Nerve Center (19 page)

When he stopped screaming, Kevin found that he had fallen from the bed and was lying stark naked on the cold floor.

Allegro, Nevada18 February, 2352

THE DREAM WAS FAMILIAR NOW, EVEN WITH ITS SLIGHT variations. Jeff sat on the beach as the sun rose midway in the sky, its brilliant red gradually fading to black. A cube appeared to grow from the center of this blackness, shining and yet still black somehow. The cube spun slowly, revealing itself as a three-dimensional computer chip coursed by veins and arteries. Sometimes he could see the blood pulsing in the veins; sometimes he saw millions of faces like reflections in the tiny solder points on the surface of the cube. But always what happened next was the same—as the cube expanded he realized it was growing inside his brain, obliterating him.

At that point he woke up. Always.

Jeff knew the dream was about ANTARES. He’d been thinking about the project a lot, debating whether or not to volunteer as a subject.

Geraldo had suggested that he start the sessions again at some point, though she hadn’t brought it up.

Getting back into Theta would be easy. He still had the chip with its connections to his nerve endings implanted in his skull.

He’d thought of having it removed when he returned to Dreamland. But while he’d been told the operation wasn’t particularly difficult, he feared it could harm his vision and hearing. His legs were useless; he couldn’t survive any other loss.

Bree said something in her sleep and rolled over, away from him.

Did he want to fly like that, though, using ANTARES? Letting the computer come into his head, suggest things—it wasn’t flying. He might as well be at a desk, checking off to-do lists.

Was what he did now flying? Strapped into a special chair, pushing a pair of joysticks and watching the world through a high-tech video screen?

Zen shifted his head on the pillow. ANTARES didn’t take over your brain. You did the thinking yourself, sending impulses the way you would move your legs and arms. Ultimately, you were responsible for everything—including your dreams and fears.

So why was he afraid of it? Why hadn’t he insisted that he be the subject?

He knew that as he was currently the only Flighthawk pilot available, shifting to ANTARES full-time would have set the U/MF program behind schedule. But he could have insisted.

Was he scared? He’d done okay with ANTARES, but had never particularly liked the sensation. Now Geraldo had added powerful new drugs to the mix, actually changing body chemistry.

Kevin had changed in the short time since he’d been in the program. He’d become more—what was the word? Not just aggressive exactly, more just a jerk.

ANTARES? More likely a side of him Zen had never noticed before.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Geraldo. Not about Madrone—about becoming a subject again, or at least getting ready. He’d have to clear it with Bastian, of course, but in the end, he’d do it. There was no other choice.

Breanna rolled over again, this time toward him. She pushed her arm over his chest and back around his neck, nuzzling close. Zen turned his head to kiss her, slipping back toward the heavy blanket of sleep.

Dolphin Helicopter Transport
Approaching Dreamland
19 February, 0600

MACK SMITH FOLDED THE NEWSPAPER BACK IN DISGUST, just barely stopping himself from flinging it onto the floor of the helicopter.

“Team lose?” asked his fellow passenger, a jet-propulsion engineer named Brian Daily.

“Hardly,” said Smith. He gave Daily a sideways glance. Ordinarily he wouldn’t bother with him, but the story had pissed him off. “Fucking
L.A. Times.
You know what it says?”

Daily shrugged. The freckles on his face seemed to blanch a bit as Mack unfolded the paper and pointed to the article.

“Israeli Defenses Stand Down from Full Alert,” said Daily, reading the headline. The article was a longish analysis of the state of the Israeli military, with three typos that Mack had seen without even paying much attention.

“No, it’s this bullshit that pisses me off,” said Smith. “Pound for pound, the best air force. Pound for pound, my fucking ass.”

Daily tried peering at the article while at the same time leaning away from Mack in the seat. “I don’t think they mean that as a slam.”

“It’s bullshit,” said Mack.

“Jeez, relax back there, Major,” said the copilot, twisting around from the front. “What’s got you frosted?”

“Ah, nothing,” said Smith. He twirled his arms around each other, pushing his head down toward his chest.

