Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

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strands of a spiderweb. He tried to pull off the threads, but they stuck to his ear and eyelids even after he rubbed at his face with his sleeve.

“Papa?”

“I’m coming, Julian. It’s hard to see the ball.”

There was a sharp rap and a thud above him.

“What was that?” Voda asked his son.

“I don’t know.”

There was another thud, this one toward the back of the house. Then a shock so strong that the ground shook.

Voda rushed out of the room.

“Papa, what is it?” The boy’s face was filled with fear.

“Go in there,” Voda told him. “Go behind the shelves.

Go.”

“Is it an earthquake?”

“Do as I say, Julian.”

“I’m afraid. There’s spiders, and—”

“Go. I’ll be right back.”

Voda had already started for the stairs. The ground was shaking heavily now, and while he could not be sure, he thought he heard the pop of automatic rifle fire. He charged up the stairs just in time to hear Oana Mitca, Julian’s young nanny and bodyguard, shouting that they were under attack.

“Mircea!” Voda yelled for his wife. “Mircea, where are you?”

The guard from the hall was crouched near the door, watching the exterior through the small side window. He had unholstered his gun.

“Where’s my wife?” demanded Voda, but the man didn’t react. Bullets burst through the front of the house, shattering the windows.

“Lights! Lights! Kill the lights!” yelled one of the security people.

Voda ran into his office. He ducked down behind the desk and began working the combination to the small safe. He missed the second number and had to start again.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The tumblers clicked; he slapped open the safe and reached into the bottom, where he had two pistols, one a relatively new Glock and the other an ancient American revolver.

As he rushed from the room, bullets began hitting the rear of the house. The security forces outside were firing furiously; one was firing from upstairs.

Oana Mitca, gun drawn, appeared in the hall.

“Where is my wife?” demanded Voda.

“She’s in the kitchen. Mr. President, we are under attack.”

“Call the army post up the road,” said Voda, rushing past.

He yelled for Sergi, his assistant, forgetting that he had left about an hour earlier for a dinner date.

He found Mircea huddled behind the counter of the kitchen with Lienart, the security shift supervisor, who was yelling into his satellite phone.

“We are under attack by the guerrillas,” said Lienart, who had already called the army. “Send everyone you have. Send them now!”

“Mircea.” Voda grabbed his wife’s hand. “Come on.”

She looked up at him from the floor. “Why?” she said.

“Why are they after us?”

“The army is five minutes away, Mr. President,” said Lienart.

Just then a rocket-propelled grenade or perhaps a mortar shell struck the back of the house. The brick walls held, but the blast blew out the glass from the windows, sending the shards flying through the rooms. Lienart ran to the window, peered out, then began firing his submachine gun.

“We’re going to the basement,” Voda said, pulling his wife with him.

“Go!” yelled Oana Mitca.

“Come with us!” Voda told her.

She hesitated for a moment. Voda grabbed her arm.

“Now!” he said.

Another shell rocked the house. This one landed on the roof and descended into the second floor before exploding.

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Debris showered from above, and part of the kitchen wall crumbled. A beam slapped downward, striking the nanny across the shoulder and throwing her to the floor. Voda let go of his wife and ran to her. As he tried to pull the timber off, another shell hit the house. Red flashed through the house, the air filled with dust and smoke.

“Go,” whispered Oana.

Voda glanced across the floor, made sure his wife was still there, then reached under the fallen beam. He leveraged his back against it, pushing it upward. Oana Mitca crawled forward, groaning as she came free.

“We need to protect you,” she said. Her voice was practically drowned out by the sound of submachine guns.

“Yes, protect us downstairs,” said Voda. “Stay with the boy. That’s your post.”

He pushed her next to his wife, then led them to the door.

Just as they started down the stairs, another large round hit the house. The rumbling explosion shook Voda off his feet; he fell down the stairs, tumbling into the women.

They helped each other up. Voda gave his wife the Glock, figuring she would do better with it than the revolver.

“Where’s Julian?” asked Oana Mitca.

“This way, come on,” said Voda, leading them back to the storage room. He kept flashlights near the entrance to the room, but it wasn’t until he started through the doorway that he remembered them. He went back, calling to his son as he grabbed them.

“Julian, Julian, we’re here,” he said. “Papa’s here.”

There was no answer. He switched a flashlight on, worrying that Julian had somehow snuck by him and was upstairs.

