Nerve Center Page 4

  The doorbell rang. Breanna felt a surge of adrenaline and relief as she snapped into action. The four ruby-red pieces of fresh tuna were plucked from their marinade and deposited on the foiled broiling pan; fresh marinade was ladled on them, a dash of soy, a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds, ginger shavings, the scallions. Oven open, broiler on, another dash of ginger and a pinch of sugar for the carrots, check the rice—bing-bang-boing. Breanna had it so well timed that she was ready at the kitchen door just as Madrone approached to greet her, holding a bottle of wine.

  Cabernet Sauvignon. Just bottled too. Oh, well.

  She took the bottle and hugged him. He was actually shaking a little from nervousness.

  A good sign, she thought.

  “Have you met Abby?” she said, putting the wine down on the counter and ushering him back into the living room.

  “We just said hello,” said Madrone.

  “Abby used to work for CNN, didn’t you?” she prompted, gently easing Kevin toward the couch.

  Jeff frowned at her from his wheelchair. She smiled into his stare as Abby explained that she had worked for CNN Headline News Radio, and that she hadn’t been anyone important, had actually been little more than an intern.

  “But I’ll bet it was exciting,” suggested Bree.

  “Sometimes,” said Abby.

  Breanna nudged the stereo a bit louder, hoping it would drown out her husband’s snort. As much as she loved him, Jeff could be amazingly unsupportive at times.

  “You just returned from a trip to Europe, didn’t you, Kevin?” Bree prompted.

  “Uh, couple of months ago. Business thing with, uh, NATO.”

  “NATO,” said Bree, underlining its importance. “Get any sightseeing in?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on, Key. What about that laser-sighting system the Germans were trying to sell,” said Jeff.

  And the worst thing was, Breanna thought, he did it with such a straight face.

  “Honey, why don’t you open that excellent bottle of wine Kevin just brought,” Breanna said, going to him and running her hand over his shoulder. Before he could object, she tucked her fingernail into his neck—an accepted signal that lives and possibly the sports channel rental were on the line if he refused.

  “Good idea,” he said, wheeling to the kitchen.

  “You’ve been to Europe too, haven’t you, Abby?”

  “Rome,” she said. “But it was years ago.”

  “Rome’s a beautiful city,” suggested Breanna. “Maybe not as romantic as Paris.”

  She glanced at Kevin. One of her timers buzzed and she quickly excused herself, having left him the perfect opening.

  “Hey, your nail hurt,” said Zen as she walked in. “You going to bite me next?”

  “I may if you don’t keep your voice down,” Breanna hissed. “Don’t be negative, Jeff,” she added, going to the oven. “I think they’re good together.”

  “Oh, a regular Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Sshhh.”

  The tuna was perfect—she flipped the steaks over for a quick sear to finish them, then pulled the rice and the carrots from the stove, placing them in serving dishes.

  “This is the good china,” said Jeff.

  “Well, you didn’t think I’d use paper plates, did you? Get out there with that wine. No, wait—bring the sake too. We’ll have a toast.”

  “Sake? A toast?”

  “Every dinner has to have a toast.”

  “You trying to get them drunk?”

  “If it’ll help, yes.”

  Zen left shaking his head, but he did take the sake. Unfortunately, he was the only one drinking it when she came out with dinner.

  “You sure this fish is cooked?” Jeff asked. “Looks raw.”

  “You’ll have to excuse him,” Bree told the others. “Jeff is a great pilot, but he doesn’t know food. His idea of a meal comes in a box with a toy.”

  “I know raw, Bree.”

  “Actually, marriage is a wonderful thing,” said Breanna. “We get along really well.”

  Even as a joke, it was a tactical mistake, quickly thickening the silence. Jeff had mentioned that Kevin had been married briefly before, though he was vague on the details. She took a heavy slug of the wine Zen had poured. It was acceptable, even if it was about two days old and clashed with the ginger and scallions.

