“Something bothering you, Doc?”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night,” she said lamely, quickly launching into an explanation of her theory that minimized the technical aspects. In a nutshell, she thought that Madrone had somehow learned to use ANTARES to fly the 777, or that C3 had done so at his direction.

“It was most likely a combination of both,” said Jennifer. “The system was hardwired to the Boeing for test purposes and ANTARES or Madrone may have exploited it. I don’t think C3 could have decided to do it on its own, since I haven’t been able to get it to do so in the simulations.”

“Dr. Rubeo doesn’t think it’s possible for an ANTARES subject to do that,” said Dog.

“That’s not exactly what he said. He said, I believe,” she added, “I believe he probably told you that it’s technically difficult to maintain, and that we haven’t any proof. This crossover may not be a deliberate crossover at all, just the code spooling crazily.”

“Can you pin it down?”

“I’m trying to come up with some simulations that can duplicate the ANTARES code. Major Stockard may also be able to help once he’s up to speed. Of course, if we had the hard-drive recorder from the computer in Hawkmother, or, uh, well, if Captain Madrone turned up, I mean if, when—”

“I have to say, Doc, the odds are pretty damn good he’s dead.”

Dog looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She longed to take some of it off—massage his back, kiss him. Jennifer felt an impulse, began to follow it, rising slowly from her chair.

But Bastian had already gotten up and was walking to the door. She froze as he turned.

“See if you can expedite the testing you need. If this is a problem with ANTARES, I need to know right away.” She managed to nod before he stepped out.

Pej, Brazil

27 February, 2100 local

MINERVA WATCHED AS THE FUEL-LADEN BOEING lumbered down the newly finished runway, struggling off the field though she had nearly tripled its size in just a few days. The left wing dipped down as the wheels were cranked upward, but it stayed in the air.

In contrast, the two small robot planes jetted off smartly in less than two thousand meters, even with massive bombs beneath their bellies. The JP 233 British runway-denial weapons had been obtained by Brazil through Italy several years before. Minerva had managed to obtain them from another unit for a price approaching ten times the commanding general’s salary. And it was only that cheap because the man considered himself her ally and sometime lover. At least he’d had the grace not to ask questions.

Nearly as big as the U/MFs, the bombs cut down on the smaller planes’ maneuverability and range. But Madrone had practiced with one yesterday; she was confident he would succeed. More importantly, so was he.

Madrone scared her. She was used to manipulating men, but with him it was beyond manipulation. He anticipated her darkest wishes and went beyond them. It was as if the devil himself had materialized before her.

Yet he could be such a gentle lover, so willing, so soft when she asked.

His suggestion that the antitank weapons could be altered and then fit to the U/MFs made sense to her, though her experts had deep reservations. Madrone’s enhancements to the shaped-charge warheads, at least, could be easily implemented, and were even now being tested in a bunker on the other side of the hill.

The dimensions of the planned weapons gave her a better idea, though she didn’t trust Kevin enough yet to broach it. Perhaps it wasn’t merely trust. Perhaps she knew that if she told him, he would dare her to use them. For that, she wasn’t ready.

Colonel Lanzas had recruited two pilots to fly the Boeing. The exhausted state Madrone had arrived in made it obvious that he had to concentrate on guiding the two smaller jets and not worry about the 777. She did not completely understand the process—his description of ANTARES sounded like science fiction, as if he merely closed his eyes and wished the planes to fly. But there was no doubt that it worked.

Minerva folded her arms, gazing at the large plane disappearing into the distance. They had painted it dark green, making it more difficult to spot when it flew at night or over the jungle canopy. She watched it now disappear in the darkness above the trees, to a thought in the unrippled distance.

If the attack went well, the commanders of Number 18 Group and Number 16 Group would join her immediately. She would -then approach Herule. Already in the capital, the general would be well positioned to apply pressure on the government.

That meant she would have to let him believe he was in charge.

Acceptable, for now.

Aboard Hawkmother

Over Northern Brazil

27 February, 2200

HITTING BOA VISTA TOOK NO MORE EFFORT THAN closing his eyes and saying, “Be gone.”

Madrone saw the runway as Hawk One approached. The threat screen remained clear even after he had dropped the parcel of Thompson-Brandt BAP.1000 antirunway weapons and their massive dispenser toward the center of the strip and swung to strafe the row of AT-27’s. He demolished all but one of the half-dozen armed trainers, and set their hangars on fire before the ancient antiaircraft guns began spitting in the direction of the Ffighthawk. The gunfire was optically aimed and easily ignored as he finished off the last trainer.

Manaus was a different story.

Two Roland antiaircraft missiles had been located at the base. Their radars were scanning the air as he approached. Additionally, four F-5Es were overhead, undoubtedly alerted by the attack on Boa Vista.

The American-built Tiger IIs were agile, capable interceptors carrying Mectron MAA-1 heat-seeking missiles as well as cannons. Patrolling in pairs at roughly twenty thousand feet, they were running two elongated ovals seven miles north and south of the base. Since the Boeing had to stay within ten miles of the two Flighthawks, it would be an easy target for the fighters when he attacked.

So he would nail them first, using Hawk One. Hawk Two, still carrying its ponderous bomb, would be held in reserve.

The Tigers’ radars quickly picked up the Boeing, vectoring toward it and issuing challenges before Hawk One closed to five miles. Madrone’s heart raced and the edges of his scalp tingled ever so slightly, as if a light rain had begun to fall on his head.

Her voice guided him:

Remain in Hawk One. Forget everything but the plane.

The U/MF’s threat screen flashed red. The F-5’s had picked him up somehow. But it was too late for them, very much too late—he edged right, wishing the targeting screen into place, the pipper stoking red as he cut a V in the sky, Hawk One diving and then bolting back behind the Brazilian interceptor. He lost ground, the pipper turning cold black, then starting to blink, changing to yellow, then red. Madrone squeezed, and it was like the first time with Minerva, all of his fears rushing out of him. His enemy burst into flames.

He edged left, his body the Flighthawk. His maneuvers drew him parallel to the second Tiger, the pilot so intent on attacking the Boeing that he didn’t see the Flighthawk in the darkness beside him. Nor could his radar find it as it slid backward, slowing a moment to let its target get slightly ahead and below him.

Madrone climbed. He focused the Flighthawk’s IR scan in the center of his head, tipping downward to accelerate into the attack. He saw the man fiddling with his gear.

The idiot was arming his Sidewinders.

The attack caught the F-5E midships. The cannon shells smashed the turbines cleanly in half. The front part of the plane plunged down immediately, tumbling over violently. The rear, containing the engines, tail, and wings, flew on by itself for nearly a mile, a headless horseman still seeking revenge in the night.