Nerve Center d-2

by Dale Brown

  “Still not acknowledging. Ten miles off, nine, eight,” said Chris. “Should be within visual range, but I can’t pick up any lights.”

  “Can they see us?” Breanna asked.

  “I think it’d be kind of hard, even with this bright moon,” said Chris. “But they know we’re here. They’re correcting, maybe coming on our radio signal. I’m going to try and hail them again.”

  Breanna started to answer, but Chris cut her off. “Shit — they’re charging their weapons. Shit — I think those idiots think we’re Hawkmother. They want to shoot us down.”

  Chapter 80

  Aboard Hawkmother

  Over Northwestern Brazil

  7 March, 2220 local (1820 Dreamland)

  “You were right, Captain,” the F-5E pilot told Madrone. “We have the B-52 in range. He has two escorts.”

  A B-52? The plane must actually be a Megafortress, with two Flighthawks.

  So Jeff had finally shown his true colors.

  “Shoot him down,” Madrone said. “Ignore the escorts — they are unarmed.”

  “Captain?”

  “Ignore them. They’ll flail at you but they won’t strike.”

  “Understood.”

  Aboard Galatica

  7 March, 2223

  Zen slammed the Flighthawks around, cursing himself for concentrating so hard on finding the Boeing that he had left their flanks uncovered. There was no reason for the damn Brazilians to attack — but here they were, pedals to the metal, slashing in.

  He tucked Hawk Four into a dive as she came out of her turn, building back her momentum. C3 took Three in trail as he slammed forward, trying to get between the Tigers and Galatica. He had no shells in his cannon, but he activated the targeting radars anyway, figuring that even the limited avionics in the F-5Es would realize they were being cued for a shot.

  Hopefully, that would make the pilots break off, or at least concentrate on the U/MFs.

  Of course, it might only make them mad. The lead plane didn’t seem to be turning, even though Jeff was homing in on his nose.

  * * *

  The need to stay close to the Flighthawks cut down on Breanna’s options, and her fuel situation would make a rip-roaring climb to sixty thousand feet a Pyrrhic victory. Besides, they’d never outrun the Brazilians’ missiles.

  “Their weapons are charged!” warned Chris. “Still not acknowledging our hails.”

  “Trying to wave them off,” said Zen.

  “Hang with me, Hawk Leader,” she said, punching the plane into a sharp roll as the first two-ship of Tiger IIs came on.

  “They’re going to send the second wave onto our tails as we turn,” warned Chris.

  If Gal had been armed, that would have been fatal for the Tiger IIs — the Megafortress’s Stinger air mines would have turned them into flying spaghetti. But with no weapons and no diversionary flares, Breanna had only her wits and the EB-52’s ability to zig in the air going for her.

  She flailed left as one of the Tiger IIs closed to range for a heat-seeker. The Megafortress wallowed a little, held back by the trim flaps that compensated for T/APY’s rotation momentum.

  “Power down the T/APY,” she told Chris.

  “Powering down.”

  “Shit!”

  Breanna looked up to see the nose of an F-5E looming in her windscreen. She plunged right, trying to swirl into a controlled roll, but briefly lost the plane as the wings inverted.

  “Missiles in the air,” said Chris.

  His voice was so calm she knew they were going to get hit.

  * * *

  If either of the Hawks had been carrying ammunition, Zen would have made short work of all four F-5’s. But the pilots seemed to know that he was unarmed, and paid no attention to him even as he dove for them. Hawk Three closed on one of the F-5Es as it spun toward the rear of the Megafortress. He saw its cannon begin to flash, and pushed Three close enough to break the cockpit glass in two, slamming his stick with a flare of body English to hold on to the Flighthawk. The Brazilian plane pirouetted away, breaking up: C3 said Hawk Three had not suffered any damage.

  As he swung toward the F-5E’s wing mate, Zen was pitched sideways by gravity. Breanna swirled the EB-52 into a hard spin trying to escape a fresh attack.

  “Tell them we’re not Madrone,” Zen said.

  “I’m fucking trying,” said Chris.

