Climb with the gates flooded, cannons blazing.

Madrone’s body relaxed. He waited, absorbing the sky around him, feeling the vibration of the wind buffeting off the wings of the Boeing above him.

The interceptors acknowledged Gerrias’s transmission. They continued toward them, closing to within eight miles, seven.

Then they turned northward, pretending to be satisfied with the explanation.

He avoided the temptation to go after them.

“They’re gone,” said Mayo finally.

“No,” Madrone replied. “They trail behind still. Be alert.”

“Yes, Commander,” said the copilot.

They would never rest now that he had killed Glavin. Colonel Glavin had been the jaguar. Such a clever bastard—he’d pretended to be so concerned about Christina, apologizing after denying Kevin leave to go to the X-ray session that afternoon.

“If only I’d known what it was for,” Glavin had lied. “Why didn’t you say so? Kevin, all you have to do is ask.”

The bastard. He had set everything up. That very day he’d suggested Livermore and the experimental treatment facility connected to the lab. He’d done it all so smoothly, so matter-of-factly, that Madrone had been bamboozled.

Maybe Christina hadn’t even had the cancer until then. How clever these bastards were.

Eventually, they would get him. But not before he made them bleed.

Aboard Galatica

7 March, 1545

“TWO DEGREES DUE SOUTH. WE’RE STILL SEVENTY-FIVE miles behind,” Jeff told Breanna.

“F-16’s have broken off,” said Chris.

“Copy.”

“They didn’t get close enough for a visual,” added the copilot. “But the identification checked out.”

“Yeah, I know, I heard the whole thing,” said Zen. The F-16’s had flown south out of Texas, and were at the edge of their range when Jeff finally managed to vector them toward the Boeing. Since there was no way to protect the radio transmission, Zen hadn’t told them more than absolutely necessary—the plane flying south had to be identified.

If he’d ordered them to shoot it down, they wouldn’t have. No Air Force pilot in his right mind would target what seemed to be a civilian plane—hell, even a military plane—without serious authorization. Even then, most would hesitate unless they had some clear indication that the plane was a threat and the order lawful.

Jeff didn’t have the authority to give the order. Colonel Bastian had authorized them to trail Hawkmother and find its location; nothing more. The colonel had boarded Raven and sent a message that he would rally other forces to help. But they were so far away from Bastian that they couldn’t directly communicate; unlike Raven, Gal lacked a SATCOM system.

“Where the hell do you think he’s going?” Breanna asked more than an hour later as they continued southward, heading for Panama.

“Damned if I know,” said Jeff. “I thought Cuba, but he should have cut east by now.”

“How’s your fuel situation?” Breanna asked.

“You’re reading my mind. Let’s tank while he’s flying a straight line.”

They refueled as quickly as possible, but still fell gradually behind as Hawkmother continued onward, making landfall over Cartagena in Colombia. Flying at forty thousand feet, the stealthy Galatica and her Flighthawks passed undetected by the local air defense and civilian radars.

“We’re not going to be able to follow him indefinitely,” Breanna said as they approached Colombia, “especially not at this speed.”

“We should be able to tank off someone in Panama.”

“Negative,” Bree told him. “There are no tankers available. Chris already checked. No tankers, no fighters. We’re trying to get somebody out of Texas. I’d like to check back with the colonel as well. We haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“He said we might not.” Jeff saw the 777’s image start to blink—the plane was diving toward the ground.

“Maybe we can turn this over to one of the—”

“Bree—hold on.” Jeff stared at the radar; Hawkmother had disappeared. “I’ve lost him.”

He returned the Flighthawks to computer control, directing them into Trail One, then tried to work out the spot where Hawkmother had disappeared. Chris, working with the GPS and the CD map library, pinpointed the spot as a pass in the mountains just beyond the Orinco River in central Venezuela.

“No airport there,” said Chris.

“I don’t know that he landed; I think he just dropped closer to the mountains,” said Jeff. “Hold this course, Bree.”

With no way to refine the powerful radar in Gal’s belly, Jeff decided he would use the Flighthawks as scouts, scouring the river valley and mountains. It was difficult, however, to fly both planes and still look at the T/APY; its plot took up too much space in the viewer and he could only toggle it in and out. He accelerated the U/MFs into a spread formation at Mach 1.2, gradually swinging them apart. Their optical viewers showed only a thick cloud deck until he dropped below five thousand feet at the very edge of his communication range.

Beautiful country. No airport, no Boeing.

He knew Kevin was out here. He’d get him back—then they’d get ANTARES back on track. And then he’d have his legs again.

“Hawk Four disconnect in zero-three—” warned C3.

“Zen, we’re going to have to get approval from the colonel to land in Panama or someplace if we can’t arrange a tanker,” Breanna told him.

“We’ve come too far to lose him now,” Jeff said, dropping his speed and nudging the U/MFs a little higher, strengthening the connection. “Give me more speed.”

“We only have enough fuel for two more hours of flying time. And that’s stretching it. We have to talk to Colonel Bastian.”

“We can land without approval,” he said.

“Jeff, that’s not the point.”

“Just do what you’re told, Captain,” he barked.

She didn’t answer.

He toggled the radar screen back. Maybe something, seventy miles ahead, almost in Brazil. Very low.

“Stay on course,” he told Rap.

“Gal.”

She was trying to sabotage him, though. Chris was trying to raise Southern Command.

Why?

He was being paranoid. They were trying to find a tanker.

“Bree,” he said, flipping on the interphone. “Listen. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“We’re on course, Major,” she said sharply. “Brazilian border in zero-six minutes.”

The Boeing disappeared again. He jumped back in Hawk Three, skimming along the rugged terrain. The 777 needed a good-sized runway to land; it ought to be easy to spot.

Nothing.

Flight of F-5Es approaching from the east. FAB interceptors, Brazilian Air Force. Approximately fifty miles away, they were most likely patrolling the border, looking for smugglers. They weren’t quite on an intercept, but would draw within five miles in three minutes. Their APQ-153 radars could detect a standard fighter at about twenty miles; the Megafortress and her brood would be invisible to the radar until well within visual distance.

The 777, on the other hand, ought to be on their screens already.

“Rap, there’s a group of FAB F-5’s flying near their border to the east of us. They’re about fifty miles away. What do you think about hailing them to see if they’ve spotted Kevin?”

“Gal,” she snapped, still plenty pissed.

Breanna was right about the fuel. Maybe they could use the base of the F-5’s.

If Bastian approved. They’d have to get his okay. Breanna was right about that.

The Boeing flitted into the corner of the radar plot. He’d turned ten degrees north.

Where was he going?

BREANNA TOLD CHRIS TO GIVE THE FAB FLIGHT THE Boeing’s course even though they did not immediately acknowledge.

“Maybe they don’t speak English,” said Chris when they still didn’t respond.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Portuguese,” he said. “No. Hold on.” He leaned to one side, putting both hands over his helmet as if that might somehow make the transmission clearer. “Repeat?” he asked.