by Dale Brown
27 February, 2100 local
MINERVA WATCHED AS THE FUEL-LADEN BOEING lumbered down the newly finished runway, struggling off the field though she had nearly tripled its size in just a few days. The left wing dipped down as the wheels were cranked upward, but it stayed in the air.
In contrast, the two small robot planes jetted off smartly in less than two thousand meters, even with massive bombs beneath their bellies. The JP 233 British runway-denial weapons had been obtained by Brazil through Italy several years before. Minerva had managed to obtain them from another unit for a price approaching ten times the commanding general’s salary. And it was only that cheap because the man considered himself her ally and sometime lover. At least he’d had the grace not to ask questions.
Nearly as big as the U/MFs, the bombs cut down on the smaller planes’ maneuverability and range. But Madrone had practiced with one yesterday; she was confident he would succeed. More importantly, so was he.
Madrone scared her. She was used to manipulating men, but with him it was beyond manipulation. He anticipated her darkest wishes and went beyond them. It was as if the devil himself had materialized before her.
Yet he could be such a gentle lover, so willing, so soft when she asked.
His suggestion that the antitank weapons could be altered and then fit to the U/MFs made sense to her, though her experts had deep reservations. Madrone’s enhancements to the shaped-charge warheads, at least, could be easily implemented, and were even now being tested in a bunker on the other side of the hill.
The dimensions of the planned weapons gave her a better idea, though she didn’t trust Kevin enough yet to broach it. Perhaps it wasn’t merely trust. Perhaps she knew that if she told him, he would dare her to use them. For that, she wasn’t ready.
Colonel Lanzas had recruited two pilots to fly the Boeing. The exhausted state Madrone had arrived in made it obvious that he had to concentrate on guiding the two smaller jets and not worry about the 777. She did not completely understand the process—his description of ANTARES sounded like science fiction, as if he merely closed his eyes and wished the planes to fly. But there was no doubt that it worked.
Minerva folded her arms, gazing at the large plane disappearing into the distance. They had painted it dark green, making it more difficult to spot when it flew at night or over the jungle canopy. She watched it now disappear in the darkness above the trees, to a thought in the unrippled distance.
If the attack went well, the commanders of Number 18 Group and Number 16 Group would join her immediately. She would -then approach Herule. Already in the capital, the general would be well positioned to apply pressure on the government.
That meant she would have to let him believe he was in charge.
Acceptable, for now.
Aboard Hawkmother
Over Northern Brazil
27 February, 2200
HITTING BOA VISTA TOOK NO MORE EFFORT THAN closing his eyes and saying, “Be gone.”
Madrone saw the runway as Hawk One approached. The threat screen remained clear even after he had dropped the parcel of Thompson-Brandt BAP.1000 antirunway weapons and their massive dispenser toward the center of the strip and swung to strafe the row of AT-27’s. He demolished all but one of the half-dozen armed trainers, and set their hangars on fire before the ancient antiaircraft guns began spitting in the direction of the Ffighthawk. The gunfire was optically aimed and easily ignored as he finished off the last trainer.
Manaus was a different story.
Two Roland antiaircraft missiles had been located at the base. Their radars were scanning the air as he approached. Additionally, four F-5Es were overhead, undoubtedly alerted by the attack on Boa Vista.
The American-built Tiger IIs were agile, capable interceptors carrying Mectron MAA-1 heat-seeking missiles as well as cannons. Patrolling in pairs at roughly twenty thousand feet, they were running two elongated ovals seven miles north and south of the base. Since the Boeing had to stay within ten miles of the two Flighthawks, it would be an easy target for the fighters when he attacked.
So he would nail them first, using Hawk One. Hawk Two, still carrying its ponderous bomb, would be held in reserve.
The Tigers’ radars quickly picked up the Boeing, vectoring toward it and issuing challenges before Hawk One closed to five miles. Madrone’s heart raced and the edges of his scalp tingled ever so slightly, as if a light rain had begun to fall on his head.