  AS HE FINISHED DESSERT, MADRONE’S HEAD STARTED to float. It wasn’t the wine; he’d had only had a few sips. It was the food—he’d never had tuna like that before. And a chiffon chocolate soufflé for dessert. The Army captain wasn’t exactly sure what that was, just that it was really, really good. Good-looking, a great cook, smart, funny, loving—Jeff had been out-of-his-mind lucky to find Breanna.

  It was impossible to feel jealous of him. But seeing how perfect Breanna was, and what a great thing the two of them obviously had, did hurt.

  It hurt because he’d had that himself.

  Or thought he had.

  But that was another lifetime now. Two lifetimes.

  Abby wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t a dog either. She started talking about a movie she’d seen, a comedy—it seemed interesting, but Kevin couldn’t think of any way to get into the conversation.

  IT WAS NICE TO SEE BREE GO DOWN IN FLAMES EVERY so often. Zen sipped his beer, observing Kevin and Abby on the couch. It was obvious they weren’t hitting it off. Abby talked about movies she’d seen and some plays she’d gone to when she was in London a year ago. Kevin had a dumb smile on his face, the kind you wore when you wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Breanna kept trying to coax the conversation along. He could practically see the wisps of smoke coming from behind her ears.

  Zen emptied the bottle and wheeled his chair around to the kitchen for another. Maneuvering through the tight hallway had come to seem almost natural, the movements so familiar that not even the effect of sake and a few beers slowed him down. He’d come a long way in the year and a half since the accident—and in just the last five months since returning to Dreamland.

  Lying in the hospital, he didn’t think he’d ever make it. He certainly didn’t think he’d be here, back in his apartment, back with Bree. He hadn’t thought it would be fair to her, living with a cripple.

  He wasn’t a cripple. Oh. he definitely was a cripple, but not a cripple. There was a difference. He’d come to realize that.

  Thanks to Bree mostly. She didn’t make it okay that he couldn’t walk—but having her made a huge, huge difference.

  Jeff opened the refrigerator and took out a Sierra Nevada. Bree, yes. The right woman made all the difference.

  There was no reason Kevin and Abby shouldn’t get along. Kevin was a bit shy and, admittedly, geeky, but Abby was shy too. Hell, they had plenty in common—starting with Bree and Jeff. It was just a question of getting down to it.

  Zen popped the cap on the bottle and wheeled back into the living room, where a treacherous silence had descended. “Hey,” he said, “let’s talk baseball.”

  “Baseball?” said Bree. She gave him a look that, roughly translated, meant she would kill him when they were alone—if she could wait that long.

  “Yeah,” said Jeff, wheeling next to Abby. “Your father used to know Mickey Mantle, right, Ab?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Abby. “He worked for him. It’s because of my dad that I’m a Yankees fan.”

  “Really?” said Kevin. He pushed forward on the couch. “So am I.”

  Dreamland

  9 January, 2104

  COLONEL BASTIAN WAS ABOUT THREE STEPS FROM THE door to the hangar when someone screamed a command behind him.

  “On the ground, scumbag. Hands out! Now! Fucking now!”

  Before Dog even realized the command was meant for him, the business end of an M-16-3A1 poked sharply into his neck. “Down, fuckhead!”

  “Son,” Bastian said calmly, “I appreciate the fact that it’s late and it’s dark and you’re doing your job. But that’s Colonel Fuckhead to you.”

  “Yeah, right.” The man grabbed Bastian by the arm and swirled him around. Someone behind the man turned on a flashlight, shining it in Bastian’s eyes.

  “Shit,” said the sergeant who had accosted Bastian.

  “Fuck. Ten-shun,” snapped the flashlight bearer.

  “Very funny,” said the colonel.

  “Urn, no offense, sir,” said the first man. He was Sergeant Perse Talcom, one of Danny Freah’s Whiplash team.

  “We, uh, we didn’t know you were, uh, en route,” said the other man, Sergeant Lee Liu, another Whiplasher.

  “We just, you know. Shit, sir. No one’s supposed to be out here after nineteen hundred hours. I mean, the geekers and all, the eggheads, but they usually call or get an escort. You didn’t look like one of them.”

