Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

And then they were gone.

REVOLUTION

425

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0142

“THEY’VE JUST HEARD SOME SORT OF NOISE!” SHOUTED

the major. “It’s the far side of the hill. They’re going down.”

About time, thought Locusta. But he only nodded and took out his satellite phone. The Russian had driven a hard bargain.

“This is General Locusta,” he told the air force officer who answered his call. “I need a no-fly zone across my entire army corps area. That includes all planes, military and civilian.”

“The Americans too?”

“Everyone,” he said. “Tell them we are at a delicate stage.

Tell them we want them to return to their bases. I’ve spoken to their general, but he is a pigheaded idiot. Complain to the ambassador. Do whatever you must.”

He killed the transmission without waiting for a response.

The Americans undoubtedly would ignore this latest order, but they would pay heavily for it.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0143

ZEN FELT THE BOY SLIPPING AS SOON AS HE CLEARED THE

first set of trees. He couldn’t grab him because of the wing assembly, and instead tried to push in his stomach toward him. But that started to pitch him forward.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said, though he knew the kid couldn’t hear. Mircea pushed tighter, gripping the boy, but even so, Zen felt Julian’s weight slipping.

The road was on his left, two or three hundred yards away. Zen turned toward it, then realized he wasn’t going to make it.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Where was the cutout from the gravel pit?

To his right?

The kid clawed at him. There wasn’t any time—Zen pushed right. The clearing appeared just a few yards away.

He leaned forward, gliding to it, then backing off on the power. As he did, Julian slid between his mother and Zen, who cut his power abruptly. All three of them fell together, until at the last second, Zen jerked the engines back to life, preventing another hard landing.

“Let’s try again,” he yelled, adjusting the thrust from the engine so his feet were hovering just above the ground.

“Mrs. Voda, loosen the strap at my arms and string your son through it.”

Mircea didn’t move.

“Come on now. I have to go back and pick up your husband. Go!”

She still didn’t move. Zen started to undo the strap that held her to him, then saw Julian stumbling toward him.

“Come on, Julian,” he said. “We have to move so we can help your dad.”

The strap, custom-designed to fit Zen’s body, didn’t have any play in it. The only other thing he could use was the belt that strapped his lower body to the MESSKIT.

Loosening it meant he wouldn’t have as much control over the device, but there was no way the kid was going to be able to hold on.

Zen slid his hand out from the wing assembly and helped Julian climb up between him and his mother, then undid the lower torso strap and threaded it around the boy’s arms, pulling it so tight that it must have hurt, though Julian didn’t react. Then Zen hooked it around his chest strap in a knot.

“Hang on,” he said, and they started upward once more.

REVOLUTION

427

Dreamland Command

1543 (0143 Romania)

MACK PACED IN FRONT OF THE BIG DISPLAY SCREEN. HIS

stomach was rumbling and he had a headache. Every time he scratched the side of his head, more hairs fell out. And he swore he saw hives on the back on his hand.

This behind-the-scenes crap was hell on the nerves. Much better to be on the front line actually doing something instead of pacing back and forth and disintegrating miles from the action.

“Jennifer Gleason for you, Major Smith,” said the communications officer.

“There we go.” Mack punched in the line. “Got it?”

“I do. It wasn’t as easy as Ray thought. First I had to code—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do we do?”

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0145

AS SOON AS HIS WIFE AND SON ROSE INTO THE SKY, VODA remembered that he hadn’t kissed them good-bye. He’d never been an overly sentimental man, but he cursed himself as he started down the slope. He might very well never see them again.

Voda followed the elbow of the creek, walking along the rocks for about twenty yards. He could hear the dogs now, barking loudly. He turned and started down. But his weakened knee betrayed him—he collapsed, falling through a spread of prickle bushes.

At least Julian was safe. He could accept death knowing that.

What a strange life he’d had. Mozart and politics.

428

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The Sonata in A Minor, K. 310, began playing in his head, The pace of the music quickening, matching his pounding heart.

