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Revolution
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Текст книги "Revolution"


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Starship left it to the Megafortress to deal with the missile as he concentrated on the MiG heading toward the gas pipeline. The computer’s tactical section diagrammed the best angle of attack in his screen, suggesting that the Flighthawk pivot and swoop in directly on the fighter’s tail. It was a no-brainer, and yet another example of the advantage the robots had over traditional planes. In a manned plane, the maneuver would knock the pilot unconscious.

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Just as Starship reached the point where he had to start the cut, the Megafortress turned hard to duck the missiles.

At the same time, the plane dropped about a hundred feet in a fraction of a second. He slammed against his restraints and, despite his pressure suit, felt his head start to float as the mother ship dropped sharply in the air.

Stay on him, stay on him, Starship told himself, trying to hold the Flighthawk to the proper path. The small plane made its turn, jerking its nose hard back toward its right wing, literally skidding sideways in the air. For a brief moment the plane’s aerodynamic qualities were overcome by the laws of gravity and motion; it dropped more than two hundred feet, more like a brick than a plane. As the Flighthawk began to accelerate, the MiG popped into Starship’s screen.

The pipper went red. The pilot pressed the trigger. Bullets flew past the MiG’s right wing. Starship nudged his stick, working the stream toward the body of the target.

“Disconnect in five seconds,” wailed the computer.

“Bitch,” yelled Starship.

“Unrecognized command.”

“Johnson!”

“Stand by to lose external radar,” replied Englehardt.

That was about the last thing Starship wanted to hear.

UP ON THE FLIGHT DECK, LIEUTENANT ENGLEHARDT AND

his copilot had managed to duck one of the radar homing missiles by their sharp maneuvers. But the other one kept coming, and was now just over twenty miles away.

“Radars are off,” Terry Kung, the copilot, told Englehardt.

“Chaff. Turn.”

As the copilot fired canisters of metal shards into the air to confuse the missile, Englehardt threw the Megafortress into a sharp turn south, then rolled his wing down, plunging like a knife away from the cloud of decoy metal. The maneuver was second nature in a teen-series fighter; the Megafortress, even 384

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

with all its improvements over the standard B-52, groaned and shuddered.

The mini-Moshkit following them had a backup semi-active radar, which Englehardt expected would take over once it realized it had lost the signal it was following. If that happened, he hoped the radar would “see” the cloud of tinsel in the air, think it was the plane, and dive on it.

“Still not terminal,” said Kung. The flare as the missile fired its hypersonic jet engine would be picked up on the Megafortress’s infrared launch warning.

Englehardt pushed the Megafortress lower, then swung back to the east, trying to “beam” the missile’s search radar and make it harder for the enemy to see him. But they were too close—he could feel the missile coming in.

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0040

GENERAL LOCUSTA RESISTED THE URGE TO KICK THE DEAD

bodies that been placed near the back of the garage at the president’s mountain house. It wasn’t out of respect for the dead that he didn’t. On the contrary, he had no respect for any of the bodyguards, Voda’s men all. But the soldiers looking on might not understand.

“These are the only people you found in the house?” he asked them.

“General, it wasn’t us who found them,” replied the sergeant who was standing with the two other men, both privates. “The special forces men who reached the house first placed them here.”

According to Major Ozera, the special unit that had staged the attack had lost a dozen of their own, hastily evacuating them before the regular army arrived. In a way, thought REVOLUTION

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Locusta, it was good that so many commandos had died: It sharpened the survivors’ lust for vengeance, for they had changed into their uniforms and now made up the party of searchers hunting the president.

Locusta walked toward the cave where Voda had supposedly hidden after the initial attack. He examined it, and despite the broken door had a difficult time believing Voda had been here. The cistern system Ozera claimed he had used to escape was closed with heavy metal panels; a weakling such as Voda would never be able to lift them.

The entire back of the house had been flattened by the mortars. More likely the president was buried under there. If the dogs were tracking anything, it was one of the bodyguards who’d been sleeping or had run away out of fear.

His satellite phone rang.

“What is it?” he snapped, answering before the first ring died.

“General, all of the Dreamland planes have taken off from Iasi, including the Osprey,” said his chief of staff.

“The helicopter plane?”

“Yes, sir. Air defense reports that the Russians have attacked them near the border, and that at least one Russian airplane has been shot down.”

What the hell was going on?

No sooner had the question formed than Locusta realized the answer: The Russians were gunning for the pipeline.

“Are any of our airplanes in the air?”

