dad that I’m a Yankees fan.”

“Really?” said Kevin. He pushed forward on the couch. “So am I.”

Chapter 8

Colonel Bastian was about three steps from the door to the hangar when someone screamed a command behind him.

“On the ground, scumbag. Hands out! Now! Fucking now!”

Before Dog even realized the command was meant for him, the business end of an M-16-3A1 poked sharply into his neck. “Down, fuckhead!”

“Son,” Bastian said calmly, “I appreciate the fact that it’s late and it’s dark and you’re doing your job. But that’s Colonel Fuckhead to you.”

“Yeah, right.” The man grabbed Bastian by the arm and swirled him around. Someone behind the man turned on a flashlight, shining it in Bastian’s eyes.

“Shit,” said the sergeant who had accosted Bastian.

“Fuck. Ten-shun,” snapped the flashlight bearer.

“Very funny,” said the colonel.

“Urn, no offense, sir,” said the first man. He was Sergeant Perse Talcom, one of Danny Freah’s Whiplash team.

“We, uh, we didn’t know you were, uh, en route,” said the other man, Sergeant Lee Liu, another Whiplasher.

“We just, you know. Shit, sir. No one’s supposed to be out here after nineteen hundred hours. I mean, the geekers and all, the eggheads, but they usually call or get an escort. You didn’t look like one of them.”

“We’re really, really sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Liu.

“No problem,” said Bastian. “Let me ask you something, Sergeant. Both of you. How come you’re pulling guard duty?”

“SOP. Captain Freah’s orders, sir,” said Liu. “Normal rotation.”

“Thinks we’re fuckin’ gettin’ big heads,” said Talcom. “Uh, excuse me, Colonel. Shit.”

“I’ve heard the word before.”

Bastian hid a smile as he returned their salutes, watching them slip back into the darkness. Then he slid his magnetic ID card through the security terminal next to the door. After he punched his access code, the panel above the card reader began to glow a faint green. He placed his thumb against it and the lock on the door clicked open.

The vestibule inside was bathed scarlet by the night-lights; a pair of surveillance cameras tracked Dog as he walked to the elevator. He had to rekey his ID code and give another thumb print for the doors to open. Once inside, he turned and waited. There were no buttons inside the elevator car; there was only one destination, the underground hangar-bunker that housed the Megafortress project offices and labs.

The bright hallway lights stung Dog’s eyes as the doors snapped open. Activated by a computer when the elevator started downward, the fluorescent panels washed the scrubbed concrete with the equivalent of ten million candles, ensuring that the security cameras observing him had an excellent image. Lights flicked on in the distance as he started down the hallway. The surveillance, lighting, and environmental systems were run by a small computer optimized for economy as well as security; the brain could selectively shut down heating and even ventilating units depending on the time of day or other requirements. The vast bays on the left side of the hall, for example, were currently unheated; they held four B-52’s undergoing conversion to EB-52 Megafortresses. One of the planes was being bathed by a strong flow of air — it had been painted earlier in the day, and the techies had arranged for perfect conditions to dry the coating of liquid Teflon properly.

Dog’s destination was on the other side of the wide hallway, where a set of double doors led to a Z-shaped ramp upward. Black suitcases were piled along the side of the top of the ramp; wires snaked everywhere just beyond the railing. Tables crammed with electronics equipment — meters, oscilloscopes, computer displays — clustered just off the ramp. Bastian treaded his way to the large, cone-shaped mockup of the Megafortress cockpit in the middle of the room. He had just reached its slightly rickety-looking wooden stairs when a head popped out from a control station near the nose.

“Colonel, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” said Jennifer Gleason.

“Just kept getting waylaid,” said Dog. The stairs were sturdier than they looked; they didn’t even creak as he climbed up and slid into the pilot’s seat. Intended more to help the developers play with the still-experimental plane’s systems, the simulator did not fully duplicate flight conditions. But it did move on a flexible chassis, and Dog strapped himself in.

“You’re all set,” said Jennifer, coming up the stairs behind him. “Computer will follow your voice commands with the usual authorizations. You can run today’s flight backwards and forwards as many times as you want.”

“Thanks,” he said.

As he reached for the control stick, the computer scientist placed her hand on his shoulder.

The world suddenly caught fire.

“You want me to hang around?” she asked.

He did, but not to monitor the practice session.

Dog told her no, and then began the arduous process of learning from his morning’s mistakes.

Chapter 9

Four hundred dollars ahead on twenty-five-dollar chips playing blackjack — not bad, thought Mack, especially for fifteen minutes worth of work.

Four hundred bucks was a pile of money to anyone on a military salary, but to the other people around the table, especially the blonde on his right in her almost-see-through top, four hundred bucks was a tip for the doorman. Mack took his cards, noted the total — nineteen, a pat hand — and sipped his drink. The double shot of Jack Daniels stung his lips lightly as he took an infinitesimal sip.

“Hit me,” said the blonde. Mack watched her chest heave as the dealer slid a card from the shoe.

Seven.

“Hit me,” said the woman again.

A king materialized next to her chips. She curled her lip up but said nothing, silently turning over her cards as she submitted. She’d tried to hit sixteen.

Too dumb to make it with, Mack decided.

The dealer looked at him.

“I’m fine,” he said.

The dealer revealed her cards — fourteen. By casino rules she had to hit. She made eighteen; everyone but Mack lost the round.

He kept playing, winning mostly, but his mind started wandering. He’d wandered into The Punch, one of the newest casinos in town. Its game rooms exuded sophistication — exotic wood trimmed the tables, waiters in dark suits prowled the aisles, the lighting was directed perfectly to make it easy to see your cards, yet it somehow seemed soft and incapable of producing a glare. But all the good-looking women here had rich sugar daddies on their arms. The pile of chips in front of him wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Rolex on the old codger two seats away. Only his competitive juices kept Mack at the table.

That and the blonde’s soft shoulder, which now leaned heavily against his arm.

“Nice music,” he said. “I’ve never been in Punch before.”

“It’s all right,” she said. Then she got up and walked away.

That did it. Mack took his cards, saw that he had a pair of red tens, and decided not only to split them but to put his whole wad on the bet. He busted on the first.

And hit blackjack on the second — good way to go out.

“Let me buy you a drink, Major,” said the codger with the Rolex, appearing next to him as he swept up his chips.

“Do I know you?” Mack asked the old man.

“We’ve met several times,” said the man. He had a vaguely Spanish accent, though Mack couldn’t place it. “Fernando Valenz. Brazilian Air Attaché. I have an office in San Francisco, but I visit here often.”

Portuguese, not Spanish. But that didn’t help Mack. He was about to blow off the old guy when Valenz took his elbow. “A lot of pretty girls in the blue lounge, I’d wager.”

The blue lounge was a private penthouse upstairs. Mack had heard stories that the waitresses there all were topless. He’d heard other stories as well.

