But Zen’s legs were irretrievably paralyzed, and whatever he had felt while under ANTARES, whatever he wanted to feel now, he couldn’t make them cooperate. The distance between the two stations was too great to jump across, even for his well-developed arms and shoulders.
Jeff Stockard crumbled in the aisle, the long scream twisting into an agonized plea to his legs, to God, to any power that could make him whole. In that instant he would have made any bargain, paid any price, for the thinnest, poorest connection between his mind and his legs.
But no bargain could be made. He crashed down against the floor, his hands flailing until they hit one of the connecting cables to Kevin’s ANTARES gear.
He hadn’t the strength or momentum to break the cable, but as he fell his weight and agony yanked it backward, pulling the ANTARES feed from its socket.
Aboard M-6
8 March, 0811
“GOT IT! GOT IT! GOT IT! “ SCREAMED GLEASON. “NATIVE mode. Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, I have them. Fuck fuck fuck. Hawk One is in native mode. It’ll circle Dreamland. Locking in. My password. She’s secure. Shit! Shit! We got it!”
“Is it carrying a missile?” Dog asked quietly.
“Hold on. No. Shit, no. Fuck. Looking for the other. Damn—what do you mean, not on the circuit?”
“Jen?”
“The other Flighthawk! Where is it?”
“Something in Galatica’s shadow,” said McAden.
“It’s in preset,” said Gleason. “It’s native because the connection broke. I can’t get feedback until C3 is back on the line because of the codes. What the hell is he doing?”
“Colonel?”
Bastian glanced at McAden.
“Shoot her down,” said Bastian.
“Let me try contacting them!” said Geraldo.
“Shoot her down,” repeated Bastian.
Aboard Galatica
8 March, 0811
BREANNA FELT SOMETHING CLUNK AND PULL BEHIND her, as if the leading-edge flaps on the wings had suddenly extended.
They had.
She grabbed hold of the stick, barely managing to take control of the plane as it did what could only be called a belly flop in the sky. Two of the engines surged, the starboard flap deployed—Gal seemed to be having a nervous breakdown.
Breanna pulled back on the stick. The altimeter ladder shot up wildly. Minerva lost hold of her knife—it clattered to the deck, tossed there by the sudden rush of g forces.
She’d blow the plane. It was the only thing to do.
9,200—9,500—9,800—
They’d die in a second. But at least Dreamland would be safe.
“No!” screamed Lanzas, lurching toward her.
Breanna shrugged her off and closed her eyes as the altimeter nudged ten thousand feet.
Dreamland
8 March, 0811
FOR THE PAST HOUR, MACK HAD SAT IN THE MiG ON the runway, listening as the searchers continued to hunt for Galatica. He had cursed when the F-15’s closed in, realizing that he wanted to be the one who nailed the plane.
And then, miracle of miracles, it had escaped.
Only to be found by Bastian, who was targeting it.
Figured. Damn bastard hogged all the glory.
Still, from the position Dog gave, Gal seemed to be relatively close and headed this way. Resolved to get into the fight, he requested clearance from Dream Tower.
Without bothering to wait for an answer, he depressed the throttle button and moved the bar to idle. Using an old Russian Istrebeitelnyi Aviatsionnaya Polk rapid-takeoff trick, he selected just the right engine on the start panel. Knife kicked on the battery and hit the start switch, sending a whoosh of compressed air into the starboard engine. The MiG rumbled to life; he waited barely a second as it spooled up. In that second he pulled his canopy down; by the time it snugged he had started forward, rushing into the air on just one engine. Only after he had cleaned the gear did he bleed air into the left power plant, jump-starting it. The MiG shot upward.
“Alert the Nellis patrols,” he told Dream Tower. “I don’t want those cowboys taking potshots at me because I look like a bad guy.”
“Uh, Sharkishki, you’re clear to take off,” answered the tower belatedly.
Aboard Gal
8 March, 0811
THE STORM WAS SO THICK AND DEEP THAT IT TOOK Madrone forever to realize that the connection to the planes had been lost.
The ANTARES helmet had been pulled half off his head. He had become another person, his physical self another robot to be controlled.
The Megafortress lurched upward. Madrone shook his head clear and lifted the visor. Zen floundered on the deck beside him, the control lead snagged around his arm. He was trying to pull it with him as he elbowed backward from the control panels like a swimmer.
More like an upside-down turtle.
Madrone quickly undid his restraints and leaned down to punch Jeff flat in the face twice as the son of a bitch struggled to roll away. But Stockard didn’t give up, somehow continuing to push himself backward, dragging the cord with him. Anger propelled Madrone to his feet. He stopped Jeff with a sharp kick to his stomach, then stomped twice on his chest, slamming his heel into Jeff’s jaw before Stockard finally stopped, his eyes rolling back in his head as he momentarily lost consciousness. Kevin braced himself for a truly awful kick—he would beat the pulp from the bastard’s brain until the floor oozed with it. But as he started to swing forward, something held him back, a voice whispering to him from far away.
Jeffrey is your friend. He tried to warn you but you didn’t listen.
“Give me the cord, Jeff.”
Stockard, his head limp to the side, said nothing. Madrone reached down and put his fingers on Jeff’s arm almost gently as he pried the cord away.
“I’m sorry, Jeff. It has to be this way now.” He gathered the ANTARES wire into his hands, restored the plug, and wound the wire around the panel so it couldn’t be easily removed again.
Aboard M-6
8 March, 0828
THE FIRST SCORPION MISSED, SAILING ABOUT A hundred yards wide of Galatica. For a second, though, it looked like the pilots had lost control of the EB-52, and Dog thought Gal would spin into the mountains.
Somehow, she didn’t. Somehow, she began climbing again, and shook off the second and third Scorpions they had launched.
The fourth Scorpion lost its track and self-destructed.
They had two more left. The closer they got, the better their odds of nailing the plane. But McAden couldn’t get a lock to fire.
“Hang in there,” said Dog. “Jennifer, how’s that second U/MF?”
“It’s still in native mode,” she said.
“They’re zigging. Tinsel. Damn, jamming our radar again,” said McAden. “Shit—we’re blind. I just lost them. I’m guessing they’ll dive down for the ground clutter, but I don’t have a heading. Jesus, I can’t find them. Scanning. Scanning.”
“Jennifer, can you find Galatica for us? They’ve jammed our radar.”
“ECMs are off,” reported McAden.
“Working on it,” said Jennifer.
“No contacts. Shit,” said McAden.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” said Gleason from downstairs. “Without a transmission from them we have nothing to pick up.
“Be ready,” Dog said. “They’re here somewhere.”
Was Bree flying? She was this good certainly.
Bastian held his course for Gal’s last position. He pulled up the corn screen on his right MUD and hit the Dreamland reserve frequencies, punching in a combination to broadcast on all of the channels simultaneously.
“Rap, this is Colonel Bastian. You have to surrender, kid.”