Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Voda told his son. Then he pointed to a clump of trees.

“Mircea. Hide there. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t leave us, Papa,” said Julian.

“I’ll be right back,” he told him. “I won’t be far.”

Voda was lying—he wanted to use the phone but didn’t want either of them to hear how desperate he was. He had to stay positive, or at least as confident as he could, to buoy their spirits.

So far, he hadn’t heard the dogs, but that was just a matter of time.

Voda walked in as straight a line as he could manage, stopping when he could no longer make out the large tree that rose from the side of the pump house. He took out the mobile phone and dialed the American ambassador’s number. The phone was answered on the first ring.

“I am still alive,” he said.

“Mr. President, we will help you as much as we are able to.

Where exactly are you?”

Voda hesitated. There were many reasons not to trust the Americans. But there was no other choice.

“There is a pump house behind my property, half hidden in the woods. We cannot stay there very long. There are many soldiers still arriving. I hear many trucks. What is going on?”

“The news is reporting that the defense minister was assassinated by guerrillas,” said the ambassador. “They are also reporting rumors of your death.”

“Prematurely.”

“Our satellites have seen troop movements all across the country. It seems pretty clear that there’s a coup, and that the plotters intend to kill you.”

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“Who is behind it?”

“I don’t know, Mr. President. I would hesitate to make a guess without some sort of evidence, and I have none.”

It had to be Locusta, Voda thought. It was his area of command, and he was the only one powerful enough to even dare.

“I want you to call General Locusta. Tell him that I know that he is behind this, and that he is to stand down,” said Voda. “Tell him … ”

Voda considered what to say. His instincts told him to be strong with the general—fierce. But perhaps it would be wiser to work out a deal.

“Tell him he must stand down,” Voda repeated finally.

“I don’t know if that will do much good coming from me, Mr. President.”

Voda sensed that was a diplomatic answer—probably Washington had told him not to interfere.

“Are you going to help me or not?” asked Voda, struggling to keep himself from bleating.

“Yes. We will try to rescue you if we can. If you want.”

Hope!

“Of course I want,” said Voda, practically shouting.

“I want to connect you directly with the Dreamland people who have been supporting your counterterrorist troops. They will help you.”

The loud bay of a dog echoed up the hillside.

“Are you there, Mr. President?” asked the American ambassador.

“Give me the number.”

“I can connect you, or have them call you.”

“No. Tell me the number now. It’s not safe for them to call me; the phone can be heard, even when just buzzing. I will call them when I can, in a few minutes. Right now I have to move my family to safety.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

29 January 1998

0010

THE HELICOPTER GENERAL LOCUSTA COMMANDEERED TO

get up to the president’s mountain house had been used during the Moldovan operation. There hadn’t been enough time to completely clean the interior, and spots of dried blood covered the floor. Locusta stared at the blood, brooding. The operation had been successful, though if the Americans had deigned to provide better support, he would not have lost the helicopter with Brasov aboard.

The colonel had always been a problematic officer—a fine leader, but headstrong, occasionally impulsive, and unfortunately as committed to democracy as he was to getting ahead.

He would have had to watch Brasov carefully had he lived—so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise after all.

But now that he was dead, Locusta missed him, and mourned the loss of his spirit. He was the sort of man an army needed.

The kind a country needed. Like himself.

A command post had been set up at the intersection of Highway 34 and the road leading up to President Voda’s property. There was a field next to the intersection; a pair of spotlights and some small signal flares marked the area for the helicopter to set down.

Locusta sprang out as soon as the pilot nodded to him.

Head down against the swirling wind, he ran toward the men standing near the road.

“General, we’re glad you’re here,” said Major Ozera. “The situation is under control.”

“You’ve found President Voda?”

“We expect to shortly. There was a tunnel from the house to a small cave at the edge of the property. We have dogs following his scent.”

“Good.”

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Locusta looked around. About two dozen troops were holding defensive positions near the road.

“You’ve given orders that anyone found is to be shot?”

“Of course,” said Ozera. “As you ordered. The troops have been told that the president is dead and that we’re looking for the guerrillas. The special team is with the dogs,” he added.

“They won’t get away.”

“They had best not. They have already failed once.”

Ozera didn’t answer. The “special team” was the handpicked group of assassins who had made the initial assault.

“Pull as many of the troops back as possible,” Locusta told him. “Bring in more weapons, enough to fight a large force.

But keep them a good distance away. Have only your men on the property.”

“I’ve brought up everything we had,” said the major. “Everything except the antiaircraft guns.”