What the hell, he thought, and he let Valenz lead him toward the elevator, which opened when Valenz placed a special key card in the lock slot. Inside the car, the Brazilian slicked back his white hair, flashing not just the Rolex but a black onyx ring whose jewel could have been used as a golf ball. Five-eight with a good-sized belly, he wore what had to be a hand-tailored suit and a silk turtleneck — a dandy, though forgivable given that the guy was probably sixty and a foreigner.

The geezer slipped a Franklin to the attendant who met them at the door to the lounge, then tented one for the waitress who approached with a gin and tonic.

She wore a top. So much for rumors.

Valenz told the woman to bring Mack a double Jack on the rocks, then steered him toward a pair of leather club chairs at the corner. The chairs sat in front of a large plate-glass with a good view of the city; Las Vegas in all its tacky glory spread out before him, neons wailing in the night.

“The Punch is a bit sophisticated for the city, wouldn’t you say, Major?” asked Valenz.

“I guess,” said Mack.

“Besides the Brazilian government, I work for Centurion Aeronautics,” said Valenz. “We are consultants. We’re always looking for new associates.”

Mack smiled. He’d been expecting some sort of pitch. “I don’t think I’d be a very good salesman,” he said.

“Oh, not a salesman,” said Valenz. He reached into his pocket and took out a leather case. “Smoke cigars, Major?”

“Not really,” said Mack.

“Pity.” Valenz opened the small case, which held three cigars. “Cubans.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” said Mack. In the reflection of glass he saw several good-looking young women staring at them. Fully clothed — but interesting nonetheless.

“We need pilots who can talk to other pilots. My own country, for example — the Navy is thinking of buying MiG-29’s from the Russians. Someone like yourself, with your experience, could help quite a bit.”

Mack felt his heartbeat double. Did this SOB know he was working on the MiG-29 project? Or was that just a coincidence?

“What we do is all perfectly legal,” said the Brazilian. “We have several Americans on our payroll. We obtain the necessary approvals. Some even remain with the Air Force.”

Time to leave, thought Mack. He stood.

“You know what, I just remembered something I have to do.”

“Take my card,” insisted Valenz, standing. “A man like you appreciates the finer things in life. As I say, nothing illegal.”

“Thanks,” said Mack gruffly. But he did not remove the card from his pocket as he headed for the elevator.

Chapter 10

His lungs frosted with each breath, the cold morning air poking icy fingers inside his chest as he ran. Bastian struggled onward, flexing his shoulders and pushing his calf muscles deliberately, trying to flex his muscles to the max. It wasn’t the cold so much as fatigue that dogged him as he ran the perimeter track; his body moved like a car tire breaking through a pile of icy sludge, each joint crackling and complaining. He’d gotten less than two hours sleep and his body wasn’t about to let him forget it.

Dog was thinking about shutting his workout down at the three-mile mark — ordinarily he did five — when a lithe figure poked out of the shadows ahead. The runner trotted in place a second, still trying to get limber in the cold air.

“You’re up early,” said Jennifer Gleason, falling in alongside him as Dog drew up. He’d recognized her from her bright-red watch cap, which this morning was augmented by a set of blue ear muffs. Gleason was a serious runner, and wore a nylon shell workout suit over what seemed to be several layers of T’s and sweats.

“So’re you,” grunted Bastian. He turned to follow the left fork of the path, even though that meant he’d be stretching his workout to six miles.

“Did you shut everything down when you left?” she asked.

“I did, Doc. I did.”

Their running shoes slapped in unison against the macadam, a steady rap that paced their hearts. They ran in silence for nearly a mile. They crested a small hill overlooking the boneyard beyond Dreamland’s above-ground hangars. The fuselages of ancient Cold War warriors and failed experiments lay exposed in the distance, sheltered only by the lingering shadows of the night.

Seeing the hulking outlines of the planes always spurred Dog on; he couldn’t help but think of the inevitableness of time and decay. How many other commanders had run — or perhaps walked — across this very spot, their minds consumed by the problems of the day? The A-12 had done some testing here. Northrop’s Flying Wing had pulled more than a few turns around the airspace. It wasn’t Dreamland then; it wasn’t even a base, just a long expanse of open land far from prying eyes.

Some of the Cheetah sleds, earlier variants of the hopped-up Eagle demonstrator, lay in the bone pile. At least one DreamStar mock-up sat beneath a wind-tattered tarp. It was a 707 whose nose had grown fangs, the early test bed for the forward airfoil of the plane destined to succeed the F-22. Or rather, the plane that had been intended to succeed the F-22. The fiasco that had brought Bastian to Dreamland had shelved DreamStar. And ANTARES, though obviously not for good.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Dog, pulling up suddenly and putting his hand out in front of Jennifer.

His hand caught the soft looseness of her chest. In the dim light he saw surprise in her eyes.

“ANTARES,” said Dog, dropping his hand awkwardly. “What do you — tell me what you think about it.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was thin and low, out of breath.

Dog leaned his body forward and fell back into an easy jog. “Your opinion on it.”

“It was never my project per se,” said Gleason, quickly catching up. “Bio-cyber connections aren’t my thing.”

“What about Nerve Center?”

“Some thing. It’s part of ANTARES. It is ANTARES. No one here spoke of them separately.”

“You say that like you don’t like it.”

“No. Not at all. I mean, eventually fluid organic interfaces will be part of the mix. It’s inevitable. You’ve heard about the experiments that have brought sight to people with certain types of blindness.”

“Sure.”

She picked up the pace. Dog felt himself starting to strain now to keep up. Gleason’s words came almost in staccato, pushed out with her breaths.

“That sort of thing — of course it’s not as advanced as AN-TARES. Well, ANTARES is a different model altogether technically.”

Her voice either trailed off or her words were swallowed in a hard breath of air. Dog waited for her to continue or explain, but she didn’t.

“Can ANTARES work?” They were really running now; Bastian had to struggle to get the words out.

“It did.”

“For the Flighthawks?”

“Of course.”

They took a turn to follow the fence. One of the security team’s black SUVs approached slowly on its rounds. Dog waved, then realized he was falling behind. He tried lengthening his stride, pushing to catch up.

The fence tucked to the left up a very slight rise. Bastian’s quarters were down a short road to the right. He goaded his legs to give him one last burst, but barely caught her as he reached the intersection. He slowed, walking, warming down; Jennifer circled back.

“It does work, Colonel. No question about it,” she said, trotting backward in front of him as he walked, catching his breath. “Major Stockard already passed the first set of protocols and controlled one of the Phantoms using the Flight-hawk protocols.”

“You have—” His breath caught. He stopped and leaned down, hands on hips. “You have reservations.”

“Not about the concept. I’m not an expert,” she added.

“You’ve worked on the gateway translation computers and you know as much about AI and computers as anyone on the base, including Rubeo.”

“ANTARES isn’t a computer. That’s the difference.”

