He jumped to his feet. Robling and Cheryl huddled against the truck.

“We’re under attack!” Smith yelled.

The colonel grabbed for the Jimmy’s door.

“No—that’s the only target besides the administration building!” yelled Mack. “Down the ravine. Come on!”

He grabbed Cheryl and in the next moment found himself falling, the air on fire behind him.

Aboard Hawkmother

Over Glass Mountain

5 March, 1745

IN HIS EXCITEMENT, MADRONE FIRED BEFORE THE cursor settled. The napalm bombs hit a few yards before the truck. But their beautiful red flames quickly covered the hillside.

The attacks on Minerva’s Brazilian targets had been exhilarating. But this was something else entirely. When fighting the FAB, he felt jittery at times, worried about the planes or even slipping out of Theta. He was a young buck making love for the first time, worried about messing it up.

This—this was revenge, the long moment after orgasm, the deep comfort of success. This was beyond the petty victory of survival, the silly ego play of killing your opponent. This deepened his whole being.

Madrone sat in both Flighthawks and Hawkmother simultaneously, seeing the battlefield from every angle. He smiled as he pushed the planes down from opposite directions, slashing into cannon runs on the administration buildings. Bricks and mortar disintegrated in his path. Be gone, he thought—and they were.

The SUV’s gas tank exploded with a fury, the gasoline erupting in a fireball high above the ground-hugging napalm. There were three people clawing down the ravine just below the hill, three easy targets for him as he pulled Hawk Two around for the kill.

He’d nail them left to right. The optical viewer magnified them, outlined their heads with the cannon’s crosshairs.

As he started to push the trigger on the first target, the second turned toward him.

Mack Smith.

The shock threw him out of Theta.

Dreamland Commander’s Office

5 March, 1800 local

JEFF STRUGGLED TO CONTROL HIS ANGER AS GERALDO laid out her arguments for Colonel Bastian. The program results weren’t consistent, blah-blah-blah. The subjects were all proceeding much more quickly, blah-blah-blah. Wave activity unaccounted for. Perhaps feedback in the computer systems originating from the subject. Unpredictable lapses perhaps due to changes in the protocol. Given the inexplicable disappearance of Captain Kevin Madrone-

Zen finally lost it. “This isn’t about Madrone, it’s about me,” he sputtered. “You think I’m hallucinating. I’m not. I don’t think that I have my legs back. That’s ridiculous.”

“You personally have nothing to do with my recommendation,” said Geraldo calmly.

“Bullshit. Those are my base hormone levels on your chart there.”

“Major, you happen to be the only person who has gone through both the old and new protocols,” said Geraldo. “It’s not directed at you. But there’s a clear difference between your present charts and the ones from the past incarnation of the program. The levels of dopamine, serotonin, and other neurotransmitters are clearly different, as are the brain patterns.” She turned toward Jeff. “I don’t know if we should terminate ANTARES completely. That may eventually be my recommendation. I need time to correlate it.”

“There’s no sense shutting down,” argued Jeff, trying to keep his voice even.

“We’re going to have to put ANTARES on hold,” said Bastian. “Doc, draw up a plan—

“That sucks shit,” said Jeff, jerking his head toward him.

“Major,” snapped Dog. He glared down at him, then turned his gaze back to Geraldo. “Draw up a plan to review the effects. Reinstate the Phase II psychological studies. Take Major Stockard off the drug protocol immediately.”

Jeff grabbed his wheels angrily. Bastian glared at him.

Everyone is against me, thought Jeff. They want to keep me a cripple.

But that couldn’t be true. Bastian had gone out of his way to help him.

“All right,” Jeff said finally. “I think it’s a mistake, but I’ll go along with it. Remove the chip. I’ll stop taking the drugs.”

“You can’t just stop taking them,” said Geraldo. “We have to back you off gently. If you were to stop taking them, your body would try to keep up the level of neurotransmitters on its own. They’d actually increase for about a week, perhaps two. At some point, you would crash. As for the chip—I think it’s safe to leave it in. You’ve had it for so long now, and removing it might cause complications.”

“All right,” said Zen, finally looking away from Bastian’s gaze.

DOG FOLDED HIS ARMS IN FRONT OF HIS CHEST. IN less than three weeks, Zen had gone from a somewhat skeptical critic to the program’s biggest booster.

Short of Secretary Keesh. Who was going to have a cow when Bastian told him the program was on hold.

So? It was the right thing to do, very clearly. Yet Dog had hesitated to say so just now, looking for the right words. The stress of running a high-powered command was turning him into Colonel Milquetoast.

“All right,” he told Geraldo. “Give me a timetable for a report. Thanks,” he added, dismissing them.

Geraldo started to say something, but Ax’s sharp rap at the door interrupted her.

“Colonel, I’m sorry—you need to pick that phone up right now,” said the sergeant. “Line three. It’s an open line.”

Dog punched the button and held the phone to his ear.

“Colonel, this is Mack Smith. I’m at Glass Mountain. It’s just been attacked.”

“Mack?”

“I’m calling from a pay phone, Colonel. A Department of Energy test range, dummy nuke testing—two hours ago, a little more, we came under attack by Flighthawks.”

“What are you saying?”

“Flighthawks. They attacked a base in south Texas, Department of Energy District 2, Test Area 6.”

“Hold on a second.” Bastian stopped Zen and Geraldo, who were heading for the door. “Jeff, Doc, listen to this.” He punched the button for the speakerphone. “Mack, do you have access to a scrambler?”

“Colonel, I’m on a fuckin’ highway in God’s country. I had the Ranger troop car stop so I could make this call.”

“Can you get to a secure phone?”

“It’ll be hours.”

“All right. Jeff Stockard and Dr. Geraldo are here with me. Tell us everything you know.”

Dreamland

5 March, 1814

DANNY FREAH LOOKED DOWN AT HIS BELT AS HIS alphanumeric beeper began to vibrate. He was already en route to see Colonel Bastian, but the STAT notice took him by surprise.

So did the location—the secure video conference center in the Taj basement.

Danny quickened his pace toward Taj, the low-slung concrete building, its entrance glowing ever so faintly with the low-emission yellow lights. He strode past the security desk to the elevator.

“Subbasement Three,” he told the automated system as he stepped in.

The elevator itself wasn’t particularly fast, and the security scans that were required before it would move took forever. Danny waited impatiently, and not just because of Dog’s message. He was supposed to call his wife in exactly twenty-five minutes.

Finally, the elevator lurched and began grinding its way downward. The doors hissed open, and Danny double-timed the short distance to the conference room, whose entrance was flanked by two of his Whiplash team members, Kevin Bison and “Egg” Reagan. Bison nodded, looking desperate for a smoke.

Inside, Jed Barclay’s pimpled face filled the large screen at the front of the room.

“Mr. Freeman is still tied up in meetings on Brazil,” Barclay said as Danny came in, referring to the National Security Advisor. “But the NSC has already scheduled a meeting on this for, uh, like, nine, uh twenty-three hundred hours our time, which is, uh, eight o’clock your time, I mean—”