Her voice guided him:
Remain in Hawk One. Forget everything but the plane.
The U/MF’s threat screen flashed red. The F-5’s had picked him up somehow. But it was too late for them, very much too late—he edged right, wishing the targeting screen into place, the pipper stoking red as he cut a V in the sky, Hawk One diving and then bolting back behind the Brazilian interceptor. He lost ground, the pipper turning cold black, then starting to blink, changing to yellow, then red. Madrone squeezed, and it was like the first time with Minerva, all of his fears rushing out of him. His enemy burst into flames.
He edged left, his body the Flighthawk. His maneuvers drew him parallel to the second Tiger, the pilot so intent on attacking the Boeing that he didn’t see the Flighthawk in the darkness beside him. Nor could his radar find it as it slid backward, slowing a moment to let its target get slightly ahead and below him.
Madrone climbed. He focused the Flighthawk’s IR scan in the center of his head, tipping downward to accelerate into the attack. He saw the man fiddling with his gear.
The idiot was arming his Sidewinders.
The attack caught the F-5E midships. The cannon shells smashed the turbines cleanly in half. The front part of the plane plunged down immediately, tumbling over violently. The rear, containing the engines, tail, and wings, flew on by itself for nearly a mile, a headless horseman still seeking revenge in the night.
By then, Madrone had turned his attention to the Roland defense missiles. The two Marder chassis launchers were located at the western end of the base, on slightly elevated ground. He had to dive quickly to avoid their radar, which swept out to just under ten miles. One of the launchers fired as he dove, though it wasn’t clear why exactly—the Boeing and the Flighthawks were still well outside the missiles’ range, and the threat screens were both clear.
“Captain, we are under attack,” reported Mayo, the copilot. The voice came at him from above, a terrible intrusion from the clouds.
“Stay with me,” said Madrone, concentrating on Hawk One’s threat screen.
“But—”
“You will stay with me!” he thundered.
There was no response. He checked Hawkmother’s position on the God’s-eye view—if the pilots pulled off, he would eject them.
He might just do that now.
The threat screen on Hawk One painted the coverage area of the Roland’s radar as he closed in. The French-German unit was especially proficient at finding low-flying targets, but even it couldn’t find something as small as a Flighthawk flying at only twenty feet off the ground. A second missile took off from the launcher at the right; Madrone guessed that in their excitement the crew had misidentified and fired at the wreckage of the F-5 as it fell to earth.
Or perhaps they could see him somehow. Perhaps the bastards who had tried to destroy Madrone had altered the radar on the Flighthawk, made it visible to the enemy.
It was as if an iron bar hit him in the forehead. Madrone slumped backward in the chair, losing everything.
We will destroy them, Minerva whispered. We will destroy them for what they have done to you. And we will live together, safe in our home.
Madrone felt his way back into the cockpit of Hawk One, saw the large radar dish of the Roland barely two miles away. He waited until he was within a half mile to begin firing. At his speed and range, he got no more than five slugs into the hull of the SAM launcher. But they were more than enough to destroy her.
Flames shot everywhere. A fireball from the first launcher’s missile struck the secon
d, unarmed launcher, but Madrone decided to erase it as well.
From there it was a turkey shoot. He vectored Hawk Two in to drop the bomb while he searched for the remaining F-5Es with One. After he shot them down, he found and destroyed a flight of Mirage IIIs on the ground, and even wasted an old Starfighter that managed to scramble toward the runway to stop him.
By the time Madrone was done, the best combat squadrons of Força Aérea Brasileiria had been eliminated. More importantly, the only units in the western part of the country that answered directly to the Defense Minister—and thus would resist Minerva—no longer had planes to fly.
Dreamland
4 March, 1300
BREANNA PUSHED AWAY THE PLATE WITH HER half-eaten turkey sandwich and got up from the table in Lounge B. One of the fancier clubs on the base, Lounge B had been thrown open under Dog’s all-ranks edicts, and now served a very passable lunch, as well as offering some convenient nooks and crannies for involved couples.
