“I lost them. They bailed and the plane nose-dived. Can’t find it on the infrared. I’m not sure why. Shit.”
“What’s your fuel, Sharkishki?” demanded Zen.
“Yeah. I have a fuel emergency. Returning to base,” conceded Mack. “I’ll upload the GPS telemetry. Aw, shit to fucking hell.”
Raven
19 February, 1050
ZEN’S CHEST COMPRESSED AS THE BOEING disappeared from the radar display. It felt like a snake had wrapped itself around him and squeezed.
He tried the override again in a desperate attempt to grab control of the Flighthawks, but the screens remained blank, the connection severed.
“We’ll be at Mack’s mark in zero-two,” said Breanna.
“Yeah,” answered Zen. The snake squeezed tighter. He checked on the status of the SAR flight that had just scrambled out of Dreamland—a pair of helicopters, one a Pave Low with an extensive suite of search gear, were about fifteen minutes behind them. Edwards and Nellis both had other units on standby.
“Aggressor, how tight is your fuel?” he said, calling Mack.
“Under control,” answered Mack.
Smith sounded more angry than concerned, though Zen thought he’d sound that way on fumes.
“There’s a civilian strip in your direct flight path if you need it,” Zen told him.
“No shit, Sherlock. Let me fly this one, all right?”
Normally, Zen would have told Mack to screw himself. But by now the snake had wrapped itself so tightly around his throat that he couldn’t get a word out of his mouth.
He was so damn impotent without legs, tied into a stinking wheelchair, a gimp, a cripple, a helpless lump of nothing.
A flame flared in the middle of his head, surging and glowing, flowing into a perfect round circle, a sun that went from red to pink to chromium.
He was helpless. He was back in the F-15 where he’d had his accident, going out at low altitude, crashing into the ground, crushing his spinal cord and losing his legs.
“Nightingale One to Gameboy. Please state situation. Major Stockard?”
He wasn’t helpless. He’d proven himself in Africa. Every day he got out of bed, he proved himself.
“Zen, the SAR flight is hailing you,” said Bree over the interphone.
“Gameboy to Nightingale One,” he said, muscling the snake away. “We have a plane down, two, hopefully three ejections. Rough terrain. Maybe the mountains. No fix, but we can make some guesses from the GPS where they were last seen.”
“Copy that,” said the Pave Low pilot, who had already been given the coordinates by Breanna. “Do you have anything fresh?”
“Negative,” admitted Zen. “We’re in the dark as much as you.”
V
THE RAIN FOREST
Aboard Hawkmother
Over Sierra Nevada Mountains
19 February, 1110
WHEN HE REALIZED THAT HE HAD SHAKEN THE MiG AND Raven, Madrone pumped his hands in the air, as elated as he had ever been in his life. But after he turned control of the Boeing over to the computer, his sense of triumph began to drain.
There were problems. The Flighthawks were in perfect shape, holding behind Hawkmother as it hugged its way through the mountain passes. But they were more than halfway through their fuel reserves; while their engines were thrifty in cruise mode, they would need to be refueled.
He could do that. They’d planned to. He’d gone through the simulations, and Hawkmother had been loaded with extra fuel.
But sooner or later he’d have to find fuel for the Boeing.
Where? It wasn’t like he could put down at a gas station and pull out his credit card. Who the hell was going to give him jet fuel without asking a lot of questions? Or demanding a lot of money?
Why had he gone off without a plan? What madness possessed him? He tucked out of the mountains—L.A. was a vast glow to the left, the Pacific a dark haze beyond.
Madrone began to shake, his body suddenly cold. He felt a light pop at the top of his head, and then he began to fall, or feel as if he were falling.
He’d dropped out of Theta.
The twinge of panic swirled into a full-blown typhoon. The entire Air Force would be after him, all of the military. He’d been screwed before—Army generals and personnel bastards and Pentagon phonies had screwed him out of his advanced-weapons project at Los Alamos, yanked his clearances. They’d claimed he needed a rest, but he’d known they were out to screw him because of what he’d done in Iraq. He’d shown them up, nailing those tanks with his men. Bastards.
Madrone forced himself to sit back in the seat. He was losing it, giving in to paranoia.
The headache started to return. He pushed air into the bottom of his lungs, loosened the muscles at the top of his shoulders.
He hadn’t wanted to run away. But here he was. The pilot and copilot had ejected; he was in control of the ship.
They’d call it mutiny. Put him in jail for life, and he’d never see his daughter.
She was already dead.
Kevin ran his fingers across his forehead. He couldn’t think straight. The universe was breaking apart.
He had to get back into Theta. Now.
Pej, Brazil
19 February, 1510 local
MINERVA LANZAS FOLDED HER ARMS ACROSS HER CHEST and leaned against the back of the bulldozer. The hazy sun cast a brown light over the dusty mountain airstrip, tinting the colors like a faded postcard. If she’d been in a better mood, she might have almost thought it romantic.
But if she’d been in a better mood she would not be here in Pej, caught between the Amazon and the mountains of Serra Curupira, in exile—Dante’s third ring of hell.
Three months before, Colonel Lanzas had been one of the most important officers of the Força Aérea Brasileira, the Brazilian Air Force. She had obtained her position through the usual means—family connections, politics, sex, even skill as a pilot and commander. As commanding officer of an elite group of FAB interceptors attached to the Third Air Force south of Rio de Janeiro, she’d had power, prestige, and the potential for great wealth. She had managed to shed her third husband—a once-useful if pedestrian diplomat and military attaché—and begun to amass a personal following that extended to the Army as well as the Air Force. At thirty-one, she’d looked forward to a bright future not just in the military, but in Brazilian politics as well.
But then she had overplayed her hand, misjudging the ever-shifting currents of the country’s politics. The result had been a disastrous showdown with the Navy—and then this.
Two decades before, the Brazilian Navy had attempted to expand its power by clandestinely adding aircraft to its fleet forces. Then, the Air Force generals had carefully parlayed news of this into a magnificent power play that assured them of dominance in the government for many years. So it seemed likely that when the admirals once again tried something by secretly purchasing Russian destroyers and sending out feelers for MiGs, the evidence would propel the Air Force to even greater heights. General Emil Herule hoped to become Defense Minister, a short step to President. Lanzas and the white-haired Air Force leader had done good business in the past, with an occasional foray into matters of pleasure; her decision to lead a flight to gather intelligence seemed a logical and profitable gesture.
Colonel Lanzas personally commanded a four-ship element of F-5E Tigers over the screening force around Minas Gerias, the Brazilian Navy’s aircraft carrier. The film in her plane confirmed Air Force suspicions about the two new destroyers. Her camera also discovered that the carrier’s catapults had been modified to launch Mirages—a fact confirmed by the takeoff of the planes.