Grabbing onto a small sapling, Voda pulled himself up and began walking. The pain in his leg seemed to have fled—or maybe he’d stopped feeling anything at all. Then his feet gave way. He tumbled down five or six yards, smacking hard against a tree.

He pushed to get up, but found he couldn’t.

This was where it was going to end, he thought. He reached for his pistol.

It was gone. He’d lost it somewhere above.

Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0153

STARSHIP SLID HIS HEADSET BACK, WATCHING THE CLOCK

dial revolve on the Flighthawk control screen. Finally the hand stopped. The screen blinked, and update loaded appeared in the center.

He pushed the headset back into place.

“Ready,” he told Englehardt.

“Let ’er rip,” answered the Johnson’s pilot.

Easy for him to say, Starship thought. If the update screwed up, he was the one who’d lose total control of Hawk Three. And knowing General Samson’s reputation, it was a good bet he would be paying for the aircraft out of his own pocket.

He and all his offspring, for the next seven generations.

“Reboot C3 remote, authorization alpha-beta-six-six-beta-seven-four-zed-zed,” he said, giving his authorization code.

“I am Lieutenant Kirk Andrews.”

The computer thought about it for a second, then beeped its approval.

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“Hawk Three is coming to course,” Starship told Englehardt. He banked the Flighthawk out of the figure-eight patrol orbit it had been flying and took it near the hill. He had to stay above 10,000 feet or he’d be heard; he nudged the aircraft to 10,500.

A yellow helix appeared on the screen. The symbol was usually used by the computer to indicate where a disconnected Flighthawk was; now it showed the location of the cell phone they were tracking.

No. It was three miles from the hill, to the south, near an army watch post. It was the wrong transmission.

Starship took the Flighthawk farther north.

Nothing.

“Hey, you sure this guy is on the air?” Starship asked Englehardt.

“We’ll have to ask Mack.”

“Well, get him on. I’m not picking up anything.”

Dreamland Command

1558 (0158 Romania)

“THE CELL TRANSMISSION DIED,” THE COMMUNICATIONS

specialist told Mack.

“What do you mean, it died?”

“He lost his connection or his battery died. I don’t know.”

“Call him,” said Mack.

“I don’t know, Major. We don’t know how close he is to the people looking for him.”

“Call him the hell back.”

“Incoming transmission from the Johnson. ”

“Screen.” Mack turned around. Lieutenant Mike Englehardt’s face bounced back and forth. Though Mack was sure he’d been told a million times to keep his head still while he spoke, the pilot still jerked around nervously. Good thing he didn’t fly that way.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Major Smith, we’re having trouble here with the cell phone from President Voda.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m on it. Keep your speed pants zipped.”

“Major, we’re getting a broadcast over the Romanian air defense frequencies you want to hear,” said the communications specialist, cutting into his conversation. “Channel Two.”

“Stand by Johnson.” Mack felt the hives on his hands percolating as he flicked into the transmission. “Damn, man.

This is in Romanian.”

“It comes back in English.”

A few seconds later the English version began.

“All planes flying above latitude 46 degree north will immediately cease operations and return to base. This airspace is closed to all military and civilian flights, foreign and do-mestic. All flights will vacate this space immediately.”

“What a load of crap,” said Mack. He looked up at the communications desk. “Get me Samson—no wait. Let me talk to Dog.”

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0200

MACK SMITH’S FACE SNAPPED INTO DOG’S VIDEO SCREEN.

“Did you receive that Romanian air defense broadcast?”

Mack asked.

The sound of the wind in the depressurized cabin was so loud, Dog had to crank the volume to hear.

“We’re listening to it now,” he said.

“What are you going to do, Colonel? Tell them to shove it, right?”

“I’m not going to tell them that,” said Dog. “That’s General Samson’s job.”

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Mack frowned.

“He’s the reason you have your job as chief of staff, Mack.