Then he realized he must be in the root cellar around the back of the workshop, unable to hear. He moved through the cobwebs and dust, snaked around the shelves which had once held preserved vegetables, and pulled up the trapdoor.

“Julian?”

“Papa, I’m scared.”

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“It’s OK. Here’s a flashlight.” He tossed down the light he was holding and lit another. “Down. Come on,” he told his wife and Oana, shining the light for them.

Mircea hesitated.

“Julian’s down there,” he told her.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, squeezing by.

“Come on,” he told Oana Mitca.

“No. I will stay here.”

“The army is already on its way,” Voda told her. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Then I won’t have to wait long. Here.” Oana Mitca dug into her pocket. “My phone.”

Voda took the phone. His impulse was to stay with her, but he didn’t want to leave his wife and son alone. “You’ll be OK?” he asked.

“Alin, please,” said the young woman. “Let me do my job.”

“Knock twice on the door,” he told her. “Twice, then pause, then again. All right?”

She nodded. Voda gave her his flashlight, then squeezed around the shelves. It was hard to see the stone stairs down to the door of the root cellar, and he slipped on the third step, crashing down to the bottom, against the heavy door.

He reached for the doorknob and tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Mircea!” he yelled. “Mircea, it’s me!”

He couldn’t hear anything. He pounded on the door, then tried it again. It still wouldn’t budge. Desperate, Voda raised the pistol and was about to fire when he heard the loud creak of the door’s hinges.

“It’s me, it’s me!” he yelled, sliding inside.

“Papa!” yelled Julian.

“Alin, what’s going on?” asked his wife.

“The army will be here in a second,” he said. “How did you lock this door?”

“I didn’t. I jammed the hatchet head against the handle.”

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She showed him. The blade slipped in under the handle, sliding against the spindle and keeping it from turning.

He took the flashlight from Julian. The walls on either side of the door had iron hooks positioned so a board could be placed across it and keep it closed, but there was no board nearby to lock it down with. He glanced around the cellar, looking for something to use. There had once been a set of shelves against the wall, but the wood was long gone; all that remained were the stones that had supported them.

An old rug sat on the floor. Desperate, Voda grabbed at it, hoping it hid boards. Instead, he saw a smooth piece of metal—a small trapdoor they had never explored.

The explosions were continuing, and growing more intense.

“What happened to the army?” his wife asked.

“They’re on their way,” Voda told her, dropping to his knees to see if he could open the metal. It was solid, but more the size of a grate than a door.

“Papa are we going to be OK?”

“We’re going to be fine Julian. Mircea, help me.”

“If we’re going to be fine, why are we hiding?” asked Julian.

“Help me with this. Let’s see how strong you are,” Voda told his son, straining to pull up the metal.

Though thin, the trapdoor was very heavy. Finally, with Mircea’s help, Voda managed to push it slightly aside, then pushed with his heels to reveal an opening about two feet by a foot and a half.

It was part of an old cistern system, designed at some point in the very distant past to supply water to the house. The walls were overgrown with blackish moss. About four feet down, it opened into what looked like a tunnel.

“We can’t go down there, Voda,” said Mircea.

“I didn’t say we were going to.”

He went back to the door.

“I’m going up and getting some of the boards to block us 314

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

in,” he told his wife. “I’ll knock twice, pause, then knock again. Twice. You’ll hear my voice.”

“Where is the army?” Mircea demanded. “Why aren’t they here?”

“Just give them time. I’m sure they’re on their way,” he said, removing the hatchet. He left her the flashlight. “Lock it behind me.”

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2240

ZEN WATCHED THE LONG-DISTANCE RADAR PLOT, MARKING

the progress of the helicopters as they left the field near the church. From all reports, the operation had been a resounding success. Both sites had proven to be rebel strongholds, and the guerrillas taken completely by surprise. Roughly a hundred guerrillas were killed or captured at the farm; a little less than half that at the church. Weapons had been stock-piled at both. The church had also yielded a treasure trove of documents and a computer.

“A lot of activity at border post M-2,” said Spiff, operating the ground radar upstairs. “Looks like the Moldovans have finally woken up.”

Zen switched his video view to Hawk Two, which was near the border post. He was too far to see anything however, and the terrain and nearby trees made it difficult to get much of a view of the small guardhouse unless he went into Moldovan territory—which of course he couldn’t do.

“First helicopter is over the line,” said Rager, who working the airborne radar.