She trotted back and forth, a colt eager to get on with her workout. Her body swayed — even in thick warm-up gear, she was beautiful. If he hadn’t been so exhausted from that sprint at the end, he might have grabbed her to him.

Thank God for exhaustion then. She was just a kid, the age of his daughter.

Ouch.

“I’m not an expert,” she insisted. ‘The program was ready for the Flighthawks when it was shelved. Phase One testing with a Phantom was completed about a month before Major Stockard’s accident. Nerve Center would have been the next step. We rewrote some of the hooks into the flight-control computers and tested them. We dropped some of the code in C3 covering simultaneous flights for memory space, but with some of the changes we’ve made recently I doubt it would be a problem loading them back in.”

“How long?”

“How long are they?”

“How long to load them back in?”

Jennifer shrugged. “Not long, if it’s a priority.”

“It may be.”

“Your call.”

Her whole manner toward him had changed. Damn his clumsiness for grabbing her chest. Damn — he could kick himself for being such a klutz.

“You don’t like ANTARES, do you?” he said.

She started trotting away, resuming her workout. “Not my area of expertise.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’m, uh, sorry.”

“Sorry?” she called back.

“The way I, uh, bumped you before.”

If she answered, her words were muffled by the wind as it suddenly picked up.

Chapter 11

To Mack Smith, the plane looked like a black shark with slightly misplaced fins.

The MiG-29M/DE Dream Fulcrum, better known by its nickname “Sharkishki,” had a boxer’s stance. Her twin engines hung beneath a cobra cowl that melded seamlessly into her wings. Stock, the MiG-29 was a serious air-superiority fighter, not quite better than the F-16 or F/A-18, but close enough to cause a few beads of perspiration on an opponent’s brow. But Sharkishki was anything but stock. Dreamland power-plant specialists had worked over her RD-33K turbofans to the point that she had a third more thrust at full military power than even the uprated engines she had come with. They now put out 35,000 pounds in afterburner mode, a good sight better than the Pratt & Whitneys on an F-15C. As the plane remained several thousand pounds lighter than the average Eagle, she could easily outaccelerate one. With the help of new leading- and trailing-edge control surfaces, her already impressive roll rate had been considerably improved, and variable-geometry nozzles helped cut down her turning radius. The notoriously bumpy MiG skin had been smoothed out by the Dreamland techies so that hardly a blemish remained.

But it was in the cockpit that the Sharkishki’s improvements really shone. Her antiquated Russian avionics had been replaced with Dreamland’s finest microchips. Her HUD was slaved to a trial version of the F-22 radar and target-tracking units; her own reasonably competent infrared search and tracking (IRST) system had been replaced with a longer-range passive-detection system capable of detecting warm toast at twenty nautical miles in the rain. While not without bugs, the all-weather infrared system allowed Sharkishki to detect and engage enemy fighters before they knew they were being detected; its small size and radar-defeating paint meant the plane could generally not be scanned by fighter-borne radars until they were about fifteen nautical miles away. Granted, detection by AWACS was a different story, and a pilot who knew he was going up against the Sharkishki could employ tactics to neutralize the improvements — but he had to know what he was up against.

Which was the point of the project. When she was finished, the MiG-29M/DE — DE stood for “Dreamland Enhanced” — would be turned over to an “aggressor” fighter squadron tasked with training exercises at nearby Nellis Air Base. Sharkishki would take the role of Russia’s next-generation fighter, helping groom Air Force Top Guns for the future.

Kicking their butts was more the way Mack thought of it.

“Typical Russian piece of tin shit,” groused Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons behind him on the runway, joining Mack and the crew chief on the preflight walk-around. Parsons had a large ceramic bowl of coffee in his twisted fingers, and a thick stub of a cigar in his mouth. “We ready to go, Alan?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said the chief, with considerably more snap and starch than he directed toward Mack. Parsons grunted. Then he spat some of his cigar juice out and took a swag of coffee. Shaking his head, he stepped close to the plane, frowning as he looked into the modified air intakes. The original Russian grates, intended to keep out rocks and debris on poor runways, had been replaced with an interior baffle system that acted like a turbo-booster at high speed.

“Something wrong, Sergeant?” Mack asked.

“Piece of Commie tin-shit garbage. You sure you want to fly this crate, Major?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Parsons didn’t answer, moving instead to the leading edge of the wing, where he pointed his cigar at the gap and demanded that the chief have it checked. A crewman ran up with a micrometer; the gap was shown to be within tolerances. That hardly suited Greasy Hands, who growled and continued around the aircraft. He soon had five men making last-second adjustments and checks, none of which were warranted, in Mack’s opinion.

“This plane is more than ready,” said Knife finally. “Ground crew did a hell of a job.”

Parsons ducked out from under the fuselage, where he’d been inspecting the landing gear.

“You got a problem with me, Major?”

“Hell, no,” said Mack. “Just lighten up. The ground crew kicked butt here.”

“Excuse me?” asked Parsons.

“I said the ground crew kicked butt,” Mack shouted.

“Well, thank you, Major,” said the chief master sergeant, breaking into a wide grin. “Nice to hear an officer say that.” He stepped so close to Mack that his breath nearly knocked the pilot over. “Now don’t fuckin’ break my plane.”

Mack’s mood didn’t lift until he slid the throttle to takeoff power and kicked Sharkishki into the air nearly a half hour later. He cleaned the underside of the MiG, pulling in the landing gear, and yanked the stick back, taking the MiG in a steep climb that made him forget all about sergeants and their typical bullshit.

Knife hit his marks and leveled off, vectoring toward the range where the day’s test was scheduled. He keyed into the shared frequency that would be used by all of the players in the exercise. Ringmaster — actually Army Captain Kevin Ma-drone, who was flying in an E-3 AWACS above, monitoring the test — acknowledged, then quickly reminded everyone of the ground rules: no hitting, no spitting, and no talking back.

The helicopters and the secure weapons links and com systems were the most important part of the exercise, but other systems were being tested as well: the MiG, an Army ground-point air-defense radar, and the Flighthawks. Zen was still learning to control four planes simultaneously, apparently a lot harder than it looked.

“Two minutes,” said Ringmaster.

Mack hit his way-point at the edge of the range and prepared to attack.

Chapter 12

Danny Freah felt his eyelids touch bottom, and only barely managed to keep from dropping the phone onto his desk as the conference call droned on. He’d gotten up at four this morning to talk to his wife on the phone. A college professor, she’d returned to New York a week ago for the new semester and he missed her badly. They’d burned three hours on the phone line, and even then he’d felt frustrated as soon as he’d hung up.

Not to mention dead tired, since he hadn’t managed to get to sleep until a little after midnight. The day’s schedule precluded any catnaps, and he’d already gone through the thermos of coffee he’d brought into the office to take the secure — and uninterruptible — conference call on security matters.

Fortunately, these briefings were held on the telephone; none of the three-dozen other participants in the conference call could see him prop his head up with his elbow.