  Aboard Hawkmother

  7 March, 2230

  Hawk One’s synthetic radar feed filled the center of his mind. Madrone watched a God’s-eye view of the battle ten miles away from 65,000 feet.

  He was a god, wasn’t he? That’s why they wanted to stop him.

  Missiles flared toward the big black plane. It would be over soon.

  Kevin felt a twinge in his stomach, then lost the vision, his body plummeting toward the mountains below. He’d slipped out of Theta.

  Aboard Galatica

  7 March, 2230

  Breanna pushed left, then right, then left, nearly warping the flaps and ailerons with her maneuvers. As she whipped back right she popped the leading-edge tabs, working them like air brakes to slam the big plane downward like a pregnant whale. Her wings flipped over, the stress on the spars so great the entire plane groaned. Rap cleaned the controls and grabbed the throttle, goosing it to the max a second before jerking the stick upward.

  The acrobatics worked. The first missile sailed past, wide of its target. A second and third missile whipped past, the latter detonating on default about a hundred yards away.

  A fourth was so thoroughly confused, it too exploded — unfortunately about twelve feet from the plane. Hot shards of metal ripped through Gal’s fuselage, shorting some of the electronics and damaging the control surfaces on the right wing.

  But it was the cannonfire of the F-5E Rap had lost track of that almost did them in. The first she knew of the close-quarter attack was a low thump behind her. Then she felt like someone was hitting the seat with a baseball bat.

  The Boeing slid sideways. Bree fought it, saw the enemy’s tracers blazing across the sky, felt Gal rolling on her wing. “I have it,” she told Chris.

  “Yup,” he said, broadcasting a general Mayday on the Guard frequency.

  * * *

  The F-5Es swarmed on the Megafortress. Zen pushed Three closer, nudging the throttle as the four planes dove. Another six were within two miles, homing in on the scent of blood.

  With a cannon, they’d all be dead meat.

  “Proximity alert,” flashed on the screen, C3 warning that he was within a hundred feet of the F-5E.

  Jeff watched helplessly as the Brazilian lit his cannon. Tracers blazed across the EB-52’s tail section, gouging a large hole in the fin. Zen could feel the shock behind him.

  For a brief moment, the chromium sun that had been part of his ANTARES metaphor returned. He felt a flash of heat and anger. Then he put his finger on the throttle slider, accelerating Hawk Four into the midsection of the Brazilian fighter.

  * * *

  The shock wave of the explosion had an odd effect on Galatica, actually helping Breanna stabilize her in level flight. Even so, there was no question that they were badly damaged. The emergency screens lit on the multi-use displays, and the computer flashed a warning on the HUD saying they had only forty-percent power capability in engines one and four.

  “At least it’s symmetrical,” said Chris dryly.

  The Megafortress’s twin-tailplane, which extended like a V at the rear of the plane, had been severely damaged. Breanna nudged the plane into a very gentle bank, testing her control.

  “F-5’s have backed off. Zen got one,” said Chris. “He rammed it.”

  “Hawk Leader?”

  “I’m here, Bree. You guys okay?”

  “For now,” she told him. “Can you give me a visual on our damage? Start with the tail.”

  “Yeah.”

  The image snapped into the screen on her lower left panel, which was preset to accept the Hawk feed.

&nbs
p; “Looks like a half-eaten waffle,” said Chris. It was an apt description; much of the skin had been blown or burned off, leaving the honeycombed carbon-fiber guts exposed.

  “We’re stable. I can turn somewhat,” Breanna told her husband. “We have to land ASAP, though. We’ve lost fuel, and we weren’t exactly full to begin with.”

  “Your call,” said Zen.

  “Boa Vista’s a hundred miles northwest,” said Chris.

  “I don’t know.” Breanna began banking in that direction anyway.

  “Okay,” said Chris, working the maps.

  The plane bucked sharply.

  “Fuel problem,” said the copilot, punching his instruments. “Management panel won’t come up for me.”

  “I have it. Find us a landing strip — even a highway at this point.”