Zen felt his body starting to relax. The operation would be over inside an hour, and they could stand down.

It wasn’t that he felt exhausted. It was that feeling of uselessness that he wanted to lose.

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“Shit—MiGs are back!” said Rager, practically yelling over the interphone. “Afterburners—they’re coming west, high rate of speed. Touching Mach 2.”

“Here we go again,” said Sullivan.

“Colonel, they don’t look like they’re coming for us,” said Rager a minute later. “They’re on a direct line for the helicopters.”

Moldova

2245

THE INSIDE OF THE HELICOPTER WAS SO LOUD IT WAS HARD

to hear Colonel Bastian’s voice over the roar of the blades.

Overloaded, the aircraft strained to clear the trees at the edge of the field. It cleared the top branches by only a few feet, but continued to steadily rise.

“This is Stoner!” Stoner yelled into the sat phone.

“Stoner, tell your pilot and Colonel Brasov there are four MiGs headed in your direction,” said Colonel Bastian.

“They’re about ten minutes away.”

“Four what?”

“Four MiGs. Russian fighters. Get the hell out of there. Get over the border.”

“We’re working on it, Colonel.”

Stoner turned to Colonel Brasov and tugged on his arm.

“There are fighter jets headed in our direction,” he said.

“They’re about ten minutes away.”

Brasov’s face blanched—he’d said on takeoff that it would take the helicopter roughly thirty minutes to reach the border—then went forward to the cockpit to tell the pilots.

There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, several boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew.

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Brasov returned, a frown on his face.

“We will stay very low to the ground,” he said, shouting in Stoner’s ear. “They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight.”

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2247

DOG SWUNG THE MEGAFORTRESS TO THE SOUTH, PUSHING

it closer to the border. The MiGs were definitely heading east in a big hurry, but while they were flying in the general direction of the Romanian helicopters, it was hard to tell if they knew exactly where they were.

“They shouldn’t be able to see them on their radar until they’re a lot closer,” Rager said. “But they will see them.

Those are Fulcrum C’s. Their radar is almost as good as an F-15’s.”

“Almost as good” covered a wide ground, but Dog wasn’t about to argue the point. Even if the radars’ look-down ability wasn’t up to American specs, the MiG pilots were on a course to fly almost directly over the choppers.

“Stoner, tell the helicopter pilots to cut south,” said Dog.

He’d decided to use the sat phone to avoid their conversation being monitored by the Moldovans or Russians. “They’re riding right on the vector the Russians are taking.”

“Copy.” Stoner’s voice was nearly drowned out by the heavy whirl of the helicopter engines above him.

“Colonel, we can take them down,” said Sullivan. “I have an intercept plotted.”

“We can’t do it, Sully,” said Dog.

“Those helicopters are dead ducks if they attack.”

Dog didn’t answer. He knew that what Sullivan had said was absolutely true—if the MiG pilots decided they were REVOLUTION

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going to shoot the helicopters down, only luck would save them.

And what was he going to do? Just watch?

Dog punched the preset for the Dreamland Command com circuit.

“This is Bastian. I need to speak to General Samson.”

“Colonel, he’s in bed,” said Sergeant Louch, who was handling the communications duties at Iasi.

“Wake him up.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

ZEN BANKED HAWK TWO TO THE NORTH, STILL WATCHING

the border. The helicopters were about twenty miles from Romanian soil. That translated into roughly ten minutes of flying time. The MiGs, afterburners spent, had slowed to about 800 knots, and were about three minutes’ flying time from an intercept.

The helos began changing course, turning south. They were in four groups. One group, which had taken off from the farm, was already over the border and thus out of harm’s way. The other three groups, with eight helicopters apiece, were strung out in a semicircle approaching northeastern Romania. The helicopters in each group were flying in slightly offset single file, with the groups themselves forming three parallel hashes as they flew.

The trucks, meanwhile, were moving along a pair of parallel roads to the north. They too could be easily targeted, if the MiGs realized they were there.

One flick of his wrist and a push of his finger on the throttle slide at the back of his control yoke and Hawk One would be lined up perfectly for an intercept on the lead MiG. Zen wouldn’t even have to shoot it down to protect the helicopters—once he got their attention, he figured, they’d lose interest in everything else.

At least long enough to let them get away.

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Surely the colonel was thinking the same thing. Orders or no orders, they had to protect their people. Stoner was in one of the choppers.

