Nerve Center (38 page)

“I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“Bullshit! Bullshit! You were part of it. You
are
part of it.”

Madrone’s fingers slashed the air. His skin went from white to red in an instant. It stretched taut over the bones of his face, which seemed animated by a sirocco.

“You have to let us help you, Kevin,” said Jeff softly. Madrone blinked at him, then bent closer. For a moment, Jeff thought he had gotten through.

“I’ll kill you all,” said Madrone, his voice even softer than Jeff s. “All of you.”

There was a burst of gunfire on the TV, so loud that Jeff jerked back apprehensively, turning toward the TV. When he looked up again, Kevin was gone.

MADRONE’S HEAD POUNDED AS HE WALKED FROM THE building. His mind had shorn itself into splinters, each wedge manipulated by the spider in his skull. New voices yapped at him, emerging from the maelstrom between the segments of his brain.

Zen is your friend. What was he trying to say?

Jeff was a victim just as Kevin was. They’d made him a robot.

Breanna too. And the copilot.

Kill them!

Zen seemed to think he could escape. Had he said that? Or had Kevin wanted him to say that?

The shadows closed around Madrone as he walked out into the night. The jungle—he was back in the jungle.

He was in Theta, connected to ANTARES. But he wasn’t wearing the helmet, wasn’t in the airplane or his special suit. There was no computer in sight.

Where was Minerva? He needed her.

MINERVA ALLOWED HERSELF A LONG MOMENT OF indulgence, staring at the mountains from her balcony. The stars seemed to have a light purple glow tonight—destiny stars, an omen.

Good or bad?

Good. Only good.

The door opened in the room behind her. Minerva took one long breath, then slipped inside.

Kevin stood in the middle of the room. “Why did you bring them here?” he demanded.

“Kevin, I didn’t bring them here.”

“Zen and Breanna—you wanted them to come.”

Minerva suppressed a shudder. “They followed you. love.” She glided toward him, striving to keep calm. “You’ve forgotten? I know you’re tired.”

She wrapped her hands around his shoulders. His muscles were hard metal; his heart pounded crazily.

His madness had grown nearly uncontrollable in the past twenty-four hours; he was no longer simply dangerous, but crazy as well.

That ought to have made it easier for her to let him go. But it didn’t.

“I always knew they were against me,” Kevin said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“They’re all bastards.”

“You will carry out your attack in the morning using their plane. The repairs will be finished in time. I’m positive of it,” she added, more to convince herself than him. “They will help.” Minerva ran her hands across his shoulder, then slipped her fingers beneath the collar of his jumpsuit, sliding them to his flesh.

“They won’t help me,” he said fiercely.

Fear froze her hand. He might resist—he might even turn against her.

“The Lawrence Livermore Laboratories in San Francisco,” she said. “Isn’t that where they poisoned your daughter for the final time? Perhaps she was only sick until then—and that was where they killed her.”

He’d told her several times about the treatment, performed near but not actually in the lab. Always he had spoken with anger, clearly wanting to destroy the place. It should have been his deepest desire now, the simplest way to hold him in her fingers.

But not today.

“I’m not going,” he said calmly.

She slid her hand away, drifting back toward the chair in the corner of the room. The gun was beneath the cushion. If she killed him, what would she do?

Destroy the planes, get rid of the others. There would be no trace.

Better—take some of the remains and scatter them north near the border. Her people were already helping the American searchers and offering to do more. Of course, their every move had to be cleared with her.

It wouldn’t be as convincing as her plan to send him back with the plane after pretending he had attacked her base. But luck seemed finally to have turned against her.

Still, the benefits were worth another risk. Her hand easing toward the pistol, she gathered herself to try again to persuade him.

“Whether you go or not, it is your decision,” Minerva told him. “If you do, I will give you a weapon that will guarantee their destruction. I have two warheads,” she added. Even as she said it—even though she knew it was merely part of her own plan to get rid of him—she felt a certain undeniable excitement, a lust for destruction that he provoked.

“The warheads have nuclear bombs. They are small and were designed for artillery shells. But you could adapt them. Take one. I need the other here, in case they attack.”

Madrone drew back. She sensed she’d lost him, and fought the impulse to go to him. She felt a tinge of fear, shame at her own desire

And then she continued to speak.

“Do they still do those hideous experiments there?” she said. “They must have known what it would do to her. Perhaps they lied from the beginning.”

“No!”

Kevin’s whole body shook so violently that Lanzas reached for her gun. But Madrone only collapsed on the floor.

“They’re my friends,” he murmured as she folded herself over him.

He bawled like a baby on the floor. She loved him, she truly loved him.

“If they are your friends, they will help you,” Minerva told him. “You’ll take off before dawn. The plane will be repaired then. The skin on one of the rear stabilizers is being replaced with aluminum, which perhaps will alter the flight characteristics, but it should be manageable.”

“What if they won’t help me?”

“Then our men will fly the plane. Or you can,” she said. “We’ll do whatever we have to.”

“Give me the bombs,” said Madrone. He took a breath and raised his head.

“They are warheads only. I thought perhaps they could be placed on the tank missiles as you did with the explosives. They’re about the same size. But there’s no time.”

“There’s time. I can fix it.” He’d changed back into the dervish, the determined avenger. His voice was resolute; the insanity had receded. “I’ll destroy Livermore, and I’ll destroy Dreamland, the base where they invaded my brain.”

“We have to reserve one warhead for here, in case they attack,” Minerva told him. “Could you rig it to explode from a timer or remote control?”

“Child’s play. Quickly.” He jumped up.

She realized she should let him go, but something deep inside her made her reach out and grab his arm. “Let’s make love first.”

Aboard Raven
Over the Gulf of Mexico
7 March, 2130 local (1930 Dreamland)

THE RADAR OPERATOR HAD JUST FINISHED TELLING DOG that the scans were clean when the yellow bar on the HUD flashed.

“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”

Bastian snapped on the transmission.

“You’ve lost your mind,” said Magnus.

“No, sir,” said Bastian. “What I’ve lost is an EB-52.”

“I’m not going to be able to bail you out of this one, Dog,” said the three-star.

“I’m not asking you to bail me out, General.”

“You are to set a course for Dreamland and return there without delay. The search will be handled properly, through official channels.”

“I am official channels. As per—”

“Colonel!”

“Yes, sir,” said Bastian. “We’re heading to refuel anyway.”

“Who’s your copilot?”

“I’m the copilot.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Major Cheshire is acting under my orders,” said Dog. “She filed a protest. It’s in the log,” he added, hoping they could add it retroactively.

“That may not save her either. Let me talk to her.”

“You have to authorize it on your end,” Bastian told him.

The line was silent for a moment, apparently while the general consulted with whatever technician was helping him complete the transmission.

“Is he going to yell at me?” Cheshire asked.

“I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor.”

“The condemned always joke before the hanging.”

“Major Cheshire?”

“Yes, General.”

“You get home. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bastian, contact me when you’re an hour from base. I’m in D.C. Find me. Out.”

“Doesn’t sound too pleased,” said Cheshire.

“Probably had a long day,” said Dog.

“What are we doing, Colonel?”

He couldn’t leave Breanna; he just couldn’t.

But it was senseless to stay here. Even without Magnus on his back, he ought to return. They had no transmission, no beacon, no sign of Galatica.

“Message, Colonel,” prompted Nancy.

Dog looked up and saw the alert code, indicating the line was scrambled and from D.C. Sighing, he once more authorized the line. He was surprised to hear Jed Barclay’s voice, not the general’s.

“Uh, Colonel, I have e-mail here, came through the NSC public system. I believe you got a copy too at Dreamland. But I want to read it to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen. ‘Deposit sixty million U.S. dollars in the following account by 0600 Pacific Coast time, or Lawrence Livermore Labs will be destroyed, along with San Francisco.’ There’s some account numbers too, which seem to be linked to a bank in the Caymans, though I haven’t been able to trace it yet. It’s signed by Madrone.”

“What?”

“I’d think it was just a loony, but there’s a TIFF file attached.”

“What’s a TIFF file?”

“Tagged graphic. Very low resolution and primitive algorithms, no security at all. But basically, it’s a photograph or a video frame. It’s a picture of an EB-52 with damage to the rear. I’m guessing it’s the one you’re searching for, but there’s no way to authenticate the picture or the e-mail definitively.”

“Where did the message come from?” Dog asked.

“At the moment, I’m not sure. We’ve traced the e-mail back to Italy, but it probably didn’t originate there.”

“Okay,” said Bastian. “Jed, have you been able to organize that surveillance via the satellites?”

“Yes, nothing there yet. I’ll get to that in a second, Colonel,” added Barclay. “There was another file attached to this e-mail. It had a line drawing. I’m not an expert, but it looks like a nuclear warhead. I’m trying to have it checked out now.”

“What did your boss say?”

“He’s en route to the White House to inform the President right now.”

Aboard Dreamland Combat Transport C-17/D “Quickmover”
Over the Caribbean
2240 local (1940 Dreamland)

DANNY NEARLY SLIPPED OFF THE CREW LADDER AS HE descended into the belly of the C-17. Sergeant Talcom suppressed a laugh at the base of the ladder, but the rest of his Whiplash team members guffawed so loudly he could hear them over the whine of the transport’s four powerful engines.

“All right, listen up,” Freah said. “We’re putting down for a while in Panama.”

“We got a target?” asked Bison, practically jumping off the plastic bench.

“No. We’re working on it. We have to refuel and the powers that be are gathering some intelligence.”

“Translation: Some jerkoff in D.C. wants to go to bed,” said Powder.

The others started to laugh again.

“You know, Sergeant, I hear the latrines here are a very interesting place to spend an evening. All sorts of yummy bugs to check out.”

Danny had so much venom in his voice that not one of the others dared to as much as titter as he climbed back up to the flight deck.

Pej, Brazil
March 8, 0100 local (March 7, 2100 Dreamland)

BREANNA HAD SAT ON THE WOODEN CHAIR FOR WHAT seemed like several hours, exchanging glares with the male guards. They made no move to attack her, and had even been delicate searching her for a weapon; if she’d had anything besides her bulky Beretta, she would have been able to conceal it easily. Still, her vulnerability felt like a physical thing, pricking at her skin.

She worried about Jeff. He was due for another round of the diluted ANTARES drugs in two hours. Geraldo had told her that he had to take them within five minutes of her carefully worked out schedule, or else he’d begin to feel effects of withdrawal.

A burly airman appeared at the door carrying her flight and survival gear. He placed it on the floor next to the guard, but the soldiers waved her back into her seat when she rose to examine it. A few minutes later the same airman came in with a large bowl of food. This, at least, she was allowed to have. Despite the toughness of the beans, she ate it quickly, and slurped the thin broth at the bottom. She was done by the time Chris was led into the room a few minutes later. One of his guards carried his gear, placing it next to hers by the door.

“You’re eating that shit?” he said.

“Better than starving.”

“You don’t think it’s drugged?”

“If they were going to drug it, they would have made it taste better,” she said.

“Think they’ll release us soon?”

Breanna shrugged. She could hear Zen’s wheelchair in the hallway.

Jeff rolled into the room, an ironic smile on his face. Before she could ask what was possibly so funny, a tall man entered behind him and began giving orders in Portuguese. The guards quickly grabbed the flight gear and thrust it at Breanna and Chris, though mixing up who belonged to what.

“We’re being released,” said Chris.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Zen, still wearing his bemused expression. It was a mask he sometimes used; maybe it meant he was planning something.

“Where’s your gear?” Breanna asked.

“They made me leave it in the plane.”

“What’s so funny?” she said.

“I got a TV and you didn’t,” he said, then added, “They think I’m going to help fly the Flighthawks.”

“What?”

“He speaks English,” said Zen in a stage whisper. “He says we’re going back north. They think we’re going to help.”

“That wasn’t quite what he said.”