Getting regular heads-up briefings from the special FBI unit on terrorism and espionage was a good idea. But like many good ideas, it had morphed into something bad. Originally intended to alert certain top security officials to possible activities directed against them, it now included a briefing from the State Department, and even reports on foreign diplomats traveling in “areas of interest,” the definition of which seemed to have been gradually expanded to include all of North America.

“We have some diplomatic activity in San Francisco, where the Secretary of Defense is to address the Aerospace Convention today,” said Pete Francois, the FBI’s deputy director for EspTer, as they were calling the group. “I think we have a couple of sightings in Las Vegas as well. Debra, you want to handle that briefing?”

“Brazilian attaché in Vegas. Usual suspects in San Francisco. Nothing to report yet,” said Debra Flanigan, the Special Agent in Charge who handled the area.

Danny wanted to kiss her.

“Just for the record,” intoned Francois, “there are defense officials from fifty countries in San Francisco. Per regs, etc., unusual contacts to be reported.”

“In triplicate,” murmured Danny.

“Excuse me?” said Francois.

Freah nearly fell out of his chair. He hadn’t meant to actually say that. He opened his mouth to apologize, then realized it was better to stay silent — and anonymous.

“I think someone said triplicate.” Flanigan laughed. “Personally, I think two copies will do. But remember to blind-copy all the e-mails, please.”

Chapter 13

With the computer temporarily controlling the two Flighthawks that had already launched from the Mega-fortress, Jeff took his hands off the controls and set them on the rests of his seat. He pressed down to lift his butt up, shifting around to get more comfortable.

Once precarious, the airdrop of the robot planes from Raven was now routine, with the computer able to handle it completely. The EB-52’s pilot nudged the Megafortress into a shallow dive as the computer counted down the sequence, initiating a zero-alpha maneuver.

“Five seconds,” said the pilot — Breanna, sitting in for Major Cheshire, who was away at a defense conference in San Francisco.

Zen watched the instrument displays in his command helmet, power graphs at green, lift readings shifting from red diamonds — “no go” — to green upward arrows — “go.”

The simple graphics of the lift readings belied the complexity of the forces acting on the small robot planes strapped to the EB-52’s wings. The bomber’s airframe threw wicked vortices against the small craft; upon launch the robot’s complicated airfoil fought thirty-two different force vectors, all dependent on the mother ship’s specific speed, altitude, and angle of attack. Air temperature also played a role in some regimes, though the engineers were still debating exactly how significant the effect was. In any event, the computer handled the drudge work of setting the leading-edge foils and micro-adjusting the rear maneuvering thrusters as Raven reached launch point.

“Away Three,” said Zen, without touching the controls, and Flighthawk Three knifed downward, right wing angling upward to cut against the wind. “Away Four,” he said, and Flighthawk Four launched, stumbling ever so slightly as the Megafortress momentarily bucked in her glide slope.

“Sorry about that,” said Bree, but Zen wasn’t listening — he was in full-blown pilot mode now, the main display in his helmet giving him a pilot’s-eye view from the cockpit of Flighthawk One. The sitrep or God’s-eye view at the upper right showed all of the positions of the Flighthawks. It also marked out the other planes in the exercise. Pilots’ views from the other three robots were arrayed in a line next to it all the way across. A band at the bottom showed the instruments in the selected or “hot” Flighthawk. Though they had used it in combat, the interface remained a work in progress. Zen liked the helmet, since it came as close as possible to duplicating the in-the-cockpit experience. But the others on the team felt a dedicated console was preferable if more than one plane was to be controlled at a time, since the instrument readings for all of the planes could be displayed on different tubes, available at a glance. Today, Zen had the best of both worlds, flying with a scientist who monitored those displays at the next station. But the idea was for there to be eventually two different pilots, each with his own brood of robots.

A preset exercise like this allowed Stockard to work up a full set of routines for the robot planes’ C’ flight-control and strategy computer, augmenting the preset instructions and flight patterns with courses and default strategies to be implemented on voice command. Even so, a rapidly evolving situation could overwhelm both pilot and computer. Simply jumping from cockpit to cockpit — in other words, changing which Flighthawk he had manual control of — could be disorienting. It somehow taxed his muscles as much as his mind, as if he were physically levering himself up and out of his control seat into each plane. Controlling a four-ship of Flighthawks was like trying to ride four busting broncos simultaneously.

The testing program called for them to move up to eight in two months.

They’d work it out. Right now, Zen concentrated on nailing Mack. Yesterday’s mock battle had convinced him he’d never take out Mack straight on — the MiG was more capable than the F-16, and Smith could be expected to push it to the limits.

Which would be Zen’s advantage. He ducked the lead Flighthawk down to treetop level, or what would have been treetop level if there had been trees in the Nevada desert. Then he pushed down to anthill level and stepped on the gas.

Jeff’s shoulders relaxed as the rushing terrain flew by in his helmet. His thumb nudged against the throttle slide on the right stick — the Flighthawk controls featured HOTAS (Hands-On Stick And Throttle) sticks combining most of the functions normally divided between throttle and control stick. As he notched full military power, the computer warned he was approaching a ridge. It gave him a countdown; he waited, then pulled the stick back hard with a half second to spare, shooting the Flighthawk straight up.

It was a bonehead move — the Flighthawk went from completely invisible to the fattest target in the world.

Exactly as planned.

Mack chortled as his long-range IRST picked up the Flighthawk climbing over the ridge eighteen miles away. He’d gotten by the F-l5’s so easily it was a joke, and now this. Zen had obviously miscalculated, not believing that the passive sensors in the MiG had been improved fourfold. He quickly selected one of his “Alamo” R-27 long-range air-to-air missiles. The fire-control system had been Westernized, making selection considerably quicker — one snap on the stick instead of a cross-body sequence of taps, and he had locked and launched.

Though mocked up so its performance would resemble the Russian Alamo air-to-air missile, the rocket was in fact an AMRAAM with a simulated warhead. In keeping with the theme of anticipating the Russians’ next wave of technology, its guidance system smartly toggled its seeker from radar to infrared if it encountered ECMs once locked; that made the missile practically no-miss. In this case, the “Alamo” would fly toward the target until its proximity fuse recorded a hit. Then it would pop a parachute and descend to earth.

Mack knew from experience that the Flighthawks would hunt in two-ship elements. Mack guessed the second plane would be about a mile behind the first, and when he saw a flash on the IRST he quickly kicked off his second and last Alamo.

Mack’s simulated Alamo air-to-air missiles activated their radars the instant they launched, so even though he hadn’t turned his own radar beacon on, Knife had effectively given away his position by firing.

Which was half the point of Zen’s display with the Flight-hawk.

The other half had been achieved by dropping the delayed-fuse illumination flare, which Mack had hastily mistaken for the second Flighthawk.

A tiny cheat perhaps. But now Sharkishki was down to four missiles, all short-range Archers.