“Well no, General.”

“Get the air force chief of staff. Tell him I want to talk to him personally. And tell him that we need his precious MiG-29s. The Russians are attacking us.”

“Yes, General.”

“And then find the number or whatever it is that I must call to speak to the Americans directly. To Colonel Bastian, the so-called Dog.”

386

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0041

STARSHIP’S MAIN SCREEN BLINKED AND AN ICON APPEARED

in the upper right corner, indicating that long-range radar was no longer being provided to the Flighthawks. But the enemy MiG and the triangular cross hairs targeting it remained at the center of the screen, provided by the Flighthawk’s own radar.

Compared to the Megafortress’s radar, which was as powerful as the radar in an AWACS, the system aboard the robot was very limited. But it was fine for the task at hand—

Starship steadied his thumb on the trigger, pushing the spray of bullets into the MiG’s wing.

The MiG’s right wing suddenly seemed to expand. A thin gray funnel appeared at the middle of it—and then red flashed everywhere. One of Starship’s bullets struck through the disintegrating wing, hitting square on the detonator of a five-hundred-pound bomb. The explosion that followed was so severe, the shock waves sent the Flighthawk into a spin to the left.

And then Starship’s screen went blank. He’d lost his connection to the robot.

ON THE FLIGHT DECK ABOVE STARSHIP, ENGLEHARDT LEANED

closer to the instrument panel, willing the big plane away from the missile. Panic vibrated through his arms and legs; his throat felt as if it had tightened around a rock. He struggled to control the plane, and himself, jerking back to the north as the copilot released another set of chaff.

“He’s terminal! Big flare!” yelled Kung.

Englehardt tensed, bracing for the impact. He cursed himself—he should have knocked off the radar sooner.

There was a flash to the right side of the cockpit.

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The missile?

If so, it had exploded before striking the Megafortress—far enough away, in fact, that the big aircraft shrugged off the shock of the ninety kilogram warhead without a shudder.

What?

incoming message flashed on the dedicated Dreamland communications screen. Englehardt tapped the screen with his thumb.

“You’re welcome, Johnson, ” barked General Samson from Boomer. “Now get that radar back on so we can see what the hell these Russian bastards are up to.”

Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0042

BREANNA STOCKARD EXHALED SHARPLY AS SHE LEANED

back from Boomer’s targeting console. Her head was still spinning—she’d barely strapped herself in for takeoff when General Samson saw that the Johnson was in trouble and ordered her to target the missile. Samson had pulled Boomer almost straight up, riding her powerful engines to the right altitude for the hit with no more than a half second to spare.

“All right, Stockard, good work.” The general’s voice was a deep growl. “Now let’s get ourselves up north and ready for anything else these bastard Russkies throw at us.”

“You got it, Gen.”

Samson turned his head toward her. “If you’re going to use a nickname, it’s Earthmover.”

“OK, Earthmover.”

“That’s more like it, Stockard,” said Samson, pushing the plane onto the new course.

388

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0045

DOG’S COMMENT ABOUT TAKING OFF AS SOON AS HIS REstraints were buckled was an exaggeration, but only just. The Megafortress left the runway just on the heels of the B-1s, getting airborne in time to use its radar to help orient Boomer to the Russian missile tracking the Johnson. Data was shared over the Dreamland Command network with all aircraft in the battle package, and in fact could be shared with any Dreamland asset anywhere in the world.

“Sukhois are turning south over the Black Sea,” said Rager. “Looks like there are two more MiG-29s approaching, though, high rate of speed, very low to the water. You see them, Colonel?”

“I got them, Rager. Thanks.” Dog flicked the Transmit button. “EB-52 Bennett to Johnson. Mikey, how are you doing up there?”

“We’re holding together, Colonel,” said Englehardt, the Johnson’s pilot. “But we’re out of Scorpions.”

“Roger that. I want you to go west and cover the area near the president’s summer house for the Osprey. We’ll take your station here.”

Englehardt’s acknowledgment was overrun by a broadcast from General Samson, whose scowling face appeared in the communications screen. Samson’s visor was up, his oxygen mask dangling to the side, his frown as visible as ever. But to Dog’s surprise, Samson didn’t bawl him out for usurping his authority.

“Mike, Dog is right. You get yourself down there and stay out of trouble. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry, General,” said Dog. “That was your call.”

