by Dale Brown
If Samson actually got the money he'd been promised, there would be more, but Dog knew that would inevitably mean more missions to fulfill — and the resources would once more be stretched.
"One of those MiGs just changed direction, Colonel," said Rager. "Contact one on your screen. Coming toward us."
Dog saw it on the radar display. The MiG's wingman was turning as well.
"They're lighting afterburners."
"Probably blowing the carbon out of their arses," said Sullivan. "The Russians are particularly constipated this time of year."
The planes were roughly 250 miles away, traveling at about 500 knots or nautical miles per hour. Lighting their afterburners — essentially dumping a lot of fuel into the rear of the engines to make the planes go fast — would quickly increase their speed up over the sound barrier. Still, they were a good distance away; it would take at least ten minutes and probably a little more before they were close enough to pose a threat to the Megafortress.
Assuming they were interested in doing that.
"Flighthawk leader, our friends are at it again," Dog told Zen.
"Yeah, Colonel, I'm looking at the radar. What are they doing?"
"Probably testing to see how we'll respond," said Dog. "Plot an intercept for Hawk One near the border just in case." "Done, Colonel."
Dog checked the radar image. The radar in the Russian fighters — or whatever was guiding them — wouldn't be able to see the Flighthawk at this range.
Three minutes later the MiGs were still running hot in their direction. Their speed was up over 1,100 knots. They'd switched their afterburners off — if they left them on too long they'd quickly be out of fuel — but kept their course steady.
"Contacts one and two looking at the border in a little over five minutes," said Rager.
"Let's show them we know they're on their way," said Dog. "Sully, open the bomb bay doors."
"On it, Colonel."
The plane shook with the vibration of the bomb bay doors swinging open. The Megafortress had six AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles loaded for air defense, along with two smart bombs. Dog wasn't aligned perfectly to fire them — his track was roughly perpendicular to the MiGs — but he could easily bring them to bear if the situation warranted.
By now Romania's ground radars along the seacoast had spotted the MiGs, and the antiaircraft missile batteries along the eastern border of the country were being alerted. The defenses dated from the mid-sixties, however, and would be of little concern to the MiGs if they crossed.
"Two minutes to the border, Colonel," said Rager. "They're— Shit! Weapons radars activated."
"Relax," said Dog. "ECMs, Sully."
The copilot activated the Megafortress's electronic counter measures, jamming the frequencies used by the MiG's radar missiles to home in on their target.
"Colonel, I can set up a better intercept over the border," said Zen.
Dog's orders specifically forbade him to send any of his aircraft over the line, and in fact directed him to "actively avoid contact" — which could be interpreted to mean that he should run away if the MiGs got any more aggressive.
He understood why, of course — the U.S. wanted to avoid giving the Russians even the slightest pretense for coming to the aid of the rebels. But he still bristled.
"Stay on our side of the line," said Dog.
"Roger that."
"Colonel, I have a fire indication! Missile in the air!
AMRAAMski! Two of them."
"What the hell?" shouted Sullivan.
Dog dipped his wing, turning so he could "beam" the enemy radar and make it harder for the missiles to track him. The planes were a little more than thirty miles from the border, and the Megafortress was another forty from that. They were just at the missile's effective range, maybe even a little beyond it.
"Missile one is coming for us," said Rager.
"Colonel, you want to take them?" said Zen.
"Negative," said Dog tersely. "Button us up, Sullivan."
"Yes, sir."
The closed doors made it easier for the Megafortress to maneuver.
"Zen, put Hawk Two between us. Look for the missile." "Roger that, Colonel."
Dog turned the Megafortress again, pushing hard to get away. What the hell were the Russians doing? Trying to start
World War III?
"Missile one — off scope," said Sullivan. "Missile two— gone."
"They self-destructed, Colonel," added Rager. "MiGs have turned." He gave a bearing and range — they were under fifty miles away.
"Stand down," said Dog. "Excitement is over, gentlemen. Let's get back to work."
"What was it all about, Colonel?" asked Sullivan after they had returned to their patrol route.
"They're trying to rattle us. It's an old Cold War game. First one to blink loses."
"Did we blink or did they?"
Dog frowned.
"Let's get back to work," was all he said.
Dreamland
1204
Once a pilot learned the basics of flying, he or she could in theory fly anything. It was a little like learning how to ride a bicycle or drive a car — once the basic physical and intellectual skills were mastered, going from one cockpit to another wasn't all that difficult.
Of course, when you were a pilot who operated at the very top of the profession, who flew planes at the cutting edge in extreme situations, you did more things with your aircraft than the weekend flier puttering from small town to small town in his Piper. And when you were among the most elite members of the subspecies, your expectations of yourself as well as the plane were extremely high. They didn't change just because you were in an unfamiliar cockpit. Yes, you could strap just about any plane onto your back and take a nice, nonchalant orientation flight, not push the bird or your self very hard without a very steep learning curve. But that wasn't the way a top test pilot operated.
No, an elite pilot pushed a new plane and herself to the max. Which was where the frustration came in.