Which, in theory, Zen and Bree were. Though during the past few days they had been acting increasingly “married.”
A terrible word in her book, which she equated with a range of disparaging adjectives, none of which included intimate. For the past week, Zen had consistently ignored her, claiming he was working. He’d spent all of his spare time either in the ANTARES bunker—or in that computer bitch’s lair.
Jennifer Gleason. Bree would scratch her eyes out if they were doing anything.
She knew Zen, knew he wasn’t like that. But he was human.
And he’d blown her off for lunch. She was due at a briefing with Colonel Bastian in ten minutes, or she’d hunt him down.
Or maybe not. She was being silly. Most likely he was working—he was incredibly busy, after all. Besides heading the Flighthawk Program, he was currently the only person who’d been able to achieve Theta-alpha in the ANTARES program.
Not that she’d heard that from him.
Was she being silly? Jeff had been acting strange lately, distant, quiet, not talking to her. True, Zen did get moody at times—he’d always been that way, even before the accident.
But something was definitely different now. ANTARES made him edgy, darker.
Could be lack of sleep.
“Hey, Bree, how’s it going?” asked Danny Freah, sauntering in. A very attractive woman appeared behind him.
“Hello, Danny,” said Bree, her eyes following to the blonde. As tall as Freah, she looked like an aerobic instructor even though she wore a conservative pantsuit.
Freah was married, the SOB.
“This is Debbie,” said the captain, gesturing to the woman.
Debbie smiled and offered her hand. Bree didn’t take it. “I’m running a little late,” Bree told Freah. “You see Jeff anywhere?”
“No. He supposed to be here?”
“He’s supposed to be married,” snapped Bree, storming from the room.
Dreamland ANTARES Lab
4 March, 1300
ZEN FELT THE RUSH OF ADRENALINE AS THE PLANE soared to fifty thousand feet. He pushed the rudder pedals—pushed the pedals, he could feel them, feel his feet! He hunted in the sky for his adversary, a MiG-29 somewhere below.
His feet! He could feel his feet!
He had to test this. Had to!
He stood.
Gravity slammed his head back. He fell into a void, every part of him on fire. He blanked out.
When he came to, Geraldo and her assistants were standing over him. He was still in the ANTARES lab room, but they had removed his connections, all except the small wires that monitored his heart and the chemical composition of his blood.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We were going to ask you the same thing,” said Geraldo. “I guess, I guess the MiG nailed me when I wasn’t looking,” he said.
“Our tape of the simulation showed the aggressor still out of range when you blacked out,” said Carrie.
She had her hands on her hips, her beautiful breasts thrust out. Zen hadn’t realized how beautiful she was until now, for some reason. Shy and reserved, but the kind of woman who would turn into something in bed.
“Jeff, how do you feel?” asked Geraldo, pulling over a small metal chair on wheels. The assistants customarily used the chair while adjusting the connections; its steel gleamed even in the softly lit lab.
“Uh-oh, I’m a prisoner of the Inquisition,” he joked, still looking at Carrie.
“Not an inquisition, Jeffrey,” said Geraldo. “But I do have some questions for you.”
Carrie glanced down at the floor. He thought her face had colored, but he couldn’t be sure—she and Roger beat a hasty retreat, leaving their boss to talk to him alone.
It occurred to Jeff that he could wring Geraldo’s thin white neck with one hand, though he had no desire to do so.
“Jeffrey, I’m frankly concerned about you,” said Geraldo.
“Why? Because I got waxed by a MiG? It’s flying Mack Smith’s game plans. It’s pretty good.”
“It has nothing to do with the MiG,” said the scientist.
He really could wring her neck. It wouldn’t be difficult. “When you’re in Theta, do you have full use of your limbs?” she asked.
She knew. Somehow, the bitch knew.
She wanted to control him. She wanted him to remain crippled. A gimp couldn’t take over like Madrone had.
But that was just a wild theory of Danny’s. He’d taken Jennifer Gleason’s ideas to the ridiculous, paranoid nth degree.