Why was he so frosted? Things like that were total crap, written by jerks who didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. No disrespect toward the Israelis, who after all were kick-ass pilots, but
pound for pound the best?
Better than the American Air Force, which had whipped Saddam’s butt a few years before? Hell, the stinking Marines were better, pound for pound. Even the Navy, for christsake.

No offense intended to the Israelis.

His rage was so great, Mack began racking his brain to see what he really was angry about. Not having a job—that was the problem.

And really, he’d been hard on Bastian the other day. He ought to apologize. And see if maybe Bastian had something for him yet.

Fresh off the helo, Mack headed to Bastian’s office, jostling past the obnoxious Sergeant Gibbs and sailing into Dog’s inner sanctum with a half knock and a hearty “Hey, Colonel.” He slid over one of the visitors’ chairs, leaning forward with his elbows on the armrests.

“I was a jerk the other day, cutting in front of the egghead,” he told Bastian, waiting for the colonel to quickly persuade him that he was wrong.

“Why are you here?” Bastian replied.

“I was a jerk,” Mack told him, still waiting.

Bastian glanced toward the door, where Sergeant Gibbs was standing.

“I will have a cup of coffee, Sergeant,” said Smith, following the glance. “That’d be nice.”

The barest hint of a frown appeared on Gibbs’s face before he retreated into his own domain.

“They broke the mold,” said Mack, gesturing toward Gibbs. “Fortunately.”

“Yes,” said Dog. Even ramrod straight in his chair, Bastian was not a tall man. Still, he dominated the space, his eyes hard in a face that seemed squared at the edges. He wasn’t particularly handsome, Mack thought, but looking at him you could tell he was the kind of guy who made a decision and stuck to it.

The colonel slowly reached for his coffee. He took a sip, then spoke.

“As a matter of fact, Mack, I have made a few calls on your behalf, despite our recent interview.”

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing immediate that comes up to your level of expertise.”

“Thanks, Colonel.” Mack smiled, expecting Bastian to go on, but he didn’t.

Sergeant Gibbs appeared with the coffee.

“Two lumps, huh, Major?”

“I like it sweet, yes,” said Mack, taking the cup. He stirred the metal spoon around, tapped it a few times, then took a sip.

Have to give this to the sergeant—he made a mean cup of joe.

“You’re on base early this morning,” noted Bastian.

“Yes, sir. Running some last tests on the MiG.”

“You still working with ANTARES?”

“Don’t know that they’re flying again today,” said Mack. “But if they want me, I’m ready. We’re about to shut down Sharkishki anyway. Couple more flights at most.”

Someone must have told Bastian about his son-in-law’s screwup yesterday, Mack realized. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

Time to change the subject.

“Obviously, I’d like to command a squadron, even if that’s not possible right away,” Knife told Bastian. “What I thought might work would be to go in as number two somewhere, you know, with a guy about to move out. Probably over in CentCom,” he added, referring to Central Command, which had charge of a number of tactical squadrons and where, he believed, Dog had numerous connections. “Like to hit Italy. Couple of squadrons there, no?”

“Might work,” said Bastian. “In the meantime, I have something for you. It’s a political plum—temporary assignment with the Department of Energy, inspecting test facilities that are either slated to be closed or already are. They need a report on their suitability for Air Force bases. You can guess what the report’s supposed to say,” the colonel added.

“Sounds kind of like a—”

“It’s definitely a holding pattern, definitely bullshit, but you’ll interface with some Pentagon brass along the way,” continued Bastian. “If that goes well, I may be able to swing something much better.”

“Like?”

“Everything in due time,” said Dog.

Mack fought down the impulse to try and wheedle more information.

Hell, he had been a jerk, getting down on the Air Force. Even playing ground FAC with some dusty Army unit in Korea would be a million times better than becoming a civilian. Quit the service and he’d end up flying 727’s and learning to play golf.

No disrespect intended.

Mack jumped up, took a long swig of the coffee, and placed the half-full cup on the colonel’s desk. “It better be a kick-ass one or I’ll farm myself out as a free agent,” he joked. “Maybe I’ll go to Brazil—some old geezer tried to recruit me last month as a consultant.”

Bastian said nothing.

Mack laughed. “Hell, maybe I’ll go to work for the Russians. I can fly their planes too. Don’t you think, Dog?”

