The hopped-up MiG was a pretty hot plane, and Mack had flown it well. Still, by the parameters of the exercise, Zen had won, preserving the Super Blackhawks. He let the computer direct Hawk One back to base. He was exhausted, physically and mentally beat—more tired, in fact, than he had been during the actual fight in Tripoli.

“You okay, Jeff?” asked Jennifer Gleason over the interphone, the Megafortress’s internal com system. She was sitting at the techie station a few feet away.

“Ready for a shower and a cold one,” he told her.

“Shower, yes. I can smell you up here,” put in Bree from the cockpit.

“That’s probably Major Smith.” Jennifer laughed. “I can’t wait to see his face at the debrief.”

“Maybe Bree will take pictures,” said Jeff.

His wife didn’t acknowledge. Maybe it was because they had, after all, lost three of their four planes.

Or maybe, he thought, she just didn’t like Jennifer.

Dreamland Briefing Room 1

14 January, 1005

KEVIN MADRONE HAD CALCULATED THAT HE HAD JUST enough time to sneak a cup of coffee before heading to the meeting. But his math had been too optimistic—everyone’s head turned as he came through the door. He quickly headed down the central aisle of the small amphitheater and slipped into a seat, staring down at Colonel Bastian, who was standing in front of the lectern. As he settled into his seat, Madrone saw that Jennifer Gleason had an empty seat a few rows further down and across from him. It was too late to change places, though.

“What we’re looking at is expanding the Flighthawk program to include some of the project work that was originally sketched out under ANTARES,” said Bastian. “Now I realize that that’s going to seem controversial because of circumstances we’re all too familiar with, which is one of the reasons I want to make sure we’re all up to speed about what’s going on. The promise of ANTARES itself isn’t debatable. And we seem to be reaching a ceiling on the U/MFs.”

“I disagree with that,” said Jeff Stockard. He was sitting in his wheelchair at the lower right corner of the room. “We’ve gone from controlling two planes to four. We have plans in place to go to eight.”

“Granted,” said Bastian. “And there are other ways of tackling the problem. This will proceed in tandem.”

Bastian continued to talk, but Madrone found his mind wandering as he looked up from Jeff and at Jennifer Gleason. The fluorescent lights of the briefing room made her strawberry-blond hair look almost pinkish; she twirled one side with her fingers, pushing it back behind her ear. As she did, she happened to glance back in his direction, caught him staring, then smiled.

Kevin smiled back, or at least he tried. His stomach was fluttering—he was back in junior high, listening to some endless history lecture, hopelessly in love with Shari Merced.

Kevin put his thumbnail to his lips, even though he’d sworn off the bad habit five times already today. He was so damn awkward with girls—with women. The other night he’d been tongue-tied with Abby. She’d seemed interested when he was talking about the time Don Mattingly had signed his scorecard. But he’d felt so stinking nervous that when she dropped him off, he’d blown his chance for a kiss.

He could have kissed her, he should have kissed her, he might have kissed her. She wasn’t his type, a little too giggly and talkative, he thought, but still—he could have, should have, would have kissed her.

But didn’t.

What if he had the same chance with Jennifer? Would he take it?

Hell, yes. He hadn’t always been this stinking nervous, this much of a wreck and a dweeb. Damn—she turned back in his direction and he quickly averted his eyes, pretended to be interested in something on the floor.

He’d never get into that situation with her. She didn’t notice him. Why should she? It was like being back in junior high—the jocks, aka pilots, were the ones who got all the attention. He was just a nerd.

He had to find a way to get her to notice him.

“SO WE’LL SEEK VOLUNTEERS. THERE’LL BE PROFILE testing, physical, mental, that sort of thing.”

Jennifer watched Colonel Bastian pace at the front of the room as he spoke, barely able to control his energy. He wasn’t very tall, but his shoulders were wide, and swung back and forth with implicit urgency. His hands cut through the space around him as if they were the fighters he’d flown.

She leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her Diet Coke. The cold metal of the can stung her lip. For some reason the AC was cranking in the room, and Jennifer felt a slight shiver run through her as she swallowed the soda.

She’d nearly melted the other morning when Colonel Bastian had touched her. She’d wanted him to sweep her up in his arms, smother her. A million volts had seemed to snap between them—but he’d done nothing. He saw her as just another scientist, a well-meaning geek probably.

He was damn smart, wise in ways you wouldn’t expect. Like this—knowing people would worry about ANTARES, knowing there were reservations, he dealt with them head-on, got everyone aboard, made them part of the team.

He looked at her now and said something.

Volunteers, he was looking for volunteers for the ANTARES program.

“We won’t be looking for pilots,” said Bastian. “Dr. Geraldo can give us the whole brief, and we’ll start in a few days. The profile is rather specific actually. At the moment, we believe we need males. Sorry, Jen.”

Jennifer felt everyone look at her. Her face began to flush. Bastian smiled at her.

She wanted to say something. She wanted to say the program was a mistake.

She also wanted to say—what? That she was in love with him?

“I’d like to be in on it. Take a shot at being a subject,” said Bill McKnight. McKnight was an aeronautical engineer who had worked on the DreamStar program.

“Me too,” said Lee Ferguson. He was a communications expert and had designed the nighthawk command system.

Bastian was still looking at her. Did he expect her to say something?

Shit, she thought. I have to. I couldn’t get it out right the other morning.

How would she put it? What specifically were her objections? The fact that no one specifically knew what the subject’s brain did while connected to the computer? The few odd, unaccountable glitches she had come across while adapting some of the early programming for C3?

The fact that his broad shoulders and kind eyes looked so comforting, so warm?

Jennifer felt her hand starting to ascend against her will.

Someone behind her said he’d do it. Jennifer turned and saw Captain Kevin Madrone, the Army weapons specialist, staring right at her.

“I’d like to try,” said Madrone, quickly looking away. Someone else chimed in, and then someone else. This wasn’t the time to object, and she didn’t trust herself besides. Jennifer realized she’d left her arm about halfway up on the small desk in front of her. As she lowered it, she felt so cold she began to shiver.

III

HEAD GAMES

Dreamland, Taj Suite 302

23 January, 0750

MADRONE SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE CHAIR, trying to find a spot where the stiff plastic would feel comfortable against his back.

“It’s kind of been a while since I thought about all of that,” he told Geraldo. “My wife, I mean. Five years.”

The psychiatrist put her hand to her mouth, pinching her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. She nodded, then slowly reached for her coffee mug. She wanted him to talk about Karen. It was almost as if she had a magnet in her brain, trying to draw out the words, but Madrone resisted.

Not resisted exactly. He had nothing to say. He couldn’t even form a picture of Karen in his mind.