Nerve Center

Minerva didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.

“We’re booby-trapped, aren’t we? Did you hear that, Kevin? Your lover wanted to blow you up.”

“I heard,” said Madrone.

And once more, even though locking out the autopilot should have isolated command at her console, Brea

HE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT MINERVA ANYMORE. HE’D BEEN confused by ANTARES, the drugs, the computer, everything. Confused and tricked and used.

No more. Madrone eased back in the seat, in full control of the planes. Now that he knew what he had to do—now that his daughter had made it clear to him—he felt very calm and very strong.

He gave C3 and the Megafortress the new course, then pushed up his visor, looking across at Zen. His friend flailed at the control panel, trying to take command of the robot planes. He didn’t seem to understand that Madrone and ANTARES could override any of his commands.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he struggled to keep from feeling helpless.

“That’s enough, Jeff,” Kevin said finally. He pulled his pistol out.

“Shoot me,” said Zen.

“I don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” said Zen sarcastically.

“You’re right about ANTARES. I think you’re definitely right,” he said. “I’m going to fix it, once and for all.”

Aboard M-6

Near Dreamland

8 March, 0715

DOG WAS A HUNDRED MILES SOUTH OF DREAMLAND when one of the AWACS in the net a

It had had a little help—the Megafortress had turned its locator beam on.

A quartet of F-15Cs scrambled to intercept. The controllers began jockeying other elements around, lining up the defenses.

Two of the Eagles had to turn back because of fuel. A pair of Navy jets moved up to take their place. Dog pushed M-6 to accelerate, but they were at least a hundred miles from the action.

“Swinging back—shit—Rock Two has contact!” blurted out one of the F-15 pilots. “Shit! Shit! Tally at five hundred feet, two o’clock. Jesus.”

“Rock Two, clear to engage,” answered the controller calmly, authorizing the pilot to shoot down the Megafortress.

“Rock Three to support,” said the wingman, following his commander.

Dog closed his eyes.

“Break right! Break right!” shouted Rock Three. “Band—flare! God, oh, God!”

There was static.

Dog guessed that the F-15’s had just been jumped by one or both of the Flighthawks. The AWACS vectored the Navy interceptors toward the Megafortress, then a

“Plot an intercept for San Francisco,” Dog told McAden softly. “Make sure it’s good.”

“Colonel, no. Stay on this course,” said Je

Aboard Gal

8 March, 0723

MADRONE HAD TO REFUEL THE FLIGHTHAWKS. WHILE the computer told him he could make it to Dreamland from here, another encounter would push the U/MFs into their reserves, depriving him of his margin of error.

Dreamland was barely two hundred miles from here. If he squinted just right, he’d probably see Las Vegas glowing at the edge of the desert.

He reduced throttle on the Megafortress, swinging Hawk Three up toward the tail even as the automated boomer lowered the straw.

It was sneaky of Brea

It didn’t matter now, not in the least. Dreamland’s point-defense MIM-23 I-Hawk SAMs wouldn’t pick up the stealthy Megafortress until it was approximately ten miles from the base. Even with the long missile beneath it, Hawk Three ought to be able to get to within five miles before the batteries detected it. By the time they locked and launched, he would already have pickled, ending ANTARES forever.

He nuzzled the U/MF into the boom and began working through the refuel.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0740

“THEY’RE STILL COMING,” JENNIFER TOLD BASTIAN OVER the interphone. “Distance, approximately sixty miles.”

“You ready, Devin?” the colonel asked McAden.

“I’ll turn the radar on as soon as you give the signal,” answered the copilot. “Won’t take me ten seconds to target the Scorpion after that.”

The Scorpion AMRAAM-plus air-to-air missile had a one-hundred-pound warhead and a radar that could track multiple targets, rejecting all but the tastiest. Like the stock model that had been in use for roughly five years, Dreamland’s improved version moved at over four times the speed of sound and had a range of forty nautical miles—though in actual practice against a target as slippery as the Megafortress, the missile was best launched between ten and twenty miles away, or just beyond visual range. Assuming Gal stayed on course, and assuming McAden could get a lock, that would be three minutes from now.

Targeting the Flighthawks, which were considerably smaller than the Megafortress, was far more problematic. They’d be fairly close to M-6 by the time Gal was targeted. Je

It was possible, though just barely, that she might be able to succeed and they wouldn’t have to splash Gal. Dog didn’t dare hope that was the way it would play.

Flying without radar and maintaining radio silence allowed Dog to sneak closer to Gal without being detected; it was, he figured, the only way he was going to get close enough to nail them. But it was a calculated risk—the main defenses were still to the west, concentrating on protecting San Francisco. If they missed, the sky was wide open.

“Still on course,” said Je

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0753

JEFF FLOPPED HIS HEAD BACK AGAINST THE SEAT, exasperated. Any good fighter pilot keeps a checklist in his head to cover any contingency—engine out, do this, do that, do this. Gear jammed, do that, do this, do that.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t have a checklist.

No, it was the second time. The first time was after the accident that had left him paralyzed.

There had been a solution to that. Not exactly the solution he wanted, but a solution. He’d gotten out of the aircraft and lived.

And now?

If he’d had his legs, what would he do?

Leap out of the seat, throttle Madrone, disco

He turned his head toward Kevin. Madrone sat ramrod straight, his hands moving as he flew the planes. He was conducting an orchestra, not working controls.

The sitrep played on the main U/MF monitor, overlaid over a GPS map. They were about eleven minutes from Las Vegas, with Dreamland a breath beyond that.

If he had his feet, he’d undo the restraints, leap out of the seat. He’d grab Kevin with his hand and pull.

He did have his feet. ANTARES wasn’t lying. Yes, it screwed up his head—yes, it made him paranoid. But there had to be something there. There had to be. ANTARES was a computer—it didn’t invent things, it worked with what was there.

So he could use his legs. All he had to do was trust them—trust ANTARES this one last time.

Otherwise they were all dead.

Carefully, stealthily, Jeff undid his restraints.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0758

“SIXTY SECONDS BY MY WATCH,” BASTIAN TOLD Je

Bastian had just missed combat over Vietnam, but he had flown missions in the Gulf and Bosnia; he had two probable kills and had ducked three different enemy missiles, including an SA-2 “telephone pole” that came within a meter of taking off his tail. By all rights, he was a grizzled veteran, and shouldn’t feel nervous.