You got what you wanted.”

“Wasn’t that a mistake.”

“I’ll talk to him,” said Dog. “I’m sure he’s heard it by now anyway.”

Dog tapped his screen. His daughter Breanna’s helmeted face appeared.

“Bree, I have to talk to the general.”

“The no-fly order, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s talking to one of the Romanian air force generals right now. Not that it seems to be doing any good.”

“I can wait.”

Dog checked his position on the sitrep. They were flying an oval-shaped orbit at 8,000 feet east of the president’s vacation house, roughly between it and the border. Hawk One and Two were in a standard patrol position fore and aft of the Bennett, flown entirely by the computer.

Despite the blown hatch, the Megafortress flew a level course, responding to the control inputs flawlessly. As long as they made easy maneuvers and stayed in their pressurized suits, the crew shouldn’t have any problems.

“What a bunch of blockheads,” said Samson, coming on the line as blustery as always. “Locusta must be behind this.”

“Absolutely,” said Dog.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to comply.”

“Agreed. We only need a few more minutes,” said Dog.

“Zen is almost at the Osprey rendezvous.”

“I better tell Washington what’s going on. Someone may get their nose out of joint.”

Dog was about to suggest that Samson might not bother to pass the information along for a few minutes, just in case someone at the White House decided they should comply immediately. But he was interrupted by his airborne radar op-

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

erator, who shouted so loud he would have easily been heard even if Dog didn’t have his headset on.

“Colonel! We have more MiGs! A lot of them this time …

sixteen! And they are coming at us like wolves at a pig roast!”

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0205

ZEN FELT A BIT OF STRAIN IN HIS SHOULDER AS HE ROSE

over the second hill and started downward. The exoskeleton handled the enormous strains imposed by flying, but the weight of Mrs. Voda and her son was mostly borne by his body. They tugged him away from the wing unit; like an ancient Roman enemy of the state, hitched to a pair of chariots and about to be pulled asunder.

The Osprey sat like a vulture ahead to his right, opposite a small barn. Zen leaned slightly in that direction, adjusting his movements to the extra weight he was carrying.

“Almost there,” he yelled. “You’ll be on the ground in just a second.”

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0205

VODA SAT STARING AT THE SKY, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC

in his head. He was lost, done. But at least he had saved his wife and son.

That was a man’s duty.

But was it a president’s? Should he have put them ahead of his country? Should he have gone and left them to die?

History would have to judge.

His body began to buzz. His leg was on fire.

No, it was the cell phone, vibrating.

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He reached for it, took it out.

“Yes?”

“Yo, Mr. President, I was afraid I’d lost the connection for good,” said the American, Mack Smith. “You need to keep the phone on.”

“I had it on. It must have turned off when I fell.”

“Well don’t fall anymore, all right? What’s going on?”

“They’re coming for me. I can hear them nearby. Above me.”

“Well hide. Go. Go!”

Yes, thought Voda. There were some fallen trees not too far away. He pulled himself up, then started for them, dragging his aching leg.

As he reached them, Voda realized they wouldn’t provide much cover. But they did give him an idea. He stripped off his shirt and tucked it between the tree branches, making it just visible. Then he began moving in the other direction.

The dogs barked nearby.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0205

“THEY THINK THEY HEAR HIM,” MAJOR OZERA TOLD LO-custa. “It won’t be long now.”

“I want no more reports until he is dead,” Locusta said.

His satellite phone rang. Locusta answered it. It was his aide, back at headquarters.

“General Karis of the Third Division has ordered his troops back to their barracks.”

“What?” demanded Locusta.

“That’s the only report I have.”

Karis was a key ally. Locusta didn’t understand what he was doing, except that it was not what they had agreed. The troops would be needed to keep order.

He would have to talk to Karis personally.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“The Dreamland people want to talk to you as well. General Samson—”

“I don’t have time for them. Tell them they are to return to Iasi. Things are critical.”