“Bring them. They’re very useful.”

The Zsu-23-4 mobile antiaircraft guns looked like tanks with four 23mm cannons mounted at the front of a flattened turret.

They could be used against ground or air targets, as necessary.

“Our command post should be up at the house,” Locusta added.

“Yes. Let me place these new orders, then get a driver.”

While he was waiting for Ozera to return, Locusta called his headquarters.

“The Dreamland people keep calling to ask if we need help,” said his chief of staff. “What should we tell them?”

“Tell them the situation is under control,” said Locusta.

“Tell them to remain on the ground. Tell them the situation is very confused, and we don’t want them getting in the way.”

“They already have at least one plane in the air, General.

And we understand more are being readied.”

“Tell them I’m traveling to the president’s home personally and will confer with them soon,” said Locusta. “But emphasize that we do not need them, and do not want them in the air.”

“Yes, sir.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Where is the plane they have in the air?”

“I can check with air defense.”

“Do it. Call me back immediately.”

“Yes, sir, General.”

Dreamland Command trailer,

Iasi

0010

“IT’S TOO RUGGED TO LAND NEAR THAT PUMP HOUSE,” SAID

Danny, pointing to the satellite photo of the area. “But if they can come up the slope a bit, over to around here, we can lower a basket, take them out like it’s a rescue. Even in the dark it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Can we get in there without being seen?” asked Samson.

“The Osprey is black, so it’s hard to see,” answered Danny.

“But it is pretty loud. I would say the people on the ground would know we’re there.”

“The President wanted this done without the Romanians knowing we’re involved,” said Samson.

“I’d like to get in and out quietly too, General,” said Danny.

“The less people who know we’re there, the safer we are. But no aircraft is silent.”

“I think we just have to do our best,” said Dog. “If they see us, they see us. But we can’t not grab him because we might be seen.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t going to do it, Bastian,” snapped Samson. He turned back to Danny. “What sort of team will you need?”

“If we can sneak in? I’d say a three man team—Boston, Liu, myself. We don’t want too many people because we want to move as fast as possible. For air support, one Flighthawk to show us what’s going on, another if things get tight to cover our exit. And whatever else you can throw at them if all hell breaks loose.”

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“We could run the Flighthawks as a diversion,” said Zen. “Do a low and slow approach along the road, have the Osprey come in from the north. That might solve the problem of the noise.”

“If it’s noise we’re trying to cover,” said Dog, “let’s bring one of the EB-52s down close. That makes a hell of a racket.”

“Good,” said Samson. “We can use one of the B-1s as well—a nice sonic boom should get their attention.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be seen,” said Danny.

Samson looked at Dog. “I think we can interpret the order to the effect that you’re not to be seen,” he said. “And take it from there.”

“Where do we go when we have him?” Danny asked.

“The American embassy,” said the general.

“Is that where he wants to go?”

“Why wouldn’t he want to go to the embassy?” asked Samson.

“If I was the president, I’d want to go to my office, rally my troops.”

“We can deal with that after we have him,” said Dog.

“Bastian’s right. Let’s just grab him.” Samson leaned across the conference table, looking at the Osprey pilots. “How long before you can get in the air?”

“As soon as the aircraft is fueled, we’re good to go.”

“Colonel Bastian!” Sergeant Liu stuck his head out from the communications area. “The Johnson is reporting four MiGs coming hot and heavy toward the Romanian border, straight across the Black Sea.”

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0012

LIEUTENANT KIRK “STARSHIP” ANDREWS TRIED TO IGNORE

the pull of the Megafortress as it turned toward the north, focusing all of his attention on the control screens in front of 370

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him. His Flighthawks– Hawk Three and Hawk Four—were just passing through 25,000 feet, climbing toward 30,000.

The Johnson’s radar was tracking four MiGs, flying in tight formation at roughly Mach 1.2, coming across the Black Sea.

“What’s the word on the ROEs?” Starship asked the Johnson’s pilot, Lieutenant Mike Englehardt, referring to their rules of engagement—the orders directing when they could and couldn’t use force.

“No change. We’re not to engage beyond the border.”

“These guys are loaded for bear,” Starship told him.

“They’re either coming for us or they’re going to hit something in Romania. Either way, I say we take them down now.”

“Our orders say no.”

“Screw the orders.”

“Yeah, we’d all like to, Starship,” said the pilot. “But our job is to follow them. We’ll get them when they cross.”

“By then it may be too late. What’s Dog say?”