“No problem, Colonel. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Now, let’s get ourselves ready for these MiG drivers. You REVOLUTION

389

want to take them, or should we give the laser system another field test?”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

approaching Stulpicani, Romania

0047

DANNY FREAH PUT ON HIS SMART HELMET AND TAPPED INTO

the Dreamland database, asking the computer with verbal commands to display the most recent satellite photo of the area where the president’s house was located.

The picture was several days old, taken right after the attack on the pipeline, but it was adequate for planning purposes.

From the description that had been relayed to him, Alin Voda was hiding about a quarter mile northeast of his house, near an old structure. But the structure wasn’t visible on the map. Danny zoomed in and out without being able to see it among the trees. Finally he backed out, looking for an easier spot to pick him up.

The hill was wooded all the way to its peak. There was a rift on the back slope about fifty feet down, where a drop created a bald spot. The Osprey couldn’t land there, but they could fast-rope down, put the president into a rescue basket, and haul him back up.

They’d need some close-in reconnaissance before attempting the pickup, to figure out where the Romanians were. And they’d need a diversion to get into the area.

“What do you think, Cap?” asked Boston, who was standing beside him. “Doable?”

“Oh yeah, we can do it,” Danny said, pulling off the helmet.

“Just need a little coordination.”

He checked his watch. The Osprey was roughly twenty minutes from the mountain house. Hopefully, Voda could hold out that long.

390

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

above northeastern Romania

0049

THE TWO RUSSIAN AIRCRAFT APPROACHING THE ROMANIAN

coast of the Black Sea were brand new MiG-29Ms, upgraded versions of the original MiG-29. Equipped with better avi-onics and more hardpoints, the fighters were potent attack aircraft, capable of carrying a wide range of weapons. Because they were flying so low, the Bennett’s radar was unable to identify what missiles or bombs they had beneath their wings, but their track made it clear they were heading for the Romanian gas fields.

“How are we handling this, Colonel?” Zen asked Dog over the interphone. He’d already swung his Flighthawks toward the border to prepare for an intercept.

“You take first shot,” Dog told him. “We’ll take anything that gets past you. Boomer will knock down any missiles.”

“Roger that.”

The MiGs were moving at just over 500 knots—fast, certainly, but with plenty of reserve left in their engines to accelerate. They were just under eighty miles from the border, and another fifty beyond the Flighthawks; assuming they didn’t punch in some giddy-up, Zen knew he had nine and a half minutes to set up the intercept.

Almost too much time, he mused.

“We have a pair of Romanian contacts, Colonel. Two MiG-29s coming north from Mikhail Kogˇalniceanu.”

The MiG-29s were the Romanians’ sole advanced aircraft.

Older than the Russian planes, they were equipped with short-range heat-seeking missiles and cannons. It would take considerable skill for their pilots to shoot down their adversaries.

Unless the Americans helped balance the odds.

“Let’s talk to them,” said Dog. “Sully, can you get us on their communications channel?”

“Working on it now, Colonel.”

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Dreamland Command

28 January 1998

1450 (0050 Romania, 29 January 1998)

MACK SMITH HUNCHED OVER THE CONSOLE IN DREAMLAND

Command, watching the combined radar plot from the Bennett and the Johnson that showed where all the Dreamland people were.

The one thing it didn’t show was where President Voda might be.

Which, as he read the situation, was the one thing above all else it ought to show.

“What the hell’s going on with that NSA chick?” Mack asked the techie to his right. “She get those cell towers figured out yet or what?”

“They’re working on it. It’s not like they monitor every transmission in the world, Major.”

Mack straightened. There ought to be an easier way to track Voda.

If the Megafortress types flying over Romania were the Elint birds—specially designed to pick up electronic transmissions—it’d be a no-brainer. They’d just tune to the cell phone’s frequencies and wham bam, thank you ma’am, they’d have him.

But with all the high-tech crap in the planes that were there, surely there was some way to find the S.O.B.

The problem probably wasn’t the technology—the problem was they didn’t have enough geeks working it.

Mack turned around and yelled to the communications specialist, who was sitting two rows back. “Hey, you know Ray Rubeo’s cell phone number?”

“Dr. Rubeo? He’s no longer—”

“Yeah, just dial the number, would you? Get him on the horn.”

Mack shook his head. He had to explain everything to these people.

392

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0053

“GENERAL, THERE’S AN URGENT TRANSMISSION COMING

through from Romanian air defense command,” said Breanna.

“About time they woke up,” said Samson, tapping the communications panel at the lower left of the dashboard. “This is Samson.”

“General Samson, stand by for General Locusta.”