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0206

DANNY FREAH WATCHED ZEN DESCEND. THE LANDING

wasn’t the most elegant he’d ever seen—Zen came down too fast before cutting his power, and the trio collapsed forward like mail sacks thrown from the back of a truck—but it did the trick.

Boston reached them first, pulling Zen upright.

“Man, how’d you tie this?” he asked. He yelled to Sergeant Liu, who was running up with the med kit. “Nurse, where’s the knife?”

“Don’t cut it,” said Zen. “I got one more to go.”

Danny knelt down and unhooked Mrs. Voda, then handed her off to Liu. Julian, the president’s son, looked at him as if looking at a ghost.

“She’s in shock,” said Liu. “But OK.”

“Get them into the Osprey,” said Danny as Boston finally undid the knot. He picked up the boy and gave him to Boston, who cradled him in his arms and began double-timing toward the rotor plane.

“I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” said Zen. “Maybe less.”

“Wait.” Danny grabbed his shoulders. “Give me the MESSKIT. I’ll go.”

“I got it.”

“Zen, they’re closing in on him. Voda’s going to be hiding.

You won’t be able to find him.”

“We’ll just tell him to run to the clearing.”

“They’re all around him.”

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Zen lifted his arms to fly. Danny tried to push them down.

Zen was too strong and shrugged him away.

“Let’s not screw around,” said the pilot angrily.

“If you get killed, the Flighthawk program stops,” Danny told him. “If I’m lost, it’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“Listen, we’ve been through a lot together. I’m the best person for this job. You know it. Don’t let your pride get in the way.”

A long moment passed. Then, finally, Zen reached down and began undoing his straps.

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0208

EVEN FOR A PAIR OF MEGAFORTRESSES AND TWO B-1B/LS, sixteen MiGs was a lot to take on. And General Samson’s force wasn’t in the best position to do so either. The Johnson was out of long-range missiles, and had to stay near the hill to help pinpoint President Voda. The Bennett had a depressurized cabin and no one to fly its Flighthawks.

But Samson liked challenges. And he had one of the best combat air tacticians alive to help him meet this one.

“Forget borders, rules of engagement, all that other bull crap,” he told Dog. “Come up with a plan to kick these bastards in the teeth.”

“Missiles engage the leaders, Flighthawks break up the flight, lasers pick them off one by one,” said Dog without hesitating. “The sooner we engage them, the better. The Johnson stays with the Osprey. We leave Big Bird back as free safety while you and I go out over the Black Sea.”

“We’re on it. Give us a heading,” replied Samson.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0208

VODA CRAWLED ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES UNDER THE

narrow rock ledge. It looked like the best hiding place he could find, though far from perfect.

“Still with me?” asked the American on the cell phone when he held it to his ear.

“I’m here,” said Voda.

“Your signal is real scratchy.”

“I’m beneath a rock ledge.” A beep sounded in his ear.

“What was that noise?”

“Wasn’t on my side.”

Another beep.

“My battery is running low,” said Voda.

“Our guy is ten minutes away,” replied Mack. “Just hang in there.”

“They’re all around me,” whispered Voda. He saw a dark khaki uniform moving through the trees near him. “I can see them. I can’t talk anymore.”

Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0110

“KILL OUR RADARS,” DOG TOLD HIS CREW. “WE’LL USE THE

Johnson’s. No sense giving them a road map.”

It took roughly sixty seconds for the crew to secure the radars. In the meantime, Dog brought the Bennett north, acting as if nothing was going on. As soon as they were no longer splashing their radio waves into the air, he turned to the east and applied full military power, racing toward an intercept.

The MiGs were coming at them at about 1,200 knots. They were just southwest of Odessa, flying around 28,000 feet, a bit under 230 miles away. The MiGs were slowing down—

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they couldn’t fly on afterburner very long if they wanted to make it home—but were still moving at a good clip. As Dog completed his turn and began to accelerate, the Megafortress and the Russians were closing at a rate of roughly 27 miles per minute.