  “We’re really, really sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Liu.

  “No problem,” said Bastian. “Let me ask you something, Sergeant. Both of you. How come you’re pulling guard duty?”

  “SOP. Captain Freah’s orders, sir,” said Liu. “Normal rotation.”

  “Thinks we’re fuckin’ gettin’ big heads,” said Talcom. “Uh, excuse me, Colonel. Shit.”

  “I’ve heard the word before.”

  Bastian hid a smile as he returned their salutes, watching them slip back into the darkness. Then he slid his magnetic ID card through the security terminal next to the door. After he punched his access code, the panel above the card reader began to glow a faint green. He placed his thumb against it and the lock on the door clicked open.

  The vestibule inside was bathed scarlet by the night-lights; a pair of surveillance cameras tracked Dog as he walked to the elevator. He had to rekey his ID code and give another thumb print for the doors to open. Once inside, he turned and waited. There were no buttons inside the elevator car; there was only one destination, the underground hangar-bunker that housed the Megafortress project offices and labs.

  The bright hallway lights stung Dog’s eyes as the doors snapped open. Activated by a computer when the elevator started downward, the fluorescent panels washed the scrubbed concrete with the equivalent of ten million candles, ensuring that the security cameras observing him had an excellent image. Lights flicked on in the distance as he started down the hallway. The surveillance, lighting, and environmental systems were run by a small computer optimized for economy as well as security; the brain could selectively shut down heating and even ventilating units depending on the time of day or other requirements. The vast bays on the left side of the hall, for example, were currently unheated; they held four B-52’s undergoing conversion to EB-52 Megafortresses. One of the planes was being bathed by a strong flow of air—it had been painted earlier in the day, and the techies had arranged for perfect conditions to dry the coating of liquid Teflon properly.

  Dog’s destination was on the other side of the wide hallway, where a set of double doors led to a Z-shaped ramp upward. Black suitcases were piled along the side of the top of the ramp; wires snaked everywhere just beyond the railing. Tables crammed with electronics equipment—meters, oscilloscopes, computer displays—clustered just off the ramp. Bastian treaded his way to the large, cone-shaped mockup of the Megafortress cockpit in the middle of the room. He had just reached its slightly rickety-looking wooden stairs when a head popped out from a control station near the nose.

  “Colonel, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it,” said Jennifer Gleason.

  “Just kept getting waylaid,” said Dog. The stairs were sturdier than they looked; they didn’t even creak as he climbed up and slid into the pilot’s seat. Intended more to help the developers play with the still-experimental plane’s systems, the simulator did not fully duplicate flight conditions. But it did move on a flexible chassis, and Dog strapped himself in.

  “You’re all set,” said Jennifer, coming up the stairs behind him. “Computer will follow your voice commands with the usual authorizations. You can run today’s flight backwards and forwards as many times as you want.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  As he reached for the control stick, the computer scientist placed her hand on his shoulder.

  The world suddenly caught fire.

  “You want me to hang around?” she asked.

  He did, but not to monitor the practice session.

  Dog told her no, and then began the arduous process of learning from his morning’s mistakes.

  Las Vegas

  9 January, 2250

  FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS AHEAD ON TWENTY-FIVE-dollar chips playing blackjack—not bad, thought Mack, especially for fifteen minutes worth of work.

  Four hundred bucks was a pile of money to anyone on a military salary, but to the other people around the table, especially the blonde on his right in her almost-see-through top, four hundred bucks was a tip for the doorman. Mack took his cards, noted the total—nineteen, a pat hand—and sipped his drink. The double shot of Jack Daniels stung his lips lightly as he took an infinitesimal sip.

  “Hit me,” said the blonde. Mack watched her chest heave as the dealer slid a card from the shoe.

  Seven.

  “Hit me,” said the woman again.

  A king materialized next to her chips. She curled her lip up but said nothing, silently turning over her cards as she submitted. She’d tried to hit sixteen.

  Too dumb to make it with, Mack decided.

