Minerva climbed to the flight deck slowly. Madrone said the Megafortress had started as an old B-52, but this didn’t seem possible—the cockpit belonged in something from the twenty-first century, or maybe the twenty-second. A smooth glass panel covered the entire dashboard area; there were no mechanical switches or old-fashioned dials on its surface. Screen areas, instruments, and controls were all configurable, either by touch or voice command. The throttle bar between the pilot and copilot did not move, but responded to pressure input. Control sticks rather than wheels guided the plane once airborne; textured areas indicated sensor switches built directly into the stick surface. Dull yellow letters in the windscreen showed clearly that the heads-up display, rather than being mirrored from a projector, was actually part of the window surface.

The plane’s potential as a scout, as a bomber, as the leader of a squadron of interceptors was limitless. With one Mega-fortress, she could dominate not merely Brazil, but all of South America.

But she had to give it back.

More than that. She had to find a way to get it back to the Americans without being implicated in its theft.

She would fly it first certainly.

And then?

Minerva slipped into the pilot’s seat. She would never give it back if she took off. No pilot could. To fly this plane would be to relive the first moment, the first dream of flight. She could never give it back.

But she had to. The Americans would never let her be if she kept it. They would take the plane back by force and dispose of her like a cockroach who had wandered into their home.

She could fight off the Americans. She could destroy them.

Desire erupted inside her, the darkness of her soul spreading everywhere. She would keep the plane, she would keep Madrone, she would destroy anyone who dared oppose her.

With great difficulty, Minerva forced herself from the seat and out of the plane. She had to let go of Kevin before he destroyed her. Even if it meant cutting her chest open with her nails and tearing out her heart.

Aboard Raven

Over the Gulf of Mexico

7 March, 2100 local (1900 Dreamland)

“OUR TANKER IS SET,” COLONEL BASTIAN TOLD NANCY Cheshire, quickly reviewing their position on the Megafortress’s navigation screen. “They’ll run a track as far south as possible. We have about an hour on our present course and speed.”

“Good enough,” said Cheshire.

“I think being copilot may be more difficult than piloting this plane,” said Bastian. Even though they had two operators aboard to handle the EB-52’s radio-eavesdropping gear, Dog was responsible for many functions that would have been handled by the navigator and weapons operators in a standard B-52. Granted, the computer did much of the grunt work, but just calling up the proper panels on the multi-use screens seemed an art.

“You’re doing fine,” said Cheshire.

“I’m going to check back with the Nimitz,” Dog told her. “See if their planes picked up anything.”

“Go for it.”

Raven’s gear made it possible for him to communicate with literally anyone in the world, as long as they could directly access satellite connections. Dog had preset the frequencies they were using for the search, and found himself speaking to a Navy flight commander in the southwestern Caribbean a half second after punching the buttons.

Nothing to report.

Southern Command had tracked Galatica to Venezuela. F/ A-18’s from the Nimitz had heard Chris Ferris, Gal’s copilot, as the plane approached Brazil, though he hadn’t answered their own hails. After that, the plane had disappeared without a trace.

Brazil, Colombia, and Venezuela had all been enlisted in the search, though they were told only that they were looking for a B-52. Brazil had been fairly forthcoming, volunteering two squadrons for the search and detailing the country’s two Grumman Trackers to help out, even though the radar planes were optimized for naval operations and had only limited SAR capabilities.

The Venezuelans had fairly limited resources, but were also cooperating. Colombia, on the other hand, had balked, claiming to be very busy with an outbreak of guerrilla attacks in the south.

Not to jump to any conclusions, but it seemed the obvious place to concentrate their efforts. Unfortunately, it was currently out of range of the Nimitz and her planes. A second task force, which included a Marine MEU, was heading east from the southern Pacific, but they were still a good way off.

The com system flashed a line on Dog’s screen, indicating that they had an incoming text message from Quickmover, the Dreamland C-17 dedicated as the transport for the Whiplash assault team. Bastian touched the glass surface next to the message, and the text appeared in its place.

“On station.”

“Danny and his boys are orbiting off Mexico,” Bastian told Cheshire.

“Transmissions, too far to get a fix, very weak. Could be a distress signal,” said one of the operators.

“Give me a heading,” said Cheshire.

“Lost it, ma’am,” said the operator, Senior Airman Sean O’Brien.

“No way to pin it down?” Bastian asked.

“The problem is, Colonel, on those line-of-sight transmitters, you’re dealing with very weak signals and at this point, really what you’re trying to do is figure the bounces. This could have been fairly far away, possibly even in Brazil.”

The computer flashed a message on the corn line of the HUD:

“Incoming urgent coded Dog-Ears.”

Dog had to give a voice command to allow Raven to unscramble the transmission. It was piped only into his headset. “Colonel Bastian, this is Jed Barclay.”

“Go ahead, Jed.”

“Stand by for Assistant Secretary McCormack.”

Raven’s antennas provided a precise, clear pickup over the secure long-wave communications system, which had been originally developed for use by the President and the top brass in the event of a nuclear war. The transmission, conveyed at a slight delay because of the nature of the radio waves used and the distance they traveled, was nonetheless so clear that Dog felt his eardrums melt with McCormack’s anger.

“What the hell are you doing, Colonel?” she demanded.

“We’re conducting a search for Hawkmother and Galatica, an EB-52 that tracked her south after the raid on Skull Valley. I sent word of that quite some time ago,” said Dog. “I’ve been in communication with Jed—”

“Colonel, the Secretary wants you to return to your base immediately. Immediately.”

“Is that an order?”

“You know damn well I can’t give you a direct order,” she snapped. “General Magnus will contact you shortly.” The line went dead.

“What’s up?” Cheshire asked.

“I’m in a whole heap of trouble,” said Dog.

“Been there before,” said Cheshire.

Not like this, thought Bastian. He couldn’t leave his daughter and he couldn’t disobey a direct order, which would undoubtedly soon be forthcoming.

His career would tank now anyway, with the loss of Galatica and its two Flighthawks on top of Hawkmother. Excuses wouldn’t matter—look at what had happened to Brad Elliott.

Screwed every which way.

He needed to help Breanna.

More than likely it was too late. He had other responsibilities.

“We’ll stay on course until we receive further orders,” he told Nancy.

Pej, Brazil

7 March, 2330 (1930 Dreamland)

ZEN EYED THE BRAZILIAN SOLDIERS AT THE DOOR, wondering whether their polite and even deferential air was a good sign or not. While they didn’t appear to speak English, the soldiers who had taken him off the plane were well disciplined and well briefed, inspecting not just him but the ejection seat for weapons. They had even produced a receipt for his old Colt .45, which had been holstered in his gear. And they had allowed him to wheel himself to his “guest room”—a rather large storage room in one of the hangars.