Dale Brown's Dreamland

by Dale Brown

  Cheshire cursed, cranking the Megafortress into a tight turn, once more trying to beam the missile’s persistent guidance system. The fact that the German-built antiair weapon was a known commodity wasn’t making it easy to evade. The ECMs were blaring, there was more tinsel in the air than on a dozen Christmas trees, and still the damn thing was coming for them.

  “Hold on,” barked Cheshire.

  In the next second she slammed the Megafortress in a full-bore dive, plunging straight for the earth. Finally confused, the Roland continued on for ten yards—but ten yards only. Realizing it had missed, its onboard circuitry lit the warhead.

  Raven was shaken, but unbowed. Cheshire rolled out at two thousand feet.

  Right into a wall of flak.

  Rap heard the pops next to her, the sound of an old-fashioned percolator kicking up a fresh pot of coffee. Something flashed in front of her.

  For a second she blanked. Then she realized she was shaking her head, her hand on Raven’s yoke. The plane followed her nudge to the right.

  “Jesus, that was close,” she told Cheshire.

  The major didn’t answer. Bree glanced to the right and saw the pilot slumped forward in her seat. A good portion of the cockpit and fuselage beyond her had been mangled by triple-A.

  DANNY PUSHED HIS BACK AGAINST THE WALL AS HE edged further into the complex. The com unit had gone dead; the guns seemed to have stopped. The hallway was filled with a dull red light, perhaps from an emergency lighting system further on.

  A shape loomed ahead. He leveled the MP-5 at it, saw something flash.

  A bee whizzed by him in the hall. Something ripped the floor next to him.

  He squeezed off a burst. The shadow fell backward.

  When nothing else came from behind the shadow, Danny slipped further along the wall. The Libyan soldier had fallen face-first, his AK-47 beneath him. Freah kicked the man, making sure he was dead.

  He heard something ten yards ahead. He slid down, holding his breath.

  Two shadows appeared, hugging the far wall. He raised his gun in their direction.

  “I sure as shit hope you’re a fuckin’ American,” said a low grunt.

  “Hands up and move forward, fast!” he ordered.

  “Gunnery Sergeant James Ricardo Melfi,” announced the first shape, lunging toward him. “And this is Captain Howland.”

  “Where’s Smith?” asked Danny.

  “We haven’t seen him since Sudan,” said Gunny. “What the hell took you girls so long?”

  “We had to do our hair,” said Danny.

  ZEN SWUNG HAWK ONE AROUND THE EDGE OF THE complex, gunning for Raven’s wing. He was at bingo fuel. It was a long way back to base; if they didn’t set sail soon the Ospreys would be towing both UM/Fs home.

  But at least they’d be able to. The Roland was off the air. And the stream of antiaircraft fire had finally run dry.

  “I need to get home or refuel, Nancy,” Jeff said, punching the intercom. “You know what? As soon as that flight of F-14 Tomcats gets here, let’s set course for that emergency base in Greece. My fuel won’t be so tight. I’ll meet you at fifteen thousand, okay?”

  “I don’t know that we can make fifteen thousand,” answered Breanna. “We’re chewed up pretty bad, Jeff. Triple-A chewed through the fuselage while we were trying to get under the SAMs. Nancy got hit, and she’s at least unconscious, if not worse. I’m still assessing damage up here.”

  “Are you okay, Bree?”

  He felt his heart leaping out toward the front of the plane. He felt like he was a million miles from her, as if he were here and she were back at Dreamland.

  “I’m intact,” she said. “How about you?”

  “As intact as I get,” he managed. His hands were starting to shake; he gave control over to the computer, settling the Hawk into a shadow trail.

  “Hey, Bree?”

  “Yeah, Jeff?”

  “I love you.”

  “Me too, baby. Me too.”

  Tripoli

  24 October, 0955 local

  AS THEY GOT OUT OF THE HELICOPTER, FLAMES erupted from the building behind them. Tripoli was apparently under attack; the Imam’s Allah had apparently stopped smiling at him.

  One of the guards turned quickly, ducking with his weapon. The other pushed Mack down toward a set of cement steps that led to a long dock. Pleasure craft were arrayed in a marina to the left.

  To the right, an ancient Piaggio flying boat strained a mooring at the end of the wooden gangplank. Mack took a step toward it, then threw himself down as a pair of F/A-18’s screamed less than a hundred feet overhead, en route to a target further inland.

  The Imam pulled him to his feet. His voice remained resolute, but for the first time since Somalia he made it obvious that he had a pistol in his loose-fitting sleeve.

  “Into the airplane,” said the Iranian.

  “Who’s flying?” asked Mack.

  “You,” the Iranian said, motioning toward the seaplane. The Piaggio’s cockpit sat in front of a high wing flanked by two overhead engines. “There has been a change of plans.”