Zen pulled back on the Flighthawk’s control, adding a little more altitude as he waited for the order to attack.

“WHAT THE HELL IS IT, BASTIAN?”

“We have four Russian MiGs pursuing the Romanian force out of Moldova. I want permission to intercept.”

“Where? Romania? You have it.”

“No. The MiGs may hit them in Moldova. If I go over the border, I can save them.”

“We went over this, Bastian. No. You can’t go over the border. No.”

“The helicopters will be easy pickings.”

“The President’s order was nothing over the border. No.”

“But—”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

“General—”

“This conversation is done, Colonel. If those planes come over the border or attack you directly, take them down. But you stay on our side of the line. Is that clear, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Crystal, General.”

Moldova

2250

IT WAS STONER’S IDEA.

“When its nest is being attacked, a mother bird pretends to be wounded, drawing the predators away,” he told Colonel Brasov. “You could do the same—have one of the helicopters peel off, get the MiGs interested, then land. Everyone runs for it—the MiGs come down and investigate. The other choppers get away. We make our way home by foot.”

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Instead of answering, Brasov went forward to the cockpit. Stoner glanced around the cabin. The troops were quiet now, aware they were pursued. “You are full of good ideas, Mr. Stoner,” said the colonel, returning. Then he added, “The Russian aircraft are almost on us.”

“How far is the border?”

Brasov just shook his head.

“I would not ask my men to make a sacrifice I was unwilling to make myself,” said the colonel.

“Neither would I,” said Stoner.

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

2247

ALIN VODA CLUTCHED THE REVOLVER CLOSE TO HIS BELLY

as he went up the open stairs into the back of the root cellar beneath his house. In his years since joining Romania’s government, and certainly in his time as president, he never thought it possible that he would come under this kind of attack. It seemed a fantasy—an evil fantasy, one where the world had turned upside down.

He knew that the guerrillas—the criminals—were evil, but hadn’t allowed himself to think they were this evil.

Hubris. And foolishness.

Someone had killed the lights to the basement area. Voda couldn’t see into the rest of the basement, and in fact could barely see a few feet in front of him.

The gunfire was louder, closer, right above them—that must be a good sign, he thought; the army had finally arrived.

Should he even bother getting the wood he’d come for?

He wanted a piece of the shelves that formed a wall between this corner and the rest of the storeroom. Pulling off a piece, though, would be not be easy.

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He put his left hand out, feeling his way, when light flashed through the basement.

“Oana,” he started to say, calling for the bodyguard he’d left behind, when there was another flash and a loud bang.

The word died on his tongue, his voice stolen by the shock of the sound.

“What?” yelled Oana Mitca.

Before he could answer, Oana began cursing and screaming. Gunfire flashed in the outer part of the basement. There was another flash and Voda felt himself falling, knocked off the slippery stone step to the bottom of the root cellar. He pushed around, pounded on the door.

“It’s me,” he told his wife, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, forgetting that he’d said he would knock in a pattern. “Open.”

The door pulled back. Mircea shined a flashlight on his face.

“I think they’re in the basement,” he whispered.

They slapped the door closed and reset the hatchet blade into the handle, restoring the makeshift lock.

Voda leaned against the door. For a moment, he despaired.

The dankness of the root cellar reminded him of the prison he’d been locked in the first time he played the piano in defiance of the old regime. The thick, musty scent choked him, paralyzing his will, just as it had the first few months he was in jail.

His younger self had been steadied by music. One by one Mozart’s strong notes had returned to his imagination and steeled him for the struggle. But that was long ago.

He’d left music behind, rarely played now, either in real life or in his daydreams, contrary to what those around him thought.

What would save him now?

“Papa, what will we do?” asked Julian.

Voda saw his son’s face across the room, lit by the dim reflection from the flashlight. It was filled with fear, and it was REVOLUTION

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that fear that brought him back from the abyss. In worrying about his son, he remembered how to act.

“You are going to hide with Mama,” he said, springing from the door and moving to the metal trapdoor covering the cistern. “Down into this hole. Both of you.”

“But it’s a well,” said the boy.

“You can hide down there,” said Voda.

“Alin, what if it’s too deep?” asked his wife.

“Come on. Shine the light.” He pushed the metal covering fully aside, then squeezed down. The sides of the hole were slimy, but the stones were spaced far enough apart to let him get a good grip.

There was water four feet down, but it was shallow, less than an inch. The tunnel was wider than the hole, and nearly tall enough for him to stand.

