Madrone and his friends, who would either be shot down by the Americans, or blown up when the bomb her people had added to the plane’s tail exploded. It was set with both a timer and a radar altimeter, guaranteeing their destruction.
Her people at the base, who would be killed when her second nuclear warhead exploded at 6:50 A.M. She herself would only just escape the American madman’s attempt to obliterate all Brazil. She would emerge victorious, having fought him off without the Americans’ help. She would then launch an investigation to find out who had helped him, for surely even a madman could not have come this far without local assistance.
The conspirators would pay dearly. She would end up Brazil’s heroine; the people would reward her with the Presidency and power beyond her dreams.
Even so, she longed to refuse to let Madrone go.
But Lanzas feared him greatly now; even more, she feared her own darkness. She had the strength to restrain only one.
No. She could restrain herself only if he was no longer with her.
Minerva climbed inside the plane to watch her men as they finished installing the six oversized steamer trunks containing the heart of the ANTARES equipment in the Megafortress’s equipment bay. The ‘devices plugged so simply into circuitry in the rear compartment, they seemed no more complicated than a stereo system. Two more went into the lower deck.
“We’re ready, Colonel,” reported Louis Andre, who headed the team.
“That’s it? You’re sure?”
“We followed Captain Madrone’s directions to the letter. The computer panel says that its diagnostics have cleared.”
He pointed toward the large screens at the two stations before them.
“Diagnostic complete. No errors. System ready,” read the screens.
“The most difficult thing was arranging to keep the units in the fuselage cool,” Andre told her. “We rerouted a duct in the plane. It may affect other equipment, but Captain Madrone did not seem overly concerned.”
“Very well,” she said. “Tell the captain we are ready for him.”
Minerva allowed herself one last look at the flight deck before leaving the plane. An amazing warbird, a plane of immense potential.
She could learn much from the Americans. If she was willing to wait, rather than simply take their weapons, she would do much better.
It was a pity the 777 had to be destroyed as well. But there was no other way. Her course was set. To change anything now meant only doom.
Minerva considered not seeing Kevin off, but decided that that might upset him, and in some way tip her pilots off that they were about to die. So she waited by the plane for him to arrive.
A final kiss. A supreme indulgence. But after years of letting her body be used by others—wasn’t she owed it?
Mayo walked toward her, saluting smartly.
“Madame Colonel,” he said. Mayo was young, without a family; though he’d been with her a long time, she didn’t feel his loss as much as she would that of Gerrias, who had three children. Still, she would make sure his parents had a double pension.
“You’re confident you can fly this?” she asked, though Gerrias had assured her twice already it would be easy.
“Once Captain Madrone used his security codes to open the computer for us, we had no trouble with the controls. There is a computer that does all of the work. Of course, in flight there may be a few wrinkles.”
“The small planes?”
“Picot declared them ready. Captain Madrone is inspecting them all. There are codes, apparently, that are entered directly into them. It is all voice-coded. Picot had no trouble.”
“Picot is a genius.”
“Madame Colonel, are we really attacking San Francisco?” asked Mayo.
“Not San Francisco,” said Minerva. “A complex nearby.”
“The Americans will try to stop us.”
“If you are afraid, Lieutenant, Captain Gerrias can fly alone.”
“I am not afraid. I don’t know if it is right. Captain Madrone says all of San Francisco will be destroyed.”
Minerva sighed. “Captain Madrone is brilliant, but unfortunately he exaggerates. You’ve been rewarded for the other flights?”
Mayo said nothing. She knew that he took the implication that he valued money above loyalty to her as an insult.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “In a few hours, you will return here, and then—off to wherever you will. You are already a rich man, and you will be ten times richer.”
“I fly because you saved me from death,” said Mayo stiffly. “It is a debt 1 will never forget.”
“A debt that will be discharged today. Start your engines. Quickly,” she said, saluting to dismiss him.
Madrone approached from the runway.
“We are ready,” he told her. “The Flighthawks are all fueled and loaded with bullets.”
“Can you handle all three?”
“I can handle twenty.”
The door to the hangar behind them creaked on its rusty wheel hinge. The three Americans and their guards emerged.
“Is that your robot master?” shouted the one in the wheelchair.
Even in the dim light, Minerva saw Madrone’s face turn red.
“Calmly,” she said, touching Kevin’s chest. “He’s trying to provoke you.”
“What was it Mack called you? Monkey Boy? Microchip Brain? How’s your thumbnail these days? Still biting it?”
“That’s enough out of you,” said Madrone.
“His hands are not bound?” Minerva asked the guards.
“To wheel his chair,” said the guard. “If—”
Mayo, already aboard, spooled up the two outboard engines. They were surprisingly quiet for being so close, but even so drowned out the guard.
“He’s harmless,” yelled Madrone. “Just a cripple.”
“You should have told us about your daughter, Kevin,” said the woman pilot. “I’m so sorry—it must have been so horrible.”
“You don’t care. None of you care.”
Minerva gripped Madrone’s arm. In an instant, he had changed from a confident, cocky pilot to a trembling, fearful man. Tears rolled down his face.
She should have shot the Americans.
“They’re trying to trick you, Kevin,” she said. “Perhaps we should give them something to make them less disagreeable.”
“Is she coming with us?” said the one in the wheelchair. “Your master?”
“There isn’t room on the plane,” answered Minerva.
“Actually, there is,” said the man. “There are four stations in the cockpit, two downstairs, two upstairs, and that’s not even counting the roll-out cot.”
Madrone turned toward her. “Come with us,” he told her. “You must.”
“I have to attend to things here, lover,” she said softly.
“You will come,” he told her sternly.
She reached to pat his hand, then saw he had a pistol in it.
“Kevin.” She stared, but before she said anything else she heard the loud whine of another jet popping up over the nearby mountain.
Aboard Quickmover
Over Western Brazil
18 March, 0445
IN A PERFECT WORLD, THE TARGET WOULD HAVE BEEN under real-time surveillance from an army of recon drones and maybe a satellite or two, with a highly trained team aboard a JSTARS command craft interpreting the images and giving advice.
But Whiplash operated in a decidedly imperfect world. So the fact that Danny Freah was able to turn on his Combat Information Visor and get an image off the C-17’s chin array of infrared and optical cameras as they popped up over the mountains two miles from the target seemed like a real luxury.
Which didn’t make it any easier to read the blurs.
Danny pressed his hands against his helmet, trying to steady the image in the CIV. There were two large planes near hangars alongside the runway. The glowing bursts near the wings of the larger made it clear that its engines were just being started.