In the past, Phoenix had experienced times when work related stress kept his mind humming like a buzzing beehive. Like the times in bed, trying to block out Admiral Jax's verbal assaults on his manhood. A good example was the instance when he did a flyby of the lookout tower on the southern border to impress a certain female officer assigned to watch duty. It was stupid and immature, and he never did it again after the admiral chewed his tail out and grounded him for a month. The next offense would have been a year without his wings. That night, trying to sleep had been torture. He had squeezed his eyes shut and tried to switch off his hyperactive brain. It didn't work. He had stared at the back of his eyelids for hours, and when he fell asleep, he found himself in the throes of a turbulent realm where it became difficult to distinguish if he was awake or not. That state of semi-consciousness described his present condition accurately.

He felt trapped in purgatory—somewhere between the world of dreams and the world of the living. Even in sleep, he enjoyed no peace or solitude. He still couldn't tell if he was awake, or in a mild doze, semi-aware of his surroundings. In his swirling thoughts, he had this surreal feeling that Nova was still alive. But a heaviness settled on his chest, a sense of mourning that ached in the spot below his sternum, like an invisible hand twisted the center of his being. His subconscious mind had convinced himself he could still hold her as long as he stayed asleep. As long as he didn't wake up.

Then tires squealed on asphalt, and his eyes shot open with a start.

His head jostled with the movement of the plane, the rest of his body groping for balance while he tried to center his thoughts and get a grip on reality. Once he stabilized himself with a handhold on the cargo net behind him, he remembered where he was and how he got there. With a huff, he gathered himself and surveyed the interior of the aircraft. On each side of the fuselage, a pair of lights provided dim illumination. The oblong fixtures were auxiliary lights for moving about the plane while in flight. As for how long they had been in the air, he had no clue because he didn't know how long he'd been out. He would need to know that bit of important information for an accurate calculation. His best guess was several hours, but without windows, there was no light from outside to even know if the sun had risen.

Leaning back into the cargo net, he looked to his right and stared face to face with the auburn-haired woman. An inch away, her eyes opened from sleep, and then widened with shock. She pulled back and sat up... too close for comfort. Her appalled demeanor gave Phoenix a tiny fraction of amusement, and under normal circumstances he might have allowed himself a laugh or at least a smile. But the next thing he saw was the stub of his arm, which brought everything into focus, including a crystal-clear image of Nova's face.

Like glass, the picture in his mind cracked into fragments and blew away. Waves of agony and loss washed over him and racked his body with guilt. It was a reality he couldn't deny, nor had the willpower to accept. He felt trapped in a nightmarish scenario, one he couldn't escape.

He wanted to go back to sleep, to the place where Nova still lived. But he knew he had to face the truth, despite the pain. Sooner rather than later.

Phoenix choked back a sob and squashed the swelling urge to burst into tears. Even though Nova's death had only been days ago, there would be no more crying. He had to harden his resolve. He had to be done with the feelings of weakness because he couldn't mourn forever. What had been, had been. What would be, would be. He had to move on and he had to do it now.

Dr. Fairhaven stirred on the floor at his feet. She raised her head and scanned the plane's interior. Her blue eyes homed in on a soldier, his face still covered by the mask and visor.

Next to her, Callisto pushed up. His first sight... Phoenix. His lips straightened into a tight line and his gaze turned as hard as concrete. Yep, he still blamed Phoenix for Nova's death. Maybe he wished the shark had killed him, too?

If that was the case, why save him at all?

Phoenix glanced away. His breath coiled inside his lungs, puffing his chest out. He snorted. For a moment, he considered decking Callisto with a right cross, but that would do him no good, especially since his right fist was in the belly of a shark.

Desiring to get his mind on something else, he turned his attention back to the soldiers. All six of them stood in a semi-circle between their captives and the rear exit, their arms crossed like robots. Phoenix snagged a handful of the netting and struggled to his feet as the plane rumbled along on the runway.

"Are you okay, Commander Drake?" Dr. Fairhaven asked, now standing, tugging her skirt closer to her knees and brushing it clean of debris from the floor. She pushed the sleeves of her white lab jacket up to her elbows and sighed. She appeared perplexed by their predicament yet determined to find a base of comfort to steady her nerves. Since she was a doctor, that base was Phoenix.

Frustration surged through him as he swept his gaze over the features of her face. Soft cheeks, free of imperfection, angled to a smooth, curved chin. Her caring disposition and attractiveness dissolved the irritation he felt from her question. The answer was just so obvious. No, he was not okay. He was a million light years from okay, and it burned like a fire behind his eyes... but her genuine concern had a soothing effect. He let the heat in his cheeks fade and took a deep breath to calm himself.

He nodded solemnly. "Do those guys ever sleep?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Robots don't have to," Callisto said, balancing his stance against the motion of the fuselage. The aircraft turned left, preparing to taxi to a stop. "I think they're cyborgs. They probably have to plug into the wall to charge, but other than that," he gestured toward the black clad soldiers, "that's as close as they get to sleeping."