“Mircea, the flashlight!”

She handed it to him. Voda shone it down the tunnel. He couldn’t see the end of the passage.

Did it lead out? Or was it simply a trap?

Where would you collect rainwater from?

The roof maybe. Gutters. This might just be a reservoir, with no opening big enough to escape through.

Voda tucked the flashlight into his pants and climbed back up.

“Come on,” he told his wife. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to die like a rat in a hole,” she said.

There was a burst of gunfire from somewhere above. Voda turned the flashlight back on and saw his son’s eyes puffing up, on the verge of tears.

“We’re not dying.” He picked up the boy. “Come on. Out this way. I’ll be with you.”

Even though it was only four feet, it was difficult to climb down with Julian in his arms. Voda slipped about halfway down. Fortunately, he was able to land on his feet, his back and head slapping against the wall.

Julian began to cry. “That hurt,” he wailed.

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“Come on, now,” Voda told his son. “No tears. And we must be quiet. We’re only playing hide and seek until the army comes.”

Mircea came down behind him, then reached back and started pulling at the metal top to the hole.

“I was going back up,” he told her.

“No. We stay together.”

Voda handed her the flashlight, then reached up and put his fingers against the metal strip that ran along the back of the cistern’s metal top. He could hear, or thought he could hear, voices in the basement.

“Come on,” he said, turning to get into the tunnel, but the others were ahead of him. His pants were soaked. He pushed ahead, slipping occasionally on the slime and mud, trying not to think that this was a perfect place for rats.

Lined with stone, the tunnel ran straight for about fifteen feet, then made a sharp turn to the left and began sloping upward. It narrowed as it turned, then the ceiling lowered to two feet. They began to crawl.

“I can stand!” shouted Julian suddenly.

“Wait,” said Voda. Then, as the sound echoed through the chamber, he added, “Talk in whispers. Or better, don’t talk.”

Mircea played the light through the black space before them. They were in a round room about the size of the one they had come down to from the basement. At the far end they found another hole leading upward, similar to the one they had used to enter, though it was about eight feet deep and a little wider. There was a piece of metal on top, again similar to what they’d found in the root cellar.

“Maybe they’re waiting above,” said Mircea.

“Maybe.” Voda climbed up the sides of the well. He thought he knew where he was—the barn about thirty feet from the eastern end of the house, used by the security people as a headquarters so they didn’t disturb the family.

Centuries before, water would have been collected from the roofs of the building, piped down somehow, then stored REVOLUTION

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so it could be distributed from these wells, both in the house and in the barn. The gutters or whatever had fed them were long gone, but the reservoir system remained.

Would they be safer in the tunnel or in the barn?

He wasn’t sure.

It might be a moot question—the metal panel seemed impossible to move.

He braced himself by planting his shoes into the lips between the stones, then put his hand against the metal, pushing.

Nothing.

“Mama, I need the light!” yelled Julian below.

“Hush. Papa needs it.”

“I think there is another tunnel this way!”

Voda climbed back down. Again he slipped the last few feet. This time he landed on his butt, but at least didn’t hit his head again.

“Let’s see this tunnel,” he told his son.

It was narrower than the others, but also ended in an upward passage, only four feet off the ground. It too had a metal panel at its end, and Voda levered himself into position, putting his shoulder against it and pushing.

It moved, but just barely—so little in fact that at first he wasn’t sure if it actually had moved or if he was imagining it.

He braced himself again, and this time Mircea helped. Suddenly, it gave way, and they both slipped and fell together, bashing each other as they tumbled down.

The pain stunned him; the hard smack froze his brain. He found himself trapped in silence.

“Papa?” said Julian.

“Are you all right, Mircea?” he said.

“Yes. You?”

He rose instead of answering. “Up we go,” he said, his voice the croak of a frog. “Up, up.”

Gripping the edge of the trapdoor, he levered it open. He pulled himself up into darkness. It took a few moments to realize that he wasn’t in the garage at all.

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“Give me the flashlight,” he hissed down to his wife.

“Voda, we can’t stay down here.”

“Just wait,” he said, taking the light. He held it downward, hoping the beam wouldn’t be too obvious if someone outside were watching.

The well had a stone foundation, and came up in the middle of a stone floor. Rotted timbers were nearby, some on the ground, others against the wall. But the ceiling and parts of the wall beyond the wood seemed to be stone. He got up, then saw casks against the wall, covered with dirt. Now he could guess where he was: an abandoned cave about seventy-five feet from the house, at the start of a sharp rise. It had once been used as a storehouse for wine or beer.

