by Dale Brown
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.
"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 outcropping 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 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, unbalanced 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
"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?
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."
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 Mega-fortress, 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 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 the
ir 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
0123
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.
Voda saw a patch of moonlight between the trees. It was a small clearing, ten or fifteen yards away.
"There should be a diversion here any second," Danny said. "We have to add to the confusion."
Voda couldn't quite understand what he was saying. Danny reached to his vest, then held something out to him. "Two grenades," he explained. "How far can you throw?"
"Throw?"
"A baseball?"
Voda shook his head. He had no idea what Danny was talking about.
"Here's what we're going to do," Danny whispered. "In about thirty seconds there are going to be some flares launched above us. We're going to throw these grenades as far as we can down the hill. They're flash-bangs — they make a lot of noise and light, but they won't hurt anybody. As soon as you throw the first grenade, turn around and run with me to that clearing. When we get there, grab my neck. And hang on. I'll set down as soon as I can and we'll get you in the harness. We'll be OK if you hang on. Just grip me tight. Keep your head down — we'll definitely be hitting branches. All right? Do you think you can hold on?"
No, Voda thought, he didn't think he could. His fingers were frozen stumps.
"Yes," he said weakly.
"Careful, these are primed," hissed Danny, handing him a grenade. "You let go, they'll explode in a few seconds." Flares sparkled above, a fire show of light. "Throw!" yelled Danny.
He heaved his grenade, then started to run with the American.
There was more gunfire, explosions.
As they reached the clearing, Danny grabbed Voda with one hand. There was a whooshing sound. Voda threw his arm around the American's neck. As he did, he realized to his horror that he had only thrown one of the grenades. The other one dropped from his raw, numb fingers.
God!
Voda's head spun. Dizzy — something smacked hard against him, grabbed and scratched him.
He was airborne, flying over the trees. The ground lit with a boom and a flash.
* * *
Voda's grip was so tight, Danny started to choke. He had intended to put down on the road, but tracers showered all around him, and he knew the best thing was simply to fly. He pushed forward, zipping over the road toward the next hill.
Their feet smacked into the top of the tree branches as he steered the MESSKIT. He kept his head straight, trying to keep his frigid hands steady on the controls.
As they came up over the crest of the hill, he saw the Osprey off in the distance, already in the air. Fire leaped from it — it was shooting at one of the antiaircraft guns.
"Whiplash Osprey, what's going on?" he said, but there was no answer.
He backed off his power. The fuel in MESSKIT was limited; he had very little room to improvise.
The Osprey stopped firing and spun to his left, heading away from him. Danny saw trucks moving on the road below. He veered to the right, back toward the original landing zone.
A tone sounded. He had only a minute of fuel left. What was the Osprey doing? Voda groaned.
"We're gonna land!" Danny shouted to him.
They glided downward, skimming over a rooftop and dipping into a farm field fifty yards from the one where Zen had landed. Danny tried to walk as he came in, but Voda was facing backward and they ended up tumbling awkwardly.
Even after the fall, Voda held his grip; Danny had to pry him off and shout at him to get free.
"Whiplash Osprey! Whiplash Osprey!" he yelled into the helmet's microphone as he grabbed his submachine gun. "We're ready for pickup!"
Again there was no response. Finally, Danny realized what had happened. While he was taking off he'd inadvertently pulled the wire connecting the helmet to the radio from its plug.
He punched it in. "Osprey, I'm down!"
"Roger, Captain. We see you and are en route. Stand by."
Danny looked toward the house, about 150 feet away. Someone was watching from a lit window at the top.
He heard gunfire, but it wasn't aimed at them or nearby, and he couldn't see who was shooting.
The Osprey whipped toward them, a hawk swooping in for its prey. As it dropped into a hover nearby, two trucks stopped near the house. Figures emerged from the back — soldiers.
"Come on. Here's our taxi," Danny said, turning to Voda.
The president was crouched over on one side, a pool of vomit on the ground.
"Come on, come on," said Danny, pulling him.
The Osprey's wings were tilted upward. It flew like a helicopter, gliding in between them and the house as Danny and Voda ran out of the way to give it more space. The aircraft spun, keeping the gun under its chin pointed at the troops that had come out of the truck, but they didn't fire.