  “Why don’t we just stay with the helicopter?” Mack asked. He guessed that it didn’t have the range to go where they were going—they’d had to stop several times along the way to refuel.

  “You ask too many questions, Major. Go.”

  “I don’t know that I can fly it,” Knife told him.

  The Imam lifted his arm, placing the gun next to Mack’s ear.

  “I’ve never flown a seaplane before,” said Mack, half hoping to see a Marine—maybe even Gunny—pop up from the water. “I can’t remember the last time I flew anything with a propeller.”

  Mack was telling the truth, but as a pair of attack jets screamed overhead, he realized he couldn’t stall much longer.

  The Imam’s guards were up by the road; they weren’t coming aboard the plane. Climb in, take off, then find some way to dump his captor.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” said Mack, ducking as another jet screamed overhead. “I don’t know if I can fly this thing right.”

  “I will pray that it all comes easily to you,” said the Iranian, gesturing with his pistol.

  “Well in that case, let’s go for it,” said Knife, starting down the dock.

  Libya

  24 October, 1020

  RAVEN WAS MANGLED, BUT FLYABLE. THE RIGHT stabilizer was missing a good stretch of skin. One of the leading-edge flaps on the right wing had locked itself into a two-degree pitch, but the Megafortress’s fly-by-wire controls were able to compensate for the problem so well that Breanna hadn’t realized it until Jeff brought the Flighthawk up to examine the battle damage. Jennifer Gleason, meanwhile, had come up and helped Major Cheshire, cleaning her wounds and making her comfortable, or as comfortable as someone could be while staring at a mangled cockpit wall. The wind roared at the jagged gash in the hull, adding a squeal to the rumble of the Pratt & Whitneys, but as long as they kept their altitude and speed relatively low, Rap didn’t think they’d have a problem. She set course for Greece, the Flighthawk pushing ahead like an Indian scout checking the area for an approaching wagon train.

  “Raven, this is Whiplash leader, understand you took some serious hits,” said Danny Freah, punching into their line from the Osprey.

  “Affirmative,” said Breanna. “We took a lickin’ but we are still tickin’.”

  “Glad to hear it,” replied Freah. “Your Flighthawk is secure. A Navy CH-46 is inbound to transport it. I left two teams of SEALS standing guard.”

  “You trust ‘em?” joked Rap.

  “Hey, I had to give them something important to do,” answered Danny. “We would have brought it along ourselves, but we have to expedite our passengers. We’re diverting to Greece.”

  “We’ll escort you,” Breanna told him. She had his position on the God’s-eye-view screen; the Osprey was running just to the southwest, booking at close to four hundred knots—about fifty miles an hour faster than the str
icken Megafortress. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Figured as much,” said Freah.

  The black bat-tail of Hawk One danced in the left part of her windshield, about a half mile off—the small size of the plane made it difficult to judge its distance without resorting to the screens.

  “Hawk One, this is Raven. You copy Captain Freah’s transmission?”

  “Hawk,” he said, acknowledging.

  “Got your six,” she said.

  Kind of funny to be following behind Jeff when he was sitting behind her, she thought.

  The rush of adrenaline that had pumped through everyone’s bloodstream was starting to give way. It was a dangerous time—they were still nearly a hundred miles deep over Libya. While there were no enemy SAM sites left operating this side of Tripoli, Breanna realized they were far from home.

  “Has Smith been recovered yet?” Freah asked from the Osprey.

  “Mack? He’s not with you?” Breanna shot back.

  “Negative. The site has been searched. He was separated from the other prisoners back when they landed near Tripoli. We’ve been trying to get through to JSTARS directly on this. Can you?”

  “Jeff—”

  “Yeah, I heard,” her husband told her.

  “Poor Mack. I have to relay this to Cascade.” One of the warning lights on the master caution panel came on. She asked the computer for specifics; it failed to respond. Unsure whether it couldn’t understand her or was malfunctioning, she tapped the keypad for the error code.

  “We’re having some electrical problems,” Breanna told the crew tersely. “I’m going to switch through some circuits. And please stay on oxygen, obviously.”

  “I’ll talk to Cascade,” Jeff volunteered. “Thanks, hon.”

  JEFF WAITED FOR JENNIFER TO SET UP THE transmission, which had to be routed through a backup circuit because of the damage to Raven. It seemed to take forever.

  “Go,” she told him.

  “Cascade, this is Hawk Leader.”

  “Hawk Leader?”

  “With Raven.”

  “Damn, your voice sounds familiar,” said Cascade. “So does yours.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Shit, Jed,” said Stockard, recognizing his cousin through the synthetic rendering. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Long story, cousin. What’s up?”

  Jeff relayed the information about Smith.

  “Well, two thirds is better than nothing,” said Jed.

  “We’ll catch up at some point,” Jeff told him. “Things are getting busy here.”