Breanna tried hard not to curse as Boomer gave her a stall warning coming out of the turn. Supplying more throttle, she powered through the maneuver, holding her position tightly to the ghosted course suggestion on her heads-up display.
"Good. I'm ranging. Locked. Ready to fire," said Sleek Top.
Sleek Top was sitting in the pilot's seat. Under normal circumstances, the copilot handled the targeting duties, but both consoles were fully equipped and either pilot could comfortably fly or control the weapons.
"Climbing," said Breanna, sighing as she turned toward her next mark.
"You're doing good, Bree."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't think you are?" "I guess."
Sleek remained silent as they worked through the rest of the exercise. Breanna didn't have a lot of time in either "stock" B-1Bs or the B-1B/L, but the plane was easy to adjust to compared to getting used to sitting in the second officer's seat. The world looked very different from the right-hand seat.
But if that's what it took to get back in the air, that's what she would do.
They finished off with a mock refuel. Breanna could have had the computer fly the plane through the rendezvous— and on a combat mission, that might have been the preferred option — but it felt like cheating. She held steady, eased up to the boom, and hooked in almost as easily as if she were flying an EB-52.
"You are a hell of a pilot, Breanna," said Sleek Top as they turned back toward the runway to land. "Hell of a pilot."
"For a woman?"
"Nah," he said quickly. "For anyone. You picked up the fine points really fast."
"I'm still working on it. I know I have a way to go." "Listen. About last night—" "It was a great basketball game." "I meant—"
"It was a great basketball game," she repeated. "Maybe Zen and I can join you at another. He's an even bigger fan than I am."
"I'd like that," said Sleek Top. "Very much."
Dreamland Command Center, Dreamland
1229
"They fired on you?" said Samson.He could feel his anger rising as he paced in front of the large screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.
"They launched missiles in our direction. I took evasive action. They blew up the missiles maybe twenty seconds after launch, over the Black Sea. I assume their plan all along was to spook us."
"These Russian bastards," said Samson. "We ought to shoot them out of the sky."
The general glanced at the screen. The video caught Dog's head jerking right as he glanced in the direction of his copilot. Samson felt a twinge of jealousy — he wanted to be in the air himself.
Let those Russian bastards try to spook him. Just let them try.
"I'm sorry, General," said Dog, turning his face back toward the camera in front of his station. "I missed what you said."
"Nothing. You have something else?" "Negative. Very quiet on the ground so far."
"And you did nothing to provoke the Russians?"
"All we did was take our station. At no time did any of our ships go over the border."
"You better be giving me the whole story here, Bastian. If I get my head handed to me on this, yours isn't going to be worth a nickel."
Dog didn't say anything.
"I'll get back to you," said Samson.
"General, if there's a mission in Moldova, I'd like permission—"
"What part of what I just said don't you understand?" "It's all crystal clear," said Dog. The screen blanked.
That was the problem with Bastian, thought Samson. Even when he was in the right, you had to be suspicious of him. He was a cowboy, always looking for a chance to blow something up.
Still, when he was right, he was right. "Get me the White House," the general told the communications specialist. "Tell them it's important."
White House
1550
Just in time for his country's evening news programs, the German chancellor had responded to the latest round of Russian price increases by threatening to cut off gas shipments through its pipelines to France unless the French paid Germany a special transshipping fee. The French had responded angrily, and now all of Europe seemed at each other's throats. The Italians, who had seen unemployment rise to nearly twenty percent of the workforce in the past two months, were even talking about leaving NATO and the European Common Market.
The National Security Council had called an emergency meeting to discuss the latest developments. Freeman had Jed come along to make it easier for him to keep up-to-date. The meeting was winding down when Sandra Collins, one of the NSC duty officers, appeared at the door and waved her hands frantically to get his attention. Jed waited for the Undersecretary of State to finish what he was saying — though he used a lot of words, his opinion basically was that the Italian threat was an empty bluff — then excused himself and went to the door.
"General Samson at Dreamland," whispered Collins. "He says it's urgent."
Jed went across the hall to the secure communications center, nodding at the duty officer as he went to one of the stations. He sat down at the desk, typed in his password, then put his eyes into the retina scanner. A few seconds later, General Samson's face appeared in his screen.
"General, what can I do for you?" asked Jed.
Samson frowned. Jed knew from their past communications that Samson expected to be talking to Philip Freeman every time he called. But the National Security Advisor had given specific orders that all Dreamland communications, including those that came through Admiral Balboa at the Pentagon, were to go through Jed, and while Samson surely had been told, he hadn't really gotten the message.
And probably never would.
"Jed, the Russians fired on one of our aircraft," said Samson. "The Russians?"
"Those MiGs that were shadowing Bastian. And he did nothing to provoke it. Now I want permission to shoot those bastards down, and I want it now."
"Um, General—"
"My people have to be able to defend themselves. Even Bastian. The orders have to be changed to allow them to do that."
"The President was pretty specific about them staying out of any sort of situation—"
"Then you get him on the phone so I can talk to him," said Samson.
