Dale Brown's Dreamland--Strike Zone

by Dreamland--Strike Zone(Lit)

  Come on, Zen, he thought. Come on.

  ZEN LET OFFthe trigger, seeing the bullets trail far short of his target.

  Beijing lay about a hundred miles away. The Taiwan UAV was going to make it.

  The computer buzzed with a fuel warning and put a script up on the screen: He had ten minutes of flying time left at present speed.

  Figures, he thought.

  The targeting screen went yellow. The Megafortress shuddered, then started to yaw hard to his left.

  Connection loss in three seconds

  We’re toast, he thought.

  And then, either because its own programming called for it to pop up so it could detonate its bomb, or because of the program Jennifer had prepared, the UAV pulled its nose up. The maneuver made it lose speed. Zen’s targeting pipper went red.

  He fired.

  He missed.

  The ghost clone climbed off to his right.

  “SUKHOI ON OURback, five miles, four,” said Delaney.

  “Stinger,” said Dog.

  “We’re out of airmines.”

  “Flares.”

  “No more expendables.”

  “Can you launch an AMRAAM?” asked Dog, wrestling with the controls.

  Delaney didn’t waste his tortured throat. The question wasn’t really serious—the AMRAAM-plus would have to go backward to do any good.

  This was going to be it, thought Dog.

  “Zen—we need you to take the target out now,” he said calmly. “Crew, prepare to eject. Begin the self-destruct sequences on the gear.”

  THE PREGNANTWdanced upward and to the right. It must be answering Jennifer’s control sequence somehow, thought Zen, trying to follow.

  As he tucked his wing to the right, he got a yellow firing cue. And then a ball of red fire opened above him—shrapnel from a Chinese missile.

  His screen blanked.Hawk Three was gone.

  Zen pushed back in his seat, finally defeated.

  Son of a bitch, he thought.

  They were going out. That was going to be fun—he’d be dead meat wherever he landed.

  No way. He’d go down with the plane.

  Zen reached to pull his helmet off but then stopped.Hawk Four had returned, flying off its left wing in Trail One, a preset position.

  “Four,” he told the computer.

  The main screen came on, along with a warning—he had five more minutes of fuel.

  At this point, that was like having a full tank.

  Zen accelerated over the stricken Megafortress. The Taiwan UAV was five miles ahead, still climbing.

  The pipper began to blink.

  Red.

  He pressed the trigger. The 20mm shells spit out in an arc, falling to the left of the target. He nudged his stick, moving the stream slowly slowly slowly.

  He eased off the trigger, pushed the stick hard to the right, feltRaven lurch in the air, fired again.

  The Taiwanese UAV erupted in a fireball.

  “HE GOT IT!He got it!” shouted Delaney.

  Dog, following his own self-destruct checklist, had wiped out the coding in the computer that helped him flyRaven and was too busy wrestling with the plane to answer.

  He could fly with two engines, even if they were on the same side. What he couldn’t continue to do, however, was duck enemy planes. And that Sukhoi behind was closing in for the kill.

  “Dream Command, this is Dog—we have the clone down,” he said. “Repeat, we have the clone down.”

  The answer came back broken up.

  “We’re hit pretty bad,” added Dog. “We’re into our destruct checklist on sensitive gear. Be advised we’ve told the Chinese that we were targeting a cruise missile bound for their capital.”

  Dog took a breath. He had gone against his orders to keep the mission secret, but in his judgment, the broadcast had made sense. Certainly the Chinese would find out about the attack at some point, and informing them now had been a valid attempt to save his people.

  And screw anybody who second-guessed him.

  “Dream?” he said, not hearing an answer.

  “Washington is trying to contact the Chinese themselves and tell them what’s going on,” said Catsman through the static. Dog tried to ask for more details but got no response.

  “Wes, have we wiped out all our radio antennas?” Dog asked over the interphone.

