“We’re being released,” said Chris.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Zen, still wearing his bemused expression. It was a mask he sometimes used; maybe it meant he was planning something.

“Where’s your gear?” Breanna asked.

“They made me leave it in the plane.”

“What’s so funny?” she said.

“I got a TV and you didn’t,” he said, then added, “They think I’m going to help fly the Flighthawks.”

“What?”

“He speaks English,” said Zen in a stage whisper. “He says we’re going back north. They think we’re going to help.”

“That wasn’t quite what he said.”

Breanna looked up and saw Kevin Madrone standing in the doorway.

“He said you will assist me or be killed,” said Madrone. “Hello, Breanna. Captain Ferris.”

“I’m not helping you, Kevin. Your head’s screwed up.” Zen wheeled around to face him. “You’re going through withdrawal from the drugs. ANTARES blew up your mind. Take it from me. You’re screwy. Nuts.”

Kevin glared at him, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets. And then he launched himself at Zen, flying across the room and swinging wildly. Jeff swung in his chair and managed to slip back so that Madrone fell to the floor. But this only enraged Kevin more. Breanna jumped to help her husband as Madrone’s punches started to land, but found herself in the arms of one of the security guards. Another guard had a pistol in Chris’s chest.

“Stop it! Stop!” she cried.

The soldiers tried to break up the fight. A rapid burst through the ceiling from an automatic rifle finally caught Madrone’s attention, or perhaps his fury ran out; he allowed himself to be dragged off Zen.

“Kevin, what’s happened to you?” Breanna demanded. Madrone shrugged off the guards, then shook his head, catching his breath. “I didn’t think you’d be in on this, Bree.”

“Be in on what, Kevin? What’s going on?”

“I’m not listening to you. I know you’re going to get me, but I’ll take you down too. I’ll take enough of you down to hurt you.”

“Are you involved in the revolt against the Brazilian government?” said Jeff. His voice was so calm he sounded as if he were a graduate student asking a question at a seminar.

Jeff had provoked the attack, perhaps thinking the surge of emotions would break through, Breanna realized. But it hadn’t worked, at least not the way he’d hoped.

“There’s no revolt,” said Madrone.

“Sure there is. There’s a new government already. You helped take over the country with Hawkmother and the U/ MFs.”

“People attacked us, and we neutralized them,” said Ma-drone. “We’re going to do that now.”

“Christina died from a cancer that had nothing to do with you or your work, Kevin,” said Zen. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It was just—horrible luck. Look at me.”

“Get them aboard the plane,” Madrone told the guards. “Handcuff the ones who can walk.”

“Who are you working for?” Chris asked.

“I’m not working for anyone.”

“I wouldn’t trust them,” said Chris.

“I don’t,” said Madrone, leaving the room.

OUTSIDE, KEVIN STOPPED AND FELL AGAINST THE SIDE of the building, gasping for air. Had they been his enemies from the beginning? Or had they turned against him?

Betrayal was the worst crime. To go against your friend or your family or your lover—what could be worse?

To kill your own daughter.

He hadn’t killed her. They had. The bastards.

When they closed in, he would kill himself. He would borrow a pistol from one of the men. He would get as much revenge as possible. Then cheat them.

They would come after Minerva to avenge their losses. She was still naive—she thought they would escape together when he returned, but he, wouldn’t return.

They would destroy her too. Worse, they would make her suffer as Christina had. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

Kevin felt his body relax, the last vestiges of the headache sifting away. It was finished. He hurried to check on the men working on Minerva’s weapon.

Dreamland

7 March, 2200 local

THEY LANDED PRECISELY AT TEN P.M., having pushed Raven to the max. Dog slipped out of the cockpit dead tired, and went straight to the waiting Hummer without bothering to stop to change out of his gear.

The inimitable Ax was waiting at the door to his office suite with a cup of very black coffee.

“Hey, Chief. Big shots want to bark at you,” said the sergeant.

“What the hell are you doing up?”

“Never miss a hangin’,” said Gibbs, who despite his bonhomie, wore traces of worry and fatigue in the cracks around his eyes. “You’re supposed to plug into a conference call on the scrambled line. Mudroom’s all set up downstairs.”

“All right.”

“I’ll be down with the coffee soon as it finishes perkin’. Captain Freah landed in Panama,” added Ax. “Standing by for your orders.”

“Okay.” Dog took a long swig from the coffee, then handed the cup back to Ax for a refill. “What, no paperwork?”

“At this hour SOP is to forge your initials.”

Downstairs, Dog nodded at the pair of MPs covering the door and went inside the empty control room. Cleared into the secure video conference circuit, he found the others were already talking together.

“Colonel Bastian has joined us,” said Jed Barclay in the White House basement.

“Colonel,” said General Magnus gruffly.

“Good evening, Colonel.” The screen flickered and a new face appeared on the screen at the front of the room. It was the President, Kevin Martindale.

“Sir.”

“How real is this threat?” Martindale, dressed in a cardigan sweater, sat in a thick chair aboard Air Force One. Philip Freeman, John Keesh, and a grim-faced aide sat nearby.

“I’m afraid it’s very real, sir,” said Barclay.

“I want to hear Colonel Bastian,” said Martindale. “Is ANTARES responsible?”

Bastian hesitated. “I’m afraid it appears likely ANTARES was involved. We’re still trying to connect all the dots.”

“ANTARES is nothing but grief. Promising poison. It’s to end right now, on my order. This overrules any directive you may get from anyone else, no matter who it is.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bastian.

Keesh scowled in the background but said nothing.

“We’ve set up a net with ANG and regular Air Force units guarding San Francisco,” said Magnus, apparently speaking from aboard another Air Force plane. “They won’t get close.”

“I think that’s the idea,” said Dog.

“What do you mean?” said the President.

“They’ve basically told us the target and when to expect them,” Bastian said. “Either it’s a decoy, or we’re meant to shoot them down.”

“We can’t not shoot them down,” said Magnus.

“We can’t let them attack the laboratory or San Francisco,” said Dog. “But there’s something else going on. I had some of my people at the base examine the diagram. I’ve only spoken to them by radio, but they say it’s very primitive, possibly attached to a very short-range-missile system. Even if it were fired from a Flighthawk—difficult but not impossible—the controlling ship would have to be within ten miles.”

“If it’s dropped by a bomber, it will be overhead,” said Magnus dryly.

“Absolutely,” said Dog. “As long as we know they’re coming, we can cordon off an area twenty miles away, and be fairly confident of finding the plane, even a Megafortress.”

“Maybe the attack will be carried out elsewhere,” said Jed.

“That might be. But Livermore does fit,” added Bastian.

“Jed has filled us in on the psychological implications,” said Freeman, the NSC head. “Jed, run down the Brazilian scenario,” he added.

Barclay’s face came back on the screen. He had a bit of peach fuzz on his chin between the pimples, and looked as if he were going to cry. His voice shook a little as he began, but he spoke in coherent, long sentences.