Zen opened the door and spun his wheelchair sideways to angle through the narrow passageway. He left the door open while he checked for e-mail. Jennifer Gleason had left a long note discussing yesterday’s exercises; she had found an apparent glitch in C3’s interface with the ANTARES gateway, but needed some fresh tests to see if she was on the right track.
So it wasn’t Kevin’s fault at all. Or Mack’s, for that matter. Jeff checked the time on the note. Jennifer had sent it at 4:45 A.M.; she’d worked all night.
They could rerun the test tomorrow afternoon, assuming Madrone was up to it and Zen could find a free range. Between the Russian spy satellites and Dreamland’s increasing activities, spur-of-the-moment test flights were getting harder and harder to arrange.
The weather module on Dreamland’s automated flight-scheduling system gave him another caution—a serious storm had stalled over the mountains to the west. Except for a bit of turbulence, their test range should remain clear during their flight window, but the front was fierce and looked to hang around for a while. Ordinarily the U/MFs didn’t operate in the flight areas that far west, but more routine test craft sometimes did, and the storm could complicate scheduling for some time.
Better to try and get it done ASAP. Jeff picked up the phone to start rounding up the troops.
But he found himself punching the extension for the ANTARES project offices instead.
Dr. Geraldo herself picked up.
“Doc, this is Jeff Stockard,” he said. “I’d like to take you up on your offer to reinitiate the ANTARES sessions.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said. “Whatever we need to do.”
“Well, you should begin with the drug protocol, and we’ll have to talk to Colonel Bastian—”
“Let’s do it.”
Dreamland Dorms, Pink Building19 February, 0806
SLEEP WAS A COUNTRY OF GRAY-SHROUDED HILLS, PALE yellow light, and a harsh sun, its purple-red globe directlyoverhead no matter how Kevin turned. Animals stalked the shadows, their low growls sifted by the rustle of the leaves into hints of human whispers. Snakes slinked just out of sight, ready for him, watching.
Madrone rolled over and over on his bed, got up in the dark and paced, threw himself back onto the mattress. Finally he realized it was after eight o’clock. He went quickly to the shower, standing in the stall stoically as the water first froze and then nearly scalded him. When he got out, he realized he had left his underpants on; he stripped them off quickly, embarrassed.
His daughter had insisted on wearing her underpants into the bath. Karen had screamed at him for letting her.
The phone rang. It was Geraldo. But rather than demanding why he was late, she asked if he could report to Hawkmother for another flight. They wanted to redo some tests, if he was up to it.
“Yes,” he said. He hung up the phone and quickly dressed. Then Madrone hurried over to the Boeing’s hangar, skipping breakfast, head pushed down on his chest. He felt as if it were raining around him.
“Kevin, hello,” said Dr. Geraldo, greeting him as he walked across the tarmac toward Hawkmother. The crews were tending to the plane as it sat at the edge of the ramp.
“You look tired,” Geraldo said. She touched him gently on the arm. Her fingers cleared the rain away; he felt as if he’d taken off a heavy hat. A smell like the smell of cookies baking filled the room, soothing him.
“I didn’t sleep,” he confessed.
Geraldo looked at him as if she were disappointed. She was counting on him, needed him, and he was hurting her. He could feel it—he didn’t want to hurt her.
“It’s okay,” he said. He tried to laugh. “I just couldn’t sleep. Too much coffee yesterday. Gave me that headache.”
Her own eyes were heavy, with thick rings below them. He wanted to tell her about the nightmares, but he’d hurt her if he did. She was counting on him; she needed him.
As Christina had needed him. He couldn’t fail again. “Well, let’s get going,” he told her.
“Are you sure?” Geraldo asked him.
“Come on, Doc,” he said, giving her a light tap on the back.
“You’re staying on the ground today, right? I’m ready to solo.”
“Well—”
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m okay,” he said, starting to feel more sure of himself. “Cut the apron strings.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’re just rerunning the tests, right?”
“Jeff wants to rerun yesterday’s encounter. There was some sort of computer glitch they need to take care of. If you have time, they want to start working on the refuels.”
Kevin shrugged. “Cool.”
Geraldo nodded. “After the flight is over, I’d like to run another full physical review. We need some fresh electroencephalograms and the standard EKGs. The whole physical suite,” she told him, her voice still faintly tentative.
“Two days in a row?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“My cholesterol too high?”
Geraldo smiled. “No, you’re perfect. You’ve gained weight; we should probably do a body-fat analysis and another stress test. You’re probably in better shape than when you started.”
“I’m telling you, Doc, we’re going to cure the common cold.”
Madrone realized she was looking at his thumb. He spread his hands and held them up for her to see. “No more nail-biting either. No cigarettes. I’m a new me.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said Kevin. He put his hand on the rail to climb up into Hawkmother. “See ya when school’s over.”
Hawkmother Cockpit19 February, 0840
TRENT ‘TRUCK” DALTON CURSED SOFTLY AS THE CAP ON the Diet Coke slipped around the top of the bottle, stubbornly refusing to break open. Fortunately, there were ways of dealing with problems like this—he reached his hand into his survival vest and pulled out his long knife, gingerly setting the bottle on the top of the control yoke to saw the plastic retaining snaps in two.
“You’re out of your mind,” said the 777’s copilot, Terry Kulpin. Kulpin had gotten up out of his seat and was pacing on the spacious flight deck behind him.
“What?” said Dalton. The plastic was so stubborn he had to use considerable force to finally get through the edge.
“You’re going to cut off your hand. Then we’ll have to scrap the mission totally and Stockard will kill us.”
“Nah.” Truck rolled the bottle and the knife did slip; fortunately, it missed his fingers. Kulpin whistled behind him. “Relax. See? I got it open. Hungry? There’s some Twizzlers in my kit back there.”
Dalton gestured with the knife toward the gym bag he’d stowed in the auxiliary station directly behind the copilot’s seat. There were mounts for temporary jump seats there, but in the Boeing’s present configuration the extended flight deck was just surplus real estate, adding to the ghost-town feel of the big plane.
“I don’t like licorice.”
“Suit yourself.” Dalton stowed the knife and took a long slug of soda.
“Looks like hydraulic fluid,” said Kulpin.
“Maybe that’s what you saw yesterday—Coke.”
“Very funny,” said the copilot. Kulpin had noticed—or thought he’d noticed—a small trace of hydraulic fuel on the ground below the left engine during yesterday’s preflight test. That had necessitated a massive hunt for a problem, delaying takeoff and almost scrubbing the mission. But no problem had been found, and the plane had flown perfectly.
“You keep drinking that stuff, you won’t fit through the ejector hatch,” said Kulpin.
“You planning on getting rid of me?”
“Depends on how I’m feeling.”
Unlike conventional airliners and transports, the Dreamland Boeing was equipped with ejection seats for emergencies. The system included an emergency computer initiative or ECI that they had been testing before being drafted for the ANTARES test; once armed by verbal command from the pilot, the computer could pull the handle if it sensed the pilot had become unconscious. To the pilots, this was a bit like a James Bond device for getting rid of obnoxious backseat drivers. While there were several layers of safety procedures, they didn’t particularly like the system. Preliminary tests showed that it, like the advanced autopilot it was part of, worked well.