  “Next thing on my list. I wait for your order unless, uh, unless it looks like you’re not going to be giving it,” said the lieutenant. Dog heard him mumbling to himself and punching his panel. “Colonel—the Chinese controllers are ordering their planes to stand down.”

  “They don’t seem to be following orders,” said Delaney as tracers flashed over their wing.

  DOWNSTAIRS ON THEFlighthawk deck, Zen loosened his restraints.Hawk Four was low on fuel and now out of bullets, but it could still be of some use. He had the computer plot an intercept to the Su-27 behind them, and held on as it closed. The computer gave him two proximity warnings, then closed its eyes as the Flighthawk slammed into the front quarter of the Chinese plane.

  But that was it. The fight was over. Four more planes were galloping in from the west, and two were closing ahead.

  Zen initiated the self-destruct procedures. The first stage started a series of programs that wiped the drives and other memory devices. Then small charges began blowing up the Megafortress’s side of C3. The explosives were carefully calibrated to take out the circuitry but not damage the shell of the aircraft.

  He took off his control helmet. The helmet was supposed to be physically destroyed with a small hatchet kept near the rear of the compartment. He had to lift himself from the ejection seat and get into his wheelchair to do that. He undid his restraints and pulled over the chair, wedging it into the space. As he pushed down to get in, the aircraft dropped twenty or more feet in an instant and he lost his balance, flopping back in the ejection seat rather than his chair.

  So this was what it felt like to go down.

  Zen remembered Stoner trying to tell him about the enemy he faced.

  “They don’t trust us,” said Stoner.

  Actually, he’d said that about Zen, hadn’t he?

  Zen scooped up his helmet and pulled it back on. “Dog—jettison our weapons and put the gear down.”

  “They’ll shoot us for sure.”

  “No. They’ll either accept our surrender, or they’ll back off, thinking it’s a trap,” said Zen. “They will—they’ll think it’s a trap. They thought we lured their other planes close to us by making ourselves seem vulnerable and shot them down with a secret weapon. If we look defenseless, they’ll hesitate. They’re paranoid about us—they probably think we’re broadcasting the orders from their controllers. It’ll work. It’s our only shot, one way or the other.”

  “THESU-27 PILOTSstill aren’t responding,” said Wes. “Their controllers are just about screaming at them.”

  Dog thought about what Zen had said.

  If they put down their gear, dropped their weapons—would the Chinese figure they were surrendering and let them alone?

  Maybe.

  More likely, they’d think it was a trick.

  But at this point, it didn’t make much difference. One of the Chinese planes rode in over their wing, slowing down and hanging so close he could have hopped from his wing toRaven ’s.

  “Open the bay,” Dog told Delaney. “Eject the missiles. I’ll get the gear down.”

  Delaney was too hoarse to argue. Dog lowered the gear, the plane objecting strongly. His airspeed dropped and he got a stall warning.

  A fresh flood of tracers shot across their bow. The interceptors closed into tight formation all around them, adjusting their own speed as if they were flying an air show demonstration. Though they might have been temporarily confused, it was just a matter of time—seconds, really—before one of their bursts nailed them.

  Dog reached over and hit their lights—everything, even the cockpit lights.

  “Two on our t
ail, one on each wing,” said Delaney, his voice a croak.

  “Wave at ’em,” Colonel Bastian said. “Show them we know they’re there. Wave.”

  Dog turned to the cockpit window on his left and gave the high sign.

  “Wave, Wes,” said Dog. “Like we have the whole thing under control.”

  He waved again, then turned his attention back to the front of the plane. The tracers had stopped.

  Was Zen right? Did the Chinese pilots think they were up to something? Had they heard the transmissions from the ground and finally decided to comply? Were they simply confused?

  Or were they cats, taking a last moment to enjoy the fear of their prey before finishing him off?

  “Wave, Wes. Smile at the bastards,” said Dog.

  “Uh.”

  “Wes?”

  “The flight on our nose is asking for instructions,” said the specialist. “Sir, uh, we’re being asked our intentions.”

