Nerve Center

Chapter 17

Madrone shifted uncomfortably in the chair, trying to find a spot where the stiff plastic would feel comfortable against his back.

“It’s kind of been a while since I thought about all of that,” he told Geraldo. “My wife, I mean. Five years.”

The psychiatrist put her hand to her mouth, pinching her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. She nodded, then slowly reached for her coffee mug. She wanted him to talk about Karen. It was almost as if she had a magnet in her brain, trying to draw out the words, but Madrone resisted.

Not resisted exactly. He had nothing to say. He couldn’t even form a picture of Karen in his mind.

If he thought about it, if he analyzed it the way Dr. Geraldo obviously wanted, he might have found the day that it had happened, the moment he’d gotten over her. He’d been obsessed with her for a long time after she’d left him, fantasizing about getting her back, fantasizing about confronting her — and yes, even fantasizing about killing her, though he would never admit it.

Probably, that was what Geraldo wanted to hear. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

Christina, his daughter, his poor dead daughter — she was locked away in a place he’d allow no one to enter, not Geraldo, not even himself. He’d never mention her to anyone.

“You don’t feel angry with her?” Geraldo asked.

“Well, a little. She left me. But …”

It really did feel like a magnet, pulling at him.

“After a while, it kind of went away. Slowly. I don’t know. It seems almost trite.”

“Time heals all wounds?” said the psychiatrist.

“Exactly.” He glanced at his thumbnail, willing his hand still.

“And there’s been no one else?”

“On that level. No.”

“Afraid of commitment?”

“Not really. But being single does have some advantages.”

Geraldo sat in her thick red chair, waiting to see if the magnet would pull anything else out. Finally, she seemed to decide it wouldn’t.

“I have yet another test for you,” she said apologetically. “It’s another standardized test, but this one is a bit old-fashioned, no computer — pencil and paper. You have to fill in circles.” She got up and went to a filing cabinet at the far end of the room. She returned with a manila folder and a pencil. “Would you like more coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

As she started to hand the folder to him, the psychiatrist stopped. He looked up into her face; for the first time since the testing and interview sessions had begun, her face seemed like a real face, as if it belonged to someone he knew, an aunt maybe, not a scientist. The small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth furrowed deeper. Her body pitched down slightly, as if the tight iron bands that had held it loosened. Even her clothes — a dark navy-blue suit with a stiff white blouse — became less severe.

“Kevin, if you ever want to talk about your ex-wife, you can,” she said. “Not as an official thing, of course. But if you feel the need.”

He nodded slowly, then took the folder.

Zen wheeled his chair back from the monitor, watching as Geraldo left the room. Even though it was his job to help the psychiatrist make the final selection of an ANTARES subject, he felt like a voyeur spying on his friend.

He knew Madrone was divorced, even though Kevin said little about his ex-wife. Yet something about the way he talked about her surprised him. Over the past two years or so that they’d known each other, Kevin had seemed rather muted, not just shy, but not an emotional guy — as if being an engineer was deeply embedded in his personality. Even when he talked about things he liked, the Yankees and baseball, for example, he sounded as if he was reading down a column of numbers.

When he had talked about Karen, however, his eyes had changed. His motions had become, if not animated exactly, at least more fluid. Zen got the impression he was hiding something, struggling to keep something bottled away.

Anger? Did that make any difference for ANTARES?

Madrone had consistently scored the highest or second highest on all of the tests they’d given him, even the manual-dexterity and physical-endurance tests. His IQ, tested by computer no less than five times, had turned out to be an astounding 180. His only flaw was an inherent shyness and possibly a slight feeling of inferiority, or as Geraldo put it: “an image of self-worth that does not accurately reflect his abilities.”

Zen wheeled toward the low table where he’d placed his coffee nearly an hour ago. Geraldo pushed through the door briskly.

“Very good, Major, don’t you think?” she said, going immediately to the desk. She glanced at the monitor, then pulled a thick spiral notebook from the top drawer and made some notes.

“What do you think about his wife?” said Zen.

“Oh, the usual anger and resentment, some bewilderment,” said Geraldo, still writing. “I think he honestly was blind-sided. Perhaps it accounts for his reserve, no? The nail-biting under pressure, the cigarette-smoking — classic. Minor. To some extent the military has replaced his wife; he throws himself into work. Very common. Not an impediment. His emotions don’t run all that deep. Not good for a marriage, but for ANTARES, it’s a plus.”

Zen didn’t say anything. Geraldo pried into people’s minds for a living. It had to be done, but sometimes the notion that a personality could be dissected and examined like a piece of code in a computer or the components of a jet engine bothered him. Zen had undergone a battery of tests and examinations as part of his rehab in the hospital. He’d gone through it because it was necessary, but he hadn’t particularly liked it. Now he realized that people must have been watching him on hidden monitors just as he had watched Madrone. One more indignity; one more surrender.

Necessary, but still humiliating.

“I think he’s the one,” said Geraldo, putting down her pen finally. “But you’re reluctant.”

Her comment took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You just seem reluctant. Should we bring Ross back in?”

“I’m not reluctant,” said Zen.

Geraldo pushed back in her seat, swiveling gently. “You’re his friend. You have doubts about the program, and you’re worried about endangering him.”

“I’m friends with a lot of people. He’s the obvious choice, no doubt about it.”

“You have reservations about ANTARES.”

“Of course,” said Zen. “We’ve gone over that.”

“The spy did not compromise the project.”

Spy. No one would even say the name Maraklov — or Captain James, as he had been known here. He had nearly ruined Dreamland, and all of them.

“It’s not that,” said Zen.

“Perhaps you should explain, Jeff. Are you feeling jealous?”

“Not in the least.”

They’d been over it before, twice as a matter of fact, neither time very satisfactorily. Jeff believed in the concept of ANTARES; he was the only person left on the base who had gone through the program, and in fact still had the old-style chip implant in the side of his skull. He had always assumed he would be involved in the next stage of the project, always assumed it would eventually be green-lighted again after the Maraklov business died down.

But he had reservations, objections he couldn’t quite put into words. His recent nightmare for one. The way he felt when he woke from it — as if a part of him he didn’t completely trust or like had taken control of him.

There was no way to put those vague feelings into rational arguments. They sounded like reasons to continue studying ANTARES. They were, in fact.

“We’ve made numerous improvements,” said Geraldo. She spoke as if she were making the case for the first time. “We’re light-years ahead of where the project was when DreamStar was canceled. Fresh eyes — fresh minds — a new start. Kevin Madrone will be a perfect subject.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“So we have your approval?”

What was it that bugged him? Kevin or ANTARES?

Shit. The way Geraldo was looking at him, he could tell she thought it was jealousy — that he looked at Kevin as a potential rival on the Flighthawk program.

“I think Captain Madrone is the obvious choice,” said Zen. “And I’ll put that in writing.”

“Very good,” said Geraldo, standing. “We’ll start this morning.”

Chapter 18

Was it the fact that he wasn’t used to flying something so big? Or the fact that he wasn’t used to flying with a copilot?

Or maybe he just felt odd flying a plane named after a Navy battleship.

Then again, it was better than Cheshire’s suggestion—”Rosebud,” ostensibly for the sled in Citizen Kane.

“Crosswind,” prompted Major Cheshire from the copilot’s station.

Colonel Bastian told the computer to make the crosswind correction, probably a half second before the computer would have taken over from him. He was near the edge of his localizer course, off center and coming in a bit too fast. He nudged the throttle glide slightly. The speed and engine readings flashed on the HUD, all green.

Was that temp on three nudging into yellow?

Just land.

Just land.