  The dealer looked at him.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  The dealer revealed her cards—fourteen. By casino rules she had to hit. She made eighteen; everyone but Mack lost the round.

  He kept playing, winning mostly, but his mind started wandering. He’d wandered into The Punch, one of the newest casinos in town. Its game rooms exuded sophistication—exotic wood trimmed the tables, waiters in dark suits prowled the aisles, the lighting was directed perfectly to make it easy to see your cards, yet it somehow seemed soft and incapable of producing a glare. But all the good-looking women here had rich sugar daddies on their arms. The pile of chips in front of him wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Rolex on the old codger two seats away. Only his competitive juices kept Mack at the table.

  That and the blonde’s soft shoulder, which now leaned heavily against his arm.

  “Nice music,” he said. “I’ve never been in Punch before.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. Then she got up and walked away.

  That did it. Mack took his cards, saw that he had a pair of red tens, and decided not only to split them but to put his whole wad on the bet. He busted on the first.

  And hit blackjack on the second—good way to go out.

  “Let me buy you a drink, Major,” said the codger with the Rolex, appearing next to him as he swept up his chips.

  “Do I know you?” Mack asked the old man.

  “We’ve met several times,” said the man. He had a vaguely Spanish accent, though Mack couldn’t place it. “Fernando Valenz. Brazilian Air Attaché. I have an office in San Francisco, but I visit here often.”

  Portuguese, not Spanish. But that didn’t help Mack. He was about to blow off the old guy when Valenz took his elbow. “A lot of pretty girls in the blue lounge, I’d wager.”

  The blue lounge was a private penthouse upstairs. Mack had heard stories that the waitresses there all were topless. He’d heard other stories as well.

  What the hell, he thought, and he let Valenz lead him toward the elevator, which opened when Valenz placed a special key card in the lock slot. Inside the car, the Brazilian slicked back his white hair, flashing not just the Rolex but a black onyx ring whose jewel could have been used as a golf ball. Five-eight with a good-sized belly, he wore what had to be a hand-tailored suit and a silk turtleneck—a dandy, though forgivable given that the guy was probably sixty and a foreigner.

  The geezer slipped a Franklin to the attendant who met them at the door to the lounge, then tented one for the waitress who approached with a gin and tonic.

  She wore a top. So much for rumors.

  Valenz told the woman to bring Mack a double Jack on the rocks, then steered him toward a pair of leather club chairs at the corner. The chairs sat in front of a large plate-glass with a good view of the city; Las Vegas in all its tacky glory spread out before him, neons wailing in the night.

  “The Punch is a bit sophisticated for the city, wouldn’t you say, Major?” asked Valenz.

  “I guess,” said Mack.

  “Besides the Brazilian government, I work for Centurion Aeronautics,” said Valenz. “We are consultants. We’re always looking for new associates.”

  Mack smiled. He’d been expecting some sort of pitch. “I don’t think I’d be a very good salesman,” he said.

  “Oh, not a salesman,” said Valenz. He reached into his pocket and took out a leather case. “Smoke cigars, Major?”

  “Not really,” said Mack.

  “Pity.” Valenz opened the small case, which held three cigars. “Cubans.”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass,” said Mack. In the reflection of glass he saw several good-looking young women staring at them. Fully clothed—but interesting nonetheless.

  “We need pilots who can talk to other pilots. My own country, for example—the Navy is thinking of buying MiG-29’s from the Russians. Someone like yourself, with your experience, could help quite a bit.”

  Mack felt his heartbeat double. Did this SOB know he was working on the MiG-29 project? Or was that just a coincidence?

  “What we do is all perfectly legal,” said the Brazilian. “We have several Americans on our payroll. We obtain the necessary approvals. Some even remain with the Air Force.”

  Time to leave, thought Mack. He stood.

  “You know what, I just remembered something I have to do.”

  “Take my card,” insisted Valenz, standing. “A man like you appreciates the finer things in life. As I say, nothing illegal.”

  “Thanks,” said Mack gruffly. But he did not remove the card from his pocket as he headed for the elevator.

  Dreamland Perimeter