“Time to Scorpion launch is four and a half minutes at this course and speed, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “I can lock them up any time you want.”

While Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses were excellent missiles, substantially improved over the basic AMRAAMs, head-on shots at high speed and long range were not high probability fires. Statistically, Dog knew he had to fire two shots for each hit; even then, he had a less than 93 percent chance of a kill.

But if they were going to overcome the overall odds, they had to take chances.

“One missile per plane,” he told Sullivan. “Wait until we’re just about at the launch point before opening the bomb bay doors.”

“Right.”

“After the radar-guided missiles are off, we change course and set up so we can pivot behind the survivors and fire the Sidewinders.”

“Um, yes, sir. That means getting pretty close.”

“Pretty much. Make sure you have enough momentum to fire if they’re still moving this fast.”

“Um, OK. Where are you going to be?”

“I’m going to go downstairs and see if I can help the Flighthawks take down some of the other planes.”

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0112

DANNY DIDN’T QUITE FIT INTO ZEN’S CUSTOMIZED ARM AND

torso harness; his arms and shoulders were smaller than the 438

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

pilot’s. But this proved to be a blessing—it let him keep his body armor and vest on.

He held his breath as he went over the first hill. There were two roads between him and the president’s hiding place. Troops were posted on both, according to the ground radar plot from the Bennett. An antiaircraft gun had been moved in as well.

Sure enough, he saw the shadow of the four-barreled weapon to his left as he came over the first hill. He kept his head forward, focused on where he was going.

“I’ve lost the transmission,” said Mack, back in Dreamland Control.

“Just send me to his last point.”

“I may be sending you into an ambush.”

“Just direct me, Mack.”

“All right, don’t get your jet pack twisted. Come to 93 degrees east and keep going.”

The sound of the jet was loud in his ears, but it was an unusual sound; if the soldiers on the ground heard it, he was by them so quickly, none of them could react.

Danny had put on Zen’s helmet, rather than trying to get the smart helmet to interface with the MESSKIT’s electronics. But the moon was bright, and he could see the bald spot near the crest of the hill in the distance ahead.

He could also see two figures moving across it—the search party looking for the president.

“Hard right, hard right,” said Mack Smith.

He turned, and slipped closer to the ground.

“There’s a truck coming on the road. Be careful.”

Even though he’d studied the satellite photos and the radar plots from the Megafortress while waiting for Zen, Danny still had trouble orienting himself. He couldn’t find the creek elbow where Zen made the first pickup, nor could he spot the wedge that had been the old gravel mine near the base of the hill. He zeroed back the thrust, slowing to a near hover.

“You’re ten yards from the last spot,” said Mack. “It’s on your left as you’re facing uphill.”

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Something passed nearby. A bee.

No, gunfire. There were troops on the road, and they saw him in the air.

Danny pushed himself forward.

“Too far.”

“I’m landing,” Danny said, spotting a small opening between the trees.

VODA HUNKERED AS CLOSE TO THE GROUND AS HE COULD.

He tried not to breathe. The soldiers were ten yards away.

Should he go out like this, dragged like a dog from a hole?

Better to show himself, die a brave man—at least the stories of his death would have a chance of inspiring someone.

No. They’d make up any story they wanted. He would become a coward to history.

The soldiers stopped. Voda remained motionless, frozen, part of the ground. The soldiers began running—but to his left, away from him.

DANNY CROUCHED NEXT TO THE TREE, GETTING HIS BEARings. There was a group of soldiers somewhere above him; they had dogs and they were making their way down the hill.

But there were also soldiers below him, the ones who had been shooting. How far away they were, he couldn’t tell.

“You have to move forty yards to the north,” said Mack.

“It’s almost a direct line.”

He picked his way through the brush, but stopped after a few yards. He was making too much noise.

“Thirty-two to go,” hissed Mack in his ear. “Let’s move.”

