by Dale Brown
“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.
Chapter 66
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 persisted. 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.
Why did she need him?
She should just destroy them all. She could tell Madrone about the nuclear weapons, have him adapt them to the antitank missiles.
Kevin would do it in an instant, no matter what technical difficulties there might be. He was a genius, and he was in love with her. Most important, he would want to destroy them all.
Herule sensed her anger. “The reward will be ample,” said the general.
Was she being too greedy? Overreaching again? Or simply too ready to destroy?
The American made her that way, with his infectious rage.
The Boeing and its Flighthawks were more powerful than the entire Força Aérea combined. Yesterday, Madrone had demonstrated that the small planes could not be located by the P-95’s attached to the Navy. Technically part of Força Aérea though under a Naval commander, the turboprop planes were equipped with surveillance radars that were the most powerful airborne radars in the Brazilian inventory. The Navy had come to look for her, though it had not dared to overfly her base. Madrone’s Flighthawks had danced around the P-95 before it was turned back by a flight of T-27 Tucanos newly loyal to her cause.
There had been some tense moments. The pilots in the T-27’s thought the Hawkos, as they called them, were going to shoot down the radar plane.
And themselves.
Madrone had toyed with them. Perhaps he had even contemplated eliminating them.
She would have to dispose of him eventually. It was more than a matter of control. He made her reckless, more vicious than she needed or wanted to be. He made her think of using the nuclear bombs against her own people.
He was her dark side. He asked about her lovers, and she thought of killing them all — a needless and empty gesture. Self-defeating. Her last husband had contacts with the Russians that could be used to obtain MiGs — what good would come from killing him?
Joy at the moment his face twisted white certainly. Great joy. But after that?
“Colonel Lanzas?”
“Yes, General,” she said, her voice silky. “I will stay quiet the next few days and await your orders.”
She hung up the phone before he could say anything else — before she could say anything else.
Carefully, she moved back to the bedroom. As she stepped across the threshold, something moved in the darkness. She dropped quickly, pushing down as she did to a firing position, the small Glock in both hands.
“It’s only me, love,” said Madrone, sitting. “Come to bed.”
She placed the gun on the floor and slipped beside him.
“I thought I heard something. It was silly.” She curled herself around his body. Her nipples rose against his warm skin.
“We will have to eliminate all of our enemies,” he said.
“Things are progressing, love,” she reassured him. She ran her fingers along his thighs and downward to the top of his calves, starting back slowly.
“Not just in Brazil,” he said. “I have been thinking. Los Alamos. Glass Mountain. They are stalking us.”
“Los Alamos?”
“Where they first found me. Glass Mountain is the worst. They poisoned me. Remember? Where the tower is.”
“They would not dare to follow you here,” she said, slipping her hand toward his groin.
“They would!” Madrone bolted upright. “They have to be stopped.”
His heart pumped violently; she reached for him, but he pushed her hand back, sliding out of the bed and stomping to the balcony.
“They’re after us,” he snarled. “Don’t you see? They want to destroy me. They’ll destroy you too.”
Madrone flung open the drapes, staring outside.
“Let’s make love,” she said softly.
“I have to crush them before they crush us,” he said, his back still turned. “I have to destroy their tower. Completely.”
“Yes,” she whispered, holding her arms out and willing him back. “We will crush them all,” she said as he came back to her. “You will have your revenge.”
He crawled into bed like a jaguar, silently stalking its prey. She slid her hand down and found him already hard.
“Make love to me,” she said. “And then we will plan how to deal with them.”
“I leave in the morning,” he said.
“In a few days.”
“Now.”
“Be inside me,” she said, pulling him gently toward the bed.
Department of Energy South Texas District 2, Test Area 6
Joint Services Projects Test Facility (Glass Mountain)
5 March, 1730
One thing Mack had to say for these candy-ass Department of Energy test sites — they stocked them with delectable feminine talent.
