He didn’t. Which bothered the hell out him.

“They’re tracking us!” yelled McAden.

M-6’s RWR drowned out anything else he said.

“ECMs,” ordered Dog calmly. “Jenny, go for it. Can you get them?”

“Attempting.”

“Go to active radar. Target the Flighthawks too,” Dog said.

“Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,” said McAden, his voice getting progressively higher.

“Just get Galatica,” Bastian ordered. “Open bay door.”

“Opening! They have their ECMs. We’re still being tracked! 1 can’t lock them up. Attempting.”

“Flighthawk approaching,” said Jennifer. “Hold this course.”

“We’re spiked!” said McAden. One of the radars hunting for them had managed to slip around the electronic noise and locked onto them.

Ordinarily, Dog would goose some chaff and zig through the air, complicating the radar’s job before it fired. But that would complicate Gleason’s job.

So would getting shot down.

“Break it,” said Dog.

“Trying.”

“Frontal attack! It’s a U/MF!” shouted McAden, but Dog had already seen the Flighthawk on his HUD. It grew from nothing to the size of a baseball, then flashed red, firing its cannon. Dog could see the tracer arching in the air toward his windscreen as he plunged M-6 toward the earth.

“Tracking! I have him,” said McAden.

“No! No!” said Jennifer. “Feedback initiated.”

“Fire the missile,” said Bastian steadily.

The Scorpion dropped off the rotating launcher in the rear bay. Dog clicked into the command frequency, giving their position and the fact that they were engaging Galatica and had already launched a radar homer.

In the twenty or so seconds it took for him to do all that, the Flighthawk had flown over the Megafortress, curled back, and dived for their tail. The Scorpion’s rocket motor ignited; the missile zipped ahead, then flipped back. But it was no match for the agile little plane with its vectored thrust and finely tuned airfoil. The Flghthawk flicked right and closed on M-6 as the AMRAAM-plus passed by.

“Air mines,” Bastian told McAden. The copilot was half a step ahead of him, and had the Stinger tail defenses already on his screen. The air mines were a twenty-first-century version of the tail gunners who had cleared the skies behind Flying Fortresses fifty years before—they literally peppered the air with exploding mines.

There was only one problem—their range was three miles, the same as the U/MF’s cannon.

“I have the Flighthawk circuit,” Jennifer said, her voice level. “I’m applying feedback. Leave it alone. Hold our course.”

“Acquiring target!” said the copilot.

“Fucking trust me on this, Dog. If I have one I can get the other. Fuck!”

Somehow, the word “Dog” didn’t sound right coming from her mouth.

As for “fuck”…

“Colonel?” asked McAden.

“Stand by. Have you found the other Flighthawk?” he asked him.

“Negative. Gal is now locked, but the ECMs may make the missile miss from this distance. We can close.”

Before Bastian said anything else, the U/MF behind them opened fire.

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0809

SOMETHING FOUGHT HIM, SOMETHING HE’D NEVER FELT before. Images flashed before Kevin’s eyes, strange sensations—the tower, the jungle, the jaguar, the dark woman, all being strangled.

A snake wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing.

Madrone began to fall from Theta. He conjured his metaphor, then heard Geraldo call to him.

A woman in a flowing dress with long, strawberry hair stood before him.

Jennifer Gleason.

She morphed into a massive cobra, its large mouth looming.

Then her fangs grabbed him from the side.

*   *   *

JEFF LAUNCHED HIMSELF BY SLAMMING HIS ARMS against the rests, screaming as he flung his body sideways out of the seat.

His legs would work. They had to.

He hung suspended in the air, balanced perfectly between thought and action, between will and reality. He thought he could do it and he would; he willed his legs whole and they were.

But Zen’s legs were irretrievably paralyzed, and whatever he had felt while under ANTARES, whatever he wanted to feel now, he couldn’t make them cooperate. The distance between the two stations was too great to jump across, even for his well-developed arms and shoulders.

Jeff Stockard crumbled in the aisle, the long scream twisting into an agonized plea to his legs, to God, to any power that could make him whole. In that instant he would have made any bargain, paid any price, for the thinnest, poorest connection between his mind and his legs.

But no bargain could be made. He crashed down against the floor, his hands flailing until they hit one of the connecting cables to Kevin’s ANTARES gear.

He hadn’t the strength or momentum to break the cable, but as he fell his weight and agony yanked it backward, pulling the ANTARES feed from its socket.

Aboard M-6

8 March, 0811

“GOT IT! GOT IT! GOT IT! “ SCREAMED GLEASON. “NATIVE mode. Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, I have them. Fuck fuck fuck. Hawk One is in native mode. It’ll circle Dreamland. Locking in. My password. She’s secure. Shit! Shit! We got it!”

“Is it carrying a missile?” Dog asked quietly.

“Hold on. No. Shit, no. Fuck. Looking for the other. Damn—what do you mean, not on the circuit?”

“Jen?”

“The other Flighthawk! Where is it?”

“Something in Galatica’s shadow,” said McAden.

“It’s in preset,” said Gleason. “It’s native because the connection broke. I can’t get feedback until C3 is back on the line because of the codes. What the hell is he doing?”

“Colonel?”

Bastian glanced at McAden.

“Shoot her down,” said Bastian.

“Let me try contacting them!” said Geraldo.

“Shoot her down,” repeated Bastian.

Aboard Galatica

8 March, 0811

BREANNA FELT SOMETHING CLUNK AND PULL BEHIND her, as if the leading-edge flaps on the wings had suddenly extended.

They had.

She grabbed hold of the stick, barely managing to take control of the plane as it did what could only be called a belly flop in the sky. Two of the engines surged, the starboard flap deployed—Gal seemed to be having a nervous breakdown.

Breanna pulled back on the stick. The altimeter ladder shot up wildly. Minerva lost hold of her knife—it clattered to the deck, tossed there by the sudden rush of g forces.

She’d blow the plane. It was the only thing to do.

9,200—9,500—9,800—

They’d die in a second. But at least Dreamland would be safe.

“No!” screamed Lanzas, lurching toward her.

Breanna shrugged her off and closed her eyes as the altimeter nudged ten thousand feet.

Dreamland

8 March, 0811

FOR THE PAST HOUR, MACK HAD SAT IN THE MiG ON the runway, listening as the searchers continued to hunt for Galatica. He had cursed when the F-15’s closed in, realizing that he wanted to be the one who nailed the plane.

And then, miracle of miracles, it had escaped.

Only to be found by Bastian, who was targeting it.

Figured. Damn bastard hogged all the glory.

Still, from the position Dog gave, Gal seemed to be relatively close and headed this way. Resolved to get into the fight, he requested clearance from Dream Tower.

Without bothering to wait for an answer, he depressed the throttle button and moved the bar to idle. Using an old Russian Istrebeitelnyi Aviatsionnaya Polk rapid-takeoff trick, he selected just the right engine on the start panel. Knife kicked on the battery and hit the start switch, sending a whoosh of compressed air into the starboard engine. The MiG rumbled to life; he waited barely a second as it spooled up. In that second he pulled his canopy down; by the time it snugged he had started forward, rushing into the air on just one engine. Only after he had cleaned the gear did he bleed air into the left power plant, jump-starting it. The MiG shot upward.