Free Nerve Center by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown Page A

direction and growing exponentially. Mack had him fat and slow; there was little Hawk One could do.
    Except make Mack waste fuel. Sharkishki started with 3500 kg of jet fuel, killing nearly four hundred just to take off. The engagement rules called for Mack to reserve a thousand kg to get home, even though he needed far less with Dreamland’s many runways nearby. Between his low-level flight and afterburner use, he ought to be nearing bingo, the point at which he had to give up and go home.
    Knowing this was his enemy’s Achilles’ heel, Zen had had C3 keep track.
    “Calculated time for enemy bingo is ninety-eight seconds at present flight characteristics,” said the computer. “Enemy craft has Archer-type missile loaded and prepared to fire.”
    Jeff turned Hawk Four south and launched diversionary flares. Mack followed, steadily closing the gap as Zen zigged and zagged. He needed to get closer to guarantee a hit.
    Jeff ran out of flares as the MiG narrowed to four nautical miles from his tail. He pulled eleven g’s trying to gun the Flighthawk back toward Sharkishki, but it was too late; the Archer ignited below the MiG’s wing.
    Jeff left the plane to the computer, returning to Hawk One. While he’d been leading Sharkishki away from the helicopters, C3 had been carrying out the attack on the ZSUs. It had been close—the computer had splashed both guns, but not before the lead Super Blackhawk took a simulated hit, causing minor damage but leaving the helo and its crew in the game.
    “Bogey is at bingo,” declared the computer.
    “Helo Flight, you’re cleared,” said Zen, rushing over them in Hawk One. “You’re bingo, Mack, bye-bye,” said Zen. “Sorry to see you go.”
    “Fuck you I’m bingo,” said Mack, winging toward the helicopters.
    “Flight rules—” declared Madrone.
    “Suck on your flight rules, Soldier Boy.”
    Dreamland Commander’s Office
10 January, 1205
    “RESPECTFULLY, I HAVE TO DISAGREE. DISAGREE.” Martha Geraldo shook her head and turned toward Colonel Bastian at the head of the conference table. “Ray is prejudiced against humans,” she continued. “It colors everything he says. It is as bad as a mommie complex.”
    Steam seemed to shoot out of Dr. Rubeo’s ears. Dog had learned day one that the scientist hated to be called “Ray.” There was no way Geraldo didn’t know that; she was obviously pushing his buttons.
    Then again, she ought to be good at that sort of thing.
    “I think calling it a complex is a pretty strong statement,” said Bastian, even though it was fun to see Rubeo speechless.
    They’d spent more than a half hour discussing the best way to proceed, or not proceed, if ANTARES was restarted as part of the Flighthawk project—a given, based on Dog’s brief conversation with General Magnus this morning. Magnus was clearly angered by Keesh’s end run. But while he sympathized with Dog’s protest against ANTARES, he’d ordered Dog to proceed with the program “as expeditiously as possible.” A contingency budget line—black, of course—had already been opened for the program. Magnus seemed to be playing his own brand of politics, trying to swim with the currents.
    “I would prefer that we left psychological innuendo out of the discussion,” said Rubeo, his voice so cold it was a wonder his breath didn’t frost. “The interface is neither stable nor dependable. We don’t even know precisely how ANTARES works.”
    “One of the biggest drawbacks with the present control system employed by the Flighthawks is the human element, as Dr. Rubeo has noted on several occasions,” said Geraldo, ignoring Rubeo’s last point—which was technically true, despite reams of data and elaborate theories. Her crisp tones matched her starched blue suit; military personnel aside, she was probably the most conservative dresser of any Dreamland worker, the scientists especially. With a rounded face and frosted hair, she looked like a slightly older, slightly more