8 March, 0545 local (0645 Brazil)
MINERVA HAD FIGURED OUT HOW TO PROGRAM THE course in on the flight computer, and was watching Breanna carefully. Rap flew the plane precisely as her captor directed, skimming across the ragged landscape just at the edge of a thunderstorm at 8,500 feet. Sooner or later an opportunity would present itself, even if it meant pushing the plane into a mountain.
“F-15’s, twenty miles ahead at compass point three-two-zero,” said Madrone over the interphone. He had one of the Flighthawks flying eight miles ahead as a scout, using its passive sensors to check for threats. “Two planes, one at twenty-five thousand feet. The second is at twenty-eight.”
“Attack them,” said Minerva.
“We can get by them,” suggested Breanna. “It will be safer.”
“Do it.”
“Hold on. I’m going to take us out of this turbulence. Computer—”
“Don’t change the course,” Minerva hissed, leaning toward her.
“Do you want to get by them or not?”
“Don’t change the course, or the altitude.”
“I just have to get out of this storm.”
Minerva grabbed her hand.
The Flighthawk screen showed the Eagles in a standard search sweep, running well off to the west. A standard B-52 would be clearly visible to them, but Gal had the profile of a barn swallow, and unless the plane made a sudden movement, the interceptors were likely to miss it.
“They’re off my radar,” said Kevin.
“If we switched our radar on, we’d see threats two to three hundred miles away,” Breanna told Lanzas.
“Three hundred miles?”
“How do you think we were able to track you to Brazil? Gal is testing a—”
“The radar would also allow our enemies to see us coming,” said Lanzas, her voice tired. “Please, Captain, do not test me further.”
JEFF CURSED AS THE F-15S PASSED OUT TO SEA, another chance lost.
“I know you’re watching me, Jeff,” said Madrone. His voice came from a small speaker in the console ordinarily used only by the Megafortress’s systems. “Put the headset on.
Slowly, Jeff pushed upright and reached for the headset. His sore upper body moved like the works in an old rusted clock, creaking and cracking.
“Kevin, how did you manage to use that speaker?” he asked. “It’s not part of ANTARES or C3.”
“There are no boundaries I can’t cross, Jeff.”
“You flew Hawkmother too. How? Through the gateway?”
“I’m beyond ANTARES, Jeff. I don’t need the computer.”
“Show me. Take off the control helmet.”
“Don’t try and trick me. I’m not stupid.”
“Withdrawal from the Theta drugs makes you paranoid,” Jeff said. He turned and looked across the bay at the man who had been his friend. “It did it to me. It still affects me.”
“It’s not paranoia when people are really out to get you.”
“I thought I could feel my legs,” said Jeff. “It really tricked me.”
“You’re the only one playing tricks.”
“I can’t feel my legs, Kevin. It was a dream—a desire or something I can’t control. It’s not too late,” he said. “Geraldo can help you. Take us back to Dreamland and surrender. I’ll help you. I swear 1 will.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Stoking Madrone’s anger was the only weapon Jeff had. Down here there’d be no one to stop him. Zen couldn’t walk, but he would pit his upper body strength against anyone’s. As soon as Madrone lunged, he’d grab his neck and strangle him. Whatever it took to subdue him, he’d do.
Whatever it took to help him, he’d try; he hadn’t been lying about that.
“You going to hit me?” he told Kevin. “Come on, Monkey Brain. Hit me, Twig.”
Madrone didn’t move.
“What are you waiting for, Monkey Boy?”
“I’m not going to hit you, Jeff.” Madrone’s voice sounded sad, and far away. “You tried that before and it worked. But it won’t work now. No.”
“Come on, Monkey Brain. Microchip Head. Mack Smith nailed it for once. Come on. You’re a wimp. Come on.” But Madrone no longer spoke to him.
Pej, Brazil
8 March, 0647 local
BISON’S HANDS SHOOK AS HE ANGLED THE screwdriver blade beneath the small metal band. He nodded. Danny closed his eyes.
Something snapped. But there wasn’t an explosion. “Okay, we’re ready to work on the native timer and lock mechanism,” said Bison. “It’s hot.”
As Danny relayed the information to Annie, he saw that his sergeant’s hands were shaking violently.
“Undo the LED panel on the code-lock assembly right next to the explosive that launches the pellet,” said Annie. “You see it?”
Danny told Bison. The munitions expert nodded, then pushed a Phillips-head screwdriver down toward the light green panel.
The blade slipped and clattered on the floor.
Danny grabbed Bison’s arm as he reached for the screwdriver. “Kevin, let me try.”
“I’ve d-done this a million times.”
“I know. Let me take the responsibility, though. It’s not just us who’s blowing up.”
“We evacuated the Army guys, Captain,” said Bison, but then he slid back.
The panel wouldn’t come off.
Bison held the Satcom to his head. “Now what, Annie?” said Freah.
“Try it again,” she said.
“Shit.”
“It’s either that or reattach the timer and reset the detonation time.”
“Jesus.”
“You sound nervous, Captain. We will try sorting through the wires. Just don’t cut them all. As I told you before, complete power loss will trigger—”
There was a click and the line went dead.
“Annie? Annie?”
“I think that storm’s blocking the satellite,” said Bison, working the radio. “Time’s down to two minutes,” he added.
Danny stared at the back of the LED panel. The large integrated circuit had several small solder points at the back, but nothing that gave any clue about how it worked.
“Let’s short the thing out,” offered Powder from behind him. “Dump it in water. I got a bucket right here.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Powder?” said Freak “You were supposed to bug out.”
“None of us are going to leave you, Captain,” said Liu. “Don’t tell me you’re all here. Are you?”
“No, sir. We’re not here,” said Reagan.
Danny turned his attention back to the Satcom. “Annie? Annie?”
Nothing.
He leaned over the bomb. He could cut the wire that connected the LED lock mechanism. Annie had said that doing that would probably kill power to the spytron, the highly sensitive and accurate trigger that activated an accelerating explosive lens around the “catcher’s mitt” of uranium once the radioactive seed was launched toward it. But the explosive that sent the radioactive seed into the rest of the material would still ignite, as would the lens itself—a nanosecond or two too late to start a chain reaction maybe, but definitely in time to kill them.
“Everybody out of the hangar,” Freah shouted, taking the thick combat knife in his hand and reaching it across the thick wires. “That’s a fuckin’ order. Get out of here.”
“Captain!” shouted Powder.
“Go!”
“Nuke’ll get us anyway, Captain,” Bison said. “Rather be able to tell St. Peter I didn’t run away.”
“Just the explosive is going off,” said Danny. “Go!”
“Klondike said that might not work.”
“Go!”
“Thirty seconds,” said Bison, studying at his own watch.
“Here, Captain,” shouted Powder, running across the floor with a ceramic cup and a plastic gallon jug of water. He slipped on the smooth concrete, managing a leg-first slide near the bomb. He held the cup and jug out in front of him. “Douse it. We got nothing to lose.”
“Twenty seconds. He might be right,” said Bison.
Powder spilled water from the jug into the cup, his hands wobbly as he tried to slip it in place under Freah’s hand.