Nerve Center

He’d pull his nose up at the last second, send the son of a bitch right into the dead lake bed. Easy as pie, as long as he kept his head clear and his speed up high enough to avoid stalling.

Madrone would smash the $500-million Flighthawk to bits. Let him explain that, the SOB.

Aboard Hawkmother

18 February, 1307

KEVIN’S THOUGHTS AND IDEAS STREAMED THROUGH THE blue sky, comets jittering and disintegrating. He thought of sending the Flighthawks crashing into the MiG.

The idea remained there, a contrail in the jungle sky. He grabbed for it desperately, trying to wipe it away.

“Knock it off! Knock it off!” Zen yelled.

The red disappeared. The sky and rain forest disappeared. And then he felt Hawk Two, felt the wind coursing below his wings. He relaxed, put his nose up, and circled away from the MiG, breaking pursuit.

Kevin’s head pounded; his heart thumped against his chest. He wanted to turn the two robot planes back over to their flight computer, but he dared not. He couldn’t be sure what other ideas sat out there, ghosts ready to jump in and take control.

“What the hell’s going on, Kevin?” asked Stockard.

“Hawks One and Two returning to base,” he answered. “Requesting permission to land.”

Aboard Raven

18 February, 1313

ZEN PUNCHED THE TRANSMISSION SWITCH ANGRILY. THIS time it had clearly been Kevin’s fault; Mack had flown the pattern perfectly until the Flighthawks homed in on his tail. If anything, Mack had waited too long to take evasive maneuvers. It was a miracle there hadn’t been a collision, and at least a minor miracle that he hadn’t lost Sharkishki.

Jeff had screwed up too. He hadn’t told them to knock it off soon enough, hadn’t taken over the Flighthawks the instant his command wasn’t obeyed.

Why? Because he thought he’d been a little too harsh on the first go-around?

“What are we doing, Gameboy?” asked Mack. He sounded winded, his voice hoarse.

“Calling it a day,” said Jeff. “Return to base.”

Dreamland Security Office

18 February, 1315

DANNY SLID INTO HIS DESK CHAIR AND OPENED THE folder of FBI foreign-contact alerts in his lap. Officially known as Monthly Referral of Foreign and Suspicious Contacts (Form 23-756FBI/DIA), the five pages of eight-point single-spaced type strained Da

Da

Freah yawned his way through the rest of the report until he came to a three-paragraph account detailing a “contact meeting” between Major Mack Smith and a high-ranking member of the Brazilian defense establishment. The details were trivial—the FBI agent fussed over the cigars they had smoked—Cuban Partagas, blatantly illegal, blah-blah-blah.

Brazil was said to be trying to buy MiGs from the Russians, the agent added, almost as an afterthought.

Da

Smith hadn’t reported the incident.

Not necessarily a big deal. Except that he was assigned to the top-secret Advanced MiG project.

Da

Flighthawk Control Bunker

18 February, 1400

ZEN PUSHED THROUGH THE CONFERENCE ROOM DOUBLE doors so fast he nearly slammed into Chris Ferris, who was reaching for one of the doors.

“Knock if off means knock it the fuck off” he said loudly, wheeling toward the large table at the front of the room where the rest of the ANTARES/Flighthawk team had gathered. Everyone in the room froze.

Everyone except the two people the comment was directed at.

“No shit,” said Mack.

“I did knock it off,” said Madrone.

“You didn’t knock it off fast enough,” Jeff told him. He pushed on the right wheel of his chair, maneuvering as if he were a fighter lining up his enemy in his gunsight. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing happened,” said Madrone.

“You got that close on purpose?”

“I wasn’t close.”

Zen whipped his chair around, facing Mack. He’d expected Smith to be wearing his usual smirk, but instead found the pilot frowning.

Maybe the encounter had actually done some good, instilling a sense of humility in the conceited jerk.

Fat chance.

“What’s your excuse?” said Zen to Mack.

“Aw, fuck you, Stockard. He’s the one who screwed up.”

“You didn’t break off right away.”

“I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.” Mack started for the door.

“Hey. Smith. Smith!”

Jeff wheeled after him, then stopped a few feet from the door, impotent as Mack stormed away.

He told himself to calm down—his job was to keep everything professional, not throw kerosene on the fire. Jeff wheeled back toward the front of the room, corralling his temper. The different tapes of the mission were stacked near the players; an airman assigned as one of the mission assistants waited at full attention near the machine, his bottom lip trembling. Jeff slid near him, trying to smile.

“At ease, Jimmy. Relax.” he whispered. “Breathe.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, who neither relaxed nor stopped trembling.

“Okay,” said Zen, willing his vocal chords to project their characteristically soothing, in-control tone. “Let’s go through this, from the top, bit by bit.”

BREE WATCHED HER HUSBAND AS HE STRUGGLED TO maintain control. Long before she’d met him, he’d earned his nickname “Zen” because he could be calm under the worst circumstances. That, of course, was before the accident; since then, Jeff had much less patience for minor a

It wasn’t just the accident. Jeff seemed uneasy with being in charge—or rather, with standing back and letting other people take control. He wanted to jump in and do it himself.

Unlike her father. Bastian wouldn’t have roared in cursing. He would have found a way to make Kevin and Mack feel like peas, if that’s what he wanted them to feel like, yet stay in the room and actually learn something.

Bree still thought Jeff was overreacting, at least a little. The review of the C3 control tapes showed that the safety parameters had somehow gotten turned off—a programming glitch that Little Miss Je

Brea