Not that the Vympel R-73 heat-seekers were to be taken lightly. On the contrary — the all-aspect, high-g missiles were more capable than even the most advanced Sidewinders. But they had to be fired from very close range, severely limiting Mack’s choice of tactics.

Zen told the computer to take over Hawk One. As good as C3 was, its evasive maneuvers were unlikely to be enough to evade the missiles. But he’d already accepted its loss. Jeff jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was flying a preset course with Hawk Three at the eastern end of the range. He swung the nose to the north five degrees, heading for an intercept with Sharkishki. Three, flying three feet behind Two, tight to its left wing, followed the maneuver precisely.

The Army helicopters, meanwhile, reported that they were five minutes from their landing zone. Zen jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Four, which was just starting the far leg of an orbit near the LZ. He poked up the nose of the plane, twisting toward the target area. As he climbed through two thousand feet, he shot out a double shot of radar-deflecting chaff. He ticked the wing up again, hit more chaff, and turned his nose toward the target, giving the Army Super Black-hawks a feed of their target area over the new system.

“Good, good, good,” sang one of the Army observers.

Jeff turned Four back over to the computer and concentrated on Mack. The ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns protecting the target area wouldn’t be a problem for at least three minutes.

Mack cursed into his mask. The flare had been a clever trick, forcing him to waste his last Alamo.

Zen would be counting on him to waste time looking for the other Flighthawk: more than likely it was lurking near the ridge where he’d found the first, undoubtedly hoping to get behind him for a tried-and-true rear-quarter attack.

That wasn’t going to work, though, because he was going to ignore it. He goosed his throttle to dash ahead, eyes pasted on the passive IRST. Mack got two quick contacts out near the helo target area — the U/MFs, which were at twelve miles.

Damn, these Dreamland mods were good — his F-15 next-generation demonstrator couldn’t find them with its passive gear until they were within five miles, pretty much dead-meat territory.

There wasn’t much sense trying to lock them up at this point, since he had only the heat-seekers and was much too far to fire. Mack nudged his speed down. He wanted the package to come to him, and wouldn’t commit to the attack until he knew where the helicopters were. Assuming he found them soon, he’d open the gates on the afterburners for a few seconds, shoot forward, and dust by the U/MFs. From there he’d take a wide turn and listen for the growl of his heat-seekers as they found the helicopters in the chilly morning air.

Most likely he’d pick them up as his nose passed the ridge. Thirty seconds.

Forever.

No amount of Dreamland magic could uncramp the MiG’s cockpit. On the tall side for a fighter pilot, with broad shoulders and thick pecs, Mack had to poke his elbow practically through his side to get a comfortable angle on the throttle lever, whose slide seemed notched in the plane’s external skin. The handle was directly over the emergency power settings and just ahead of the flaps — he glanced to make sure he had the proper grip, not wanting to screw something up. He settled his hand in place, looking back to the front in the poorly laid-out cockpit. The Russians knew a lot about mechanics, but they were light-years behind in ergonomics.

Now here was a mistake — a Flighthawk, coming at his nose, four miles away, without its wingman.

Dumb even for Jeff; he’d prematurely committed himself to an easily deflected attack, while leaving only one plane to guard the Super Blackhawks. Worse, the U/MF was an easy shot for an Alamo, whose all-aspect targeting gear made a front-quarter shot very tempting as they closed.

Too tempting to miss. He had four of the air-to-air missiles. Even if he used them all against the Flighthawks, he could take out the helicopters with his cannon.

The Alamo practically jumped up and down on his wing, begging to be launched. Poor Jeff. He was so anxious to nail him he’d gotten sloppy. Knife pressed the trigger on his stick, launching the Alamo.

As it left the rail, the Flighthawk split in two.

Jeff furled his eyes at the visor image. This was the tricky part — the MiG could outaccelerate the Flighthawks, and if Mack played it smart, he’d just get on his horse and shoot into the clear. That would leave only one Flighthawk to get between him and the essentially defenseless helicopters.

But Mack was Mack; he couldn’t resist easy pickings. Sure enough, the U/MF’s enhanced optics view caught a flare beneath Mack’s wing; within two seconds C3 had interpreted and calculated the threat. By then, Jeff had already pulled the two Flighthawks away from each other.

For about ten seconds, he controlled them simultaneously. He twisted and turned in opposite directions, pouring on the speed, flares kicking in every direction. The baffled Alamo thought its target had exploded.

Now Mack would be pissed that he’d been tricked for a second time, and go all out for the Flighthawks. But which one?

The closest. Sharkishki whipped onto Hawk Three, its superior acceleration quickly narrowing Jeff’s brief lead. But the Flighthawk’s thrust-vectoring tailpipe narrowed its IR signature, meaning that Knife had to get within three miles of the plane before he’d be able to launch. Zen verbally selected God’s-eye view in his main screen, asked for distances — and then just as Mack entered firing range, he cut Hawk Two across the MiG’s path.

Mack intensified his stream of curses as he closed on the target. The war-game dummies had been made from actual R-77 “Archer” all-aspect infrared missiles; while the Dreamland team had jettisoned the cumbersome helmet system the Russians used, they had retained (and improved) the targeting-handoff system, allowing Mack to simply designate the target and let the computer worry about firing. While that took a bit of initiative away from the pilot, it allowed him to concentrate entirely on his enemy — useful against the tricky little Flighthawks.

True, he knew when to fire better than any damn computer. But the automated system meant he’d be able to lock up both Hawks quickly. He’d launch, swerve, and find the other U/ MF, which was climbing and looked to be angling for a turn behind him.

Bing-bang-boing. Dead Flighthawks all over the field.

Except it didn’t work that way.

As Mack edged Sharkishki left, he designated Hawk Three, handing off to the computer. Within five seconds, the U/MF fell into the middle of his pipper. The missile growled, then barked; the AAM dropped from its rail. As Knife raised his eyes toward the sky where he thought the second bandit had flown, the system growled and fired another missile, and then a third.

Just as the computer had fired, the second Flighthawk had veered into his path, disgorging flares like a pyromaniac — prompting the automated system to lock on the extra targets. Stockard had taken advantage of a bug in the programming.

“Override, override,” Mack screamed, trying to turn off the automatic firing feature.

As the computer acknowledged, a green flare lit the sky ahead. His first missile had simulated a splash.

Another flare ignited moments later in the vicinity of the second Flighthawk.

Served the damn cheater right — both his planes were splashed. The helos were dead ahead, defenseless.

Mack whipped his head backward, making sure the last Flighthawk hadn’t caught up. It was nowhere in sight.

This turkey shoot was going to be very tasty, he thought, turning his gaze back toward the target area.

Zen struggled to hold his head straight up, forcing as slow a breath as he could out of his lungs. His neck and shoulder muscles had gone spastic, knotting and cramping, pulling half of his spine out of whack, shooting pain all across his back. He felt disoriented, momentarily losing the connection between his body and his mind, as if he were truly in the cockpit of one of the Flighthawks, as if it truly had been shot down.