  “Honorable,” said Dog. “Put me on their frequency.”

  Epilogue:

  Heroes, after a Fashion

  * * *

  Beijing

  15 September 1997

  1200

  IN THE BESTof all worlds, Dog would have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

  In the worst of all worlds, he would also have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

  But Beijing was where he was. And as an honored guest, to all forms and appearances.

  A car stopped a few feet away from the building where he was standing with the Chinese officers who had metRaven . The American ambassador stepped from the plane, accompanied by a Chinese official. The ambassador stepped smartly to Dog, saluting first—Dog was a little taken aback, but gave the proper response—and then shaking his hand.

  “A hell of a job,” said the ambassador. “Washington’s told me everything.”

  “Okay,” said Dog, truly surprised as the ambassador grabbed him in a bear hug.

  “Did the self-destruct go all right?” whispered the ambassador.

  “Yes. Completely,” said Dog. “The computers are completely fried.”

  “Excellent.” He turned and smiled at the Chinese officials. “Washington will throw a ticker-tape parade for you.”

  The ambassador introduced the man who had come with him as the Chinese foreign minister. Dog tried to bow, though his back was a bit stiff from the flight and fatigue.

  “You have saved Beijing,” said the minister. “You are a hero.”

  Dog smiled weakly. A few weeks ago he’d thought he’d be ordered to bomb Beijing, not save it. But such were the twisted fates of war.

  “They’re having a ceremony to open the discussions between Taiwan and the Mainland,” said the ambassador. “The Taiwanese president will thank you, and the Mainland premier may actually thank you too.”

  “I’d rather sleep,” said Dog honestly.

  The ambassador looked as if he were going to have a heart attack.

  “But I’ll do my duty,” added the colonel.

  “Good,” said the ambassador, starting away.

  Taiwan

  1200

  STARSHIP ROLLED OUTof bed, even though he’d had less than four hours’ sleep. He’d come to a decision about the Brunei offer.

  No way would he take it. Major Smith would be disappointed, but that was too bad. He’d worked too long and too hard to get to Dreamland.

  Granted, the assignment wasn’t everything he thought it would be. But then, he wasn’t everything he thought he was either.

  He glanced at his watch. Noon. He could grab a beer, something to eat.

  He’d be all right if he didn’t drink too much.

  It wouldn’t matter today how much he drank. Major Alou said today was anoff day. Off meant off. He’d give that to Alou—when he said off, he meant it. Not like Zen.

  Zen and the others onRaven were being called heroes. Good, he thought; they deserved it. They were heroes.

  He wasn’t. But he had done his job, and because of that, an Osprey’s worth of Marines and Air Force crewmen were alive.

  He pulled on his pants. Maybe he’d see if Kick was awake.

  Brunei

  1235

  MACKSMITH FLIPPEDoff the television, killing the news broadcast just as it began showing the crowds in downtown Beijing cheering the arrival of the two Chinese leaders.

  Or were they cheering for Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, who had saved them from incineration a few hours ago?

  Mack preferred to think it was the former—not that he didn’t like Dog; on the contrary, he liked the colonel quite a bit. He had to—the colonel’s blessing was needed for him to work out the arrangement as Brunei’s new chief of the Air Force Command.

  Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command. His own title. At the moment, he was still technically a member of the U.S. Air Force on duty as Whiplash’s political officer. But that was just a technicality—he already had his office, two floors of plush offices in the capital, complete with a lounge and an office for the chief that looked like a lounge.

  No staff yet, but he’d take care of that this afternoon. Talk to Starship again, and maybe some of his old cronies. Paradise here, my friends—the babes are unbelievable, and boy do they put out.

  Next order of business—purchasing twelve F-15s from America, along with six Megafortresses.

  Mack didn’t particularly want the Megafortresses himself, but the sultan insisted. And hey, it was his dough.

