Nerve Center

“I’m thirsty.”

“You don’t think you’re going to have to pee?”

Truck shrugged. “I never have to pee when I’m flying. I was a Hog driver, remember? You drive a Hog, you grow your bladder.”

“Wing tanks.”

“Exactly.”

Not equipped with an autopilot until recently, the bare-bones A-10A Warthog was a very difficult plane to take a leak in; you had to work the piddle-pack into position while keeping the stick steady with a combination of body English and wishful thinking.

“You think I should go back to the ANTARES pod and check on Madrone?” he asked. “He’s all alone back there.”

“Probably jacking off.” They both laughed—Madrone was a bit of a cipher. “Might as well work your way back and make sure he’s okay. This is the first time he’s flown without a baby-sitter back there,” added Trent. He tossed the empty bottle to his copilot. “Just don’t get lost.”

“I may trip over something,” said Kulpin. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I fall behind one of those black boxes you’ll never see me again.”

Ten seconds after he disappeared through the bulkhead, Dream Tower gave the go to launch.

Sharkishki

19 February, 0950

MACK GLANCED AT THE SMALL FLIGHT BOARD ON HIS knee, where he’d mapped out a cheat-sheet with the parameters of his flight. He was supposed to duplicate yesterday’s final run exactly, or as exactly as possible. It was trickier than it sounded, since he had to duplicate something he’d winged, and didn’t have the high-tech-computer assistant pilots to guide him.

As usual, the computer geeks wanted the tests done a certain way, but hadn’t bothered to explain exactly why. Undoubtedly, they thought the universe worked like one of their programs—plug in the values and go.

“Gameboy to Aggressor,” said Zen in his helmet headset. “You’re looking good.”

“Aggressor,” acknowledged Mack. He spun his eyes around the cockpit, checking his instruments. He needed to come up five hundred feet if he was going to do this right; he coaxed the throttle so he wouldn’t lose any speed as he nudged his nose upward. The Flighthawks were ahead somewhere, still undetected by his radar.

“Let’s rock,” he said impatiently. “Madrone, get with it.”

Hawkmother

19 February, 0954

MADRONE SAW THE MiG FAT IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS head, precisely midway between the two Flighthawks as they approached. The computer had yesterday’s track duplicated exactly, making a minor adjustment to accommodate the MiG’s slower airspeed.

It was going well. His headache hadn’t reappeared, and the fatigue had slipped away once the metal band of the ANTARES helmet liner slipped over his skull. Even the stiff flight suit, with its spike ru

If anything, he was bored. The computer flew with minimal input, tracing the course. He could, of course, think himself into either cockpit. He could roll quickly, shoot downward, climb, launch a front-quarter attack, obliterate Sharkishki.

Madrone leaned back in his seat. If he’d thought that yesterday, C3 would have carried out the commands. Today it didn’t. He’d learned to partition his thoughts, keep different strands going.

A new level. Even greater control. More possibilities.

The headache and the dreams were growth pains, his mind bouncing against the ceiling of the next level, breaking through it.

There were so many other things he could do. He could reach out through ANTARES and go beyond it.

Kevin could feel the autopilot for the Boeing, hovering in the background. He saw it beyond the gateway.

He could use ANTARES to walk into the room and see the levers there. Once he saw them, he could work them.

Metaphors. Mastering ANTARES was a matter of finding the right metaphor—inventing the right language.

Madrone snaked into Hawkmother’s cockpit. The radar inputs felt like small twitches on the base of his neck. He could almost see himself.

Ignore the returns painting the Flighthawks. It’s too confusing. The controls are difficult enough. Difficult but exciting.

 “Coming to Point Delta,” said Zen somewhere far away. Kevin jumped back to the Flighthawks and acknowledged. It was like passing between different rooms.

Or different parts of the forest. Lightning screeched in the distance. Madrone took a breath, suddenly anxious that the headache might return.

It might. He would deal with it.

The dark woman beyond the edge of his vision would help him.

Breathe, she said. Breathe.

The Flighthawks continued past the MiG as they had yesterday. C3 threw up a dotted line, proposing that they turn and fly toward Sharkishki’s tail. Madrone assented.

He could fly the Boeing if he wanted. The systems were complicated, but the plane itself was more inherently stable, easier to control than the Flighthawks. He could feel the control yoke in his hand.

A tremendous jolt of pain crashed into the back of his head, nearly taking away his breath.

Rain, she told him. Stay in Theta.

Rain.

Rave19 February, 1005

ZEN GLANCED QUICKLY AT THE FEED FROM THE Flighthawk cockpits, then pushed the headset’s mouthpiece closer to his face. “Repeat, Hawk Commander?” he asked.

“Nothing. No transmission. Sorry,” said Madrone. He sounded like he was out of breath.

Jeff called up the optical feed from Hawk One as the two U/MFs approached the MiG. The overhead plot had everyone precisely in place. The planes passed each other and the Flighthawks began to bank behind the MiG.

How would an engagement like this go if there were thirty or forty planes in the air? Could Madrone really control it all?

Could he?

Zen studied the instrument feeds as the two Flighthawks spun around and began to close on Mack. The planes were in perfect mechanical condition, all systems in the green.

Damn hard just sitting here and watching, using the tubes instead of his visor. He ought to be in the cockpit.

That meant getting back into ANTARES. Two years from now, maybe even sooner, it would be the only way to control the Flighthawks. It was clearly the future.

Zen hit the toggle on the video feed, bringing the enhanced satellite view onto the main screen. He forced himself to focus on his work. The Flighthawks duplicated yesterday’s near miss.

“Here we go,” said Mack, tipping his wing.

“Breaking off,” said Madrone. The two Flighthawks shot downward, rolling on opposite wings in a graceful arc back toward the other end of the range.

“Got it,” said Lee Ong from the other station. Ong was watching the Flighthawks’ computer systems. “I think that’s what she wants.”

“Close enough?”

“She didn’t say to scrape paint,” said the scientist. “All she really wants to see are what commands fired.”

Zen checked his watch. They had exactly an hour and a half of time on the range left.

Might as well put it to use.

“Mack, what’s your fuel?”

“You want kilos or you want pounds?”

“How’s about time?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“What are we doing here, Jeff?” asked Madrone in his now-standard snot-ass tone.

“I’m thinking we can practice some tanker approaches. First we’ll try a couple with the MiG.”

“Why?” asked Mack. “Why not use the Hawkmother?”

“Because I want to work on theory first, then worry about dealing with the vortexes the Boeing kicks off,” said Jeff. “Kevin, I want you to fly the plane, not C3.”

“Shit. He’s going to have more trouble pulling up behind me than the 777,” said Mack.

“Even if that were true, you’ve demonstrated twice now that you can get out of the way fast.”

“Oh, thanks. Hear that, Junior? Dad doesn’t think you’ll be careful with his car.”