Shut up, Danny thought, though he didn’t say anything. He could see the patrol above, maybe twenty yards away, shadows in and out of the scrub. Six or seven men moved roughly in single file. They walked north to south across the hill.

Danny waited until they had passed, then got up out of his crouch and began moving again, much more slowly this time.

He slid through the underbrush as quietly as he could.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Twenty-five yards,” said Mack.

The dogs were barking excitedly above him. He heard shots. The men who were below him heard them too—they yelled to each other and began running up the hill.

He was going to get caught in a three-way squeeze.

“You sure you’re right?” he whispered to Mack.

“This is his last spot. His cell phone is totally off the air.

Twenty-five yards dead north,” repeated Mack. “That’s my best guess.

Danny began crawling. The dogs had definitely found something.

After he’d gone about ten yards, he spotted a rock outcrop-ping to his left.

That must be where Voda had been, he thought. He got up and started toward it, walking, then trotting, and finally running.

VODA HEARD SOMEONE COMING. THEY WERE ON HIM NOW.

It was the end.

Finally.

He took a deep breath. They might lie about how he had died, but he would know. He would be satisfied with that.

He thought of Mozart, and the folk song.

“Good-bye Julian. Mircea,” he whispered, stepping up and out of his hiding place.

A black figure grabbed him and threw him down.

“Sssssssh,” hissed Danny Freah. “They’re just above us.”

Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0115

THE BENNETT HAD ALREADY STABILIZED ITS CABIN PRESSURE, so as long as Dog stayed clear of the hatchway, there was REVOLUTION

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little chance he’d be swept out of the plane. Still, the passage to the rear of the flight deck was nerve-wracking, especially with the wind howling around him.

He grabbed each handhold carefully, moving as fast as he dared. When he reached the ladder at the back of the deck, Dog took a deep breath, then dropped to the floor and grabbed the top of the ladder. He felt himself slipping, un-balanced by the plane’s sharp maneuvers as it got ready to engage the Russians.

Dog grabbed the ladder rail and climbed down into the compartment. When he reached the deck, he punched the button to close the hatchway, sealing off the lower level and banishing any possibility that he might fly out of the aircraft. He went to Flighthawk Station Two on the left side of the plane, plugged in his oxygen set, and powered up the console.

Dog knew only the general outlines of how the Flighthawk control system worked. There was no way he could pilot the small planes better than the computer, certainly not in combat. But that wasn’t necessary—all he had to do was tell them who to hit.

“Sitrep on main screen,” he told the computer after his control access was authorized.

The sitrep appeared. The Megafortress was at its center; Hawk One and Hawk Two were shown as crosses in blue. Dog struggled for a moment, trying to remember how to change the scale so he could see the targets as well. Finally he tried the voice command that worked on his console upstairs.

The screen flashed. When it reappeared, the entire battle area was presented. The MiGs were red daggers at the edge of the screen.

“Hawk One, designate target Bandit Five, ” said Dog.

A message flashed on the screen:

TARGET OUT OF RANGE

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“Hawk One, suggest target,” said Dog.

The computer thought about it, then flashed a yellow line on the screen. It wanted to strike Bandit Eight, even though it was even farther away than Bandit Five.

“Colonel, we’re almost ready to fire,” said Sullivan over the interphone.

“Take your shots as soon as you’re ready.”

“Roger that. Opening bay doors.”

Dog tried to block out the sound and the Megafortress’s maneuvers. Should he accept the computer’s judgment? It didn’t quite make sense to him, but Zen often talked about how subtly different the tactics for the Flighthawks were when compared to conventional aircraft.

It came down to this: Did he trust the technology, or did he trust his own judgment?

When he first arrived at Dreamland, it would have been the latter. Now, he knew, he had to go with the computer.

“Hawk One targeting approved,” he said.

A new message flashed on the screen:

OK TO LEAVE CONTROLLED RANGE?

“Affirmative,” replied Dog.