Dog blew a laboriously long breath from his lungs as he edged the stick ever so gently to move the big plane back into the sweet spot as it approached the landing. If he’d been flying an Eagle, he would have simply —

Irrelevant, he told himself.

“In the green,” said Cheshire. “You’re looking good. Temps are all normal.”

The concrete seemed to expand as he approached. He could feel the heat wafting upward, gentle hands taking hold of him as he settled down.

Then all hell broke lose. The plane jerked suddenly to the side: a dozen warning buzzers went off. Cheshire shouted something at him.

He had no lateral control. The computer had begun to compensate. Stick dead.

No, he had stick. No rudder.

No tail?

He forced the plane down, felt a jolt as the wheels on the right undercarriage hit the ground. He could feel himself sliding to the right.

“Steer! You still have steering!” shouted Cheshire over the interphone.

“Okay,” he managed. “Okay.”

The plane straightened out. Their speed knocked down to twenty, then fifteen, then ten knots. Firmly in control now, Dog permitted his eyes to move to the left-hand multi-use display, which was slaved to the emergency status nodes.

Clean.

Clean?

“What the hell happened?” asked Bastian.

“You were doing such a good job I decided to complicate things,” said Cheshire. “You just landed without a tail.”

“Jesus.”

“Well, he would have done a better job,” said Cheshire, clearly enjoying herself. “Still, you did okay. I didn’t take off the entire tail, just one of the stabilizers.”

Actually, Cheshire had directed the plane’s advanced flight computer to simulate the loss of one of the stabilizers. The flight profile was among several the major had preprogrammed into the flight computer as part of the advanced training Bastian had persuaded her to give him.

“You’re worse than Rap,” Dog told her.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“What would you have done if I crashed?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have crashed,” she said. “We were always within specs. The computer has tested the profile on its own.”

“You can’t really fly without a tail,” said Dog, who didn’t trust the simulator modules in the flight computer, no matter how sophisticated they actually were. He turned back to the windshield. The SUV designated to shepherd them toward the maintenance area was just now approaching from his left, a little behind schedule.

“Sure, you can. If you’re good. You could.”

“Ha.”

“You’re better than you think, Colonel.”

“I mean, the plane would auger in without a stabilizer.”

“Over my desk there’s a photograph of a B-52 that landed without a tail in Vietnam,” said Cheshire. “And another that was shot nearly in half through the fuselage. Then there’s the one with three quarters of its wing missing.”

Dog grunted. He finally realized he’d been suckered into a sales job.

“Colonel, you might want to relax your grip on the yoke,” said Cheshire. “You look like you’re going to snap it off.”

“Right.” He trundled the plane to the edge of the runway, where three support vehicles had joined the SUV.

Missouri — better known as “Mo” — was testing a modified version of the PW4074 turbofan, and carried one apiece on the inside engine pylons. The PW4074 turbofans, highly efficient engines originally developed by Pratt & Whitney for Boeing’s 777, were to be quickly checked by the ground crew. Assuming they were okay, the bomber would take off for a second tier of tests, then repeat the process for a third.

Dreamland’s specialists had tweaked the systems to achieve somewhat more thrust; nowhere near as thirsty as the J57’s that came stock on early B-52’s, the jets were considerably more powerful. The Megafortress engineers were still diddling with the computer models and specs to determine what exactly their optimum arrangement might be. While the conventional wisdom was that one new engine could sit in place of two old ones on each pylon, the Dreamland whiz kids were fond of defying common wisdom. The vast airframe of the B-52 gave flight to all manner of fantasies. Computer models had been devised showing the plane with six and eight power plants. One odd design even called for two of the engines to be mounted at the rear, somewhat like a 727.

The goal was to improve low-level speed without decreasing overall unrefueled range. Stock, a B-52 could clock roughly 365 knots at sea level with the old power plants. The Megafortress, with its much cleaner airframe, notched roughly 425 nautical miles an hour. The engineers wanted 475, which was well beyond the venerable and trusty J57’s.

Fifty knots didn’t seem like much, but it would exponentially reduce the detection envelope for a Megafortress on a low-level attack mission. In practical terms, it would allow an EB-52 to evade all but the most sophisticated defense radars, and to get close enough to air-launch torpedoes against a surface ship, one of the design goals remaining to be achieved.

Do that and even the Navy might order up a few dozen. Missouri indeed.

Dog powered back, preparing to turn the plane around at the edge of the ramp. In some ways it was more difficult to guide the big plane on the ground than in the air, since the flight computer didn’t help. Bastian found it nearly impossible to judge the clearance distance accurately, and twice twitched the control column, afraid he was about to clip one of the chase vehicles with his wings. But Bastian handled the turn expertly, stopping precisely parallel to the techies’ yellow and black pickup.

“You have time for the second flight?” Cheshire asked.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Dog. Then he realized she had a funny expression on her face. “Did I do that bad?” he asked.

“No, I told you, you did fine,” she said. “I was hoping to talk to you a minute.”

“Fire away,” Dog told her.

“I have to quick run over some of the numbers with Peter first, though,” she said, referring to the engineer in charge of the engine testing. “A quick check and we’re good to go.”

“All right,” said Dog. It wasn’t like he wanted to go back to his office and the mounds of paperwork waiting for him. Truth was, he would greatly prefer taking off again, even if it meant listening to Cheshire’s pitch for more resources. “Thanks, Colonel. I’ll be right back. I appreciate it.”

Dog undid his restraints and stretched his arms, watching out the cockpit windows as the ground crew gave the plane the once-over.

It wasn’t just that he preferred flying to paperwork. He wanted to master the Megafortress, just as he had every other plane on the base.

Not every plane. He hadn’t flown the two 767’s or the 777 they were testing as tankers. But he had flown every combat plane. The F-22, the modified F-16, the Joint-Service Strike Fighter, even the SR-71D spy plane with its hypersonic hydrogen engines. Flown them all, and damn well.

But something about the Megafortress kept him at bay. He could fly it, but he wanted to fly it — to master it, twist it over and around and in and out of knots. He wanted to get out on the edge of the envelope with it. The flying battleship was the future of the Air Force.

He wanted to prove he was a great pilot. He wanted to prove…

That he was better than his daughter?

The idea shot into his head like the snap vector from an AWACS controller. Dog pushed up out of his seat, squeezing out of the Megafortress’s cockpit. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, especially himself, and definitely not Breanna. He had other things to do than fiddle around in the sky.

Cheshire met him on the ladder down to the lower deck. “Colonel,” she said. “You’re leaving?”

“Sergeant Gibbs will be waiting. What did you want to say?”

Cheshire leaned against the bulkhead and began talking about the Megafortress project, saying that the engine tests were taking much longer than anticipated. The mechanical delays were only part of the problem. She needed more engineers — a common and justified complaint. The decision to develop the Megafortress as a mother ship for the Flighthawks was also stretching her people and the planes to the max.

“We only have the three planes,” said Cheshire. “Raven, Bear Two, and Mo. Galatica, the AWACS tester, won’t be on board until at least next week.”

Bastian nodded.

“We need at least two planes to complete the engine tests. Bear Two is needed for static tests, and Galatica still has to go through the usual flight trials. We won’t have the others for at least three weeks. The tanker program is already on hold, and the backlog on the avionics tests is thicker than a phone book.”

“The Flighthawks remain a priority,” Dog told her, guessing what she was going to suggest. “Raven has to stay with them.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest we stop using the EB-52 as the Flighthawks’ mother ship,” she said. “Though I’ve heard the control gear won’t fit in the Megafortress weapons bay once you reach eight U/MFs.”

Obviously she’d been talking to Rubeo.

