Dreamland
5 March, 1814
DANNY FREAH LOOKED DOWN AT HIS BELT AS HIS alphanumeric beeper began to vibrate. He was already en route to see Colonel Bastian, but the STAT notice took him by surprise.
So did the location—the secure video conference center in the Taj basement.
Danny quickened his pace toward Taj, the low-slung concrete building, its entrance glowing ever so faintly with the low-emission yellow lights. He strode past the security desk to the elevator.
“Subbasement Three,” he told the automated system as he stepped in.
The elevator itself wasn’t particularly fast, and the security scans that were required before it would move took forever. Danny waited impatiently, and not just because of Dog’s message. He was supposed to call his wife in exactly twenty-five minutes.
Finally, the elevator lurched and began grinding its way downward. The doors hissed open, and Danny double-timed the short distance to the conference room, whose entrance was flanked by two of his Whiplash team members, Kevin Bison and “Egg” Reagan. Bison nodded, looking desperate for a smoke.
Inside, Jed Barclay’s pimpled face filled the large screen at the front of the room.
“Mr. Freeman is still tied up in meetings on Brazil,” Barclay said as Danny came in, referring to the National Security Advisor. “But the NSC has already scheduled a meeting on this for, uh, like, nine, uh twenty-three hundred hours our time, which is, uh, eight o’clock your time, I mean—”
“You don’t have to convert it for us, Jed,” said Colonel Bastian dryly.
“Thank you. Hi, Captain,” Jed said to Danny, seeing him come in on his monitor.
“Jed.” Danny nodded toward the glass slot below the screen, where a moving video camera focused on his face. Then he nodded to the colonel and Major Stockard, who was sitting grim-faced in his wheelchair. Dr. Geraldo and Lee Ong, the scientist responsible for the Flighthawk’s physical systems, were sitting at consoles behind him.
“Just to review quickly for Captain Freah,” said Bastian, “there’s been an attack at a small Department of Energy base in southeastern Texas, formerly used to test short-range nuclear-delivery systems. We believe Flighthawks were involved.”
“Well, that’s not exactly, uh, with all due respect, Colonel,” stuttered Barclay. “There has been an incident there, but officially we’re not sure what the nature is. The state authorities believe it was terrorism.”
“Mack Smith was there. He saw Flighthawks,” said Dog.
“Mack?” Danny realized he’d practically shouted. It was too late to bite his tongue, so he sidled into a seat without saying anything else.
“Bunker-penetration weapons and napalm,” said Bastian. “And they strafed one of the buildings.”
“The U/MFs are capable of carrying AGMs,” said Ong. “However, that limits their performance. Additionally, they would require modification. Even if Hawks One and Two—”
“Which we lost,” said Zen.
“Well, even in theory, if they were capable,” said Ong, “their flight characteristics would be very degraded.”
“But an attack could have been carried out by them,” said Bastian. “Danny, can you lay out your Mexican theory?”
“There really is no theory,” said Danny, hesitating. Ong and Geraldo had the highest clearances possible, and obviously Bastian had already made the decision that they could hear everything he knew about the possibility that Madrone had somehow escaped. But the fact that Smith had reported the attack had just set off an alarm bell in his brain.
“A large plane landed and stole fuel at a regional jetport on the Mexican coast the day Hawkmother disappeared,” he told the others. “It was not necessarily our 777. In fact, some witnesses said it was a 707. We’ve had the entire area checked with U-2’s without turning up anything.”
“Satellites as well,” noted Jed.
“The Flighthawks could never have gotten to southern Mexico,” said Ong.
“They could have refueled off Hawkmother, right, Jeff?”
“It’s possible,” said Jeff, a little too defensively for Danny’s taste.
“If that was him,” said Ong, “where did he go next?”
“No idea,” said Freah. “Like I said, there really is no theory.”
“So he controlled the Boeing as well as the Flighthawks?” asked Ong. “Hard to believe.”
“There have been some anomalies,” said Geraldo. “And remember, the flight computers are actually the ones that guide the plane. The subject merely directs.”
“Captain, maybe you should head out to Glass Mountain,” said Barclay. “And maybe Major Stockard.”
“How quick can you get out there, Danny?” asked Dog.
Texas was the last place he should be, but before Danny could think of a graceful objection, Dr. Geraldo looked up.
“Glass Mountain? I thought this was a Department of Energy site.”
“Actually, the site is owned by an agency connected with the Department of Energy,” said Barclay. “The Army conducted some tests there a few years ago.”
“Colonel, Kevin Madrone was stationed at Glass Mountain. That’s where he was when his daughter died.”
JEFF WATCHED BARCLAY’S FACE AS GERALDO continued. Jed was his cousin, and Jeff felt odd watching him on the screen, as if a home movie had suddenly become part of his work life. He could remember swinging him around by the legs only a few years ago, and adjusting his arms on a bat to hit right.
Jed probably still couldn’t hit a good fastball. But he’d always been smart. And somehow he managed to land on his feet—against all odds, he’d not only managed to stay on in the Martindale Administration, but apparently had even more authority than before.
If Jed and Geraldo and Danny were right, Madrone was still alive.
But why would Kevin do this?
To screw Jeff up maybe. This would kill any chance of continuing with ANTARES.
Jeff saw the others glancing toward him every so often, as if he carried a disease.
Kevin wouldn’t hurt people.
ANTARES enhanced your mental capabilities. It didn’t change you. Geraldo had said that over and over. Hell, everybody knew that—Maraklov had been a traitor before he arrived at Dreamland; ANTARES didn’t turn him into one.
Maybe losing his daughter had twisted Kevin somehow.
Had Jeff s losing his legs done the same to him?
IN DOG’S OPINION, THE VIDEO CONFERENCE WITH Barclay had accomplished little. Freeman and Defense Secretary Keesh were unavailable because of a crisis in Brazil, where a three-way conflict between the Navy, Air Force, and government was coming to a head. Apparently the conflict was going to be resolved by giving a number of Air Force generals an important role in the government—though why any military person in his right mind would want that was beyond Bastian.
Barclay would present Freeman and the other members of the National Security Council with the theory that the Flight-hawks had survived and were involved in the attack. He’d also recommend that all of the places Madrone had worked in the past—starting with Los Alamos—be heavily guarded. In the meantime, Dog had to call his own boss, General Magnus, and update him.
Magnus wasn’t going to like this at all. Or maybe he would. It would undoubtedly hurt Keesh and his sidekick McCormack.
It would also damage Dog, though at least he’d advised against proceeding with ANTARES in writing.
I’m thinking like a politician and a bureaucrat, Dog told himself. That’s not who I am. I’m a pilot.
“Frowning a lot, Colonel,” said Danny, waiting for him near the door to the conference room.
“Yeah.”
“I have something I have to talk to you about,” said Freah. He gave a short wave to Zen, who was just approaching. “it’s trivial. Base stuff. But—”
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Won’t take that long. Minor discipline problem. But I need advice.”
Freah never brought minor discipline problems to him. Bastian nodded at the others, then motioned Danny to the side of the empty room. Freah waited until the doors closed.