Madrone flung open the drapes, staring outside.

“Let’s make love,” she said softly.

“I have to crush them before they crush us,” he said, his back still turned. “I have to destroy their tower. Completely.”

“Yes,” she whispered, holding her arms out and willing him back. “We will crush them all,” she said as he came back to her. “You will have your revenge.”

He crawled into bed like a jaguar, silently stalking its prey. She slid her hand down and found him already hard.

“Make love to me,” she said. “And then we will plan how to deal with them.”

“I leave in the morning,” he said.

“In a few days.”

“Now.”

“Be inside me,” she said, pulling him gently toward the bed.

Department of Energy South Texas District 2,

Test Area 6

Joint Services Projects Test Facility (Glass Mountain)

5 March, 1730

ONE THING MACK HAD TO SAY FOR THESE CANDY-ASS Department of Energy test sites—they stocked them with delectable feminine talent.

He and Marine Colonel Robling were being ushered around the surplus base by a young woman who rated a ten on the Mack Smith scale of excellence. Her lips puckered ever so slightly, her neck a dainty, vulnerable white, as she drove the Jimmy with smooth, lithe twists of her head and arms. Her short blond hair jostled as she drove down the mountainside toward the artillery testing range, and her breasts—her breasts were so perfectly shaped that Mack had to rub his mouth with his hand to keep from drooling.

Fortunately, he’d given the front seat of the car to Robling, or he’d have melted into a puddle of water by now.

He’d make a play after dinner. He’d get her talking and then turn on the charm.

Assuming he could contain himself that long. He hadn’t had sex now in three days, since the redhead at Chesterville.

Robling chattered away about how stupid the Army had been laying out the test site. It was his usual BS. Not that he didn’t have a point in a way—there were no defenses here, aside from a few grunts in some Humvees near the perimeters. But the place had been used for artillery and short-range-missile testing, and who the hell would have attacked it?

They’d shut down all active testing here months ago, and according to Blondie the contractors had already completed site reclamation; Glass Mountain would be closed down in thirty days.

Blondie. Jesus, he’d forgotten her name.

“See now, your main building is very vulnerable from here,” said Robling as they stopped atop a ridge. “Give me a Ma Duce and I could pin down a regiment there.”

“Oh,” said the guide. “Ma Duce?”

That’s your cue, Mack realized.

“The colonel means a heavy-caliber machine gun,” said Mack. “He does have a point. But this is a hell of a view.” He released his seat belt—she’d turned around specially to ask him to put it on—and opened the door.

Geographically, the view consisted largely of wasteland, the all-but-shuttered administration building, and the roofs of the vacant bunker facilities dug into the opposite hillside. But Mack had other attractions in mind.

“This hillside presents a strategic possibility,” said Robling as he got out of the truck. “If this facility were used as a base, a surveillance tower could be placed here.”

Mack rolled his eyes. Robling took no notice of Cheryl—the name flashed back—as she got out of the truck and put her hands on two of the most perfect curves in creation. She turned her back, and her firm butt—it had to be very firm—made Mack realize he was having a religious experience.

“It is a beautiful view,” said Cheryl, turning to Mack.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait for dinner.

“As far as a tower goes,” she continued, “we just took one down. You can see the concrete pads in the dirt.” She walked toward Mack, nearly brushing him as she passed. “Of course, it was just a light structure used to observe operations on Range F, over there.”

The range was in the valley. Robling jerked around.

“This place radioactive?” said Robling, alarm suddenly in his voice.

Mack tried hard not to roll his eyes. The colonel had asked the same question at some point at every base.

Cheryl smiled indulgently. “Of course not, Colonel. There were never live explosions here. Nuclear material was never even present except in minute amounts. Every precaution was taken.”

“Can’t be too careful,” said the colonel.

Cheryl walked over to him and—to Mack’s complete horror—patted him on the back, her fingers lingering.

Robling turned to her slowly. Mack felt violently ill.

As he reeled away, he heard a whine in the air above him. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground.

Aboard Hawkmother

Over Glass Mountain

5 March, 1740

SHE WASN’T PHYSICALLY WITH HIM, YET MADRONE FELT Minerva’s breath on his neck as he took Hawk One into the target. She nudged his shoulder gently, pointed him to the lab where the bastards had poisoned him.

They’d come so far in the past few weeks. With her inspiring him, he’d used his brain in ways he’d never imagined possible. He’d discovered how to mount two bombs beneath each Flighthawk without losing too much speed. He had examined the Boeing’s ident gear and learned to spoof commercial identifying codes. He had even found out how to enter bogus flight information in the civilian networks as they tracked commercial flights, though that required help from Minerva.

Help she was only too glad to give—she loved him as deeply as any woman had ever loved a man. He could feel it in her touch.

Hawk One zeroed in on its target, the two AV-BP-250 550-pound rocket-powered penetrator bombs strapped to its belly ready. They had altered the fuses slightly to enhance their ability to penetrate these particular bunkers and explode on Level Three, where he had been betrayed.

So easy: he knew how to do it before he even looked at the weapons.

The bunker sat fat in the middle of his screen.

So beautiful, revenge. Unspeakable.

As Madrone pushed the trigger, he heard the bells from his daughter’s funeral.

C3 warned that it was losing the connection with Hawk One.

“You bastards,” Madrone screamed over the plane’s interphone circuit to its Brazilian pilots. “Keep me close to the Hawks.”

“We are trying, Commander,” replied the pilot. “You’re flying too fast, much faster than your plan directed.”

“Closer, damn you!” Madrone looked to the right, jumping into the Boeing’s cockpit. He took control and slammed the thrusters himself.

Back in the Flighthawks.

The bunkers had already exploded. He made sure the control connections were strong, then threw himself into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which was zeroing in on the tower.

Something was wrong. The tower wasn’t there.

Nausea ate his stomach; Madrone felt sweat starting to slide down his temples.

Did he have the wrong place?

Sitrep.

He was there. He’d hit the bunkers. There was smoke. They had taken away the tower. There was a truck there, people.

The bastards, laughing at him. They’d tricked him again. Laughing!

The AV-BI napalm bombs in Hawk Two would put an end to that.

Glass Mountain

5 March, 1744

MACK SAW IT ONLY FOR A SECOND, AND ONLY FROM THE periphery of his vision. He was falling and confused, but he was certain, absolutely positive, about what he saw:

A Flighthawk, darting upward over the bunkers on the hillside.

He hit the ground face-first, too stunned to get his hands out to break his fall. Before Smith could roll onto his back, the small U/MF had disappeared in the twilight sky. In the next moment, there was a dull thud from the direction of the bunkers, then a series of progressively louder, though still muffled, concussions.