“Locusta. He’s the army general, right?” Samson asked Breanna. “The one who’s probably running the coup?”

She didn’t get a chance to answer as Locusta came on the line.

“General Samson, I am sorry to say we have not had a chance to meet.”

Samson had a little trouble deciphering Locusta’s English.

“Yes, I’m glad to be working with you, too,” he told him, trying not to arouse his suspicions.

“We understand the Russians are attacking. We have our own interceptors on the way.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the radar, and my colonel is attempting to contact them. We’ll shoot the bastards down, don’t worry.”

“We are obliged. We appreciate the assistance,” said Locusta. “Now, we are conducting operations in the north, in the mountain areas east of Stulpicani. You’ll please keep your aircraft clear of that area.”

Samson decided to employ a trick he’d learned when he was young and ambitious—when in doubt, play dumb.

“This is in relation to the attack on the president’s estate?”

Samson asked.

“That’s right.”

“I have an aircraft in that region. We’ve been trying to get in contact with you,” said Samson. “We can provide a great deal of help. We’ll catch those bastards, too.”

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393

“Your assistance is appreciated but not needed,” answered Locusta. “This is a delicate political matter, General. I’m sure you understand.”

Sure, I understand, thought Samson—you want to take over the country and don’t want any interference from us.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Samson. “We can help.”

“Whether you understand or not, stay away from the area.

I would hate to have one of your planes shot down acciden-tally.”

The arrogant son of a bitch!

“Listen, General—” started Samson, before he realized Locusta had killed the connection.

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0054

WITH GUIDANCE FROM THE BENNETT, THE TWO ROMANIAN

MiGs were able to change course and set up their own intercept over Moldovan territory.

“Let them take the first shot,” Dog told Zen. “But don’t let the Russians get by.”

“Roger that,” said Zen.

He checked everyone’s position on his sitrep, then dialed into the Romanian flight’s communications channel. They were using the call signs S¸oim Unu and S¸oim DoiFalcon One and Falcon Two.

“S¸oim Unu, this is Dreamland Flighthawk leader. You read me?” said Zen. The word S¸oim was pronounced

“shoim.”

“Flighthawk leader, we are on your ear,” said the pilot.

“I’m your ear too,” said Zen, amused. “You know American English?”

“Ten-four to this.”

394

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“You want to take both planes yourselves? Or should we divvy them up?”

“We may first attack. Then, you sloppy seconds.”

“Where’d you learn English?”

“Brother goes to American college.”

His letters back home must be a real blast, thought Zen.

“All right,” he told the Romanians. “I’ll be to the northeast.

If they get past you, I’m on them. You won’t see the UM/Fs on your radar. They’re small and pretty stealthy.”

“What is this UM/F?”

“Flighthawks. They’re unmanned fighters.”

“Oh yes, Flighthawk. We know this one very well.”

Had he been flying with American or NATO pilots, Zen would have suggested a game plan that would have the two groups of interceptors work more closely together. But he wasn’t sure how the Romanians were trained to fly their planes, let alone how well they could do it.

The Russian planes were in an offset trail, one nearly behind the other as they sped a few feet above the water toward land. The Romanians pivoted eastward and set up for a bracket intercept, spreading apart so they could attack the Russians from opposite sides.

At first Zen thought that the Russians’ radar must not be nearly as powerful as American intelligence made them out to be, for the planes stayed on course as the two Romanians approached. Then he realized that the two bogeys had simply decided they would rush past their opponents. Sure enough, they lit their afterburners as soon as the Romanians turned inward to attack.

S¸oim Unu had anticipated this. He bashed his throttle and shot toward the enemy plane.

“Shoot!” yelled Zen.

But the Romanian couldn’t get a lock. The two planes thundered forward, the Romanian slowly closing the distance. And then suddenly he was galloping forward—the Russian had pulled almost straight up, throwing his pursuer in front of him.

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Frustrated, S¸oim Unu’s pilot fired a pair of his heat-seeking missiles just before he passed the enemy plane; one sucked on the diversionary flares the Russian had fired and plunged after it, igniting harmlessly a few feet above the water. The other missed its quarry and the flares, flying off to the west before self-detonating.

The Russian had proven himself the superior pilot, but he was no match for a plane he couldn’t see. As he turned back onto his course, tracers suddenly flew past his cockpit. His first reaction was to push downward, probably figuring he was being pursued by the other Romanian plane and hoping to get some distance between himself and his pursuer. But he was only at 3,000 feet, and quickly found himself running out of altitude. He pulled back, trying to slide away with a jink to his right.