“It’s not up to him.”

Starship nudged his control yoke, bringing Hawk Three on course for a direct intercept of the MiGs. He could take at least one of the planes down when they came across the border; with a little luck and help from the computer, he might get two. The Johnson could shoot down the rest with Scorpion-plus air-to-air missiles.

But by then the MiGs would be in position to launch their own attack, albeit at long range, against either the Johnson or the pipeline.

“Radar profiles indicate bandits are equipped with two AS-14 Kedge and free-falls,” said the radar operator. “Possibly GPS guided. Aircraft are still proceeding on course.”

Free-falls were bombs dropped almost directly over the target; they could be guided to their destination by the addition of a small guidance system that used GPS readings.

More deadly were the AS-14 Molinya missiles, known to REVOLUTION

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NATO as the Kedge. The air-to-ground missile could be guided by laser, thermal imaging, or television. In some respects similar to the American-made Maverick, its range was about ten kilometers—just enough to hit the gas pipeline without crossing the border.

“They’ll be in range before the border, or just after it,”

Starship told Englehardt. “Look, they shot down the helicopter. Things have changed.”

“Look, you’re preaching to the converted,” Englehardt replied. “I’m already on the line with them.”

Dreamland Command trailer,

Iasi

0012

“IF THEY’RE CARRYING BOMBS, MY BET IS THEY’RE GOING

after the gas line,” Dog told General Samson. “They’ll do serious damage, a lot more than that guerrilla strike. Given the tactical situation, I’d say we should consider the rules of engagement obsolete. I say we get them right now.”

Part of Samson wanted to agree; the other part realized that this was just the sort of thing that could be used to end his career.

“We can always call Washington,” suggested Dog.

Samson started to reach for the headset, intending to do just that, then stopped. Bastian was lionized in Washington.

Why? Because he didn’t stop and ask for permission every time he wanted to do what was right. He just went ahead and did it, consequences be damned.

A good way to end your career if you were a general, however.

But damn it, Bastian was right. If they hesitated now, the pipeline would be blown up. And he would get the blame for that, no matter what else happened.

“Give me that damn headset,” he told Dog.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0013

GENERAL SAMSON’S GRAVELY VOICE BOOMED IN STARSHIP’S

ears.

“This is Samson. What’s your status, Flighthawks?”

“Ready to engage, General. If I can cross the border.”

“That’s what I want to hear. Shoot the bastards down.

Those are my orders.”

The line snapped clear.

“Wow, he sounded a little like Colonel Bastian,” said Englehardt.

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Starship, changing course as he laid on the gas.

Like most pilots who had the misfortune to deal with Flighthawks, the MiG drivers didn’t realize they were under attack until the first flash of bullets streaked across their windscreens. By then it was too late for the lead pilot. Within seconds of Starship pressing his trigger, the MiG’s cockpit exploded.

Hawk Three’s momentum took it out of position to attack the second MiG in the formation, as Starship had originally planned. He jammed his controls, trying to drag the small plane’s nose around to the north to get a shot as the MiG shot past. But the MiG pilot had gone to afterburners as soon as he saw the flare of the gun in the night sky, and Starship realized following him would be pointless.

“Bandit Two is by me,” Starship told Englehardt.

“Roger that, we see him.”

Starship felt the bomb bay’s doors opening behind him as he turned his attention to Hawk Four, which he’d aimed at the other two MiGs. The computer had flown the plane perfectly, but its human counterpart in the MiG managed to evade the Flighthawk’s first attack, pushing over and twisting REVOLUTION

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away in a ribbonlike pattern, despite the heavy burden under its wings.

Starship took over the plane from the computer, trying to press the attack as the targeting pipper blinked red, then turned to yellow. Abruptly, the plane squirted upward, throwing the Flighthawk by him in a flash. The maneuver worked, but Starship realized that the weight of his bombs would negate most if not all of his engines’ advantage over the Flighthawk. He pulled the robot plane back in the MiG’s direction, matching the climb. As he got closer, the Russian rolled his plane over. Starship got two bursts in, then slid on his wing to follow. As the MiG leveled, it ejected his weapons stores and asked the engines to give him everything he had.

“Missiles!” yelled Starship.

“Weapons are AS-12 Keglers,” said the radar operator.

“He’s out of range. They won’t make the border.”

“Bandit Three is out of it,” Starship reported. “I’m going after Bandit Four. ”

“Starship, we have two Sukhois coming at us from the north,” warned Englehardt.

