“Colonel Bastian has joined us,” said Jed Barclay in the White House basement.
“Colonel,” said General Magnus gruffly.
“Good evening, Colonel.” The screen flickered and a new face appeared on the screen at the front of the room. It was the President, Kevin Martindale.
“Sir.”
“How real is this threat?” Martindale, dressed in a cardigan sweater, sat in a thick chair aboard Air Force One. Philip Freeman, John Keesh, and a grim-faced aide sat nearby.
“I’m afraid it’s very real, sir,” said Barclay.
“I want to hear Colonel Bastian,” said Martindale. “Is ANTARES responsible?”
Bastian hesitated. “I’m afraid it appears likely ANTARES was involved. We’re still trying to connect all the dots.”
“ANTARES is nothing but grief. Promising poison. It’s to end right now, on my order. This overrules any directive you may get from anyone else, no matter who it is.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bastian.
Keesh scowled in the background but said nothing.
“We’ve set up a net with ANG and regular Air Force units guarding San Francisco,” said Magnus, apparently speaking from aboard another Air Force plane. “They won’t get close.”
“I think that’s the idea,” said Dog.
“What do you mean?” said the President.
“They’ve basically told us the target and when to expect them,” Bastian said. “Either it’s a decoy, or we’re meant to shoot them down.”
“We can’t not shoot them down,” said Magnus.
“We can’t let them attack the laboratory or San Francisco,” said Dog. “But there’s something else going on. I had some of my people at the base examine the diagram. I’ve only spoken to them by radio, but they say it’s very primitive, possibly attached to a very short-range-missile system. Even if it were fired from a Flighthawk—difficult but not impossible—the controlling ship would have to be within ten miles.”
“If it’s dropped by a bomber, it will be overhead,” said Magnus dryly.
“Absolutely,” said Dog. “As long as we know they’re coming, we can cordon off an area twenty miles away, and be fairly confident of finding the plane, even a Megafortress.”
“Maybe the attack will be carried out elsewhere,” said Jed.
“That might be. But Livermore does fit,” added Bastian.
“Jed has filled us in on the psychological implications,” said Freeman, the NSC head. “Jed, run down the Brazilian scenario,” he added.
Barclay’s face came back on the screen. He had a bit of peach fuzz on his chin between the pimples, and looked as if he were going to cry. His voice shook a little as he began, but he spoke in coherent, long sentences.
“It’s not a scenario exactly. I’ve been looking at the power struggle there, trying to coordinate some of the players against the intercepts we’ve had. The conflict between the Navy and the Air Force, that’s legendary; they spy on each other back and forth. They have for years. A few months ago, there was a kind of mini-insurrection and the Navy people quashed the Air Force. The major players were cashiered or sent out to Amazon scratch bases, which is our equivalent of being detailed to guard latrines on the moon.”
“We don’t have posts on the moon,” muttered Magnus, making his opinion of Barclay evident.
“Get to the point, Jed,” prompted Freeman.
“As we know, this time fighting broke out, which resulted in a government crisis. The President resigned. Air Force people then pop up all over the place, starting with the Acting President, who was the Air Force Chief. Now it could just be the usual blackmail and skullduggery—”
“Jed,” warned Freeman.
“Yes, well, the Defense Minister—this is all just the acting government, remember, but anyway—a Colonel Minerva Lanzas is due to be named Defense Minister when Herule takes over. He’s the Prez. Lanzas was transferred from the biggest Air Force command to a mountain landing strip at the edge of the Amazon after the Navy brush-up, so that’s a pretty dramatic turnaround.”
“Is that site big enough to land a 777?” asked Dog.
“Not according to the Factbook,” said Barclay, referring to the standard non-classified directory compiled by the CIA. “But our review of Satint shows it’s been greatly expanded over the past month, maybe even more recently. You could land a standard B-52 there now, give or take. And,” added Barclay, leaning toward the camera with just a hint of dramatic flair, “there was a two-engined jet on the ground there yesterday morning. It was obscured by clouds, but it seemed to be either a 777 or an Airbus, an Airbus, uh—” He faltered, trying to remember the designation of the large European-made plane.
“We need to hit that base,” said Dog. “Now.”
“Too far,” said Freeman. “Too aggressive. Even if we had hard evidence—”
“The Whiplash Assault Team is in Panama,” said Dog. “They were standing by to help a rescue. They can go there.”
“Big risk, especially with the Brazilian government in transition,” said Freeman. “We better talk to State.”
The President, to his right, was looking at his watch. “General Herule won’t be sworn in as Acting President until noon Brasilia time,” he said.
“I’m not sure that’s relevant,” said Freeman.
“I can have my Whiplash Team on the ground at that base in two hours,” said Dog.
“I say we take a shot at it, sir,” said Magnus unexpectedly. “If young Mr. Barclay is right, it’s a logical place. I trust Colonel Bastian’s men to pull it off.”
Keesh finally spoke up. “I have faith in Colonel Bastian as well,” he said. “But if we’re wrong, it will be a grave situation.”
“If our planes aren’t on the runway, they don’t land,” said Dog. “Brazil has already offered to cooperate in the search. We can say this is just an extension.”
Someone spoke off camera in the President’s plane. He turned for a moment, listening as another aide whispered something in his ear.
“We’ll deal with that in a few minutes,” Martindale told the aide. Then he turned back to the camera. “Do it,” he said. “And keep me informed. Jack,” he added, apparently to the operator, because the circuit went gray.
Magnus reappeared on the screen. “This isn’t very good, Colonel.”
“No, sir. I understand that.”
“General Olafson will coordinate the defenses out of the Fresno ANG base. Get with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Tecumseh—no more road shows. You’re to remain at the base. You’re not a fighter pilot anymore. Your job is coordinating things from the ground.”
The screen blanked. Dog sat in the chair, the tumult of the past few days catching up with him. He was still sitting there, legs stretched along the floor, when Sergeant Gibbs entered with the coffee a minute later.
“We still in business?”
“For now,” said Dog, snapping back to himself. “Get me Captain Freah.”
“Punch line five on your doohickey thinger and you got him,” said Ax.
Pej, Brazil
8 March, 0401 local (0001 Dreamland)
MINERVA STOOD IN FRONT OF THE LARGE BOMBER AS her men worked feverishly to complete their work. They were used to fashioning spare parts for military jets, but the damaged Megafortress was an extraordinary challenge. Its wings and fuselage were made from an exotic compound that none of her experts recognized; they’d fashioned replacement panels from several sources, including Hawkmother. Madrone’s EB-52 had also furnished the tail section, which proved remarkably easy to replace—a testament to the aircraft’s design, meant to facilitate quick combat-area repairs. Her chief engineer assured her the plane would get off the ground, but would give no guarantees beyond that.
Minerva didn’t need any. She had already constructed her own elaborate alibis and a cover story, pinning all of the blame on Madrone.
It wasn’t the most airtight or even believable of stories, but it didn’t have to be. As Defense Minister, she would be able to control any inquiries. And the main witnesses would all be dead: