Nerve Center (9 page)

Geraldo opened the folder in her lap, consulting her notes. “I’d prefer to have someone else,” said Bastian. “Jeff is the only pilot presently assigned full-time to the Flighthawks.”

He also didn’t want to waste him on a project that, in his opinion, might—or should—end up being a dead end.

“But a non-pilot?” he added. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong? Who takes over the plane?”

“C3,” said Geraldo. “The computer defaults have been well tested. C3 is very capable, Colonel; I actually agree with Dr. Rubeo that for all intents and purposes it could fly the planes. Just not as well.”

She smiled at Rubeo, but he wasn’t buying the bouquets.

“And unlike DreamStar, the ANTARES pilot will not actually be aboard the U/MFs,” Geraldo added. “So there really is no necessity for the subject to be a pilot.” She glanced at her folder notes. “I have also recorded a steep learning curve for pilots transitioning to the Flighthawk program. According to the records, there were three test pilots who washed out before Major Stockard. The last full-time pilot, Jim DiFalco, had a great deal of trouble right up until he transferred out of the program, and he had been a civilian test pilot. My suspicion is that the problem is very similar to the one with ANTARES—my language metaphor.”

Dog nodded. DiFalco—a top engineer as well as a highly rated test pilot—had earned the nickname “Rock” while with the program.

“According to the simulation exercises,” continued Geraldo, “with the exception of Major Stockard, the best raw scores in the Level 1 qualifying tests for the U/MFs were compiled by non-pilots.”

“Exactly,” said Rubeo. His face was no longer red, though he couldn’t quite be called calm. “If a pilot has difficulty controlling the planes, then logically—”

“Logically we try someone other than a pilot,” said Geraldo. “I’ve already worked up a likely profile. Thirty years old, male, single, technically oriented, in reasonable but not athletic shape, with a slightly beta-male outlook, someone willing to follow rather than lead. On the other hand, he would need to have survived conflict, so that he could draw on that experience for confidence. And of course, he will have to have volunteered, so he can use that as motivation.”

“Witchcraft dressed up as psychobabble,” muttered Rubeo.

“Let’s give it a try,” said Bastian, even though part of him agreed with Rubeo.

Dreamland, Range 2
10 January, 1205

MACK HAD NINE HUNDRED KG OF FUEL LEFT, OR JUST under two thousand pounds in American measurements. That was enough to fly the Fulcrum’s goosed engines roughly a hundred miles, landing at his theoretical base.

But the way he looked at it, his base
wasn’t
a hundred miles away. In fact, he could run the damn engines dry and glide down from here.

Almost. And almost was good enough at the moment, because he was going to nail that stubborn cheating SOB Stockard even if it meant getting out and pushing the MiG home.

Knife let his left wing roll down slightly, tucking into a circle behind the remaining Flighthawk, trying to get the bastard in his boresight. The small plane couldn’t outrun him, but its tight turning radius made pursuing it tricky. Mack took a quick snap shot as the Flighthawk slashed right. But he was going too fast—he nosed down desperately as the smaller plane jerked to his right, trying to get a shot off before sailing beyond the Flighthawk. He lost his enemy, guessed where he’d be, goosed the throttle and shoved down, just ducking Hawk One’s barrage.

Firing the cannon cost the robot considerable flight energy; it started to wallow as it angled to pursue Mack through a hard series of turns. Knife gained momentum, then flung the MiG back around, getting off a shot before the Flighthawk barreled away.

The helicopters were escaping south.

So be it; it was Zen he wanted.

As Knife banked to regroup, he found the tail end of the Flighthawk at the top of his HUD, just out of range. He squeezed the throttle for more power, nearly unsocketing his elbow as he jerked his arm.

He had the bastard now.

“TERMINATE,” SAID MADRONE CALMLY OVER THE common frequency.

Zen flicked his stick, flashing the Hawk’s nose upward before jerking into a steep dive, complying with Madrone’s order.

Even if the engagement hadn’t been terminated, he was confident he would have escaped—at best, the MiG could only get off four or five shots before sailing past the pesky Flighthawk.

Mack cursed in his ears as he swung his wings level. “You’re a fuckin’ cheater, Stockard. Twig saved your ass.”

“I’m a cheater? You’re about six hundred kilos past bingo. You’re walking home.”

“At least I didn’t resurrect a plane.”

“You didn’t hit it.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The Alamo missed. Two Alamos—the other was in the same frickin’ area and would have caught a whiff.”

“Hey, ask the computer.”

Mack’s curse was cut off by another transmission from Madrone, calmly congratulating everyone for a successful “event.”

That was one of the reasons Zen liked Madrone. Had someone else—anyone else—been running the gig, he would undoubtedly have scolded them.

Probably they deserved to be scolded, since they had pushed the envelope of the exercise, but that was how you learned, wasn’t it?

The hopped-up MiG was a pretty hot plane, and Mack had flown it well. Still, by the parameters of the exercise, Zen had won, preserving the Super Blackhawks. He let the computer direct Hawk One back to base. He was exhausted, physically and mentally beat—more tired, in fact, than he had been during the actual fight in Tripoli.

“You okay, Jeff?” asked Jennifer Gleason over the interphone, the Megafortress’s internal com system. She was sitting at the techie station a few feet away.

“Ready for a shower and a cold one,” he told her.

“Shower, yes. I can smell you up here,” put in Bree from the cockpit.

“That’s probably Major Smith.” Jennifer laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face at the debrief.”

“Maybe Bree will take pictures,” said Jeff.

His wife didn’t acknowledge. Maybe it was because they had, after all, lost three of their four planes.

Or maybe, he thought, she just didn’t like Jennifer.

Dreamland Briefing Room 1
14 January, 1005

KEVIN MADRONE HAD CALCULATED THAT HE HAD JUST enough time to sneak a cup of coffee before heading to the meeting. But his math had been too optimistic—everyone’s head turned as he came through the door. He quickly headed down the central aisle of the small amphitheater and slipped into a seat, staring down at Colonel Bastian, who was standing in front of the lectern. As he settled into his seat, Madrone saw that Jennifer Gleason had an empty seat a few rows further down and across from him. It was too late to change places, though.

“What we’re looking at is expanding the Flighthawk program to include some of the project work that was originally sketched out under ANTARES,” said Bastian. “Now I realize that that’s going to seem controversial because of circumstances we’re all too familiar with, which is one of the reasons I want to make sure we’re all up to speed about what’s going on. The promise of ANTARES itself isn’t debatable. And we seem to be reaching a ceiling on the U/MFs.”

“I disagree with that,” said Jeff Stockard. He was sitting in his wheelchair at the lower right corner of the room. “We’ve gone from controlling two planes to four. We have plans in place to go to eight.”

“Granted,” said Bastian. “And there are other ways of tackling the problem. This will proceed in tandem.”

Bastian continued to talk, but Madrone found his mind wandering as he looked up from Jeff and at Jennifer Gleason. The fluorescent lights of the briefing room made her strawberry-blond hair look almost pinkish; she twirled one side with her fingers, pushing it back behind her ear. As she did, she happened to glance back in his direction, caught him staring, then smiled.

Kevin smiled back, or at least he tried. His stomach was fluttering—he was back in junior high, listening to some endless history lecture, hopelessly in love with Shari Merced.

Kevin put his thumbnail to his lips, even though he’d sworn off the bad habit five times already today. He was so damn awkward with girls—with women. The other night he’d been tongue-tied with Abby. She’d seemed interested when he was talking about the time Don Mattingly had signed his scorecard. But he’d felt so stinking nervous that when she dropped him off, he’d blown his chance for a kiss.

He could have kissed her, he should have kissed her, he might have kissed her. She wasn’t his type, a little too giggly and talkative, he thought, but still—he could have, should have, would have kissed her.

But didn’t.

What if he had the same chance with Jennifer? Would he take it?

Hell, yes. He hadn’t always been this stinking nervous, this much of a wreck and a dweeb. Damn—she turned back in his direction and he quickly averted his eyes, pretended to be interested in something on the floor.

He’d never get into that situation with her. She didn’t notice him. Why should she? It was like being back in junior high—the jocks, aka pilots, were the ones who got all the attention. He was just a nerd.

He had to find a way to get her to notice him.

“SO WE’LL SEEK VOLUNTEERS. THERE’LL BE PROFILE testing, physical, mental, that sort of thing.”

Jennifer watched Colonel Bastian pace at the front of the room as he spoke, barely able to control his energy. He wasn’t very tall, but his shoulders were wide, and swung back and forth with implicit urgency. His hands cut through the space around him as if they were the fighters he’d flown.

She leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her Diet Coke. The cold metal of the can stung her lip. For some reason the AC was cranking in the room, and Jennifer felt a slight shiver run through her as she swallowed the soda.

She’d nearly melted the other morning when Colonel Bastian had touched her. She’d wanted him to sweep her up in his arms, smother her. A million volts had seemed to snap between them—but he’d done nothing. He saw her as just another scientist, a well-meaning geek probably.

He was damn smart, wise in ways you wouldn’t expect. Like this—knowing people would worry about ANTARES, knowing there were reservations, he dealt with them head-on, got everyone aboard, made them part of the team.

He looked at her now and said something.

Volunteers, he was looking for volunteers for the ANTARES program.

“We won’t be looking for pilots,” said Bastian. “Dr. Geraldo can give us the whole brief, and we’ll start in a few days. The profile is rather specific actually. At the moment, we believe we need males. Sorry, Jen.”

Jennifer felt everyone look at her. Her face began to flush. Bastian smiled at her.

She wanted to say something. She wanted to say the program was a mistake.

She also wanted to say—what? That she was in love with him?

“I’d like to be in on it. Take a shot at being a subject,” said Bill McKnight. McKnight was an aeronautical engineer who had worked on the DreamStar program.

“Me too,” said Lee Ferguson. He was a communications expert and had designed the nighthawk command system.

Bastian was still looking at her. Did he expect her to say something?

Shit, she thought. I have to. I couldn’t get it out right the other morning.

How would she put it? What specifically were her objections? The fact that no one specifically knew what the subject’s brain did while connected to the computer? The few odd, unaccountable glitches she had come across while adapting some of the early programming for C3?

The fact that his broad shoulders and kind eyes looked so comforting, so warm?

Jennifer felt her hand starting to ascend against her will.

Someone behind her said he’d do it. Jennifer turned and saw Captain Kevin Madrone, the Army weapons specialist, staring right at her.

“I’d like to try,” said Madrone, quickly looking away. Someone else chimed in, and then someone else. This wasn’t the time to object, and she didn’t trust herself besides. Jennifer realized she’d left her arm about halfway up on the small desk in front of her. As she lowered it, she felt so cold she began to shiver.

III
HEAD GAMES

Dreamland, Taj Suite 302
23 January, 0750

MADRONE SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE CHAIR, trying to find a spot where the stiff plastic would feel comfortable against his back.

“It’s kind of been a while since I thought about all of that,” he told Geraldo. “My wife, I mean. Five years.”

The psychiatrist put her hand to her mouth, pinching her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. She nodded, then slowly reached for her coffee mug. She wanted him to talk about Karen. It was almost as if she had a magnet in her brain, trying to draw out the words, but Madrone resisted.

Not resisted exactly. He had nothing to say. He couldn’t even form a picture of Karen in his mind.

If he thought about it, if he analyzed it the way Dr. Geraldo obviously wanted, he might have found the day that it had happened, the moment he’d gotten over her. He’d been obsessed with her for a long time after she’d left him, fantasizing about getting her back, fantasizing about confronting her—and yes, even fantasizing about killing her, though he would never admit it.

Probably, that was what Geraldo wanted to hear. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

Christina, his daughter, his poor dead daughter—she was locked away in a place he’d allow no one to enter, not Geraldo, not even himself. He’d never mention her to anyone.

“You don’t feel angry with her?” Geraldo asked.

“Well, a little. She left me. But …”

It really did feel like a magnet, pulling at him.

“After a while, it kind of went away. Slowly. I don’t know. It seems almost trite.”

“Time heals all wounds?” said the psychiatrist.

“Exactly.” He glanced at his thumbnail, willing his hand still.