He’d caught Mack by surprise, but Smith had managed to hold on to his last missile, giving him a decided advantage as he zoomed toward the helicopters. Zen selected Hawk Four’s cockpit view for his main screen, preparing to rise off the deck and confront the aggressor. The C3 flight-control and strategy computer had already taken over piloting the “downed” planes, flying them along a preplanned route back to one of Dreamland’s runways to land. Their cockpit view screens sat at the top left-hand corner of his visor, shaded slightly in red.

As Zen quickly checked on them, he noticed something he hadn’t counted on. Hawk One was still alive — C3 had managed to duck Mack’s radar missile.

Cavalry.

“Attaboy!” said Zen out loud, his muscle cramps suddenly disappearing. He turned Hawk Four over to the computer, telling C3 to keep it on the preprogrammed course behind the helicopters as they came in, where it would be impossible for Sharkishki’s radar to locate it. Then he pulled One out of the neutral orbit the computer had set, recording twelve g’s as he rushed toward Knife’s butt.

Twelve g’s would have wiped out any normal pilot — and probably smashed most aircraft to bits. But the Flighthawk’s stubby wings and thick fuselage were designed to withstand stresses approaching twenty g’s. The plane stuttered in midair as its vectoring nozzle slammed it on course; inside five seconds Hawk One was galloping for Sharkishki’s tail.

Slowed by the encounter with the other Flighthawks, the MiG was roughly six nautical miles ahead as Zen popped over the ridge — dead meat for a missile shot in a teen jet. But the Flighthawks’ only weapons were cannons; while the guns had good range — roughly three nautical miles even in a maneuvering dogfight — he was still too far away. Zen had the throttle to the max, but couldn’t gain on the MiG, which was now pouring on the kerosene as it closed on the Army target zone.

Ten miles. Mack would have the Blackhawks before the Flighthawk caught up.

“Helos hold,” Zen ordered the Army pilots, hoping to keep them out of danger. As they acknowledged, he jumped into Hawk Four, swinging her up and over them, rising to meet Mack.

Mack’s HUD radar display painted a flighthawk ahead, rushing to protect the helicopters.

Interesting. Zen had broken his usual pattern, letting two of the U/MFs operate alone. He was learning.

But the curve was steep. The Flighthawk would be dead meat as soon as Brother Archer growled on the wing tip.

Mack nudged his stick left, intending to take an angle into the target area that would let him swing toward the helicopters after he launched his Archer at the robot. As he did, his rear-looking radar found the small plane trailing him.

What the hell. Taking advantage of computer glitches was one thing, but bringing a plane back from the dead was total bullshit.

Should have expected nothing less from the stinking SOB. What a pathetic egotist, determined to win at all costs.

Knife would expose him to everyone, including his buddy Twig Boy. And his wife, though God knows how she put up with what she did.

No way he was losing to a cheater. Mack reached for the afterburner. The Mikoyan flashed ahead with a sudden burst of speed, its pilot quickly revamping his attack plan.

Zen smiled as the MiG shot ahead.

“Helos go. Go!” he demanded.

“Hawk Flight — we have a bogey at two o’clock. Request—”

“Go! Go! Go!” screamed Zen. There wasn’t time to explain. He jumped into Hawk Four, yanking straight up. Mack didn’t fire, continuing to accelerate as he avoided the rear-quarter attack.

“Computer, Hawk One on air defense at LZ. Plan Two.”

“Plan Two, acknowledged,” said C3. It took control of the Flighthawk immediately, nosing it down to attack the two simulated ZSU antiaircraft guns on the ground.

Zen, meanwhile, concentrated on Sharkishki, banking in a wide turn in front of him. Zen pushed off left, then cut back, aiming to intercept from the side. Knife could have simply powered his way past and taken out the helicopters — but that wasn’t Mack. Jeff knew he’d gun for the Flighthawk, concentrating totally on showing him up.

What Jeff didn’t expect was Sharkishki’s nose suddenly yanking in his direction and growing exponentially. Mack had him fat and slow; there was little Hawk One could do.

Except make Mack waste fuel. Sharkishki started with 3500 kg of jet fuel, killing nearly four hundred just to take off. The engagement rules called for Mack to reserve a thousand kg to get home, even though he needed far less with Dreamland’s many runways nearby. Between his low-level flight and afterburner use, he ought to be nearing bingo, the point at which he had to give up and go home.

Knowing this was his enemy’s Achilles’ heel, Zen had had C3 keep track.

“Calculated time for enemy bingo is ninety-eight seconds at present flight characteristics,” said the computer. “Enemy craft has Archer-type missile loaded and prepared to fire.”

Jeff turned Hawk Four south and launched diversionary flares. Mack followed, steadily closing the gap as Zen zigged and zagged. He needed to get closer to guarantee a hit.

Jeff ran out of flares as the MiG narrowed to four nautical miles from his tail. He pulled eleven g’s trying to gun the Flighthawk back toward Sharkishki, but it was too late; the Archer ignited below the MiG’s wing.

Jeff left the plane to the computer, returning to Hawk One. While he’d been leading Sharkishki away from the helicopters, C3 had been carrying out the attack on the ZSUs. It had been close — the computer had splashed both guns, but not before the lead Super Blackhawk took a simulated hit, causing minor damage but leaving the helo and its crew in the game.

“Bogey is at bingo,” declared the computer.

“Helo Flight, you’re cleared,” said Zen, rushing over them in Hawk One. “You’re bingo, Mack, bye-bye,” said Zen. “Sorry to see you go.”

“Fuck you I’m bingo,” said Mack, winging toward the helicopters.

“Flight rules—” declared Madrone.

“Suck on your flight rules, Soldier Boy.”

Chapter 14

“Respectfully, i have to disagree. Disagree.” Martha Geraldo shook her head and turned toward Colonel Bastian at the head of the conference table. “Ray is prejudiced against humans,” she continued. “It colors everything he says. It is as bad as a mommie complex.”

Steam seemed to shoot out of Dr. Rubeo’s ears. Dog had learned day one that the scientist hated to be called “Ray.” There was no way Geraldo didn’t know that; she was obviously pushing his buttons.

Then again, she ought to be good at that sort of thing.

“I think calling it a complex is a pretty strong statement,” said Bastian, even though it was fun to see Rubeo speechless.

They’d spent more than a half hour discussing the best way to proceed, or not proceed, if ANTARES was restarted as part of the Flighthawk project — a given, based on Dog’s brief conversation with General Magnus this morning. Magnus was clearly angered by Keesh’s end run. But while he sympathized with Dog’s protest against ANTARES, he’d ordered Dog to proceed with the program “as expeditiously as possible.” A contingency budget line — black, of course — had already been opened for the program. Magnus seemed to be playing his own brand of politics, trying to swim with the currents.