“Copy,” said Starship, filing the information away in his brain. It was too theoretical to act on at the moment.

“Splash Bandit Two!” said the copilot, Lieutenant Terry Kung. “Two hits!” The Megafortress’s missiles had just taken down the MiG.

Bandit Four had tucked south, away from Romania, but was now coming back north. Starship took over Hawk Three, slapping the throttle slide against the final detent as he vectored toward an intercept.

Zen had once described flying the robot aircraft as an act of sheer imagination—that to fly the Flighthawks successfully, a pilot had to see himself in the cockpit. Sometimes, Zen claimed, the illusion became so real he could feel the plane shake and shudder in the air.

Starship disagreed. He didn’t feel any illusion that he was 374

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

inside Hawk Three as it thundered toward the MiG. He didn’t think of either plane as a plane at all—they were vectors and flashes on his screen, triangles and dots, with a thick box at the top of the screen showing where the MiG’s lethal range began.

The MiG altered course, heading toward the southern end of the box. Hawk Three was coming at him from an angle off his right wing. According to the computer, it would arrive at an intercept in exactly fifty-two seconds.

The computer also calculated that Starship would have exactly three seconds on target—enough for a single burst of gunfire.

Probability of a fatal hit: twenty percent.

“Johnson, can you take Bandit Four?” Starship asked.

“We’re being targeted by the Sukhois,” said Englehardt.

“We have only four missiles left.”

“I’ll get one of the Sukhois,” said Starship.

“Negative. Take the MiG. We have the Sukhois.”

Engelhardt’s choice was technically correct—the Megafortress had to be protected at all costs, and the Johnson was in a better position to strike the Sukhois immediately. But in Starship’s opinion it was too conservative. Following the book, Englehardt was clearly intending to fire two missiles each at the Sukhois to cover for any malfunctions or screw-ups. One of those missiles could be used against the MiG, with the Flighthawks backing him up.

There was no time to argue. Starship tried to urge some more speed from the Flighthawk, nudging his nose down, but he was already at roughly the same altitude as his quarry and couldn’t afford to give up much.

“Intercept in thirty seconds,” said the computer.

The targeting pip appeared. It was solid yellow. He wasn’t even close to a shot.

The MiG started to turn west, taking it even farther from the Flighthawk. He wasn’t going to make it.

He didn’t have to shoot the MiG down—not on his first try, anyway. All he had to do was get him to break off his attack.

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The Russian had overreacted to the first encounter, going south. Maybe he could be bluffed into doing that again.

Starship pushed the Flighthawk to the right and began firing, even though the piper showed he was still out of range.

The change in the angle put his bullets even farther off the mark. But it also made his tracers more obvious—he wanted the MiG pilot to know he was under the gun.

The first burst had no effect, but as he laid on a second, the Russian dipped on its left wing and dove off to the left, heading southwestward.

A warning flashed on Starship’s screen as he went after it.

HAWK 3: LOSS OF CONTROL CONNECTION IN TWENTY SECONDS.

“Johnson, I need you to stay with me,” he said.

“We have to deal with the Sukhois,” said Englehardt.

Starship gave Hawk Three to the computer, telling it to stay on the MiG; it would fly pursuit even if the connection was lost. Then he took Hawk Four and pulled it south. It was still too far from the MiG to get into a tangle, but he might be able to use it when the MiG came back toward its target.

The Johnson, meanwhile, was climbing northward over the mountains, moving away from the Sukhois. The Su-27s were carrying several air-to-air missiles, but as of yet had not targeted the Megafortress.

HAWK 3: CONTACT LOST

Starship flicked the sitrep plot onto his main screen as the Flighthawk separated from his control. The MiG was still running due west. Starship thought, sooner or later, the pilot had to turn north.

Maybe he had a secondary target. Starship reached to his left, tapping the control for the mapping module in the computer. The module could display details on ground features, with identification tags such as highway routes.

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“Highlight pipeline,” Starship told the computer.

“Instruction not understood.”

“Highlight trans-Romanian gas pipeline,” he said.

“Instruction not understood.”

Frustrated, Starship put his finger on the pipeline that the MiG had been targeting.

“Identify.”

“IFC International Pipeline Junction 245A,” said the computer.

“Highlight IFC International Pipeline and all junctions.”

The pipeline lit in yellow on the map, with small rectangles of color along the way.

There was a block ten miles south of Hawk Three—exactly on the vector the MiG was taking.

His secondary target.

“Johnson, move west,” said Starship.

“We will if we can.”