Zen pushed Hawk One in for the kill. As the Mikoyan turned, it presented a broad target for his 20mm cannon. Two long bursts broke the plane in half; the pilot grabbed the eject handles and sailed clear moments before the forward half of the aircraft spun out and corkscrewed into the Black Sea.

“One down,” said Zen. “One to go.”

Dreamland Command

1500 (0100 Romania)

“THIS IS RAY RUBEO.”

“Hey, Dr. Ray, how’s it hanging?”

“Major Smith. What a pleasure.” Rubeo gave Mack one of his famous horse sighs. “To what do I owe the dubious honor?”

“We’re in a little fix down here, and I need your help.”

“I am no longer on the payroll, Major. In fact, I am no longer on any payroll.”

“We have to locate this guy in Romania who has a cell phone, but we can’t seem to get access to the cell tower net-

396

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

work, at least not fast enough to grab him,” said Mack, ignoring Rubeo’s complaint. Geniuses were always whining about something. “And I don’t have any Elint Megafortresses. I do have two radar planes, though, and two B-1s. Plus the Flighthawks and an Osprey. I figure there’s got to be some way to track the transmission down. Like we cross some wires or tune in somehow—”

“Which wires do you propose to cross, Major?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

Rubeo sighed again, though not quite as deeply. “You have Flighthawks in the area?”

“Sure. Four of them.”

Another sigh. This one was absolutely shallow.

A good sign, thought Mack.

“Reprogram one of the Flighthawk’s disconnect directional homers to the cell phone frequency,” said Rubeo.

“Oh sure. Cool. God, of course. How long will it take you?”

“If I were there and with access to the code library, and in a good mood, ten minutes.”

“Five if you were in a bad mood, right?”

“The question is moot, Major. When I was fired, my Dreamland security clearance was revoked. We really shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Rubeo wasn’t really fired. He had resigned by mutual con-sent. Forced out, maybe, but not really fired. Fired was different.

But he had a point about the clearance. Mack thought he could waive it on his authority.

Maybe.

What the hell. He was chief of staff for a reason.

“How long will it take you to get here?” he asked. “Or maybe I can send a helicopter—”

“By plane, it will take me six hours.”

“Six hours?”

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“I’m in Hawaii, Major. I decided to take the vacation I’ve been putting off for five years.”

Rubeo hung up.

Mack wracked his brain, trying to think who he could trust with the job. One of the geeks over at the guidance systems department probably could do it, but which one?

Maybe one of the Flighthawk people.

No, the person he needed was Jennifer Gleason.

Chester, New Jersey

1805 (1505 Dreamland)

JENNIFER GLEASON PUT DOWN THE BOX OF TISSUES AS THE

movie credits rolled across the television set. She’d watched Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times, and for some reason the ending made her cry.

Even though it was the third time she’d seen the movie this week.

The phone started to ring.

Should she answer it? It almost certainly wasn’t for her.

Unless it was her mother.

Or Dog.

More likely her mother, whom she didn’t feel like talking to.

On the other hand, it might be her sister, whose house she was staying in while recuperating. Maybe she wanted to suggest plans for dinner or ask if they needed something.

Her sister didn’t have a cell phone; if Jennifer didn’t answer, she’d miss her.

Jennifer pitched herself forward on the couch, leaning on the arm to push upward. By the time she grabbed her crutch, the phone had rung for a second time. Her knee muscles had stiffened from sitting, and even though the distance from the living room to the kitchen was only ten feet at most, it 398

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

seemed to take forever for her to reach the phone. The phone rang for the fourth time just as she grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“Jennifer Gleason, please,” said an official sounding male voice.

“Speaking.”

“Stand by, Ms. Gleason.”

“Who—”

“Hey, Jen. How’s it hanging?”

“Mack Smith?”

“One and the same, beautiful. Hey listen, we have a serious situation here. Do you have your laptop with you?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Greeeaaat. Dr. Ray says this is super easy to do, with your eyes closed even … ”

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0101

WHILE ZEN AND HAWK ONE WERE TAKING CARE OF THE

first Russian MiG, S¸oim Doi had been hot on the tail of the second. The Russian fighter jock might or might not have been as accomplished as his wing mate, but he was far luckier. Jinking hard and tossing decoy flares as the Romanian closed on his tail, he managed to duck two heat-seekers without deviating too much from his course. S¸oim Doi pressed on, closing for another two-fisted missile shot. But bad luck—or more accurately, the notoriously poor Russian workmanship involved in manufacturing the export versions of the Atoll missiles—saved the Russian pilot: the lead missile of the Romanian self-detonated prematurely, knocking out not only itself but its brother less than a half mile from the target.

