Revolution d-10

by Dale Brown

  "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 Kogalniceanu."

  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."

  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.

  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 Lo-custa. "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."

  "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 accidentally."

  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 §oim Unu and §oim Doi — Falcon One and Falcon Two.

  "§oim Unu, this is Dreamland Flighthawk leader. You read me?" said Zen. The word §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."

  "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.

  §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.

  Frustrated, Sloim 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 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 consent. 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?"

  "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 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, SSoim 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. SSoim 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.

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

  "SSoim 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. SSoim 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. §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—§oim Unu started to turn, then realized the trap and broke contact. Before the Russian could take advantage, however, §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.

  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."

  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."