Or perhaps they could see him somehow. Perhaps the bastards who had tried to destroy Madrone had altered the radar on the Flighthawk, made it visible to the enemy.
It was as if an iron bar hit him in the forehead. Madrone slumped backward in the chair, losing everything.
We will destroy them, Minerva whispered. We will destroy them for what they have done to you. And we will live together, safe in our home.
Madrone felt his way back into the cockpit of Hawk One, saw the large radar dish of the Roland barely two miles away. He waited until he was within a half mile to begin firing. At his speed and range, he got no more than five slugs into the hull of the SAM launcher. But they were more than enough to destroy her.
Flames shot everywhere. A fireball from the first launcher’s missile struck the second, unarmed launcher, but Madrone decided to erase it as well.
From there it was a turkey shoot. He vectored Hawk Two in to drop the bomb while he searched for the remaining F-5Es with One. After he shot them down, he found and destroyed a flight of Mirage IIIs on the ground, and even wasted an old Starfighter that managed to scramble toward the runway to stop him.
By the time Madrone was done, the best combat squadrons of Força Aérea Brasileiria had been eliminated. More importantly, the only units in the western part of the country that answered directly to the Defense Minister — and thus would resist Minerva — no longer had planes to fly.
Chapter 64
Breanna pushed away the plate with her half-eaten turkey sandwich and got up from the table in Lounge B. One of the fancier clubs on the base, Lounge B had been thrown open under Dog’s all-ranks edicts, and now served a very passable lunch, as well as offering some convenient nooks and crannies for involved couples.
Which, in theory, Zen and Bree were. Though during the past few days they had been acting increasingly “married.”
A terrible word in her book, which she equated with a range of disparaging adjectives, none of which included intimate. For the past week, Zen had consistently ignored her, claiming he was working. He’d spent all of his spare time either in the ANTARES bunker — or in that computer bitch’s lair.
Jennifer Gleason. Bree would scratch her eyes out if they were doing anything.
She knew Zen, knew he wasn’t like that. But he was human.
And he’d blown her off for lunch. She was due at a briefing with Colonel Bastian in ten minutes, or she’d hunt him down.
Or maybe not. She was being silly. Most likely he was working — he was incredibly busy, after all. Besides heading the Flighthawk Program, he was currently the only person who’d been able to achieve Theta-alpha in the ANTARES program.
Not that she’d heard that from him.
Was she being silly? Jeff had been acting strange lately, distant, quiet, not talking to her. True, Zen did get moody at times — he’d always been that way, even before the accident.
But something was definitely different now. ANTARES made him edgy, darker.
Could be lack of sleep.
“Hey, Bree, how’s it going?” asked Danny Freah, sauntering in. A very attractive woman appeared behind him.
“Hello, Danny,” said Bree, her eyes following to the blonde. As tall as Freah, she looked like an aerobic instructor even though she wore a conservative pantsuit.
Freah was married, the SOB.
“This is Debbie,” said the captain, gesturing to the woman.
Debbie smiled and offered her hand. Bree didn’t take it. “I’m running a little late,” Bree told Freah. “You see Jeff anywhere?”
“No. He supposed to be here?”
“He’s supposed to be married,” snapped Bree, storming from the room.
Chapter 65
Zen felt the rush of adrenaline as the plane soared to fifty thousand feet. He pushed the rudder pedals — pushed the pedals, he could feel them, feel his feet! He hunted in the sky for his adversary, a MiG-29 somewhere below.
His feet! He could feel his feet!
He had to test this. Had to!
He stood.
Gravity slammed his head back. He fell into a void, every part of him on fire. He blanked out.
When he came to, Geraldo and her assistants were standing over him. He was still in the ANTARES lab room, but they had removed his connections, all except the small wires that monitored his heart and the chemical composition of his blood.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We were going to ask you the same thing,” said Geraldo. “I guess, I guess the MiG nailed me when I wasn’t looking,” he said.
“Our tape of the simulation showed the aggressor still out of range when you blacked out,” said Carrie.
She had her hands on her hips, her beautiful breasts thrust out. Zen hadn’t realized how beautiful she was until now, for some reason. Shy and reserved, but the kind of woman who would turn into something in bed.
“Jeff, how do you feel?” asked Geraldo, pulling over a small metal chair on wheels. The assistants customarily used the chair while adjusting the connections; its steel gleamed even in the softly lit lab.
“Uh-oh, I’m a prisoner of the Inquisition,” he joked, still looking at Carrie.
“Not an inquisition, Jeffrey,” said Geraldo. “But I do have some questions for you.”
Carrie glanced down at the floor. He thought her face had colored, but he couldn’t be sure — she and Roger beat a hasty retreat, leaving their boss to talk to him alone.
It occurred to Jeff that he could wring Geraldo’s thin white neck with one hand, though he had no desire to do so.
“Jeffrey, I’m frankly concerned about you,” said Geraldo.
“Why? Because I got waxed by a MiG? It’s flying Mack Smith’s game plans. It’s pretty good.”
“It has nothing to do with the MiG,” said the scientist.
He really could wring her neck. It wouldn’t be difficult. “When you’re in Theta, do you have full use of your limbs?” she asked.
She knew. Somehow, the bitch knew.
She wanted to control him. She wanted him to remain crippled. A gimp couldn’t take over like Madrone had.
But that was just a wild theory of Danny’s. He’d taken Jennifer Gleason’s ideas to the ridiculous, paranoid nth degree.
No. It had happened that way. Looking at Geraldo, seeing her cloying, meddling way, Jeff knew it must have happened that way. It was the only explanation.
Of course he’d taken over. With ANTARES Kevin could do anything.
So could Jeff. He could walk. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.
“Do you use your legs in ANTARES?” Geraldo asked.
“Of course,” he told her. “So what?”
She nodded, then started to move away.
“Hey, Doc — hey! Where are you going?”
She stopped at the door. “Jeffrey, I’m thinking of talking to Colonel Bastian. I’m thinking.”
She stopped.
Jeff realized he had gripped the tires of his wheelchair and started forward, jerking the wires that were still attached to his hand and chest from the machines.
Why am I so angry?
“I think we’re going to put ANTARES on hold,” she said. Her cheeks and lips were pale, but her voice was calm and smooth. “Not just you — the entire program.”
“I’ll fight that.”
“You can go to Colonel Bastian with me. I’ll set up the appointment myself.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Something is happening to you that I don’t understand. I care about you, Jeffrey.”