“That may be a problem,” said Bastian. “That’s why we’re in business — to solve those sorts of things.”

Damn Rubeo. He was throwing every possible objection in the way of ANTARES.

“We can’t solve it if we don’t have the resources,” said Cheshire.

“Pete Rensling suggested using the 777 airframe as the ANTARES mother ship,” said Dog. “It has a huge bay, and the fuel tanks that would be needed for refueling were already part of the tanker testing.”

“That’s not a bad idea, if the wings could take it.”

“Being studied right now. If it works, that will lessen some of the burden on you. In the meantime, I’ll expedite more conversions as part of ANTARES.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Cheshire. She was smiling broadly. “Now how about more pilots?”

“I’m still working on that,” said Bastian. There were presently only six qualified B-52 pilots on the base; since even with the new flight computers it typically took two to fly a Megafortress, there was only one crew per plane. Two of the pilots were due to be transferred next week.

“You better be careful, Colonel. If you get any good, we may slide you into the rotation.”

“I’ll help out anyway I can,” said Bastian, smarting a bit from her tone.

“You sure you don’t want to take this run? I still need another pilot.”

“Maybe I will,” he said. “As a matter of fact, let’s go for it.”

Chapter 19

“Late, as usual.”

Danny grinned at the gray-haired woman in the white lab coat. Her frown turned into a smile, even as she shook her head and wagged her finger.

“Captain, you need a secretary to look after you,” Annie Klondike told him. She turned and began walking briskly toward the back rooms of the handheld weapons lab.

“You want the job?” asked Freah, falling in alongside. “You wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.”

Klondike shuffled toward the large room where the firing ranges were located.

“Annie, those new slippers?”

“Don’t get fresh.”

Klondike walked to a large gray box that sat in front of a series of drawer-shaped lockers. About eight feet wide and another six feet deep, the box came up to the diminutive weapons scientist’s chest. It seemed to be made of a very hard plastic material. Klondike put her palms on the top and the box began to move. Fascinated, Danny watched as the box pulled itself apart, a shallow section remaining behind the top.

“Opens only with my palm print and could withstand a one-megaton explosion,” said Klondike.

“This thing?” asked Danny. The shell material was no more than three inches thick.

“As long as it’s not a direct hit. Of course, if it was one of my bombs—”

“You do nukes too, Annie?”

“In my youth, Captain. I’m retired from that.”

“You shittin’ me?”

Klondike lowered her face, but kept her eyes fixed on him, as if she were a Sunday school teacher peering over her glasses. She sighed, then again shook her head, shuffling over to the table.

“At the moment, the Combat Information Visor must be attached to the Smart Helmets,” she said, turning her attention to the device Danny had come to inspect. “I have some hopes of miniaturizing it further, so that it can be used as goggles. I find the visor cumbersome, and I’m told some troops do not like the helmet.”

“It’s heavy,” said Danny. The so-called Smart Helmet included a secure com link and a GPS system. It could withstand a direct hit by a fifty-caliber machine-gun bullet from fifty yards — though that produced a hell of a headache. Klondike’s prototype visor added two additional functions: a long-range multi-made viewer, and an aiming screen for a specially adapted M-16.

The visor looked like a welder’s shield. It shifted the helmet’s center of gravity far forward when it was snapped on, promising severe neck strain.

“There are four native modes to the viewer,” said Klondike, reaching to cinch the chin strap. “They select on the right, zoom and back out on the left. They toggle through in sequence. One is unenhanced. Two allows — wait, let’s kill the lights.”

Mode Two was infrared. Three was starlight-enhanced. Four actually did not work yet; they were perfecting a graphics Geiger counter, which would allow the unit to detect radioactive materials from twice the distance as the “sniffers” or portable Geiger counters Whiplash now packed on NBC missions. But the gear wasn’t quite ready.

“I’d trade it for making it lighter,” Danny said, fiddling with the helmet.

“Well, it won’t make it heavier, because we hope to press the functions into a pair of chips. I’m sorry, Captain. The weight comes from the LED panes and the carbon-boron sliver-plates at the side,” she added. “We’ve actually lightened it about a pound and a half since we began. Notice how the slide here is almost round?”

“Oh, yeah, first thing I noticed.”

Klondike turned the lights on. “The helmet can accept inputs from external sensor systems, assuming they meet MAT/ 7 standards. You’ll need an RCA plug, but once you plug in you’re slaved to a Pave Low’s infrared, assuming the helicopter’s gear has been modified for an additional output. The host thinks it’s the original screen. Adjustment’s easy; we’ll have it put on your C-17 the next time Quick-mover goes in for a lube.”

While she was talking, Klondike had approached the gun drawers. These were locked with an old-fashioned key, which she kept on a string around her neck. She bent to one and opened it, then removed an M-16.

“I prefer my MP-5,” Danny told her.

“Captain, please,” said Klondike. “With all due respect to my friends at Heckler-Koch, submachine guns are meant to be sprayed, even theirs. A fine weapon under certain circumstances, but hardly a one-bullet, one-kill solution. Now come on or I’m going to miss my soap opera — or worse, Jeopardy.”

The M-16A3’s laser sight had been replaced with a small, stubby bar that had only a small pinhole at the barrel end. Nudging a slider on the top of the gun activated a VSRT or Very-Short-Range FM Transmitter, which allowed the gun to communicate with the targeting screen. A pair of cursors appeared on the view screen; as the gun was aimed horizontally, the cursors merged. A tear-shaped ring appeared around the cursor, showing the probable trajectory if the shot deteriorated because of the wind or distance.

“The cursor is absolutely right on to two hundred yards in all conditions,” Annie told him after he’d put five bullets into the center of a target at three hundred feet. “But we haven’t been able to reliably compensate for weather conditions beyond that. Additionally, you can’t aim through water or glass as you can with the sniper rifle. But it’s an improvement over the laser dot, both in distance and detectability. And it has the added bonus of persuading men to keep their helmets on,” added Klondike, “no matter how heavy they may be.”

“Ready for field testing?” asked Danny.

“Didn’t you notice the helmet was formed for your head?” said Klondike.

“If I weren’t married already, Annie …” said Danny.

Klondike’s response was drowned out by the report of the rifle as he squeezed off the rest of the clip.

Chapter 20

When you were a general, you never had a bad day. Generals had drivers. Generals had staffs. Generals had people who made sure their stinking alarm clocks didn’t malfunction so they didn’t oversleep.

More importantly, when you were a general it didn’t matter if you overslept.

Mack Smith wanted more than anything to be a general. He’d had a master plan from the day he entered the recruiting office, and until getting shot down over Somalia three months ago, he’d followed it perfectly: combat experience, an air kill (two), serious seat time in the country’s most advanced planes. He had numerous connections inside and outside Washington, dozens of military godfathers — all of whom knew he had the right stuff and were willing to pull strings to make sure he got ahead.

His next step, command of a top-tier squadron, had seemed assured. For the last three months, though, everything seemed to be going wrong. The President — bit of a windbag, but still the commander in chief, don’t forget that — had shaken his hand and thanked him — thanked him! — for doing such a “good job over there.” Then he’d gone and lost the election. With him went the Defense Secretary, who had smiled and murmured something about a promotion to colonel.

Worse, Knife hadn’t been able to snag an important assignment. The gig testing Sharkishki was the best he could manage, a bit of an end run that had brought him back to Dreamland against his wishes. He’d taken it in hopes that it would lead to an assignment at Nellis heading the Aggressor squadron, which was where the MiG and its brethren were headed next. Recently, though, there were rumors that the Aggressor squadron, which trained top-rung fighter pilots for combat, was overstaffed. It was possible he’d get there only on temporary duty, assigned to show the boys how to work the stick and rudder — a cushy job certainly, but not one calculated to take him to any great heights. It would also put him back where he had started, in search of a command billet.