“He has a target to the west. This is it,” said Starship, tapping his computer to transmit the image to the pilot’s console.

“Missiles in the air!” said the copilot. “Mini-Moshkits—they’re homing in on our radar!”

Iasi, Romania

0015

ZEN STOPPED AT THE FOOT OF THE ACCESS RAMP AS HE

came out of the trailer.

“Breanna, what the hell are you doing here?” he said, shocked to see his wife.

“Hello to you too, lover.” She walked over and kissed him.

“No, really, why are you here?” he insisted.

“I’m here as a copilot on Boomer, ” she said, pointing in the direction of the plane. “What’s the matter?”

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“There’s no way in the world you should be flying.”

“What?”

“Jeez, woman.”

“What do you mean, ‘jeez woman’?”

“You were—hurt.”

“When?”

“Don’t give me that. In India.”

“So were you.”

“You were unconscious for days, for God’s sake.”

“I was sleeping. The doctors say I’m fine.”

Zen shook his head.

“You were on that island as long as I was,” she said. Her face had flushed, her hands were on her hips, and her eyes had narrowed into slits. Zen knew she was mad, but he was furious as well.

“I wasn’t knocked out in a coma,” he told her.

“I’m better now. If you don’t like it, tough.” She turned and began stomping toward the hangar. Suddenly she stopped, spun around, and said, “And it’s good to see you, too.”

The people nearby tried pretending they hadn’t noticed.

Zen wheeled forward, angry that his wife was here, but not sure what he could do about it.

The door to the Command trailer opened, and he turned back as Colonel Bastian came down the ramp.

“Did you see her?” asked Zen.

“Who?”

“My wife.”

“Breanna’s here?”

“She’s copiloting Boomer.”

Dog frowned but said nothing.

“You think that’s OK?” he asked.

“Did she check out medically?”

“She claims she did.”

“It’s not up to me,” Dog said finally. “Come on. We have to get in the air.”

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Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0015

ALIN VODA KNELT NEXT TO THE PUMP HOUSE, HOLDING HIS

son against his body to warm the boy. He was feeling the cold himself. At first adrenaline had kept him warm, then fear; now neither was sufficient as the temperature continued to drop toward freezing.

The dogs were below them, near the creek. He wasn’t sure how much longer it would be before they picked up their scent and started up the hill. But even if the dogs couldn’t track them, Voda knew that sooner or later the soldiers would begin a large-scale search through the woods. The sounds of trucks moving in the valley below filled the hills with a low rumble. There must be dozens if not hundreds of potential searchers.

The Americans had promised to help. Voda wasn’t sure what that promise would yield, but at the moment it was all he had.

“They’re coming up the hill,” said Mircea. “What do we do?”

This was as far up the property as either of them had gone; Voda had no idea what was beyond. But they clearly couldn’t stay here; if they did, they’d be discovered.

“Let’s keep climbing,” he said.

“Papa, I’m too tired,” said Julian.

“You’ve got to get up!” shrieked Mircea, almost out of control and far too loud. “You’ve got to!”

“Sssshhh,” said Voda. He leaned down and hoisted the boy up onto his back. It had been years since he’d carried him this way, long years.

“Are we going to die, Papa?”

“No, no,” said Voda, starting to walk. A tune came into his head and he began to hum, gently, softly. He’d gone at least a dozen yards before he realized it was the old folk song that had started him on this path.

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Iasi Airfield, Romania

0020

COLONEL BASTIAN’S FATIGUE LIFTED AS HE WATCHED THE

ground crew top off the Bennett’s fuel tanks. Dog gave them a thumbs-up, then ducked under the belly and watched as the ordies—the bomb ordinance specialists—removed the safety pins and made sure the last Scorpion AMRAAM-plus was ready to be fired. There were four Scorpions and four Sidewinders on the revolving dispenser.

“How’s it lookin’, boys?” he asked.

”Ready for action, Colonel,” said one of the crew dogs.

“You want missiles on the wingtips?”

“No time. We have to get into the air.”

“Yes, sir.”

Not one of the three ground-crew members was legally old enough to drink, but each had a huge responsibility on his shoulders. Dog and the rest of the members of EB-52 Johnson were putting their lives in their hands.

“Ready for your walk-around, Colonel?” asked Technical Sergeant Chance Duluth.

“Where’s Greasy Hands?” Dog asked. Parsons was the crew chief; Chance was his assistant.

“Chief Parsons is over straightening something out with Boomer, Colonel. He sends his regrets.”