He and Marine Colonel Robling were being ushered around the surplus base by a young woman who rated a ten on the Mack Smith scale of excellence. Her lips puckered ever so slightly, her neck a dainty, vulnerable white, as she drove the Jimmy with smooth, lithe twists of her head and arms. Her short blond hair jostled as she drove down the mountainside toward the artillery testing range, and her breasts — her breasts were so perfectly shaped that Mack had to rub his mouth with his hand to keep from drooling.
Fortunately, he’d given the front seat of the car to Robling, or he’d have melted into a puddle of water by now.
He’d make a play after dinner. He’d get her talking and then turn on the charm.
Assuming he could contain himself that long. He hadn’t had sex now in three days, since the redhead at Chesterville.
Robling chattered away about how stupid the Army had been laying out the test site. It was his usual BS. Not that he didn’t have a point in a way — there were no defenses here, aside from a few grunts in some Humvees near the perimeters. But the place had been used for artillery and short-range-missile testing, and who the hell would have attacked it?
They’d shut down all active testing here months ago, and according to Blondie the contractors had already completed site reclamation; Glass Mountain would be closed down in thirty days.
Blondie. Jesus, he’d forgotten her name.
“See now, your main building is very vulnerable from here,” said Robling as they stopped atop a ridge. “Give me a Ma Duce and I could pin down a regiment there.”
“Oh,” said the guide. “Ma Duce?”
That’s your cue, Mack realized.
“The colonel means a heavy-caliber machine gun,” said Mack. “He does have a point. But this is a hell of a view.” He released his seat belt — she’d turned around specially to ask him to put it on — and opened the door.
Geographically, the view consisted largely of wasteland, the all-but-shuttered administration building, and the roofs of the vacant bunker facilities dug into the opposite hillside. But Mack had other attractions in mind.
“This hillside presents a strategic possibility,” said Robling as he got out of the truck. “If this facility were used as a base, a surveillance tower could be placed here.”
Mack rolled his eyes. Robling took no notice of Cheryl — the name flashed back — as she got out of the truck and put her hands on two of the most perfect curves in creation. She turned her back, and her firm butt — it had to be very firm — made Mack realize he was having a religious experience.
“It is a beautiful view,” said Cheryl, turning to Mack.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait for dinner.
“As far as a tower goes,” she continued, “we just took one down. You can see the concrete pads in the dirt.” She walked toward Mack, nearly brushing him as she passed. “Of course, it was just a light structure used to observe operations on Range F, over there.”
The range was in the valley. Robling jerked around.
“This place radioactive?” said Robling, alarm suddenly in his voice.
Mack tried hard not to roll his eyes. The colonel had asked the same question at some point at every base.
Cheryl smiled indulgently. “Of course not, Colonel. There were never live explosions here. Nuclear material was never even present except in minute amounts. Every precaution was taken.”
“Can’t be too careful,” said the colonel.
Cheryl walked over to him and — to Mack’s complete horror — patted him on the back, her fingers lingering.
Robling turned to her slowly. Mack felt violently ill.
As he reeled away, he heard a whine in the air above him. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground.
Chapter 68
Aboard Hawkmother
Over Glass Mountain
5 March, 1740
She wasn’t physically with him, yet Madrone felt Minerva’s breath on his neck as he took Hawk One into the target. She nudged his shoulder gently, pointed him to the lab where the bastards had poisoned him.
They’d come so far in the past few weeks. With her inspiring him, he’d used his brain in ways he’d never imagined possible. He’d discovered how to mount two bombs beneath each Flighthawk without losing too much speed. He had examined the Boeing’s ident gear and learned to spoof commercial identifying codes. He had even found out how to enter bogus flight information in the civilian networks as they tracked commercial flights, though that required help from Minerva.
Help she was only too glad to give — she loved him as deeply as any woman had ever loved a man. He could feel it in her touch.
Hawk One zeroed in on its target, the two AV-BP-250 550-pound rocket-powered penetrator bombs strapped to its belly ready. They had altered the fuses slightly to enhance their ability to penetrate these particular bunkers and explode on Level Three, where he had been betrayed.
So easy: he knew how to do it before he even looked at the weapons.
