It has to be Whiplash, thought Zen. He saw Chris lash out at one of the guards, then felt himself pitched to the ground. He swung his arms, but realized he was being dragged by his useless legs toward the plane.
“Up,” Madrone told him. Automatic weapons barked around them. Madrone pointed a small, blocky pistol in his face. “I’ll kill you, Zen.”
“I can’t get up.”
As Kevin ducked down to him, something flew onto his back. It tumbled over his shoulder, a heavy weight that smashed against Zen’s upper torso, pinning his right arm.
Breanna.
Madrone, somehow not surprised by her, nor fazed by the chips of cement and bullets dancing around them, grabbed her by her bound hands and pulled her to her feet.
“Help Jeff into the plane. Now, or you die here!”
“No!” she shouted.
“He dies first.”
She reached for Jeff, starting to pull, going slow. Jeff tried to hold back, but Madrone pushed them both over onto the middle of the ramp. He swung his left arm wildly. Either he hit the lever to close the gangway, or someone in the cockpit issued the command; in any event, the ramp sprang upward moving quickly despite their weight.
As long as he was alive, Zen thought, there was a chance he could stop Madrone. He had to stay calm and work out a plan.
Then Madrone smashed Breanna on the head. Jeff propelled himself with an enraged shout, swinging both fists toward Kevin with all his might.
Had he connected, he surely would have knocked Madrone out. But he missed by at least half a foot. As his momentum carried him downward, he felt a hard smack against the side of his temple. He smelled the metal tint of blood tickle his nose. His lips tasted the smooth aluminum of the deck floor. Then everything went black.
DANNY HAD HIS M-16 IN HIS HANDS AS HE HIT THE ground, but the drop-off between the runway and the ramp kept him from getting a good view of the hangar area or the rest of his team.
It also made him lose his balance. He rolled forward, struggling to his feet. Snapping clear of his gear, he ran up the slope toward the ramp and hangar area, still without a target. He heard the distinct whap of a flash-bang grenade, thrown by one of his team members to paralyze the resistance.
The large planes near the hangars were definitely theirs. The EB-52 sat on the right. Someone fired from the ground near it; the shots were immediately answered with a spray of gunfire from the left.
Danny raised his rifle, clicking his thumb against the target switch that allowed him to use the CIV to aim.
Someone sat in the cockpit. He put the body in the cross-hairs and fired. The bullet hit the target square, but the figure remained unharmed behind the EB-52’s thick glass. The 5.56mm bullets in the M-16 were no match for the reinforced windshield and hull of the Megafortress.
The Flighthawks should be more fragile. Danny clicked the visor into IR mode and began scanning for them.
MADRONE KICKED JEFF’S HEAD WITH HIS BOOT TO make sure he was truly unconscious, then leapt into the right control seat, quickly pulling the ANTARES head gear on. Breanna moaned behind him, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now—he had to get into Theta and get the Flighthawks off the ground.
He felt his scalp tingle as soon as the liner band slid over the spider connection.
Already? The panel wire hadn’t even been connected.
He stood in the forest, rain storming all around. Balls of hail pelted him.
Hawk One, start procedure.
Two, Three.
Systems green.
Go.
A NARROW FLARE ERUPTED AT THE EXTREME LEFT OF Danny’s vision; by the time he turned toward it, two others had lit, small cigarette bums in the visor. He brought his rifle up and began to fire as the first object—undoubtedly a Flighthawk—moved behind a row of low bushes or some other obstruction. Danny burned the clip as it disappeared; he reloaded quickly and hiked sideways to get a shot on the U/ MFs as they rolled in the direction of the Megafortress. He figured he didn’t have to stop them, just slow them down—the C-17 ought to be landing any second and would block the narrow runway. But as the first Flighthawk reappeared, something hard slammed him down against the ground—a fifty-caliber machine gun had opened fire near the hangars.
His armor saved his life, but the heavy gun had cracked the suit and possibly his shoulder blade. Worse, as far as Danny was concerned, the fire was so severe he couldn’t raise his head or the gun. The Flighthawks whipped around the end of the runway, not bothering to wait for the Megafortress. They turned and thundered down the cement to take off—just as the C-17 appeared above.
Aboard Galatica
Lower Deck
8 March, 0453
BREANNA WRITHED ON THE FLOOR, HER HEAD STILL spinning from the bang she’d gotten as Madrone tossed her over his shoulders. She lay at the base of the Flighthawk tech station at the left side of the bay; the tubes were flashing above, and she could hear Kevin moaning and muttering to himself at Zen’s control station. His arms flew in the air as if he were conducting some mad symphony only he could hear.
Struggling to rise, Rap pushed back against the side panel, and saw Jeff sprawled on the deck behind the seats near the hatchway. The sight of his helpless body gave her strength; she managed to push up against the panel, wedging her foot down, but then snagging her bound hands on part of the rail beneath the seat. She rebounded to the floor, then pushed back upright, still hooked on.
The main monitor at the station jumped through views. Breanna realized she was seeing the Flighthawk optics.
The technician’s panel could access C3. She tried rising, but remained snagged. She pushed down, felt metal scraping against her wrist. The pneumatic hoses that allowed the chair to be adjusted had been sawed or clipped apart; the entire base of the ejection seat looked as if it had been gnawed by a metal-eating squirrel.
The keyhole-shaped clasp at the left front of the rail covering one of connectors held her. No more than an inch and a half long and a quarter of that wide, the edge seemed sharp enough to cut the thick plastic binder on her wrists. Rap began razoring the strap back and forth, twisting at it. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the handcuff began to give way.
She looked up. The screen had stopped shifting. The dark runway ramp rushed by. The Flighthawk was taking off.
Red and yellow speckles appeared around the side of the runway—gunfire. A large store of fuel exploded beyond the hangar area, and the flames burst so bright that Madrone or C3 swapped out the IR for an optical view.
Zen groaned.
Rap looked over at him, then back as Madrone yelled something. A dark shadow loomed in the main display panel. A large bird descended, claws snatching at the air. Then everything turned red.
THE FIRST FLIGHTHAWK JUST CLEARED THE C-17. THE next one, however, crashed dead into the looming hull, which had thrust itself in front of him without any warning. Madrone fell backward in his seat, stunned into disorientation.
The storm raged. He was in Theta, but couldn’t feel C3 or the robot planes anywhere.
ANTARES was an immense jungle, the vegetation cluttering, choking his mind. Minerva stood before him, naked. She reached for him, turned to fire.
He hated her. She was the enemy. She’d been sent by them to destroy him.
No.
He was in the cockpit of Hawk Three. He had the bomb strapped to the center hard-point. Takeoff had been aborted; he was dead on the runway.
Hawk One was in the air. Hawk Two had been destroyed. Galatica sat at the edge of the ramp, engines revving but motionless.
He’d die here, without revenge, without anything.
Good—Kevin wanted to die, wanted to end it. He’d be with Christina.