"I'll do what I can, General. But, listen, the situation over there is pretty volatile. It may seem like it's just a dispute over gas prices, but—"
"Don't tell me how volatile it is. My people are on the front line here. I need to protect them."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
* * *
The NSC meeting had already broken up and Jed's boss was gone. By the time he caught up with him, Freeman was at lunch up at the Capitol, dining in the Members Dining Room as the guest of Larry Segriff, who, besides representing Wisconsin as its senior representative, was head of the Foreign Relations Committee.
Freeman saw Jed walking toward him. "Am I late already?" he said, glancing at his watch. "I just got here."
"Actually, um, Sally made a mistake on the schedule." Jed smiled at Segriff, trying to seem genuine as he offered an excuse. "You were supposed to be in a meeting with the President on the gas situation in Europe. She thought lunch was tomorrow."
"I'm not going to keep you, Phil." Segriff started to wave him away. "Go ahead. We'll have lunch a different time."
"Thanks, Congressman. I'm really sorry. It's good to exchange ideas."
"Yes. I'll have my secretary set something up."
Jed followed Freeman out of the room. At least a dozen pairs of eyes followed them as they left.
"Good, Jed. I think he half believed you," said Freeman.
"I thought—"
"You did fine. What's up?"
"One of the Dreamland aircraft was fired on by the Russians," Jed told him.
"What?"
"It looks like it was meant to intimidate them. In any event, General Samson wants permission to fight back."
Freeman set his lips together in a deep frown as they got into the limo for the short ride back to the Executive Office Building.
Within an hour Jed was sitting next to his boss in the Cabinet Room next to the Oval Office, briefing President Martin-dale on what had happened.
Martindale ordinarily took even the worst news calmly, and it was generally hard to read his emotions.
Not today. He pounded the table, then ran his hand back through his white hair so violently that it flew into a wild tangle.
"What the hell are the goddamned Russians up to?" he thundered. "They want a war? They want a goddamned war?"
The reaction caught both Jed and his boss off guard. They exchanged a glance.
"I don't know that they want a war, exactly," said Freeman. "I think they're pushing, to see how far they can go. How far we'll go."
Martindale's face flushed. He looked at them for a moment, and as Jed stared at his profile he realized how tired the President appeared, and how old he had become. The last few weeks had been a great triumph — but also an enormous strain. Whatever held his temperament together had been stretched to the breaking point.
"Yes, of course that's what they're doing. Pushing us. Pushing me."
Martindale began to relax, becoming more his old self.
"We do have a couple of options, Mr. President," said Freeman. "We could send the Dreamland people to support the operation in Moldova."
"No. That's what they want. That's what this is about — to try to provoke us." The President rose. "This isn't just about the price of the natural gas. Oh yes, that's part of it. Definitely part of it. But there's more. They want to break up NATO. Look at the quarreling that's going on. And what do you think will happen to our bid to expand NATO if we're seen taking sides like this?"
"We are taking sides," said Freeman. "We have to take sides."
"Yes, but with restraint. They want to make us look as aggressive as possible. They know we're riding high right now." Martindale shook his head. "Moldova is still off limits."
"OK," sai
d Freeman.
"Um… "
Martindale turned to Jed. "What's that 'um' about, young man?"
"Sir, um, the Romanians have been asking for more support. They say two planes, even Megafortresses, aren't enough."
"What does Samson say?"
"Uh, I guess I don't know exactly."
"Find out what his plans are."
"Can the planes defend themselves?" insisted Freeman. "They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs," said Martindale. "No offensive action. Period."
"But—"
"Colonel Bastian will know how to interpret that order. Make sure it's relayed to him."
Dreamland
1300
Once more,Samson found himself bristling as he talked to Jed Barclay, angry that the President wouldn't speak to him directly.
"Um, just that the President wants to know if you have an adequate force in Romania," explained Jed.
"Tell him we have more planes getting ready to fly as we speak," Samson said. "They'll be taking off this evening."
"Very good."
"Can we hit the Russians?" asked Samson.
"Actually, the President does not want American aircraft in Moldovan airspace. He thinks the Russians are trying to provoke us."
Samson folded his arms.
"His orders were, this is a direct quote: 'They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs. No offensive action. Period.' He wanted that relayed to Colonel Bastian."
"Very well. Dreamland out."
Samson dropped the phone on its hook.
"Chartelle!" he said loud enough to be heard in the outer office. "Get Mack Smith in here. Now!"
"Yes, General," said the secretary.
Mack appeared a few minutes later. The major had apparently been eating lunch, because a small bit of ketchup clung to his chin.
"Mack, I want our B-IB/Ls en route to Romania by tonight."
"The B-1s, General?"
"Is there an echo in this room?"
"General, the B-1 project—"
"Spit it out, Major. Let's have your objections in plain language."
"Yes, sir. It's not an objection, it's just — even with Breanna— I mean, Captain Stockard — I'm still one pilot short. We have Sleek Top, Jack Kittle, and Breanna. That's one short — and to be honest, I don't know if you can push Sleek into combat."