And probably for making it, if the cistern was here, though that was not important now.

“Alin?”

He went back to the hole and whispered to his wife. “Come up.”

“I can’t lift Julian.”

Voda clambered back down. He had his son climb onto his shoulders, and from there into the cave. Voda turned back to help his wife, but she was already climbing up.

They slipped the metal cover back on the hole. Did they hear voices coming from the tunnel behind them? Voda didn’t trust his imagination anymore.

“We’re in the cave, aren’t we?” said Julian, using their name for the structure.

“Yes.”

“How do we get out?” asked Mircea. The cave door was locked from the outside. There was a small opening at the top of the rounded door, blocked by three iron bars. The space between the bars was barely enough to put a hand through.

Voda went to it and looked out into the night. Compared to the darkness of the tunnel and the cave, the outside was bright with moonlight. He saw figures in the distance, near the driveway and the garage.

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They were soldiers, or looked like soldiers. An army truck had pulled up to the driveway. Men jumped out.

Thank God!

But Voda’s relief died as he saw two men dragging a woman into the light cast by the truck’s headlights.

He recognized her clothes and hair. It was Oana Mitca.

The soldiers dumped her the way they would dispose of an old rag. She lay limp.

Another man came up; an officer, he thought. He had a pistol. Oana Mitca’s head exploded.

Why would they kill his son’s bodyguard?

“Voda?” whispered his wife. “What’s going on? I hear trucks, and I heard a shot.”

“There’s more trouble than I thought,” he said, sliding back from the door.

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2251

THE MIGS HAD FINALLY REALIZED THE HELICOPTERS WERE

to their south. They were ten miles from the closest group.

Even if the pilots took their time and waited for the perfect shot, they’d be in position less than three minutes from now.

And still far from the border.

“Why the hell aren’t we doing something?” snapped Zen over the interphone. “Colonel, you can’t keep us here.”

“We have our orders,” responded Dog.

Zen checked the positions on his screen. He could get Hawk One over the border, tell the computer to take out the lead MiG. Even if the Megafortress flew west, out of control range, the onboard computer guiding the robot plane would take it in for the kill.

He had to do it. He couldn’t let the men aboard those choppers die.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

If he did that, he knew he’d be disobeying a direct order.

He’d be out of the Air Force, maybe even imprisoned.

“Colonel, we have to do something.”

“No, Zen. Keep the planes where they are. Be ready if they come over the border. If you can’t follow my orders, you’ll be relieved.”

Fuck that, thought Zen.

It was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to keep his mouth shut—and the planes where they were.

ON THE SITREP VIEW OF THE RADAR SCREEN DOG WAS

watching, it looked as if one of the helicopters stopped in midair.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“He just popped up, gaining altitude,” said Rager. “He’s making himself a target. It’s a decoy.”

Dog saw the helicopter peeling back, trying to decoy the MiGs away. It was a noble idea, but it wasn’t going to work—there were too many MiGs.

“Sully, open bomb bay doors. Prepare to fire Scorpions.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

Sullivan quickly tapped the controls and the Megafortress rocked with the opening of the bay doors.

“Scorpion One is locked on target!” yelled Sullivan.

“Fire. Lock the second—lock them all, and fire.”

Sullivan quickly complied.

Not one member of the crew objected. They’d all put their careers, possibly a good portion of their lives, in Dog’s hands.

They knew the orders, realized how explicit they were: Do not under any circumstance cross the border or fire across the border, do not engage any Russian aircraft.

Under any circumstance.

Everyone aboard the Johnson wanted to disobey those orders, Dog realized, and would, gladly it seemed, if he led the way.

Was it because he had a Medal of Honor?

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They were good men, men who knew right from wrong and valued honor and duty as much as he did; they weren’t easily influenced by medals.

Dog checked his radar screen. The first MiG had suddenly jinked back east. Missile one, tracking it, jerked east toward the border.

“Self-destruct missile one,” said Dog.

“Colonel?”

“Sully, hit the self-destruct before it goes over the border.

Now!”

Dog tapped his armament panel to bring up the missile controls, but it was unnecessary—Sullivan did as he was told.

He did the same for missile three as its target also turned east, taking its missile with it.

The last two aircraft continued toward the helicopters.