Was he in the midst of a bad streak? Or were others out to sabotage him? Everywhere there were minor annoyances trying to trip him up. Like his alarm clock. And this morning’s Dolphin, whose pilot insisted on waiting at Nellis for nearly a half hour because he was the only passenger.

As if anyone else important might show up.

By the time Knife reached the hangar where he and the engineers were due to review the upgrades to the MiG’s passive avionics, he was nearly forty-five minutes late.

Which didn’t explain why his team wasn’t here.

One look at the man who was, Major Franklin Thomas. and Mack knew his luck was going from bad to absolutely terrible. Thomas was a bean-counter who always came up three beans short. He also never delivered good news.

“You missed the meeting,” said Thomas.

“What meeting?”

“0730. There was an e-mail on it last night.”

“To me? Musta missed it.”

“Major, I won’t sugarcoat this,” said Thomas. “The Advanced Aggressor program has been canceled.”

“What?”

“Completely. The MiGs are going to be mothballed.”

“You have to be shitting me.” He gestured toward the three fuselages to the right, in various stages of renovation. “There’s got to be ten million dollars of work tied up in those planes, and never mind what the airframes cost.”

“The Aggressor program isn’t going to make the cut,” said Thomas. “The new Administration believes it’s better to cut bait right now, rather than dragging it on. I can run through some of the numbers if you want.”

“Oh, fuck that.”

Thomas’s lower lip quivered and his cheek jerked up nervously. “The Russians have canceled most of their developmental programs, so our efforts to anticipate them no longer make sense. We would be training against a nonexistent threat.”

“Bullshit.”

“E-ev-everyone’s going to be reassigned to other Dreamland projects. Of course, we’ll be securing the airframes that we have. Now you’re not technically Dreamland personnel, so the colonel mentioned that he’d help find something for you if you need help.”

“I don’t need God’s help,” said Mack, practically spitting Dog’s very unofficial and not exactly flattering nickname.

“Major, this isn’t going to affect you adversely. It’s just a little bump.”

“Screw yourself, Thomas, okay? Just fucking screw yourself.”

Chapter 21

Even the people who flew B-52’s Called them BUFFs — Big Ugly Fat Fellas, or Fuckers, depending on whether there was a reverend around. The venerable Cold War bombers looked clean on the first sketch pads, but even by the late sixties wore a variety of blisters and stretch marks across their approximately 160-foot bodies. Each modification made the bomber a more potent weapon, but most also took a slight nick out of its aerodynamic qualities. Never fast to begin with, latter-day Stratofortresses positively labored in certain flight regimes, including low-level maneuvers.

Not the Megafortress. With a sleek needle nose, an ultra-clean fuselage, carbon-fiber reinforced wings, and a modified tailplane assembly, the EB-52 could accelerate through a forty-five-degree climb from one thousand feet, its speed touching 423.5 knots even though it carried a simulated weapons load of 28,000 pounds of iron bombs.

“We can go faster,” Cheshire said as they climbed through seven thousand feet. She’d let him take the pilot’s seat to continue his training.

“Engines at max,” said Dog.

“Engines at maximum power,” concurred the computer. “We should have more thrust,” complained Cheshire. “Eight thousand feet, going to ten thousand.”

The outboard J57’s rumbled noisily, as if Major Cheshire had annoyed them. Still, the airplane’s indicated airspeed slipped back toward four hundred knots. Cheshire made some adjustments on her side of the control panel, but nothing seemed to have an effect. They reached ten thousand feet; Bastian began pushing the nose down, trimming the plane for level flight.

“Air speed 380 knots,” reported the computer.

“How can that be?” said Dog.

“Problem with Test Engine Two,” reported Cheshire, a moment before the computer flashed a warning on the status screen. The PW4074/DX engine’s oil pressure shot down, then up off the scale. The temperature went red as well.

“Shutting down Two,” reported Cheshire.

“Two, yes, shutting down Two,” said Dog. His mind hesitated for a moment, his brain momentarily caught between a dozen different thoughts. The synapses were temporarily clogged by the memory of the only time in his life that he’d lost an engine in flight and couldn’t get it relit.

Unfortunately, it was in an F-16 over the Atlantic. No amount of restarts, no amount of curses, could bring is back. He’d bailed out into a moonless night at ten thousand feet — and even with plenty of time to contemplate how cold the water would be, he’d underestimated the chill by half.

But he was in a Megafortress now.

“Trimming to compensate,” Dog said calmly, remembering the routine Bree had taught him during the simulations.

“Good,” said Cheshire. “Okay. Okay,” she sang, running through the instruments on her side.

The Megafortress wobbled slightly. Mo’s speed continued to drop steadily, but he was still in control.

“I’m going to bank around and try for Runway Two,” Bastian told Cheshire.

“Two’s no good,” said Nancy. “The Flighthawks are using it for touch-and-go’s. Three is our designated landing area.”

“Three then.” Bastian clicked his radio transmit button. “Dreamland Tower, this is Missouri. We have an emergency situation. One engine is out. Request permission to land on Runway Three.”

“Tower. We acknowledge your emergency. Stand by.”

Dog started to bank the plane. His hands were a little shaky and the artificial horizon showed he was tipping his wing a little too much.

“Temp in Engine Three going yellow, going — shit — climbing — red,” reported Cheshire.

She said something else, but Dog couldn’t process it. His stomach started fluttering to the side, as if it had somehow pulled loose inside his body.

Relax, he told himself. You can do this.

“Nine thousand feet, going to eight thousand,” said Cheshire.

“Shut down Engine Three,” said Dog.

“Through the turn first,” prompted Cheshire. “I’m on the engine, Colonel,” she explained.

Dog came out of the turn, leveling the wings while still in a gentle downward glide. Cheshire did a quick run through the indicators on the remaining engines, reporting that they were in the green. The tower came back, clearing them to land.

“Six thousand feet,” said Cheshire. “One more orbit?”

“I think so,” said Dog. But as he nudged into the bank, his left wing started to tip precipitously; the Megafortress began bucking and threatening to turn into a brick.

“Problem with the automatic trim control,” reported Cheshire. “System failure in the automated flight-control computer, section three — the backup protocol for the engine tests introduced an error. All right, hang with it. This won’t be fatal.”

She then began running through some numbers, recording the section problems that the flight computer was giving her on the screen. Under other circumstances — like maybe sitting on the ground in his office — Dog would have appreciated the technical details and the prompt identification of the problem. Now, though, all he wanted was a solution.

“We’re going to have to fly without the computer,” said Cheshire finally. “I can’t lock this out and it will be easier to just land and we can debug on the ground.”

“I figured that out,” said Dog, wrangling the big plane through the turn.

“If you want me to take it, just say the word.”

He felt his anger boiling up, even though he knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. “No, I’m okay,” he said. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.”

“Wide turns,” she said. “Very wide turns. We’re more like an airliner than a fighter jet.”

“Yup.”

Part of him, a very, very small part of him, wanted to turn the plane over to Cheshire. A strong case could be made that it was the right thing to do — when all was said and done, he was a green pilot trying to deal with a very big problem. Even if he wasn’t in over his head, it made sense to turn the stick over to Cheshire.

But Dog was way too stubborn for that. And besides, he wasn’t in over his head — he came through another orbit much more smoothly, having worked the plane down to two thousand feet. They legged into final approach with a long, gentle glide.