"In, let's go, let's go!" yelled Danny, pulling Voda with him.
Sergeant Liu sprang from the ramp at the rear. He grabbed Voda from the other side and together he and Danny held the president suspended between them. When they reached the ramp, they threw themselves head first into the aircraft as it began to move.
Boston was standing in front of the side door, manning a .50 caliber machine gun. He sighted at the men below but didn't fire; neither did they.
"Button up! Button up!" yelled the crew chief. "We're outta here."
Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0125
Breanna studied the targeting screen, watching as the MiGs scattered under the pressure of the Bennett's long-range missile attack. The airborne radar operator in the Johnson was playing traffic cop, divvying up the remaining targets as the Russian aggressors found new courses toward their target. Bennett and its Flighthawks were to tackle three planes, Bandits Three, Eight, and Nine. That left ten for the B-1s.
"Boomer, you have Bandits Five and Six," said the operator.
"Roger that," Breanna said.
"Boomer, you also have Bandits Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen. Do you copy?"
"You're adding those," she said, glancing at the sitrep. "We have Five, we have Six, we have Ten, we have Twelve, Thirteen, we have Fifteen. Boomer copies."
All of their targets were currently headed south, though they would have to cut back north soon to strike the pipeline. The closest, Bandit Twelve, was seventy-five seconds from firing range. They were dead-on to its nose.
The trick, though, wasn't taking out just one plane, or even two. Breanna knew she had to make like a pool player intent on running the table. If she took too long between shots, one or more of the MiGs would be by them and dropping their bombs before they had a chance to shoot them down.
"Earthmover, I need you to come back north," said Bre-anna, giving Samson not only a heading but a speed.
"Hmmmph," said Samson.
"Did you get it?"
"I got it."
"I need a good, strong, acknowledgment," she said, moving the cursor toward the shot. "I can't guess." "Affirmative. I have it." "It's just that you mumble sometimes."
"I'll work on it, Captain."
"Good. Laser cycling," Breanna added, pressing the button to arm the weapon. "Preparing to fire."<
br />
"Right — acknowledged," said Samson. "Fire at will."
"Engaging. Stand by for laser shot."
"Hrmmph."
Breanna smiled but said nothing.
A massive bolt of energy flew at the MiG, striking a spot just behind the canopy where a thick set of wires ran back from the cockpit. The burst lasted three and a half seconds; when it was finished, the wires had been severed and the MiG rendered uncontrollable.
"Bandit Ten disabled," said Breanna. "Targeting Twelve."
"Roger that," said Samson.
"Indicated airspeed dropping — increase speed thirty knots — come on, General, let's move it!"
"You better hit every goddamn plane, Stockard," said Samson, goosing the throttle. "I don't take this abuse from just anyone."
Aboard EB-52 Bennett, over northeastern
Romania
0130
Dog watched as Hawk One closed on its target.The aircraft was still out of control range, but from the looks of the synthesized sitrep view on the radar display, it didn't need his help. It came toward the MiG at a thirty degree angle, pivoting seconds before the MiG came abreast. The turn — many degrees sharper than would have been possible in a larger, manned aircraft — put the Flighthawk on the Russian's tail. If the MiG driver knew he was in the computer's bull's-eye, there was never a sign of it. The plane simply disappeared, disintegrating under the force of the Flighthawk's gun.
Hawk Two had a slightly more difficult time: Its target relinquished its missiles and tried to maneuver its way free. The Flighthawk hung on, following the MiG through a climbing scissors pattern as the Russian pilot swirled back and forth, attempting to flick off his opponent.
Had the MiG pilot satisfied himself with simply getting away, he probably would have made it; he succeeded in opening a good lead as he reached 35,000 feet. But pilots are an aggressive breed, whether they're Russian or American, and the MiG driver saw his chance to turn the tables on his nemesis as he came out of his climb. He pushed back toward the Flighthawk and lit his cannon, dishing 30mm slugs toward the Flighthawk's fuselage and nearly catching the plane as it turned.
But the U/MF, small and radar resistant, made for a very poor target. It jinked hard left, escaping the MiG's path. Only two bullets struck its fuselage, and neither was a fatal blow. The MiG started to throttle away, its pilot figuring that the Flighthawk was committed to its escape turn.
