Nerve Center

“F-5’s have backed off. Zen got one,” said Chris. “He rammed it.”

“Hawk Leader?”

“I’m here, Bree. You guys okay?”

“For now,” she told him. “Can you give me a visual on our damage? Start with the tail.”

“Yeah.”

The image snapped into the screen on her lower left panel, which was preset to accept the Hawk feed.

“Looks like a half-eaten waffle,” said Chris. It was an apt description; much of the skin had been blown or burned off, leaving the honeycombed carbon-fiber guts exposed.

“We’re stable. I can turn somewhat,” Brea

“Your call,” said Zen.

“Boa Vista’s a hundred miles northwest,” said Chris.

“I don’t know.” Brea

“Okay,” said Chris, working the maps.

The plane bucked sharply.

“Fuel problem,” said the copilot, punching his instruments. “Management panel won’t come up for me.”

“I have it. Find us a landing strip—even a highway at this point.”

“Got an FAB strip five miles south of us. Primitive at best.”

“Jeff, there’s a strip at the edge of the jungle five miles south of here. Can you check it out?”

“Done.”

It didn’t much matter how long the strip was—they might not even make it that far. Two tanks had been shot out; the Boeing’s automated fuel-management system had isolated the tanks, but apparently they were leaking somewhere in the feed lines as well. As Bree stabilized the engines, the monitor warned she was dry.

She thought of saying something to Jeff—maybe apologizing for not accepting his apology before. But the words didn’t come and there was too much to do, keeping the plane steady.

“One of the fuel bags the system shut off sealed,” reported Chris. “I’m trying to get it back on line manually.”

“Give it a try.”

“How long did you say that strip was?” Zen asked. “Less than twelve hundred,” said Chris.

“Try five thousand,” said Jeff. “It’s long, level, and concrete.”

“Give me a vector,” Bree said.

“You’re nearly dead on. It’s hidden by the ridges there. Sharp drop. Check the low-light feed.”

The runway looked brand-new. Everything else—a few buildings, two hangars—looked ramshackle, even from Four’s orbit at five thousand feet. An old propeller transport sat off the ramp.

“No tower that 1 can raise,” said Chris. “Trying Guard. Trying everything.”

“There are people there,” said Zen.

“We’re landing one way or the other. We’re on final,” she added as the moonlit runway suddenly came into view over the mountain.

She blew a tire as they landed, probably because it had been damaged during the attack. Chris struggled with the crosswind readings at the last minute, and Brea

“So, what happens now?” Chris asked.

“We call home,” said Brea

“The question is, why did the F-5’s attack?”

“The country’s in the middle of a crisis,” said Jeff on the interphone. He landed the Flighthawk and taxied behind them. “There’s been a military coup.”

“Just what we need,” said Brea

“Shooting at us still doesn’t make sense,” said Chris. “Unless they thought we were on the other side.”

“Which side is the other side, though?” said Bree.

A jeep waited ahead. A soldier stood in the rear, waving at them.

“Looks like he’s smiling,” said Chris. “What do you think? Pop out and have a chat?”

“Think he’ll speak English?” asked Bree.

“Got me.”

“Those fuckers tried to shoot us down,” said Jeff.

“It wasn’t exactly these guys,” said Brea

“We’re going to have to talk to them sooner or later,” said Chris. “It’s not like we’re at war with Brazil.”

“No?” said Jeff sarcastically.

The men in the jeep jumped out, waving and smiling. They weren’t carrying weapons.

“One of us is going to have to try talking to them,” said Brea

“I don’t know, Bree,” said Jeff.

“Sitting here doesn’t make any sense,” said Chris. “I mean, if they want to, they can just blow us up. But those guys down there don’t look hostile.”

“I think I’ll go talk to them,” said Brea

She could practically hear him debating it, tossing his head back and forth the way he always did. If the attack had been a case of mistaken identity, then going out was the obvious thing to do. Chris had broadcast their position, but there was no indication that any American units had received it; even if they had, it would take hours or even days for them to be found. In the meantime, their radio’s range would be severely limited by the mountains.

On the other hand, the F-5 attack had hardly been a friendly gesture.

“I think our options are either to blow up the plane or talk to them,” Brea

“Blowing up the plane doesn’t make sense,” said Zen finally.

“I agree,” said Chris.

Brea

Brea

Brea

A Flighthawk.

“I thought you landed, Jeff,” she yelled, rolling to her feet. As she rose, one of the men who had come to greet her pulled out an Uzi and pointed it in her face.

VII

DOOM

 

Pej, Brazil

7 March, 2300 (1900 Dreamland)

AS SHE WALKED TOWARD THE AMERICAN PLANE, Minerva’s anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of awe and even envy. The massive black plane loomed from the dark shadows like a mythic beast, its sleek nose a sword thrusting from massive shoulders. The plane towered above her on its gear, with smooth skin like a dark shark in the night. It was so big it seemed like another part of the mountain, pulled down in an avalanche. Yet the F-5 pilots reported the big bomber could turn as tightly as they could. Had the plane been armed, the outcome of the battle would have been far different.

The two men guarding the hatchway snapped to attention when they saw their commander approaching. She gave them a salute, then took hold of the railing and walked upward into the reddish glow of the interior.

The lower deck looked like a television studio control room, with a wide array of monitors and a bank of computers and other gear along the walls. She guessed this was the place where the robot planes were controlled from joystick controls and extensive video banks sat in front of both seats, somewhat similar to the arrangement in Hawkmother. The seat on the right turned on a special rail; the crippled commander must sit there.