The bunker sat fat in the middle of his screen.
So beautiful, revenge. Unspeakable.
As Madrone pushed the trigger, he heard the bells from his daughter’s funeral.
C3 warned that it was losing the connection with Hawk One.
“You bastards,” Madrone screamed over the plane’s interphone circuit to its Brazilian pilots. “Keep me close to the Hawks.”
“We are trying, Commander,” replied the pilot. “You’re flying too fast, much faster than your plan directed.”
“Closer, damn you!” Madrone looked to the right, jumping into the Boeing’s cockpit. He took control and slammed the thrusters himself.
Back in the Flighthawks.
The bunkers had already exploded. He made sure the control connections were strong, then threw himself into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was zeroing in on the tower.
Something was wrong. The tower wasn’t there.
Nausea ate his stomach; Madrone felt sweat starting to slide down his temples.
Did he have the wrong place?
Sitrep.
He was there. He’d hit the bunkers. There was smoke. They had taken away the tower. There was a truck there, people.
The bastards, laughing at him. They’d tricked him again. Laughing!
The AV-BI napalm bombs in Hawk Two would put an end to that.
Glass Mountain
5 March, 1744
Mack saw it only for a second, and only from the periphery of his vision. He was falling and confused, but he was certain, absolutely positive, about what he saw:
A Flighthawk, darting upward over the bunkers on the hillside.
He hit the ground face-first, too stunned to get his hands out to break his fall. Before Smith could roll onto his back, the small U/MF had disappeared in the twilight sky. In the next moment, there was a dull thud from the direction of the bunkers, then a series of progressively louder, though still muffled, concussions.
He jumped to his feet. Robling and Cheryl huddled against the truck.
“We’re under attack!” Smith yelled.
The colonel grabbed for the Jimmy’s door.
“No — that’s the only target besides the administration building!” yelled Mack. “Down the ravine. Come on!”
He grabbed Cheryl and in the next moment found himself falling, the air on fire behind him.
Aboard Hawkmother
Over Glass Mountain
5 March, 1745
In his excitement, Madrone fired before the cursor settled. The napalm bombs hit a few yards before the truck. But their beautiful red flames quickly covered the hillside.
The attacks on Minerva’s Brazilian targets had been
exhilarating. But this was something else entirely. When fighting the FAB, he felt jittery at times, worried about the planes or even slipping out of Theta. He was a young buck making love for the first time, worried about messing it up.
This — this was revenge, the long moment after orgasm, the deep comfort of success. This was beyond the petty victory of survival, the silly ego play of killing your opponent. This deepened his whole being.
Madrone sat in both Flighthawks and Hawkmother simultaneously, seeing the battlefield from every angle. He smiled as he pushed the planes down from opposite directions, slashing into cannon runs on the administration buildings. Bricks and mortar disintegrated in his path. Be gone, he thought — and they were.
The SUV’s gas tank exploded with a fury, the gasoline erupting in a fireball high above the ground-hugging napalm. There were three people clawing down the ravine just below the hill, three easy targets for him as he pulled Hawk Two around for the kill.
He’d nail them left to right. The optical viewer magnified them, outlined their heads with the cannon’s crosshairs.
As he started to push the trigger on the first target, the second turned toward him.
Mack Smith.
The shock threw him out of Theta.
Chapter 69
Dreamland Commander’s Office
5 March, 1800 local
Jeff struggled to control his anger as Geraldo laid out her arguments for Colonel Bastian. The program results weren’t consistent, blah-blah-blah. The subjects were all proceeding much more quickly, blah-blah-blah. Wave activity unaccounted for. Perhaps feedback in the computer systems originating from the subject. Unpredictable lapses perhaps due to changes in the protocol. Given the inexplicable disappearance of Captain Kevin Madrone-
Zen finally lost it. “This isn’t about Madrone, it’s about me,” he sputtered. “You think I’m hallucinating. I’m not. I don’t think that I have my legs back. That’s ridiculous.”
“You personally have nothing to do with my recommendation,” said Geraldo calmly.