  “Got an FAB strip five miles south of us. Primitive at best.”

  “Jeff, there’s a strip at the edge of the jungle five miles south of here. Can you check it out?”

  “Done.”

  It didn’t much matter how long the strip was — they might not even make it that far. Two tanks had been shot out; the Boeing’s automated fuel-management system had isolated the tanks, but apparently they were leaking somewhere in the feed lines as well. As Bree stabilized the engines, the monitor warned she was dry.

  She thought of saying something to Jeff — maybe apologizing for not accepting his apology before. But the words didn’t come and there was too much to do, keeping the plane steady.

  “One of the fuel bags the system shut off sealed,” reported Chris. “I’m trying to get it back on line manually.”

  “Give it a try.”

  “How long did you say that strip was?” Zen asked. “Less than twelve hundred,” said Chris.

  “Try five thousand,” said Jeff. “It’s long, level, and concrete.”

  “Give me a vector,” Bree said.

  “You’re nearly dead on. It’s hidden by the ridges there. Sharp drop. Check the low-light feed.”

  The runway looked brand-new. Everything else — a few buildings, two hangars — looked ramshackle, even from Four’s orbit at five thousand feet. An old propeller transport sat off the ramp.

  “No tower that 1 can raise,” said Chris. “Trying Guard. Trying everything.”

  “There are people there,” said Zen.

  “We’re landing one way or the other. We’re on final,” she added as the moonlit runway suddenly came into view over the mountain.

  She blew a tire as they landed, probably because it had been damaged during the attack. Chris struggled with the crosswind readings at the last minute, and Breanna lost engine one completely when she applied reverse thrust, but she still managed to hold the runway. A wide ramp sat at the far end; she felt her body starting to collapse as she headed for it.

  “So, what happens now?” Chris asked.

  “We call home,” said Breanna.

  “The question is, why did the F-5’s attack?”

  “The country’s in the middle of a crisis,” said Jeff on the interphone. He landed the Flighthawk and taxied behind them. “There’s been a military coup.”

  “Just what we need,” said Breanna.

  “Shooting at us still doesn’t make sense,” said Chris. “Unless they thought we were on the other side.”

  “Which side is the other side, though?” said Bree.

  A jeep waited ahead. A soldier stood in the rear, waving at them.

  “Looks like he’s smiling,” said Chris. “What do you think? Pop out and have a chat?”

  “Think he’ll speak English?” asked Bree.

  “Got me.”

  “Those fuckers tried to shoot us down,” said Jeff.

  “It wasn’t exactly these guys,” said Breanna. “Doesn’t look to me like the F-5’s came from this base. No support facilities.”

  “We’re going to have to talk to them sooner or later,” said Chris. “It’s not like we’re at war with Brazil.”

  “No?” said Jeff sarcastically.

  The men in the jeep jumped out, waving and smiling. They weren’t carrying weapons.

  “One of us is going to have to try talking to them,” said Breanna. “We have to at least get to a phone.”

  “I don’t know, Bree,” said Jeff.

  “Sitting here doesn’t make any sense,” said Chris. “I mean, if they want to, they can just blow us up. But those guys down there don’t look hostile.”

  “I think I’ll go talk to them,” said Breanna. “What do you think, Jeff?”

  She could practically hear him debating it, tossing his head back and forth the way he always did. If the attack had been a case of mistaken identity, then going out was the obvious thing to do. Chris had broadcast their position, but there was no indication that any American units had received it; even if they had, it would take hours or even days for them to be found. In the meantime, their radio’s range would be severely limited by the mountains.

  On the other hand, the F-5 attack had hardly been a friendly gesture.

  “I think our options are either to blow up the plane or talk to them,” Breanna said when Jeff didn’t answer. “And we don’t have anything on board to blow up the plane.”

  “Blowing up the plane doesn’t make sense,” said Zen finally.

  “I agree,” said Chris.

  Breanna hit the console switch to automatically crack the hatch, lowering the ramp to the ground. Then she got out of her seat. “You and Zen stay with the plane,” she told her copilot. “I’ll go see what sort of donkey train we’re going to need to get help in.”

