But not today.
“I’m not going,” he said calmly.
She slid her hand away, drifting back toward the chair in the corner of the room. The gun was beneath the cushion. If she killed him, what would she do?
Destroy the planes, get rid of the others. There would be no trace.
Better—take some of the remains and scatter them north near the border. Her people were already helping the American searchers and offering to do more. Of course, their every move had to be cleared with her.
It wouldn’t be as convincing as her plan to send him back with the plane after pretending he had attacked her base. But luck seemed finally to have turned against her.
Still, the benefits were worth another risk. Her hand easing toward the pistol, she gathered herself to try again to persuade him.
“Whether you go or not, it is your decision,” Minerva told him. “If you do, I will give you a weapon that will guarantee their destruction. I have two warheads,” she added. Even as she said it—even though she knew it was merely part of her own plan to get rid of him—she felt a certain undeniable excitement, a lust for destruction that he provoked.
“The warheads have nuclear bombs. They are small and were designed for artillery shells. But you could adapt them. Take one. I need the other here, in case they attack.”
Madrone drew back. She sensed she’d lost him, and fought the impulse to go to him. She felt a tinge of fear, shame at her own desire
And then she continued to speak.
“Do they still do those hideous experiments there?” she said. “They must have known what it would do to her. Perhaps they lied from the beginning.”
“No!”
Kevin’s whole body shook so violently that Lanzas reached for her gun. But Madrone only collapsed on the floor.
“They’re my friends,” he murmured as she folded herself over him.
He bawled like a baby on the floor. She loved him, she truly loved him.
“If they are your friends, they will help you,” Minerva told him. “You’ll take off before dawn. The plane will be repaired then. The skin on one of the rear stabilizers is being replaced with aluminum, which perhaps will alter the flight characteristics, but it should be manageable.”
“What if they won’t help me?”
“Then our men will fly the plane. Or you can,” she said. “We’ll do whatever we have to.”
“Give me the bombs,” said Madrone. He took a breath and raised his head.
“They are warheads only. I thought perhaps they could be placed on the tank missiles as you did with the explosives. They’re about the same size. But there’s no time.”
“There’s time. I can fix it.” He’d changed back into the dervish, the determined avenger. His voice was resolute; the insanity had receded. “I’ll destroy Livermore, and I’ll destroy Dreamland, the base where they invaded my brain.”
“We have to reserve one warhead for here, in case they attack,” Minerva told him. “Could you rig it to explode from a timer or remote control?”
“Child’s play. Quickly.” He jumped up.
She realized she should let him go, but something deep inside her made her reach out and grab his arm. “Let’s make love first.”
Aboard Raven
Over the Gulf of Mexico
7 March, 2130 local (1930 Dreamland)
THE RADAR OPERATOR HAD JUST FINISHED TELLING DOG that the scans were clean when the yellow bar on the HUD flashed.
“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”
Bastian snapped on the transmission.
“You’ve lost your mind,” said Magnus.
“No, sir,” said Bastian. “What I’ve lost is an EB-52.”
“I’m not going to be able to bail you out of this one, Dog,” said the three-star.
“I’m not asking you to bail me out, General.”
“You are to set a course for Dreamland and return there without delay. The search will be handled properly, through official channels.”
“I am official channels. As per—”
“Colonel!”
“Yes, sir,” said Bastian. “We’re heading to refuel anyway.”
“Who’s your copilot?”
“I’m the copilot.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Major Cheshire is acting under my orders,” said Dog. “She filed a protest. It’s in the log,” he added, hoping they could add it retroactively.
“That may not save her either. Let me talk to her.”
“You have to authorize it on your end,” Bastian told him.
The line was silent for a moment, apparently while the general consulted with whatever technician was helping him complete the transmission.
“Is he going to yell at me?” Cheshire asked.
“I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor.”
“The condemned always joke before the hanging.”
“Major Cheshire?”
“Yes, General.”
“You get home. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bastian, contact me when you’re an hour from base. I’m in D.C. Find me. Out.”
“Doesn’t sound too pleased,” said Cheshire.
“Probably had a long day,” said Dog.
“What are we doing, Colonel?”
He couldn’t leave Breanna; he just couldn’t.
But it was senseless to stay here. Even without Magnus on his back, he ought to return. They had no transmission, no beacon, no sign of Galatica.
“Message, Colonel,” prompted Nancy.
Dog looked up and saw the alert code, indicating the line was scrambled and from D.C. Sighing, he once more authorized the line. He was surprised to hear Jed Barclay’s voice, not the general’s.
“Uh, Colonel, I have e-mail here, came through the NSC public system. I believe you got a copy too at Dreamland. But I want to read it to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen. ‘Deposit sixty million U.S. dollars in the following account by 0600 Pacific Coast time, or Lawrence Livermore Labs will be destroyed, along with San Francisco.’ There’s some account numbers too, which seem to be linked to a bank in the Caymans, though I haven’t been able to trace it yet. It’s signed by Madrone.”
“What?”
“I’d think it was just a loony, but there’s a TIFF file attached.”
“What’s a TIFF file?”
“Tagged graphic. Very low resolution and primitive algorithms, no security at all. But basically, it’s a photograph or a video frame. It’s a picture of an EB-52 with damage to the rear. I’m guessing it’s the one you’re searching for, but there’s no way to authenticate the picture or the e-mail definitively.”
“Where did the message come from?” Dog asked.
“At the moment, I’m not sure. We’ve traced the e-mail back to Italy, but it probably didn’t originate there.”
“Okay,” said Bastian. “Jed, have you been able to organize that surveillance via the satellites?”
“Yes, nothing there yet. I’ll get to that in a second, Colonel,” added Barclay. “There was another file attached to this e-mail. It had a line drawing. I’m not an expert, but it looks like a nuclear warhead. I’m trying to have it checked out now.”
“What did your boss say?”
“He’s en route to the White House to inform the President right now.”
Aboard Dreamland Combat Transport C-17/D “Quickmover”
Over the Caribbean
2240 local (1940 Dreamland)
DANNY NEARLY SLIPPED OFF THE CREW LADDER AS HE descended into the belly of the C-17. Sergeant Talcom suppressed a laugh at the base of the ladder, but the rest of his Whiplash team members guffawed so loudly he could hear them over the whine of the transport’s four powerful engines.
“All right, listen up,” Freah said. “We’re putting down for a while in Panama.”