“It’s not a scenario exactly. I’ve been looking at the power struggle there, trying to coordinate some of the players against the intercepts we’ve had. The conflict between the Navy and the Air Force, that’s legendary; they spy on each other back and forth. They have for years. A few months ago, there was a kind of mini-insurrection and the Navy people quashed the Air Force. The major players were cashiered or sent out to Amazon scratch bases, which is our equivalent of being detailed to guard latrines on the moon.”

“We don’t have posts on the moon,” muttered Magnus, making his opinion of Barclay evident.

“Get to the point, Jed,” prompted Freeman.

“As we know, this time fighting broke out, which resulted in a government crisis. The President resigned. Air Force people then pop up all over the place, starting with the Acting President, who was the Air Force Chief. Now it could just be the usual blackmail and skullduggery—”

“Jed,” warned Freeman.

“Yes, well, the Defense Minister—this is all just the acting government, remember, but anyway—a Colonel Minerva Lanzas is due to be named Defense Minister when Herule takes over. He’s the Prez. Lanzas was transferred from the biggest Air Force command to a mountain landing strip at the edge of the Amazon after the Navy brush-up, so that’s a pretty dramatic turnaround.”

“Is that site big enough to land a 777?” asked Dog.

“Not according to the Factbook,” said Barclay, referring to the standard non-classified directory compiled by the CIA. “But our review of Satint shows it’s been greatly expanded over the past month, maybe even more recently. You could land a standard B-52 there now, give or take. And,” added Barclay, leaning toward the camera with just a hint of dramatic flair, “there was a two-engined jet on the ground there yesterday morning. It was obscured by clouds, but it seemed to be either a 777 or an Airbus, an Airbus, uh—” He faltered, trying to remember the designation of the large European-made plane.

“We need to hit that base,” said Dog. “Now.”

“Too far,” said Freeman. “Too aggressive. Even if we had hard evidence—”

“The Whiplash Assault Team is in Panama,” said Dog. “They were standing by to help a rescue. They can go there.”

“Big risk, especially with the Brazilian government in transition,” said Freeman. “We better talk to State.”

The President, to his right, was looking at his watch. “General Herule won’t be sworn in as Acting President until noon Brasilia time,” he said.

“I’m not sure that’s relevant,” said Freeman.

“I can have my Whiplash Team on the ground at that base in two hours,” said Dog.

“I say we take a shot at it, sir,” said Magnus unexpectedly. “If young Mr. Barclay is right, it’s a logical place. I trust Colonel Bastian’s men to pull it off.”

Keesh finally spoke up. “I have faith in Colonel Bastian as well,” he said. “But if we’re wrong, it will be a grave situation.”

“If our planes aren’t on the runway, they don’t land,” said Dog. “Brazil has already offered to cooperate in the search. We can say this is just an extension.”

Someone spoke off camera in the President’s plane. He turned for a moment, listening as another aide whispered something in his ear.

“We’ll deal with that in a few minutes,” Martindale told the aide. Then he turned back to the camera. “Do it,” he said. “And keep me informed. Jack,” he added, apparently to the operator, because the circuit went gray.

Magnus reappeared on the screen. “This isn’t very good, Colonel.”

“No, sir. I understand that.”

“General Olafson will coordinate the defenses out of the Fresno ANG base. Get with him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Tecumseh—no more road shows. You’re to remain at the base. You’re not a fighter pilot anymore. Your job is coordinating things from the ground.”

The screen blanked. Dog sat in the chair, the tumult of the past few days catching up with him. He was still sitting there, legs stretched along the floor, when Sergeant Gibbs entered with the coffee a minute later.

“We still in business?”

“For now,” said Dog, snapping back to himself. “Get me Captain Freah.”

“Punch line five on your doohickey thinger and you got him,” said Ax.

Pej, Brazil

8 March, 0401 local (0001 Dreamland)

MINERVA STOOD IN FRONT OF THE LARGE BOMBER AS her men worked feverishly to complete their work. They were used to fashioning spare parts for military jets, but the damaged Megafortress was an extraordinary challenge. Its wings and fuselage were made from an exotic compound that none of her experts recognized; they’d fashioned replacement panels from several sources, including Hawkmother. Madrone’s EB-52 had also furnished the tail section, which proved remarkably easy to replace—a testament to the aircraft’s design, meant to facilitate quick combat-area repairs. Her chief engineer assured her the plane would get off the ground, but would give no guarantees beyond that.

Minerva didn’t need any. She had already constructed her own elaborate alibis and a cover story, pinning all of the blame on Madrone.

It wasn’t the most airtight or even believable of stories, but it didn’t have to be. As Defense Minister, she would be able to control any inquiries. And the main witnesses would all be dead:

Madrone and his friends, who would either be shot down by the Americans, or blown up when the bomb her people had added to the plane’s tail exploded. It was set with both a timer and a radar altimeter, guaranteeing their destruction.

Her people at the base, who would be killed when her second nuclear warhead exploded at 6:50 A.M. She herself would only just escape the American madman’s attempt to obliterate all Brazil. She would emerge victorious, having fought him off without the Americans’ help. She would then launch an investigation to find out who had helped him, for surely even a madman could not have come this far without local assistance.

The conspirators would pay dearly. She would end up Brazil’s heroine; the people would reward her with the Presidency and power beyond her dreams.

Even so, she longed to refuse to let Madrone go.

But Lanzas feared him greatly now; even more, she feared her own darkness. She had the strength to restrain only one.

No. She could restrain herself only if he was no longer with her.

Minerva climbed inside the plane to watch her men as they finished installing the six oversized steamer trunks containing the heart of the ANTARES equipment in the Megafortress’s equipment bay. The ‘devices plugged so simply into circuitry in the rear compartment, they seemed no more complicated than a stereo system. Two more went into the lower deck.

“We’re ready, Colonel,” reported Louis Andre, who headed the team.

“That’s it? You’re sure?”

“We followed Captain Madrone’s directions to the letter. The computer panel says that its diagnostics have cleared.”

He pointed toward the large screens at the two stations before them.

“Diagnostic complete. No errors. System ready,” read the screens.

“The most difficult thing was arranging to keep the units in the fuselage cool,” Andre told her. “We rerouted a duct in the plane. It may affect other equipment, but Captain Madrone did not seem overly concerned.”

“Very well,” she said. “Tell the captain we are ready for him.”

Minerva allowed herself one last look at the flight deck before leaving the plane. An amazing warbird, a plane of immense potential.

She could learn much from the Americans. If she was willing to wait, rather than simply take their weapons, she would do much better.

It was a pity the 777 had to be destroyed as well. But there was no other way. Her course was set. To change anything now meant only doom.

Minerva considered not seeing Kevin off, but decided that that might upset him, and in some way tip her pilots off that they were about to die. So she waited by the plane for him to arrive.