“I would prefer that we left psychological innuendo out of the discussion,” said Rubeo, his voice so cold it was a wonder his breath didn’t frost. “The interface is neither stable nor dependable. We don’t even know precisely how ANTARES works.”

“One of the biggest drawbacks with the present control system employed by the Flighthawks is the human element, as Dr. Rubeo has noted on several occasions,” said Geraldo, ignoring Rubeo’s last point — which was technically true, despite reams of data and elaborate theories. Her crisp tones matched her starched blue suit; military personnel aside, she was probably the most conservative dresser of any Dreamland worker, the scientists especially. With a rounded face and frosted hair, she looked like a slightly older, slightly more distinguished Bette Midler. She’d come from Cuba as a girl, though the only trace of an accent was a slight tendency to roll her is when excited.

Like now.

“Those drawbacks, which Dr. Rubeo has himself outlined, can be overcome with ANTARES. I have kept abreast of the latest exercises, Colonel; four planes cannot be handled adequately with the present arrangement.”

“Four can be. We should put our resources into the next generation of control computers,” said Rubeo. Tall and rangy, in certain lights he looked like a young Abraham Lincoln.

This wasn’t that kind of light. He looked and sounded a bit like an out-of-control animatronic character at Disney World.

“ANTARES made C3 possible,” said Geraldo.

“Piffle.”

“You’re suggesting that the computers would completely fly the planes,” said Geraldo.

“They already do,” said Rubeo.

“You cannot remove human beings from the equation.” Geraldo held out her hands and looked at Bastian triumphantly, having played her trump card.

“I can’t say I disagree with that,” admitted Dog, “though I’m not sure I accept ANTARES as fully human.”

“It’s as human as language,” said Geraldo. “That’s all ANTARES really is — a very special language. A way of talking to a computer, which happens to control an airplane. Or several.”

“Piffle,” repeated Rubeo. “It takes over three quarters of the subject’s brain. Tell me that’s human — tell me that’s better than using computers as tools designed to do a specific job. Computers that we can document every function of, every byte of information and logic.”

Bastian leaned over the table toward Geraldo. She reminded him a bit of the dean of students at his college, an almost matronly sort who could outdrink any sorority on campus.

“If we build on the previous program, what would be the next step?” he asked.

“First, we need a subject. My preference would be someone who is ‘clean,’ someone who not only hasn’t worked with ANTARES before, but who doesn’t know how to fly. If we work with a clean slate, we won’t have barriers or bad habits to break. I believe from my review that the biggest hurdle to joining with the computer has been the learned patterns associated with flight. To use my language metaphor again — when you learn a new language, the old one gets in the way. And that goes for ANTARES as well. 1 would propose a whole host of changes from the old program, including some bio enhancements.”

“Drugs,” sputtered Rubeo.

“Yes, drugs,” said Geraldo. “Supplements actually, designed to enhance neural and other brain functioning. The tests have already been conducted.”

“Mmmm,” said Dog noncommittally.

“On the other hand, using someone already familiar with the procedure would cut down on the start-up time.” Geraldo nodded as if responding to an argument Dog hadn’t made. “At present, there’s only one person on base who has used ANTARES, and that is Major Jeff Stockard.”

Geraldo opened the folder in her lap, consulting her notes. “I’d prefer to have someone else,” said Bastian. “Jeff is the only pilot presently assigned full-time to the Flighthawks.”

He also didn’t want to waste him on a project that, in his opinion, might — or should — end up being a dead end.

“But a non-pilot?” he added. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong? Who takes over the plane?”

“C3,” said Geraldo. “The computer defaults have been well tested. C3 is very capable, Colonel; I actually agree with Dr. Rubeo that for all intents and purposes it could fly the planes. Just not as well.”

She smiled at Rubeo, but he wasn’t buying the bouquets.

“And unlike DreamStar, the ANTARES pilot will not actually be aboard the U/MFs,” Geraldo added. “So there really is no necessity for the subject to be a pilot.” She glanced at her folder notes. “I have also recorded a steep learning curve for pilots transitioning to the Flighthawk program. According to the records, there were three test pilots who washed out before Major Stockard. The last full-time pilot, Jim DiFalco, had a great deal of trouble right up until he transferred out of the program, and he had been a civilian test pilot. My suspicion is that the problem is very similar to the one with ANTARES — my language metaphor.”

Dog nodded. DiFalco — a top engineer as well as a highly rated test pilot — had earned the nickname “Rock” while with the program.

“According to the simulation exercises,” continued Geraldo, “with the exception of Major Stockard, the best raw scores in the Level 1 qualifying tests for the U/MFs were compiled by non-pilots.”

“Exactly,” said Rubeo. His face was no longer red, though he couldn’t quite be called calm. “If a pilot has difficulty controlling the planes, then logically—”

“Logically we try someone other than a pilot,” said Geraldo. “I’ve already worked up a likely profile. Thirty years old, male, single, technically oriented, in reasonable but not athletic shape, with a slightly beta-male outlook, someone willing to follow rather than lead. On the other hand, he would need to have survived conflict, so that he could draw on that experience for confidence. And of course, he will have to have volunteered, so he can use that as motivation.”

“Witchcraft dressed up as psychobabble,” muttered Rubeo.

“Let’s give it a try,” said Bastian, even though part of him agreed with Rubeo.

Chapter 15

Mack had nine hundred kg of fuel left, or just under two thousand pounds in American measurements. That was enough to fly the Fulcrum’s goosed engines roughly a hundred miles, landing at his theoretical base.

But the way he looked at it, his base wasn’t a hundred miles away. In fact, he could run the damn engines dry and glide down from here.

Almost. And almost was good enough at the moment, because he was going to nail that stubborn cheating SOB Stockard even if it meant getting out and pushing the MiG home.

Knife let his left wing roll down slightly, tucking into a circle behind the remaining Flighthawk, trying to get the bastard in his boresight. The small plane couldn’t outrun him, but its tight turning radius made pursuing it tricky. Mack took a quick snap shot as the Flighthawk slashed right. But he was going too fast — he nosed down desperately as the smaller plane jerked to his right, trying to get a shot off before sailing beyond the Flighthawk. He lost his enemy, guessed where he’d be, goosed the throttle and shoved down, just ducking Hawk One’s barrage.

Firing the cannon cost the robot considerable flight energy; it started to wallow as it angled to pursue Mack through a hard series of turns. Knife gained momentum, then flung the MiG back around, getting off a shot before the Flighthawk barreled away.

The helicopters were escaping south.

So be it; it was Zen he wanted.

As Knife banked to regroup, he found the tail end of the Flighthawk at the top of his HUD, just out of range. He squeezed the throttle for more power, nearly unsocketing his elbow as he jerked his arm.

He had the bastard now.

“Terminate,” said Madrone calmly over the common frequency.

