Nerve Center

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

“Except that there were transmissions that the Flighthawk team can’t account for. Rubeo told me to talk to Je

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She?”

“Debra Flanigan.”

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

“Colonel. Come on.”

“It’s far-fetched, Da

“I think it’s worth a shot, Colonel.”

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

“Take a shot at it if you think it’s worth it,” he told Da

Pej, Brazil

27 February, 1700 local

HE PLUNGED INSIDE HER AGAIN AND AGAIN, PUSHING himself against her body. Minerva’s breasts curved against his chest and her lips pressed into his, warm electricity bathing his body. Madrone felt himself begi

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

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

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

“Our first step, today.”

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

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

The bastards. Puny Mirages. They would pay.

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

Loading the planes with shells was child’s play, a simple adjustment not worthy of his expertise. But the ca

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

He saw the solutions before he did the computations. His brain unfolded in a million directions. Under Minerva’s care, without the Dreamland bastards breathing down his neck, his powers increased exponentially. He ran to each corner of his mind, vibrating with ferocious energy. He felt co

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

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

“The ca

“Think of something else for now.”

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

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

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

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

Dreamland Computer Labs

27 February, 1700 local

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

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

“Go ahead, please.”

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

Je

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Early on I realized that they were part of the Boeing’s computer-assist-pilot unit. It’s obvious—you can see the coding once you know what to look for. What I didn’t realize until a few days ago—well, yesterday actually—while we were doing some upgrades on ANTARES, was that the leak isn’t accidental. It corresponds to specific wave patterns. It’s a command.”