“Come on, Mo,” said Cheshire, talking to the plane. “You can do it, baby.”

“Yeah, Mo,” said Dog. “Go for it, sister.”

Whether she heard them or not, the EB-52 stepped down daintily on the desert runway, her tires barely chirping.

She poked her nose up slightly, perhaps indignant to find a full escort of emergency vehicles roaring alongside her. But Bastian had no trouble controlling her, bringing her to a rest near the secondary access ramp at the middle of the field.

“Good work, Colonel,” said Cheshire. “You handled that like a pro. Maybe we will use you as a pilot when Pistol and Billy leave.”

Chapter 22

Kevin nodded at the guard as the gate swung back from the road, the panel of chain links groaning and clicking as the metal wheels whirled. While the path was wide enough for a tractor-trailer, no vehicles were allowed past the checkpoint, not even the black SUVs used by Dreamland security.

Madrone proceeded past the gate and the three cement-reinforced metal pipes that stuck up from the roadway, walking toward the pillbox that served as the entrance to the ANTARES lab. Made of concrete, the building bore the scars from its use long ago as a target area for live-fire exercises, though it had been at least two decades since the last piece of lead had ricocheted off the thick gray exterior. The interior somehow managed to smell not only damp, but like fried chicken, perhaps because the main vents from the underground complex ran through an access shaft next to the stairway.

Madrone nearly lost his balance as he stepped down the tight spiral stairway. All of the qualifying tests for ANTARES had taken place over at Taj; coming to the lab yesterday had been a revelation — truthfully, he didn’t even know it existed. The bunker facility had actually not been used during the program’s first phase, except for some minor tests; it was only after ANTARES was officially shut down that the computers and other gear were consolidated here. Geraldo had been using it as an office and lab for a few months, but the scent of fresh paint managed to mingle with the heavier odors as Ma-drone stepped off the stairway and across the wide ramp. No human guards were posted beyond the gate, and like the rest of Dreamland, there were no signs to direct anyone; it was assumed that if you had business here, you knew where you were going.

The metal ramp led to a subterranean catacomb area with three large metal doors, none of which looked as if they had been opened in years. Madrone went to the door on the right, which was the only one that worked. It was also the only one with a magnetic card reader. He pushed his ID into the slot and the door slowly creaked upward. He took a breath, then ducked beneath it, passing into a long hallway whose raked cement walls and dull red overhead lights continued the early-bomb-shelter motif. At the end of the hallway he turned right, and was immediately blinded by light; before his eyes could adjust the door in front of him slid open, activated by a computer security system similar to the one that governed Taj’s elevator.

Now the ambiance changed dramatically. He stepped onto a plush green carpet and walked down the hallway, barely glancing at the Impressionist paintings — elaborate canvas transfer prints complete with forged brush strokes like the real thing. As he neared Lab Room 1, the adagio of a Mozart Concerto — K.313, for flute and orchestra — filtered into the hallway, and he smelled the light perfume of Earl Grey tea.

“Good morning, Kevin, come in, come in,” said Dr. Geraldo.

She was wearing a lab coat and her customary severe suit, but otherwise seemed more like a matron welcoming visitors to the family estate than a staid scientist. She ushered Kevin to a thick leather chair and went to get him some tea; somewhere along the way he’d mentioned that he preferred it to coffee.

“And a pineapple Danish,” she said, appearing with a plate and cloth napkin. “Did you sleep well?” the psychiatrist asked him.

“As a matter of fact I did,” he told her. “Best I’ve slept in weeks. Didn’t have any dreams.”

“We always have dreams,” she said gently. “You mean that you don’t remember them.”

“True.”

“How many cigarettes have you had this morning?”

Kevin laughed — not at her stern-grandmother scowl, but at the realization that he hadn’t had any. He hadn’t even thought of it.

“I think your pills are a cure for nicotine fits,” he suggested.

“If so, you and I will share a fortune,” she said kindly. Geraldo glanced toward his thumbs, which Kevin belatedly pulled into his fists; that was one habit he hadn’t yet broken. “You’ve gained weight. Very good. You did your exercises?”

“Yes, ma’am. Full hour.”

“Let me look at your spider,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to examine the side of his skull above his ear. It was a bit of a joke — the integrated circuit placed there to facilitate the ANTARES connection looked like a flattened spider. “Itchy?”

“Not today,” said Kevin.

“Yes, I think it’s fine. I think it was only the irritation from the shaving bothering you.”

He sipped his tea. Inside the next room, Geraldo’s two assistants were making last-minute adjustments to the equipment. One of them made a joke that somehow involved the word “monkey,” and the other laughed.

Monkey. That’s what he was.

Madrone concentrated on the Danish as Geraldo reviewed the results of yesterday’s session. She gave brain wave and serotonin levels, which he knew wouldn’t be encouraging — they had failed to make a link.

The thing was, he didn’t quite know what making a link really meant. Geraldo said it would be like shaking hands with the computer, except that it would seem imaginary. He’d feel it more than think it.

Neither description cleared up his confusion. Zen, who had gone through ANTARES before his crash, described it as a smack on the head with an anvil, followed by the warm buzz of a beer when you’d spent the day working outside in the sun.

That didn’t help either. Not only had he never been hit by an anvil, Madrone rarely drank, and frankly didn’t like the loss of control that came with being buzzed, let alone drunk.

Geraldo bent down in front of him, so close he could smell the tea on her breath. “You’re worried this morning.”

“A little nervous.” He felt his thumb twitch.

“You’ll be fine,” she told him. “The link will come. It takes time. Everyone is different. There are different pathways. Trust me.”

Shorn of its classified and complicated science, descriptions of the ANTARES system tended to sound either like Eastern religion or sci-fi fantasies. The bottom line was an age-old dream — ANTARES allowed a subject’s brain to control mechanical devices. It was hardly magic, however. The subject could not simply think an item into existence, nor could he — for some reason not totally understood, no woman had ever been an effective ANTARES subject — move items by simply thinking of them. Thought impulses, which corresponded to minute chemical changes in synapses in different sections of the brain, controlled a series of sensitive ultralow-voltage electrical switches in the ANTARES interface unit, which in turn controlled the external object — in this case a gateway to a special version of C3, the Flighthawk control computer.

But before Madrone could interface with C3, he had to reach Theta-alpha, the scientists’ shorthand for a mental state where he could produce and control the impulses of the hippocampus in his brain. The production of the waves were measured on an electroencephalograph. All humans, in fact all carnivorous animals, produced such waves. But few people could actually control them, let alone use them to project thoughts as instructions. Successful ANTARES subjects could do just that, using the brain waves as extensions of their thoughts, in effect talking to a computer without bothering to use their mouths.

In Theta-alpha, the brain began utilizing resources that it normally didn’t tap. Or as an ANTARES researcher explained it on the introductory video: “Areas of the brain that normally go unused are suddenly put into service to control autonomous functions. The average person uses only thirty percent of his available brain capacity, but under Theta-alpha, the other seventy percent is suddenly put on line.”

That seventy percent would be augmented by the computers it was interfaced with. When he mastered Theta and ANTARES, Kevin would tap into their memories and, to some extent, computational abilities.

ANTARES had physical components. A special diet, drugs, and feedback manipulated serotonin and other chemical levels in the subject’s brain. A chip implant in the skull supplied and regulated the vital connection to the ANTARES input and output system: this was physically taped to a receptor or, alternatively, overlain by a copper connection band in the ANTARES control helmet. ANTARES subjects had to either sit in a special chair or wear a flight suit that contained a sensor that ran parallel to their spine, allowing the ANTARES monitoring units to record peripheral nervous-system impulses. But the most important component was the subject’s mind, and his will to extend beyond himself. Kevin had to think himself beyond the interface into the object itself. As Geraldo was fond of saying, he had to discover a way to think in harmony with the machine. He needed to invent a new language with its own feelings, metaphors, and even thoughts.

