Dreamland: Revolution Part 65

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."

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 pa.s.sed. 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 c.r.a.p," he told Dog. "Come up with a plan to kick these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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.

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 splas.h.i.+ng 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-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 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."

Something pa.s.sed nearby. A bee.

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