“If there’s anything else we can do from our end, let me know,” Bastian told him.

The line snapped dead.

“There were no survivors from the C-17 crash. The Whiplash Team is intact and searching the base,” he told the others, filling them in on the situation. Cheshire rubbed her tired eyes and turned back toward the situation map they’d been studying before Danny’s call came through. The map showed the entire southern portion of the U.S., along with the defenses planned to stop Galatica.

Colonel Bastian picked up his stylus and traced it across the flat touch screen at his console, outlining in red the tracks General Olafson had given them to patrol. Raven and Iowa, a sister ship for Galatica named after the famous Naval battleship, would back up a quartet of AWACS planes that were forming a 360-degree radar picket around San Francisco. Besides their sensors—Raven’s Elint gear, which could detect C3’s radio transmissions at roughly two hundred miles, and Iowa’s admittedly unfinished T/APY radar—the planes would carry eight Scorpion AMRAAM-plus air-to-air missiles in their rotating belly launchers. They’d also have four standard AMRAAMs and four all-aspect Sidewinder AIM-9Ms on their wings.

The Megafortresses represented the last line of defense. A full squadron of F-15Cs, along with ANG F-16’s and F-4’s, Marine aircraft, and two Navy tracking planes manned the front lines. Meanwhile, a flight of F-15’s, accompanied by a tanker, were working south, as were planes from two aircraft carriers in the Caribbean. Surface-to-air-missile batteries throughout the Southwest and ships all along the Gulf Coast had been alerted.

In theory, it was an impenetrable gauntlet no conventional aircraft could penetrate. But Madrone wasn’t flying a conventional aircraft. He had a Megafortress, arguably the most capable bomber in the world. He also had two Flighthawks escorting him.

One Megafortress and two U/MFs against the entire U.S. military. Dog might take those odds. Surely a madman would.

Assuming it flew near top speed, the EB-52 would approach the mainland a little more than six hours from now. Nancy and Arjun, who would pilot Iowa, went over some fine points in strategy and timing their refuelings. Though he was essentially superfluous to the discussion, Dog followed it with as much interest as he could muster.

The alternative was to worry about his daughter.

“Let’s do it,” said Cheshire. She punched the kill codes on her terminal, deactivating the console, and stood.

Arjun rose as well.

“There’s one thing I want to make clear,” said Bastian, still in his seat. “If it comes down to it, if Galatica is there, you take your shot. Absolutely take your shot.”

Arjun nodded.

Bastian looked at Cheshire, whose cheeks seemed to have hollowed out. “Major?”

“Yes, Colonel, I will.”

The room’s silence felt oppressive. “M-6 will back you up,” he said. “Captain McAden is en route to fly it. We’re still hunting down a copilot.”

“Fenner should be here shortly,” said Cheshire.

Dog nodded. M-6 was so new it hadn’t completed its test flights. It hadn’t even been given a name. Configured as an Elint-gatherer like Raven, she had two Flighthawk control decks like Iowa and Galatica, though only part of the U/MF equipment had been installed.

Bastian followed the others out into the hall and waited for the elevator to arrive. When the doors finally sprang open, Mack Smith nearly knocked them over.

“Colonel, a word,” said Smith, marching preemptively down the corridor as if he were the one running the base.

“Why am I being shut out of this?” he demanded when Bastian joined him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Madrone. The Flighthawks. Our Megafortresses are going to shoot him down. Why I wasn’t I informed?”

“Why the hell should you have been?”

“I’m the best fighter pilot on the base,” Smith sputtered. “I’m head of the defense squadron. Shit, I’m one of less than a dozen active guys who has a shoot-down in the entire Air Force.”

“Hold on, Mack,” said Bastian. “First of all, I believe the defense squadron you’re referring to was abolished before I even came to Dreamland. Years ago.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

Dog turned toward the elevator. “Go to bed.”

“This is because you think I sold out, huh?”

“Smith, there are times when you are just a pain in the butt, you know that?” Bastian pushed the button for the elevator to return. “And then there are other times when you are the biggest asshole in the world.”

“Colonel, seriously.”

“I am being serious.”

“You have to let me help. There’s nobody that knows what those Flighthawks will do like me. I’ve been flying against them for more than a year. Half of their damn programs are what I taught them. And Jeff,” he added belatedly. “Come on—I can wax Madrone’s fanny. Ask Jeff. I’ve done it already.”

“Jeff isn’t available to ask.” Dog pushed the elevator button again.

“Where is he?”

“We’re not sure.”

Smith had a point, though Bastian couldn’t help but remember the coincidences Danny had pointed out. Freah hadn’t had time to follow through with any of his investigations.

“He’s in on this, right?” said Mack.

“Jeff and Breanna are probably aboard Galatica, which Madrone seems to have taken control of. It will be shot down if it tries to attack.”

“You can’t shoot down Jeff and Bree.”

The elevator finally arrived. Bastian entered; Mack followed. Both looked toward the ceiling, which in theory made it easier for the scanning devices to verify their identities. Still, the process took excruciatingly long.

“You have to let me do something,” said Mack as the elevator finally began moving upward.

“What exactly do you want to do?” said Bastian.

“Help plan the defense at least. Be in the ball game. Come on. Use me. I know more about fighting the Flighthawks than anyone.”

“I’m not in charge of the defenses,” said Bastian. “They’re already set.”

“You think I’m a traitor, don’t you?”

The elevator arrived at Sublevel One. Dog got out.

“Major?” asked Bastian.

“Put me in the game.”

“It’s too late, Mack,” said Bastian as the doors closed.

Pei, Brazil

8 March, 0540 local

POWDER COVERED LIU WHILE HE RAN UP TO THE EDGE of the hangar building. One or two Brazilians had retreated here, though most of the Brazilians had fallen back to the far end of the base, far away from Hawkmother and the dilapidated hangars. Three low-slung buildings were visible there, defended by at least two small armored cars and some machine guns. For the moment, they seemed to be saving their ammunition.

Which was fine with Powder. Give the Army something to do when they finally got around to showing up.

Liu reached the edge of the building, then gave Powder a hand signal to come forward. Powder humped the ten yards so fast he nearly lost his helmet.

“Two guys, that way,” said Liu.

“That it?”

“There was a light machine gun there, but Egg got him,” said Liu, referring to another member of the team, Freddy Reagan.

“You see Captain Freah?” Powder asked.

“No,” said Liu. “He hasn’t been on the circuit since the planes took off.”

“I heard him talking to Bison. They were setting up the Satcom.”

“Maybe he’s back by the C-17 wreckage, checking it out,” said Liu.

“Doesn’t look like they’re too organized,” said Powder.

“I hear something,” said Liu.

“Uh-oh—duck!” shouted Talcom as an armored car rolled around the corner of the hangar and began firing at them. The ENGESA EE-11 was a very simple, no-frills truck equipped with a very basic machine gun.

And an equally basic but tremendously destructive grenade launcher, which fired a charge point-blank at the two Whiplashers.

Fortunately, it sailed past them, exploding nearly a hundred yards away.