“The important thing is not to push too hard,” she told him now. “Let it come to you. It will. Are you ready?”

Madrone took a last bite of his pastry, then got up and followed her into the lab. He stripped off his shirt, holding his arms up while the techies carefully taped wire leads that would monitor his heartbeat and breathing. Shirt back on, he slipped into the subject chair, which looked like a slightly wider version of the one found in most dentist offices.

“Going to prick you, Captain,” said Carrie, one of the assistants, as she picked up his hand. He nodded, trying not to stare at her breasts as she poked á small needle into his right thumb. She held the needle against his finger as she retrieved a roll of white adhesive tape from her lab coat pocket. A small tube ran from the needle to a device that measured gases in Madrone’s bloodstream, analyzing his respiration rate during the experiment.

It was all but impossible not to imagine the outlines of her nipples rising as she attached the device.

In the meantime, the other assistant — Roger, whose long nose, wide stomach, and long legs made him look like a pregnant stork — got ready to put the ANTARES helmet on Kevin’s head. The helmet was actually more a liner made of a flexible plastic with bumps and veins; a full flight helmet would go over it when they got to the point where he was actually working in a plane. Besides the thick metal band that connected with the chip, there were two classes of sensors strung in a thick net within the plastic. The first and most important picked up brain waves and fed them to the translating unit, backing up those that were fed through the chip and band interface. The other sensors helped the scientists track Madrone’s physical state.

With the helmet on, Roger lowered a shieldlike set of visual sensors to track rapid eye movements over his eyes. These backed up the translating sensors, and gave the scientists another way of monitoring their progress. In the next stage of the experiments, the sensors would be part of the flight helmet and would be used by ANTARES to help it interpret his thought commands.

The physical feedback input from electrodes, which would be connected to the spider and grafted onto the nerves of the skin behind the eyes and ears, wouldn’t be used until Madrone demonstrated he was capable of achieving and controlling Theta. The electrodes would allow the computer to send data to him, first by affecting his equilibrium, and then by interacting with his brain’s Theta-alpha wave production.

A ponytail of wires connected the ANTARES helmet with a bank of workstations and two servers. These fed data to a set of supercomputers the next level down via a set of optical cables. The interface modules for the Flighthawk’s C units were still being worked on, but eventually would be hooked into a smaller, portable (and air-cooled) version of the ANTARES computer array.

Madrone sat stoically in the chair as the technicians prepared him. Geraldo had given him breathing exercises to do as a form of relaxation; he tried them now, imagining his lungs slowly squeezing the air from his chest. He pictured his upper body as a large balloon, gradually being emptied. He relaxed his arms and hands on the seat rests, easing himself into the chair. When the visor was placed on his face he accepted the darkness.

His lips and cheeks vibrated slightly, as if set off by some internal pitchfork tuned to their frequency. Someone placed headphones over his ears. The Mozart concerto played softly in the background.

The music called up memories of the past, times in junior and senior high school, learning the cello. Orchestra was his favorite class, though not his best — B’s and B+’s compared to the A’s and A+’s in math and science. The thickness of the notes matched the feel of the bow in his hand, the vibration shifting in his senses. Sounds morphed into movement through space, and space itself transformed, the high school halls a jungle of jagged shadows and sharp corners.

“Kevin, are you ready?”

Geraldo’s voice intruded like a bully bursting from the shadows. Junior and senior high school were in the same building, seventh-graders mixing with towering twelfth-graders, always cowering in fear of being pummeled.

“Kevin?”

“Yes,” said Madrone.

“Your hippocampus has grown two percent since our measurement twenty-four hours ago,” said the scientist. “That is extremely good. Surprising even. Incredible.”

“Off the chart,” said Roger approvingly.

The hippocampus was one of the key areas of the brain involved in ANTARES, since it produced nearly all the Theta waves. Also responsible for memory control and other functions, it was actually a ridge at the bottom of each of the brain’s lateral ventricles. Geraldo had explained that she wasn’t sure the size of the ridge or the number of cells there mattered. Nonetheless, the ANTARES diet and drug regime included several hormones that were supposed to help stimulate the grown of brain cells.

“Our baseline frequencies this morning are 125 percent,” continued Geraldo. “Kevin, I must say, we’re doing very well. Very, very well. Can you feel the computer? If I try a simple tone, do you feel it? The feedback?”

He shook his head. Her praise was misplaced. He had no control over his. thoughts, let alone the growth of his brain cells. He was worthless, a failure, useless. Karen had seen that and left.

His brain began to shift, ideas floating back and forth like pieces of paper caught in a breeze.

Something hot burned a hole on the side of his head.

Red grew there. His skull bones folded inward, became a flute.

Maria Mahon, the flute player in ninth-grade orchestra.

He had a crush on her. Thomas Lang, a senior, was her boyfriend.

Stuck-up rich kid bully slimebag.

Go out for the football team, his dad urged.

He broke his forearm and couldn’t play the cello anymore.

Very red and hot.

The light notes moved down the scale. He was a horrible trumpet player. Try the bass, pound-pound-pounding.

Red knives poked him from the sides of the hall. Someone took a machine gun from the locker.

Respond with the York Gatling gun. He had one in his hands. His head was the radar he’d worked on.

Pounding red lava from the cortex of his brain.

Madrone heard words, hard words that shot across the pain, spun him in the displaced hallway of his distorted memories.

“Kevin, try to relax. Let your body sway with the music.

You’re fighting too hard.”

Relax, relax, relax. Don’t think about the bullies.

The tanks. He was in Iraq, alone with his men.

“Lieutenant?”

“Go left. I’m right. Just go!”

He screamed, running faster. He drew the Iraqis’ fire and his men did their jobs, it was all so easy in his memory now, without the pain and the nervousness, knowing exactly how it would come out, the elation, the adrenaline at the end, the smell of the burning metal, the extra grenade still in his hand.

He could do it. He wanted to do it.

And then Karen. Christina being born in the hospital. Taking blood in the doctor’s office when she was a week old because the TSH had been so elevated.

Normal, said the nurse, for a traumatic birth.

Except the birth hadn’t been traumatic. Labor was only two hours and the kid nailed the Apgar charts.

Christina wailed as they pricked her heel. They couldn’t get the blood to flow.

The second test, then the third. X-rays. Colonel Glavin, Theo P. Glavin, wouldn’t give him the day off so he could be there.

“P” for Prick.

Oh, God, you bastards, why did you poison her?

Karen, don’t you see — they killed her. They poisoned her and then me.

His wife looked at him from across the room, the empty white room at the back of the small church where they’d had the service for Christina, their poor, dead little girl. Karen’s eyes stabbed at his chest, wounding him again, the memory so vivid it wasn’t a memory but reality; he was in the church again, his daughter dead, his marriage crumbling, his life over. He’d been uncontrollable at the service, blurting out the truth, what he knew was the truth — they had poisoned her through him, killed her.

He’d get them, the bastards who’d exposed him to the radiation, exposed her —

“Kevin?”

“I can’t do it, I’m sorry.” Madrone snapped upright in the chair. He yanked off the helmet.

“Easy, easy,” said Geraldo. Her fingers folded over his gently but firmly. “Let’s break for lunch.”

Her words or perhaps her touch pushed him back, somehow both surprising and calming him at the same time.

“Lunch?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s lunchtime,” she said. “Why don’t you go over to the Red Room? Take a real break. We’ll start from scratch at two o’clock.”