Zen flicked his stick, flashing the Hawk’s nose upward before jerking into a steep dive, complying with Madrone’s order.

Even if the engagement hadn’t been terminated, he was confident he would have escaped — at best, the MiG could only get off four or five shots before sailing past the pesky Flighthawk.

Mack cursed in his ears as he swung his wings level. “You’re a fuckin’ cheater, Stockard. Twig saved your ass.”

“I’m a cheater? You’re about six hundred kilos past bingo. You’re walking home.”

“At least I didn’t resurrect a plane.”

“You didn’t hit it.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The Alamo missed. Two Alamos — the other was in the same frickin’ area and would have caught a whiff.”

“Hey, ask the computer.”

Mack’s curse was cut off by another transmission from Madrone, calmly congratulating everyone for a successful “event.”

That was one of the reasons Zen liked Madrone. Had someone else — anyone else — been running the gig, he would undoubtedly have scolded them.

Probably they deserved to be scolded, since they had pushed the envelope of the exercise, but that was how you learned, wasn’t it?

The hopped-up MiG was a pretty hot plane, and Mack had flown it well. Still, by the parameters of the exercise, Zen had won, preserving the Super Blackhawks. He let the computer direct Hawk One back to base. He was exhausted, physically and mentally beat — more tired, in fact, than he had been during the actual fight in Tripoli.

“You okay, Jeff?” asked Jennifer Gleason over the interphone, the Megafortress’s internal com system. She was sitting at the techie station a few feet away.

“Ready for a shower and a cold one,” he told her.

“Shower, yes. I can smell you up here,” put in Bree from the cockpit.

“That’s probably Major Smith.” Jennifer laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face at the debrief.”

“Maybe Bree will take pictures,” said Jeff.

His wife didn’t acknowledge. Maybe it was because they had, after all, lost three of their four planes.

Or maybe, he thought, she just didn’t like Jennifer.

Chapter 16

Kevin Madrone had calculated that he had just enough time to sneak a cup of coffee before heading to the meeting. But his math had been too optimistic — everyone’s head turned as he came through the door. He quickly headed down the central aisle of the small amphitheater and slipped into a seat, staring down at Colonel Bastian, who was standing in front of the lectern. As he settled into his seat, Madrone saw that Jennifer Gleason had an empty seat a few rows further down and across from him. It was too late to change places, though.

“What we’re looking at is expanding the Flighthawk program to include some of the project work that was originally sketched out under ANTARES,” said Bastian. “Now I realize that that’s going to seem controversial because of circumstances we’re all too familiar with, which is one of the reasons I want to make sure we’re all up to speed about what’s going on. The promise of ANTARES itself isn’t debatable. And we seem to be reaching a ceiling on the U/MFs.”

“I disagree with that,” said Jeff Stockard. He was sitting in his wheelchair at the lower right corner of the room. “We’ve gone from controlling two planes to four. We have plans in place to go to eight.”

“Granted,” said Bastian. “And there are other ways of tackling the problem. This will proceed in tandem.”

Bastian continued to talk, but Madrone found his mind wandering as he looked up from Jeff and at Jennifer Gleason. The fluorescent lights of the briefing room made her strawberry-blond hair look almost pinkish; she twirled one side with her fingers, pushing it back behind her ear. As she did, she happened to glance back in his direction, caught him staring, then smiled.

Kevin smiled back, or at least he tried. His stomach was fluttering — he was back in junior high, listening to some endless history lecture, hopelessly in love with Shari Merced.

Kevin put his thumbnail to his lips, even though he’d sworn off the bad habit five times already today. He was so damn awkward with girls — with women. The other night he’d been tongue-tied with Abby. She’d seemed interested when he was talking about the time Don Mattingly had signed his scorecard. But he’d felt so stinking nervous that when she dropped him off, he’d blown his chance for a kiss.

He could have kissed her, he should have kissed her, he might have kissed her. She wasn’t his type, a little too giggly and talkative, he thought, but still — he could have, should have, would have kissed her.

But didn’t.

What if he had the same chance with Jennifer? Would he take it?

Hell, yes. He hadn’t always been this stinking nervous, this much of a wreck and a dweeb. Damn — she turned back in his direction and he quickly averted his eyes, pretended to be interested in something on the floor.

He’d never get into that situation with her. She didn’t notice him. Why should she? It was like being back in junior high — the jocks, aka pilots, were the ones who got all the attention. He was just a nerd.

He had to find a way to get her to notice him.

“So we’ll seek volunteers. There’ll be profile testing, physical, mental, that sort of thing.”

Jennifer watched Colonel Bastian pace at the front of the room as he spoke, barely able to control his energy. He wasn’t very tall, but his shoulders were wide, and swung back and forth with implicit urgency. His hands cut through the space around him as if they were the fighters he’d flown.

She leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her Diet Coke. The cold metal of the can stung her lip. For some reason the AC was cranking in the room, and Jennifer felt a slight shiver run through her as she swallowed the soda.

She’d nearly melted the other morning when Colonel Bastian had touched her. She’d wanted him to sweep her up in his arms, smother her. A million volts had seemed to snap between them — but he’d done nothing. He saw her as just another scientist, a well-meaning geek probably.

He was damn smart, wise in ways you wouldn’t expect. Like this — knowing people would worry about ANTARES, knowing there were reservations, he dealt with them head-on, got everyone aboard, made them part of the team.

He looked at her now and said something.

Volunteers, he was looking for volunteers for the ANTARES program.

“We won’t be looking for pilots,” said Bastian. “Dr. Geraldo can give us the whole brief, and we’ll start in a few days. The profile is rather specific actually. At the moment, we believe we need males. Sorry, Jen.”

Jennifer felt everyone look at her. Her face began to flush. Bastian smiled at her.

She wanted to say something. She wanted to say the program was a mistake.

She also wanted to say — what? That she was in love with him?

“I’d like to be in on it. Take a shot at being a subject,” said Bill McKnight. McKnight was an aeronautical engineer who had worked on the DreamStar program.

“Me too,” said Lee Ferguson. He was a communications expert and had designed the nighthawk command system.

Bastian was still looking at her. Did he expect her to say something?

Shit, she thought. I have to. I couldn’t get it out right the other morning.

How would she put it? What specifically were her objections? The fact that no one specifically knew what the subject’s brain did while connected to the computer? The few odd, unaccountable glitches she had come across while adapting some of the early programming for C3?

The fact that his broad shoulders and kind eyes looked so comforting, so warm?

Jennifer felt her hand starting to ascend against her will.

Someone behind her said he’d do it. Jennifer turned and saw Captain Kevin Madrone, the Army weapons specialist, staring right at her.

“I’d like to try,” said Madrone, quickly looking away. Someone else chimed in, and then someone else. This wasn’t the time to object, and she didn’t trust herself besides. Jennifer realized she’d left her arm about halfway up on the small desk in front of her. As she lowered it, she felt so cold she began to shiver.