“Along with how many four letter words?” Dog asked, walking toward the front of the plane.

“Quite a few.”

Chance—his name inevitably led to many poor puns—had worked under Parsons for many years. He had inherited the chief master sergeant’s fastidious attention to detail, if not his gently cantankerous manner. Where Greasy Hands would frown, Chance would turn his head sideways, smile, and say, “Hmmm.”

Dog was anxious to get airborne; the Osprey had already taken off, and the B-1s would shortly. He moved quickly through the preflight inspection, examining the exterior of the plane from its 380

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nose gear to the lights atop its V-shaped tail. In truth, he trusted the crew implicitly, and probably could have skipped the walk-around without feeling any less safe. But the inspection was as much ritual as examination, and it would have somehow felt dis-respectful to the ground crew not to look over their work.

“Damn good job,” said Dog loudly when he was done.

“Damn good.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Chance. He’d probably heard that particular compliment a few hundred times, but his face still flushed with pride.

Dog was just about to go up the ramp into the belly of the plane when Zen rolled up.

“Beauty before age,” Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.

“Oh yeah,” said Zen, backing into the special lift hooks fitted to the ladder. “I’m feeling real beautiful tonight.”

As Zen disappeared into the belly, Dog heard Breanna calling behind him. He turned around. She had her helmet and flight gear under her arm.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready to take off?” Dog asked her.

“They had a glitch and had to repack the computer memory.

I have five minutes to … ”

Her voice trailed off.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I just wanted—to talk to Zen.”

“You have something to say to Zen, you better hurry. I’m taking off as soon as I buckle my seat belt.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” She kissed him and scampered up the ramp.

Dog shook his head. He hated when she called him Daddy while he was working.

ZEN LOOKED UP, STARTLED TO HEAR HIS WIFE’S VOICE

behind him.

“What are you doing here?” he said. “Come to see how the other half live?”

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“I don’t want you mad at me,” said Breanna. “I don’t want to go on a mission with things between us—with things the way we left them.”

“I’m not mad,” he said.

“Yes you are. You think I should have stayed home. In bed.”

“I do think that,” he said.

“And you’re mad. I can hear it in your voice. It’s angry.”

“I’m not mad.” But even while saying this, Zen heard his tone. She was right; he did sound angry. “I’m mad a little.”

“Just a little?”

He started to laugh. That was the problem with being in love with Breanna—you just couldn’t be mad at her, no matter how hard you tried, or how justified you were.

“I guess I’m mad at you, but I’m not really mad at you,” he told her. “I do love you. A lot.”

She came close and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his head.

“What’s with the parachute gear?” she asked, noticing that his emergency equipment was different.

“It’s the new gizmo Annie Klondike worked up. I told you about it. MESSKIT.”

“Is it ready?”

“More than ready,” he told her. “Come on, now, get lost.

We gotta get goin’.”

“I’m out of here. Kick some butt.”

Breanna smiled at him, then disappeared down the ladder to the tarmac.

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0030

THE MIG PILOT, CONFIDENT THAT HE’D SHAKEN THE FLIGHT-hawks and knowing that the Romanian air defenses could not touch him, backed off on his speed in order to conserve 382

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fuel for the long trip home. He was at 15,000 feet, descending gradually, no doubt intending to glide right at his target, Starship thought, pop up as he pickled his bombs, then gun north over the border and head home.

As long as he stayed on his present course, Hawk Four would meet him exactly eight miles from his target—roughly a mile and a half before the MiG was in range to fire the air-to-ground missiles. And as an added bonus, Hawk Three would come back into Starship’s control a few seconds later.

The enemy plane would be caught between the two Flighthawks, its escape routes cut off.

A perfect plan, except for the fact that the Bennett was jinking hard to duck a pair of radar-seeking missiles.

The Russian weapons were Kh-131A radar-seeking mini-Moshkits. Based on the air-to-ground Kh-31P, the large anti-radiation missile used two stages: a standard solid-rocket engine for the first stage, with a jet engine taking over for the final stage. The jet engine was no ordinary power plant; it gave the missile an enormous burst of speed on its final approach, propelling the warhead to Mach 4.5. The acceleration was designed to make the missile more difficult for antimis-sile systems such as the Patriot to intercept.

There were several ways to deal with mini-Moshkits. Ar-guably the most effective was the simplest: turning off the Megafortress’s powerful radar, to deprive the missile of its target. But doing that would essentially blind Starship, since the Flighthawks relied on the mother ship’s radar for everything except firing their guns or scanning very close targets.