“What time is it?” asked Madrone. He’d only just sat in the chair, perhaps five minutes ago.

“High noon,” said Roger. “You’ve been attached for nearly two hours. Flirting with Theta-alpha the whole time. You’re close.” He put his thumb and forefinger a half centimeter apart. “You’re damn close.”

Chapter 23

“Hey, monkey brain,” said Mack as he entered the food line in the mess hall and spotted Madrone in front of him. “How’s it feel to have a microchip in your head?”

“Hi, Major.” Madrone stood stiffly, eyes on the cook’s helper who was cutting him some roast beef. Mack thought the Army captain looked even paler than normal. The ANTARES people must have started frying his brain already.

Gained a few pounds, though.

“Lot of food you got there,” said Knife. “Bulking up for all that skull work, huh?”

“I’m hungry.”

“That a boy. Go for the red meat. No more Twig, right? Got a new nickname — Microchip Brain. Monkey Boy.”

The airman slicing the meat glanced in Mack’s direction.

“No electrodes in your neck yet?” Mack asked Madrone, narrowing his eyes as if he were scanning for microscopic ANTARES implants. “Guess 1 can’t ask you to toast my bread, huh?”

“Jeez, you’re more obnoxious than usual today, Knife,” said Zen, rolling in behind him.

“And why not, oh, exalted one,” said Mack. He did a mock bow. “Your father-in-law just offered me a job as janitor here.”

Actually, Bastian had tried to talk him into flying Megafortresses. Smith would take a job with a commuter airline, or even look up that Brazilian geezer who’d come on to him in Vegas, before stooping to flying BUFFs.

“I’m sure you’ll get a good assignment soon,” said Jeff.

The thing about Stockard that pissed Knife off was his ability to deliver a line like that without giving himself away. Anybody overhearing him undoubtedly thought he was being sincere.

Mack knew otherwise. But there was no real way to answer him, or at least Mack couldn’t think of anything snappy. He compensated by making sure the airman cut him an extra slab of beef from the rare side of the roast, then helped himself to the rest of the spread. Known colloquially as the Red Room, this mess and the fancy food had once been reserved for special occasions. Bastian had thrown it open with his “all ranks, all the time” decree. Interestingly, most of the base personnel had responded by using the Red Room only for special occasions.

Mack decided he’d eat here until his next assignment was settled. Might as well. Odds were he’d end up getting shipped out to Alaska, or perhaps the Antarctic.

Bastian — whom he’d actually had to make an appointment to see — had pretended to be gracious after Mack turned down the Megafortress. He’d told him he could stay on as an “unassigned test pilot,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Obviously a career crusher. When Mack had said that was no good, Bastian had pointed out that the MiG project would live on for only a few weeks more. After filling out some odds and ends and collecting data for future simulations of next-generation Russian planes, the plane would head for deep storage. If Mack couldn’t snag something before then. he might very well find himself assigned to something he didn’t like, almost certainly not at Dreamland.

Things did look bleak. The only assignment Mack’s preliminary trolling had turned up was as a maintenance officer for a squadron of A-10A Warthogs.

It was possible, maybe even likely, that the brass was trying to get him to glide into the sunset. The fact that he’d gotten waxed over Somalia probably embarrassed them. They just hadn’t dared admitting it to his face at the time.

Bastards. Let them put their butts over a few dozen ZSUs and SA-9’s. If he hadn’t hung around there, an entire company of Marines and at least one helicopter would be Somalian tourist attractions right now.

Knife took his tray into the paneled eating area, his flight boots tromping on the thick red carpet that gave the room its name. Madrone sat by himself at a table for four in the corner. Mack walked over and put his tray down.

“Penny for your thoughts, Monkey Brain,” said Mack. When Madrone didn’t respond, Mack started humming the start of the John Lennon song “Mind Games.”

Madrone shot him a glance, then put his head down, staring at his food.

“Silent treatment. I get it,” said Knife.

Zen rolled across the room, tray in his lap. “Mind if I sit here, Kevin?” he asked.

“I’m kind of thinking,” said Madrone softly.

Smith started to laugh. “What the hell are you thinking about?”

“Leave him alone, Smith.”

“Come on, Zen, Kevvy can fight his own battles. Right, Key?”

“I would like to be left alone,” said Madrone, his voice a monotone so soft it was difficult to hear even in the quiet room.

“Hey, that’s okay, Kevin,” said Zen.

“Guess he doesn’t like you today,” said Mack.

Stockard said nothing, rolling backward and then across to the next table. Madrone stared down at his food.

Mack liked the guy, he really did. Maybe he shouldn’t have busted his balls quite so hard.

“Hey, look, Key, I didn’t mean nothing, okay? Just bustin’ your chops. If I was out of line, I’m sorry.”

The Army captain raised his head slowly. His face had changed — his eyes were squeezed down in his forehead, under a long furrow.

“Go away, Major,” he said.

Mack laughed. That’s what he got for trying to be nice.

Madrone stared at his food for a few seconds more, then slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and walked from the room.

“See ya, Microchip Brain,” said Mack, looking across at Jeff. “They got to him already.” He shook his head. “They ought to bag ANTARES.”

“For once I may have to agree with you,” said Zen before turning back to his food.

Chapter 24

The chair poked into his back. His legs were lead. A thick snake had wrapped itself around his head.

“Relax now. Kevin,” said Geraldo. “Do your breathing. You’ll find Theta when the time is right.”

What did it take to breathe? What muscles did he use?

Poor, poor Christina, lying so helpless in the hospital bed, smiling at him. She’d been born with anaplastic thyroid cancer, a rare, nearly inexplicable, and always fatal cancer. It could only have come from the radiation he’d been exposed to at Glass Mountain and Los Alamos. Poison.

No. He’d gone over all that, buried it a year after burying his daughter, after his wife left. Colonel Glavin helped him get a transfer. That was five long years ago.

He was the helpless one. Impotent.

That wasn’t him, just a part of him. Once he’d been tough, once he’d been brave. The bullets splattering around him. He ran with the grenade in his hand.

Shit, the tape is gone. I pulled it, it’s live.

Screw these bastards. Screw them all!

Knives, red and sharp, poking from every direction.

“Try to relax, Kevin,” said Geraldo again.

“The music,” he said. “Could you, could you change it?”

“The music’s bothering you?”

He felt his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes. It’s killing me.”

“Carrie, the music.”

“I’ll get it, Doc,” said Roger. There was some static in the background, then a loud click. “Oh, shit,” said the techie.

A loud hush filled Kevin’s ears, a kind of wind sound that must have come from some malfunction in the equipment, a crossed wire or something. There was a light popping noise in the background, a set of footsteps, and then a sound like thunder, two peals, three. The noise gave way to a storm, rain coursing down from enormous clouds, bursting overhead, then trickling slowly across and through a thick canopy of leaves. Light burst across his eyes, then darkness again, shapes receding.

He stood in a thick forest. Rain fell all around him. His pants were wet.

Alone in the middle of a vast tropical rain forest, alone and at peace.

“You’re in,” whispered Geraldo from far way. “You’re in.”

The forest felt beautiful and empty. Could he stay here? A jaguar circled nearby. A snake slithered through the trees. It was more jungle than forest.

Rain. Storm.

“Kevin?”

Madrone felt something snap below his head, a sharp pain as if he’d overstretched a ligament. Someone pulled off the glasses.

Geraldo was standing in front of him, smiling. Her assistants were peering over her shoulders, expressions of awe on their faces.

“You were in Theta-alpha for twenty-eight minutes,” said Geraldo. “And you responded to the computer.”