No. It had happened that way. Looking at Geraldo, seeing her cloying, meddling way, Jeff knew it must have happened that way. It was the only explanation.
Of course he’d taken over. With ANTARES Kevin could do anything.
So could Jeff. He could walk. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.
“Do you use your legs in ANTARES?” Geraldo asked.
“Of course,” he told her. “So what?”
She nodded, then started to move away.
“Hey, Doc—hey! Where are you going?”
She stopped at the door. “Jeffrey, I’m thinking of talking to Colonel Bastian. I’m thinking.”
She stopped.
Jeff realized he had gripped the tires of his wheelchair and started forward, jerking the wires that were still attached to his hand and chest from the machines.
Why am I so angry?
“I think we’re going to put ANTARES on hold,” she said. Her cheeks and lips were pale, but her voice was calm and smooth. “Not just you—the entire program.”
“I’ll fight that.”
“You can go to Colonel Bastian with me. I’ll set up the appointment myself.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Something is happening to you that I don’t understand. I care about you, Jeffrey.”
“Then give me back my legs,” Zen told her.
Her lower lip trembled, but she said nothing as the door behind her opened and she stepped out.
Pei, Brazil
4 March, 2350 local
MINERVA SHIVERED AS SHE SLIPPED FROM THE BED, chilled by a breeze from the balcony door. Naked, she walked to the draped French doors, checking to make sure they were closed and locked. Halfway across the room she felt a premonition of danger and sidestepped to the upholstered chair nearby. She lowered herself stealthily, eyes riveted on the doors as she reached her hand beneath the chair to the pistol holstered there.
Madrone murmured and turned over on the bed, lost in his dreams. He mumbled something, a string of curses, as she rose and walked, still nude, to the doors. She held the Glock against her body, where it couldn’t easily be wrestled away; the small gun’s plastic butt felt warm against the inside of her rib cage. She paused a foot from the doors, breathing as softly as she could, examining the shadows.
Nothing.
But she could not dispel the premonition. Lanzas moved to the side of the drape, pulled it back gently.
Nothing.
The feeling of danger pers
isted. There was nothing to do but confront it—she pushed the drape away with a flourish, her body tense.
Moonlight washed the narrow terrace with a golden yellow. Otherwise, it was empty.
She slid her fingers across the combination lock to the French doors. Minerva trusted the men stationed there implicitly—many were related to her, and the others had worked for her or her family for at least a decade. But she well knew men were fickle, susceptible to all kinds of temptations. The glass in the doors was bullet-proof, able to turn back concentrated fire from a .50-caliber machine gun. The lair itself nestled onto the side of a rocky slope, with no possible vantage for a gunman for over three miles.
The concrete felt ice cold, but she stood on the terrace anyway.
Nothing.
Quietly, she slid back inside. Madrone remained sleeping on the bed, hands curled in tight fists. She patted him gently, then took her robe from the floor. Wrapping it around herself, her gun still in her hand, she slipped into the narrow hallway from her bedroom. With every step she scanned carefully for any sign of an intruder.
Her caution and fear made her late, though only by a few seconds—the light on her secure phone began to blink as she entered her study.
She let her robe fall open as she picked up the phone, as if her breasts might once again seduce Herule.
Perhaps they did, for his tone was that of a compliant lover, not a fierce and at times tiresome mentor.
“You have done amazingly well,” he told her in Portuguese. The words rolled from his tongue poetically—after having used so much English these past few days with Madrone, Minerva felt they sounded almost haunting.
“Are you ready?” she asked the general.
“The Defense Minister will resign tomorrow. Then, I will be appointed,” said the general.
He had worked more quickly than she had dared hope, but she held her voice flat, as if she had expected even more.
“And?” she said.
“Of course you will be rewarded.”
Minerva felt her body flush with anger. She was the one with the power. She deserved not just nebulous promises but tangible rewards—the head of FAB, a post in Brasilia, even her own portfolio as Defense Minister.