  Getting the aircraft from America was probably going to take some heavy-duty diplomacy. Megafortresses had never been sold overseas. Even F-15s weren’t sold to just anyone. In fact, only Japan, Israel, and Saudi Arabia currently had them.

  Mack could fix that with a little charm in the right places. He was a born diplomat.

  Secretary of state someday. Though personally he’d prefer defense.

  Once they got the planes, they’d pull a few mods from the Dreamland playbook. Which meant he needed some brainpower as well.

  And some mechanical monkeys. Not that he’d call them monkeys to their faces.

  Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command Mack Smith. A boss in paradise—what more could he ask for?

  Beijing

  1240

  THE HOTEL WHEREthe Chinese had put up the Dreamland crew was not exactly handicapped-friendly, and Zen found himself having to ask two of the staff to help him down the two steps from the hallway to the lobby. As indignities went, it was hardly the worst he’d ever suffered, but after struggling with the sink upstairs in his room and pushing his way through the narrow maze they called a hallway, he was hardly in the best of all moods. And the fact that he couldn’t call the States from his room didn’t exactly calm his mood.

  Nonetheless, he managed to ask for a phone politely, explaining that he wanted to call home. It took three tries—the hotel personnel all spoke English, but his accent apparently was difficult for them to decipher. Finally he managed to mime what he wanted, and was led behind the desk to the manager’s own office. The door was just wide enough—just—but Zen was used to that, and the man seemed genuinely hospitable, anxious to do right by his American visitor. He punched the buttons on the phone to allow the international call, then waited to make sure Zen had no problem connecting.

  Zen used the “open” number for Dreamland, which actually connected through Nellis Air Force Base. It was highly likely, of course, that the conversation was being recorded, and so he had to be careful exactly what he said. Still, he wanted to talk to Bree.

  “This is Major Stockard,” he told the operator on duty who answered. “I’m looking for Captain Stockard.”

  “Yes, sir!” snapped the operator.

  The line clicked, and a few seconds later, a male voice answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’s this?” asked Zen.

  “Deke James. Who’s this?”

  “Zen Stockard.”

  “Why’d you wake me up for?” said James.

&n
bsp; “I’m looking for my wife,” said Zen.

  “She ain’t here.”

  Zen felt his jealousy spiking up—what the hell was James doing in their apartment?

  “I want to talk to Bree,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  The line went dead. Zen held the phone out, confused and angry. Deke was one of the engineer dweebs on the Unmanned Bomber Project.

  What the hell was he doing in their apartment?

  He was just about to put the phone down and try again when someone suddenly picked up on the other end of the line.

  “Major!”

  “Ax?”

  “What, you’re away a few days and you forget who runs this place?” said Chief Master Sergeant Gibbs.

  “How’d I get you?”

  “Just lucky I guess. Deke James transferred you. Why’d you call him? What’d you do, wake him up?”

  “I got the wrong number. What time is it there?”

  “About 2100. He goes to bed early. Want to talk to your wife?”

  “It’d be nice,” said Zen.

  “Hold the phone. And listen, Zen—you kicked butt big time. We’re prouder than hell of you.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Zen waited while the line once more went cold. Another voice picked up—male.

  “Hey hero,” said Greasy Hands Parsons.

  “Grease—what the hell are you doing?”

  “Partying with your wife,” said Parsons. If Ax ran the administrative side of Dreamland—and he did—Greasy Hands essentially owned the planes. The chief master sergeant and Zen had known each other pretty much forever.

  “She’s okay to party?” said Zen.

  “Better than ever,” said the chief.

  “Give me that phone,” said Breanna in the background.

  “Bree—”

  “Jeff—”

  Her voice was like a spell. He felt his body suddenly relax.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “AmI okay?” she said. “I’m fine. How the hell are you?”

  “Just tired. I want to see you.”

  She laughed. He could hear her talk to the room. “Hey, I got Zen on the phone—”

  There was a general shout. Zen made out some congratulations from the assorted tumult.