Still nothing from the colonel. Some guys were just humor-impaired.

“Well, listen, Colonel, I won’t keep you,” said Knife, backing his way toward the door. “I appreciate your trying to help me. Anything you can do, I appreciate it.”

Dreamland Flighthawk Hangar
19 February, 0630

“YEAH, RIGHT,” SAID SCHNEIDER WITH A LAUGH AS ZEN wheeled into the Flighthawk hangar. “Like you could hit a barn from that distance.”

“I did it,” insisted Foster.

The two techies were responsible for the robot planes’ engine systems. A few other members of the maintenance and prep team were hanging around, reviewing their punch lists and warming up to the day with coffee and some Danishes.

“Hey, Major,” said Schneider, turning to Jeff. “Foster here claims he nailed a buck between the eyes from five hundred yards last November back in Pennsylvania with a pistol.”

“Three hundred yards, with a Remington rifle,” said Foster.

“I could believe that,” said Zen, helping himself to some of the coffee but skipping the sweets.

Tough, though. A pineapple Danish practically winked at him.

“And I didn’t shoot it in the eyes,” added Foster. “You don’t aim at a deer’s head if you want to hit it.”

“You mean you hit it by accident?” said Schneider.

Foster waved his clipboard at his friend. “Twenty-one points, and that’s no lie,” he told Zen. “You hunt, Major?”

Foster tried to swallow his words; Schneider shuffled his legs nervously. One or two of the other men glanced toward Jeff’s wheelchair.

“I’m not much of a hunter,” said Jeff, sipping his coffee as nonchalantly as possible. “Freezing my butt off in the woods isn’t my idea of recreation. Chair’s cold enough as it is.”

“Yeah.” Foster laughed nervously.

Jeff took a sip of his coffee. When he had first returned to active duty, the awkward silence would have annoyed him—he didn’t need, and didn’t want, pity. But he’d come pretty far in the last few months. He wasn’t at peace with the loss of his legs; that was never, ever going to happen. But the awkwardness of others didn’t offend him anymore.

If he’d been in a better mood—if he’d gotten more sleep—he might have made another joke, probably at Schneider’s expense; doubtless the coffee fiend couldn’t hit anything he was aiming at, starting with the urinal in the bathroom. But Zen just changed the subject, asking what kind of shape the planes were in. The crew dogs fell to with quick and very positive status reports. Four Flighthawks were now considered at full flight status; two more would join them late next month, with another pair ready for static tests and check-flights the month after. Components for additional U/MFs were said to be en route; by summer Dreamland would boast enough Flighthawks to mount a full squadron.

Satisfied, Zen pushed himself over to the elevator, riding down to the lab level and his office in “Bunker B.” One of the project members had tacked a large poster of a Frankenthaler painting on the door; he’d thought it pretty weird when he first saw it, and his opinion hadn’t changed all that much. It was called “The Human Edge,” and he supposed it was meant to be a metaphor or something. All he saw were some colors splotched on a large sheet of paper; not too much human about that.

Zen opened the door and spun his wheelchair sideways to angle through the narrow passageway. He left the door open while he checked for e-mail. Jennifer Gleason had left a long note discussing yesterday’s exercises; she had found an apparent glitch in C3’s interface with the ANTARES gateway, but needed some fresh tests to see if she was on the right track.

So it wasn’t Kevin’s fault at all. Or Mack’s, for that matter. Jeff checked the time on the note. Jennifer had sent it at 4:45 A.M.; she’d worked all night.

They could rerun the test tomorrow afternoon, assuming Madrone was up to it and Zen could find a free range. Between the Russian spy satellites and Dreamland’s increasing activities, spur-of-the-moment test flights were getting harder and harder to arrange.

The weather module on Dreamland’s automated flight-scheduling system gave him another caution—a serious storm had stalled over the mountains to the west. Except for a bit of turbulence, their test range should remain clear during their flight window, but the front was fierce and looked to hang around for a while. Ordinarily the U/MFs didn’t operate in the flight areas that far west, but more routine test craft sometimes did, and the storm could complicate scheduling for some time.

Better to try and get it done ASAP. Jeff picked up the phone to start rounding up the troops.

But he found himself punching the extension for the ANTARES project offices instead.