  Breanna made her way to the ventral hatch without stopping to talk to Jeff in the Flighthawk bay. After so much time in the air, her legs felt a little spongy; she wobbled a bit as she put her boot on the pavement. Gal’s stilt landing gear disoriented her as well, and Breanna felt unbalanced as she turned toward the front of the plane, walking out from its shadow. A pair of two-and-a-half-ton trucks, canvas tops flapping, whipped out from behind the hangars and headed toward her.

  Breanna paused to get her bearings. As she did, something large buzzed down from the air behind her, so close and sudden that she stumbled sideways and fell to the ground. The Megafortress and the ramp rumbled with the vibration.

  A Flighthawk.

  “I thought you landed, Jeff,” she yelled, rolling to her feet. As she rose, one of the men who had come to greet her pulled out an Uzi and pointed it in her face.

  VII

  DOOM

  Chapter 81

  Pej, Brazil

  7 March, 2300 (1900 Dreamland)

  As she walked toward the American plane, Minerva’s anger dissipated, replaced by a rush of awe and even envy. The massive black plane loomed from the dark shadows like a mythic beast, its sleek nose a sword thrusting from massive shoulders. The plane towered above her on its gear, with smooth skin like a dark shark in the night. It was so big it seemed like another part of the mountain, pulled down in an avalanche. Yet the F-5 pilots reported the big bomber could turn as tightly as they could. Had the plane been armed, the outcome of the battle would have been far different.

  The two men guarding the hatchway snapped to attention when they saw their commander approaching. She gave them a salute, then took hold of the railing and walked upward into the reddish glow of the interior.

  The lower deck looked like a television studio control room, with a wide array of monitors and a bank of computers and other gear along the walls. She guessed this was the place where the robot planes were controlled from joystick controls and extensive video banks sat in front of both seats, somewhat similar to the arrangement in Hawkmother. The seat on the right turned on a special rail; the crippled commander must sit there.

  Minerva climbed to the flight deck slowly. Madrone said the Megafortress had started as an old B-52, but this didn’t seem possible — the cockpit belonged in something from the twenty-first century, or maybe the twenty-second. A smooth glass panel covered the entire
dashboard area; there were no mechanical switches or old-fashioned dials on its surface. Screen areas, instruments, and controls were all configurable, either by touch or voice command. The throttle bar between the pilot and copilot did not move, but responded to pressure input. Control sticks rather than wheels guided the plane once airborne; textured areas indicated sensor switches built directly into the stick surface. Dull yellow letters in the windscreen showed clearly that the heads-up display, rather than being mirrored from a projector, was actually part of the window surface.

  The plane’s potential as a scout, as a bomber, as the leader of a squadron of interceptors was limitless. With one Mega-fortress, she could dominate not merely Brazil, but all of South America.

  But she had to give it back.

  More than that. She had to find a way to get it back to the Americans without being implicated in its theft.

  She would fly it first certainly.

  And then?

  Minerva slipped into the pilot’s seat. She would never give it back if she took off. No pilot could. To fly this plane would be to relive the first moment, the first dream of flight. She could never give it back.

  But she had to. The Americans would never let her be if she kept it. They would take the plane back by force and dispose of her like a cockroach who had wandered into their home.

  She could fight off the Americans. She could destroy them.

  Desire erupted inside her, the darkness of her soul spreading everywhere. She would keep the plane, she would keep Madrone, she would destroy anyone who dared oppose her.

  With great difficulty, Minerva forced herself from the seat and out of the plane. She had to let go of Kevin before he destroyed her. Even if it meant cutting her chest open with her nails and tearing out her heart.

  Chapter 82

  Aboard Raven

  Over the Gulf of Mexico

  7 March, 2100 local (1900 Dreamland)

  “Our tanker is set,” Colonel Bastian told Nancy Cheshire, quickly reviewing their position on the Megafortress’s navigation screen. “They’ll run a track as far south as possible. We have about an hour on our present course and speed.”