“I was in Theta?”

What had the computer said to him? What had he seen? What had he felt?

He didn’t remember anything except a vague, restful pleasure.

And danger at the edges, beyond the trees.

“Are you sure I was in Theta-alpha?” he asked again.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. You were in Theta and you responded to the computer. Just a pulse, but it was definitely there,” said Geraldo. “I can’t believe it. We’ve never, ever had results like this. Never. Not this early, not this long or fast.”

“Let’s do it again,” Kevin said.

“So soon?” said Geraldo.

“Let’s do it again,” he insisted.

“Your pants,” said Roger, pointing. He’d lost control of his bladder as he entered Theta.

It was immaterial. He had to get back there.

“Again,” Kevin said sharply.

Chapter 25

Colonel Bastian pushed his legs under his desk, stretching out some of the knots that had twisted in his muscles. But there was no way to release the pressure of the one developing in his head.

“The way this works, Colonel,” General Magnus continued over the secure phone, “reports come to my office.”

“I understand the normal procedure, General,” said Bastian, struggling to keep his voice level. “I was ordered—”

“You don’t accept orders from anyone but me.”

“The Assistant Secretary of Defense asked specifically for an eyes-only assessment of ANTARES. I delivered it. And I copied you ahead of time, despite her instructions not to.”

“Chain of command. Chain of command.”

Dog pushed the phone away, resisting the temptation to answer. He detested the political bullshit. Worse, he’d been maneuvered into a no-win situation. Magnus was his boss, but Washington wanted a direct say over what happened at Dreamland. Magnus hadn’t minded that so much with the past Administration — he’d been tight with the NSC as well as the Joint Chiefs. But things were different now.

Nor did it help that Dog had told Washington what it didn’t want to hear — go slow, if at all, on ANTARES.

“You still there, Bastian?”

“Yes, General, I am.” Dog pulled the receiver back to his ear.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Magnus said. “You’re covering your ass fifty ways to Sunday on this.”

“Actually, sir, I’m playing it straight. We’re ramping up ANTARES, per your direct order. But at the same time, I don’t think it should have priority.”

Magnus snorted. “You sound like Brad Elliott more and more.” He was referring to Dreamland’s last commander.

“I’d take that as a great compliment, General.”

“Just remember where the hell he is,” snapped Magnus, breaking the connection abruptly.

As he hung up the phone, Dog realized the lieutenant general had never actually disagreed with the report on ANTARES. But it wasn’t Magnus’s opinion — or Bastian’s — that counted. And the truth was, the program was galloping along.

The intercom buzzed.

“Next appointment, Senior Scientist Andrew Ichison,” said Gibbs. “Mack Smith is also waiting, sir.”

“Again?”

“Wants to check on the progress of his assignment, sir.” Dog could tell from Gibbs’s tone that Smith was standing about three inches from him.

“Tell him there’s nothing to report.”

“I did that, sir.”

“Slot him in.”

“Your call, sir,” said Ax, hanging up the phone.

Bastian pushed his chair back, waiting for Ichison to appear. The scientist had been part of the high-altitude spy glider project, which the Administration had cut. Dog had to tell him, along with twenty other civilians, there was no place for him at Dreamland, and probably anywhere else in the government.

ANTARES was hot. The advanced particle laser, the high-altitude spy glider, the HARM follow-ons, and the MiG Aggressor projects were not. Many of the senior military people who’d been working on them would be shunted into career dead ends. A good portion of the civilians would be left with nothing but a handshake and a reduced government pension for their years here.

Most accepted the news with grace. They thanked him for trying to hunt down jobs, and then giving them a personal heads-up on the prospects. And then there were people like Mack Smith — who barged into the office instead of Ichison.

“Major, you are to wait in line,” Dog told him.

“Egghead told me to go first. Nice guy. So how are we doing, Colonel? Did you find something?”

“I offered you a job here.”

“No offense, Dog, but you and I both know that’s going nowhere. Unassigned test pilot — that’s a man without a country.”

“I meant the Megafortress project.”

“Ah, I’m a jock. I’m not flying cows. Shit, Colonel, the EB-52 is a girl’s plane, you know what I mean?”

“No, Major, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hey, it’s great for Cheshire and Rap, probably as much as they can handle. But guys like us — we’re jocks, right? We belong in the best.”

“You know, Mack, I’ve had a ball-buster of a day. In spite of that, and maybe in spite of my best judgment, I have actually made some inquiries on your behalf. But you know what? I have a tremendous headache. And when I get a headache, I sometimes forget to follow up on things. I don’t answer important phone calls. Paperwork tends to get lost.”

“Gotcha, Colonel.” Mack jumped to his feet. “F-22 is going to need a commander, I hear.”

Dog said nothing.

“How about a gig in Europe? Naples?”

“Good night, Major.”

Mack took a few quick steps toward the door. “Hey, go easy on Ichison,” he said, spinning around. “Not wrapped too tight. I told him there’d be plenty of people looking for an engineer with experience like him and he just about started crying.”

“Thanks.”

“Just doing my bit.”

Chapter 26

Breanna took her beer inside into the living room, curling up on the couch next to Jeff in his wheelchair. He had a folder with reports open on his lap, and seemed only vaguely interested in the basketball game on the TV; she reached for the TV controller.

“Don’t change the station,” he growled.

“Oh, come on, Jeff. You’re not watching it.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s the score?”

“Denver 45, Seattle 23.”

“Blowout.”

“Don’t change the station.”

“What a grouch,” she said. She drew a curve on Jeff’s skull behind his ear, sliding her finger down and back along his neck. “Come on. You don’t want to watch TV. Let’s watch a dirty movie.”

“Friends is not a dirty movie. And that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“After Friends.”

Her hand shot toward the controller, but he was too fast, snatching it away.

But then, as she knew he would, he clicked it to her program.

“Whatcha doing anyway?” she asked him as the opening credits rolled.

“Classified.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just bullshit for Washington,” said Jeff finally, closing the folder. “Flighthawks and ANTARES. Need-to-know bullshit.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Breanna. “What are you getting me for Valentine’s Day?”

“A six-pack of Anchor Steam.”

“Very romantic.”

Jeff tucked the folder away in his briefcase, locked it, then wheeled himself into the kitchen. By the time he returned with a beer, the program had started. As it happened, it was one of the two Breanna had already managed to see.

“Want to play Scrabble?” she asked.

Jeff agreed as long as she’d put the basketball game back on. Twenty minutes later, she was ahead by more than a hundred points.

“What’s bothering you?” she asked her husband. “You didn’t all of a sudden start rooting for the Sonics, did you?” He shrugged.

Breanna put her fingers at the base of his neck, kneading gently. Finally he began to speak.

“I saw Kevin today. I think ANTARES is blowing his head to pieces.”

“They only just started.”

“He got into Theta-alpha already. I talked to Geraldo before I came home. She’s excited as hell and pushed up the simulator tests. He’ll be at Stage Five in a few days. Hell, maybe tomorrow.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Flying on the sim.”

“Really?”

Jeff nodded his head but didn’t say anything. ANTARES was one of the few things they didn’t talk about before his accident, and not just because the program was highly classified. Something about the interface and the associated protocols, Breanna gathered, deeply bothered Zen. But when her husband didn’t want to talk about something, he didn’t; there was no sense pushing him.

Besides, there were better ways to spend the night. Breanna slid her fingers under his shirt. “Loser has to draw the bath,” she told him. “And gets the bottom.”

“Bree—”

She leaned forward and kissed his temple, then rolled her tongue gently around his ear. “All right, you get the bottom whatever the score.”