The message remained. The computer had not accepted his command.

“Hawk One, authorized to leave controlled range for intercept,” said Dog.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Hawk One pivoted north.

North? What the hell was the computer thinking?

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Near Stulpicani, Romania

0116

VODA’S EYES WERE WIDE, CLEARLY NOT BELIEVING WHAT HE

was seeing.

“You’re not the same man. You’re not Zen.”

“No, I’m Danny Freah. Your wife and son are safe. Now you and I have to get out.”

“Is there an army of flying men?”

Danny smiled and shook his head. “Come on.”

There were too many trees above them to try crashing straight upward and out. They’d have to move to a clearer spot. But going back to where he’d come down seemed too dangerous.

“Mack, I have him,” said Danny.

“Get the hell out of there.”

Mack Smith, master of the obvious.

“All right, Mr. President, what we’re going to do is move down the slope until we come to an opening where we can fly from. Then I’m going to strap you to me and we’re out of here. Right?”

“Call me Alin.”

“OK, Alin. Let’s do it.”

With the first step, Danny realized Voda had hurt his leg.

He put his arm under Voda’s shoulder and helped him forward. They had only gone a few yards when he heard the shouts of the men above.

“Stay in front of me,” said Danny.

He raised his gun. A burst of automatic gunfire blazed through the brush.

“Johnson, we need a diversion,” said Danny. He grabbed Voda and pulled him next to him, starting down the slope. “I have a bulletproof vest, Alin. Stay between me and the bullets.

I know your leg hurts—just do the best you can. Come on.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0121

“DO WHATEVER YOU HAVE TO,” SAMSON TOLD ENGLEHARDT.

“Shoot them up. Just get him to Bucharest.”

“Roger that,” replied Englehardt. “Johnson out.”

Samson turned to Breanna. They were still five minutes away from the MiG flight.

“You ready over there, Stockard?”

“Ready, Earthmover.”

“What’s your nom de guerre?” he asked.

“Sir?”

“Your handle? Nickname?”

“Um. People sometimes call me Rap.”

“Don’t like it,” said Samson, checking his course.

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0122

THE MISSILES APPEARED ON DOG’S SITREP, FLASHING

toward the MiGs. The Russians had not yet seen the Megafortress, nor its missiles. Apparently unaware that they’d been targeted, they continued blithely on course.

Dog turned his attention back to the Flighthawks.

“Hawk Two, suggest target.”

The computer suggested Bandit Nine, far back in the pack.

“Hawk Two, target approved.”

As soon as Dog acknowledged that the location of the target was beyond control range, the Flighthawk peeled off to the west. This route, at least, was direct and obvious.

“MiGs taking evasive action,” said Sullivan over the interphone.

They were, but it was too late. Dog saw Scorpion One and REVOLUTION

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the lead MiG intersect on the screen. A red starburst appeared, indicating that the missile had hit its mark.

Missiles three and four struck their targets in rapid succession.

Two missed, self-destructing harmlessly a half mile away.

As he watched the screen, Dog realized why Hawk One had gone north. Russian air doctrine not only organized the MiGs into four distinct groups, but dictated their routes of escape when attacked. Hawk One was perfectly positioned to take out its MiG as the aircraft cut to the north.

But it would have to do it on its own. The words hawk one: connection lost flashed on the screen, followed a few seconds later by a similar message for Hawk Two.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

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VODA STARTED DOWN THE HILL. THERE WAS NO MUSIC PLAYing in his head now, just the rapid drum of his heart and the too-loud rustle of the brush as he pushed his legs across the ground. Danny Freah twisted and turned through the thick branches, pushing this way and that, prodding him through the gray tangle of leafless brush and trees.

Suddenly, Danny stopped short, grabbing him. Voda slipped and fell to the ground.

“Stay down,” whispered the American, crouching next to him.

A dozen soldiers were coming up the hill.

“That’s where we’re going,” Danny whispered, pointing to the right.