Phoenix's gaze pivoted to the auburn-haired woman. "So, who are you?"

"Someone who's in the same predicament as you."

"I'm Phoenix." He tipped his head, clutching the netting. "I'd shake your hand, but..."

There was an awkward silence. The grin that might normally spread across his face never surfaced. It made him feel like retreating.

"Luna. My name is Luna." She lowered her chin to get his attention. The elephant in the room was louder than the silence—the absence of his right arm.

"Sorry to make your acquaintance like this," Dr. Fairhaven said. "It's very unfortunate."

Luna glanced down at the doctor's extended hand, and hesitated, her grim expression revealing the fact she was considering whether to take the doctor up on the friendly gesture. In conclusion, she wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips, opting not to shake Dr. Fairhaven's hand. Maybe she thought it would offend Phoenix.

"Not the best of circumstances," is all Luna said.

With one last vibration rattling through the cargo hold, the plane came to a stop. Seconds later, the ramp's hydraulics creaked, and light seeped through the expanding gap around the edges. Once the lip settled to the ground, the soldiers—robots, whatever they were—moved aside. One of them opened a palm toward the exit. Beyond the Tarmac, a barren landscape stretched for miles, bordered by rocky brown mountains. No trees, no grass, no sign of life.

"You are free to go," the soldier said. "Outside, you will find a single building. Enter it and await further instructions. You may run, but if you do, you will die."

"How? Why? Because you'll kill us?" Phoenix asked.

"No," another soldier replied in a human-like voice, no evidence of being a cyborg or robot. "You'll die in the desert. Six hundred square miles of arid terrain surround you. Daytime temperatures can reach seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit this time of year. But it can drop below freezing at night. You'll die of dehydration or freeze to death long before you reach civilization. It is in your best interests not to run. Escape is futile, but we will not stop you from trying."

"Guess we don't have a choice then," Phoenix replied.

"The decision is yours. Our commanding officer wants you to enter the building of your own accord. He wants you to come willingly."

Phoenix rolled his eyes. Some choice. With a sigh of resignation, he acted first, passing through the gap between the soldiers. Used to taking the lead, he assumed the rest of the group would follow him.

He crept down the ramp; the view growing into a wide panorama of crusty, cracked and parched desert. His boots hit the asphalt and angled right where he saw the building the soldiers had mentioned. He didn't look back but heard the others leaving the plane.

Dr. Fairhaven gasped.

Callisto cursed.

Luna groaned with irritation.

Phoenix waited for them to catch up. Behind the low-lying structure, rugged mountains rose high above, the tip-tops capped with snow. The peaks appeared close but were likely miles away from the building. Phoenix turned as Callisto and the two women approached. Their paths parted: Dr. Fairhaven to one side, Luna and Callisto to the other.

A soldier stood on the asphalt at the rear of the plane. "Enter and await instructions."

Intrigue gripped Phoenix. What awaited them inside the building? Constructed of stone, the same dusty brown as the surrounding environment, the seams of each block fitted together into a smooth design. The patterns started wide at the base of the exterior wall and grew into the tip of a pyramid. Vice versa, the pattern held true from the top of the wall as well, wide, then forming the tip of an inverted pyramid. The whole facade resembled a jaw clasped shut. Artistic, yet somewhat disturbing. A flat adobe roof covered the front, offering ample shade.

A chill hung in the air, which made Phoenix assume it was morning based on the temperature variations the soldiers had provided them. The sun hovered in the east, positioned midway in the sky behind the building. It was between 0700 and 0900 hours.

He looked to the north, and then to the south, to his right, past Dr. Fairhaven. West, of course, lay behind him, beyond the soldiers, beyond the plane. The knowledge comforted him somewhat, albeit meaningless if the rest of the information given to them was true. Of course, he suspected it was the bitter truth, down to the last detail.

"Let's go," Phoenix said, and started toward the front entrance. "This is our only option."

A steel door, painted brown like rich dirt, awaited them.

He turned the stainless-steel knob and walked inside.

Through the doorway, he entered a small room with metallic gray walls, no decorations. A long table with five chairs occupied the center of the space. Encased in the back wall, a mirror reflected their images as they moved around. In the front wall behind them, a tinted window filtered sunlight.

The door slammed shut, and a mechanism clicked in the frame.

There was no knob on the inside.

On the back wall, the glass flickered once, twice, and then a crisp image appeared. The person displayed on the monitor looked like he was on the other side of the wall, but he may have been on the other side of the world, or on a different planet, for all Phoenix knew.

The picture revealed the close-cropped gray hair and smug face of Admiral Woodrow Jax. "Welcome to the Atacama Desert in northern Chile," he said. "Take a seat. We have a lot to talk about."