S¸oim Doi kept at it, however, following the MiG as it came east and crossed into Romanian air space. Zen, taking over REVOLUTION

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Hawk Two from the computer, pounced on the bandit from above, pushing the Flighthawk’s nose toward the MiG’s tail.

With his first burst of bullets, the MiG jettisoned two of its bombs, then tucked hard right, then left, trying to pull away.

S¸oim Doi, I’m going to close right,” Zen said, pushing the throttle to the limit. “Slide a little farther to his left and be ready if he goes toward you.”

“Yes,” answered the Romanian.

Zen turned the Flighthawk in toward the Russian and lit his cannon. A few bullets nicked the MiG’s tail, but the pilot worked his stick and rudder so deftly that Zen couldn’t nail him. He was just about to turn the plane over to Dog when a heavily accented voice warned him off. S¸oim Unu had rejoined the fight.

The Romanian flight leader had circled around to the west and managed to get in front of the other planes as they jabbed at each other. He turned in, still pushing the pedal to the metal, and made a front quarter attack at high speed, cannon blazing. Most if not all of his bullets missed, but the spooked MiG driver rolled downward and to the south.

The move took him into the path of the other Romanian.

S¸oim Doi pumped a dozen or more 30mm slugs into the enemy MiG before he overtook the plane and had to break off.

Though battered, the Russian managed to come back north, pointing his nose in the direction of the pipeline. But there was no escape now—both Romanians were on his tail.

The Russian fired his air-to-ground missiles—much too far from the pipeline to strike it—then turned hard to the right, trying to pull one of the Romanians by him so he could open fire. The maneuver worked, to an extent– S¸oim Unu started to turn, then realized the trap and broke contact. Before the Russian could take advantage, however, S¸oim Doi closed in for the kill. The canopy exploded and the Russian shot upward; by the time his parachute blossomed, his aircraft had crashed to the ground.

400

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0101

GENERAL LOCUSTA FOLDED THE MAP OVER THE HOOD OF

the car. He was losing time; he wanted to be in Bucharest by first light. This needed to be wrapped up. Now.

“What’s this building?” he asked, pointing to a small square on the map.

Major Ozera shook his head. “Abandoned. It’s small.

One of our teams is near there now. The president is not there.”

“He has to be on the mountain somewhere.”

Locusta looked back at the map. He could send swarms of men onto the hill to find Voda, but he doubted they would kill the president.

He would have Voda brought to him, take him into the ruins, then have him killed.

Along with his family, who must be with him.

And the soldiers who found them? He’d have to kill them too.

Was it worth risking complications?

Not yet.

Ozera and his men would have to do a better job.

The general’s attention was distracted by the sound of a helicopter flying nearby.

“I told you I didn’t want the helicopters involved,” Locusta told the major. “Their pilots can’t be trusted.”

“It’s not ours. The sound is different. Louder. Listen.”

Locusta listened more carefully, then pulled out his satellite phone.

“Get me the Dreamland people. General Samson. Immediately.”

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Aboard Dreamland Osprey,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0105

“WE’RE ABOUT FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM THE TOP OF THE

hill,” the Osprey pilot told Danny Freah. “Where’s your man?”

Danny shook his head. He’d checked with Dreamland Command, but Voda had not called the number the ambassador had given him. And the ambassador said that Voda was worried that if they called him, the phone would be heard.

“We can search with the infrared cameras,” the pilot told Danny. “We should be able to find them. The night’s pretty cold.”

“You sure, with all those trees?” asked Danny.

“There’s no guarantee. But if they move around—if they want us to see them, we should be able to. I’d say the odds are probably sixty-forty we find them, maybe even higher.”

Danny had been on search teams in the Sierra Nevadas at the very start of his Air Force career and he wasn’t quite as optimistic. Besides, if Voda was hiding, the people they saw might actually be his pursuers.

“We’ll give him another five minutes,” he told the pilot.

“Let’s see what happens.”

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0107

TO VODA, IT SOUNDED AS IF THE DOGS AND TROOPS WERE

less than ten feet away.

A wind had whipped up, and it blew through the trees like a torrent of water streaking over a high falls. The cold had turned his wife’s nose beet red; Julian’s hands felt like stones in his. Their fear had stopped providing them with energy.


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