  “You guys okay?”

  “We have damage, but we’re flying,” Zen told him. “Later.”

  “Later.”

  Jeff hunkered over his joystick, concentrating on the view projected by the forward video camera aboard the Flighthawk. There were a number of civilian airplanes in the air, including several rented news helicopters and airplanes from Europe, sent to investigate. Flights from the Nimitz and JFK were challenging each aircraft. At the same time, Navy helos were doing the same with boats.

  Zen found the coastline, turning ahead of the Megafortress. An F-14 approached from the west; he waited for the pilot’s challenge. Instead, the two-place Navy fighter ducked off to the south.

  “Hawk One to Tomcat bearing along 320, at grid AA-5,” he told the airplane. “Have you visually.”

  “Hawk One, this is Shark Flight Leader. Not reading you on radar.”

  Zen gave him his heading. The Tomcat acknowledged, though his voice seemed so hesitant Jeff wasn’t sure he really did see him.

  “We’re checking out some civilians,” said Shark leader. “Do you require assistance?”

  “Negative. Just checking positions.”

  Zen pushed the Hawk closer to the water. The Med glowed a greenish blue, the water a gentle ripple edged with sun-reflected light. Twenty or thirty boats lay ahead, apparently unaware of the rampage that had taken place a few miles further west. He checked back with Bree, who was already starting to look for the tanker. The Osprey was clearing the coast.

  Zen punched through the Navy circuits, listening to the aircraft challenge flights in the vicinity. His attention was starting to flag; he had a long way to go and needed something to keep him awake.

  One of the exchanges suddenly did the trick.

  “Dreamland Playboy One, acknowledging,” said a faint American voice. “We are following a filed flight plan.”

  The voice sounded a little hesitant, but the Tomcat acknowledged and cleared the craft to proceed.

  Dreamland? Dreamland?

  Playboy One?

  Playboy One was Knife’s old call sign, the one he’d used the day of Mack’s accident.

  Coincidence?

  No way in the world.

  “Shark Leader, request data on Dreamland Playboy One,” Zen said, bolting upright.

  “Hang on,” said the Navy pilot. He gave him over to his pitter, or radar and weapons system operator, in the backseat of the plane.

  “Italian flying boat,” said the Navy captain. The backseater had lists of civilian flights to check against.

  “Was his call sign filed-as Dreamland Playboy One?”

  “Unknown. We’re not the FAA here. But it’s definitely on our list. Civilian plane, registered to an Italian fishing and tourist company.”

  “Can you give me his last position?”

  “No offense, Hawk Leader, but I’m a little busy.”

  “That’s why I’m going to double-check him myself,” answered Zen.

  MACK STEADIED HIS HAND ON THE SPLIT THROTTLE, trying to even out the engines. The Piaggio wasn’t particularly difficult to fly, though it did feel weird as hell. It wasn’t so much because the controls and instruments dated from the late 1940’s; they were classic stick and rudder jobs, dials and toggles. You went where you pointed.

  But the props were mounted above and behind him, pushing instead of pulling. They sounded like a pair of lawn trimmers, and he just couldn’t seem to get them at the same rpm. No matter how he played with the controls, the plane continued to pull slightly but definitely to the right, pushed by a stronger engine on the opposite side.

  Worse, he felt like he was walking over the water. Or crawling. The Italian flying boat went incredibly slow, even though it had two engines.

  Walking on the water. The Imam would like that.

  The Iranian had been vague about where they were heading, but it was obviously Egypt. Mack guessed the Iranians had made some sort of deal with the Egyptian Air Force to escort them over to the Red Sea if necessary. Or Turkey. Could be Turkey. Plenty of fuel. But Turkey was pretty friendly with the U.S.

  Egypt was too, though. Or at least it had been.

  Mack had blown it when the Navy plane challenged him, not expecting that the Iranians or Libyans or whoever had set the plane up had actually filed a flight plan. The damn Tomcat pilot was off the air so fast Mack couldn’t think of any way to tip him off.

  Dreamland Playboy One. The old call sign had shot into his mind when the Imam poked him in the neck with his gun.

  Those were the days, huh?

  Would have been easier if the Tomcat had gotten down in his face. Then there might be a chance of getting out of this thing.

  Now the best he could hope for was to take the Imam out with him. The question was, should he crash in the water or on land?

  ZEN FOUND THE ITALIAN SEAPLANE HUGGING THE Libyan coast.

  “Come on, Bree. Tighten it up,” said Jeff as the meter began sinking downward.

  “I’m doing my best, Jeff. We have a hole in the fuselage, remember? And about two thirds of an electrical system. Push it and you’re going to be lighting candles back there.”

  “I don’t have candles.”

  He eased the throttle back a notch, concentrating on making sure he was well inside the optimum control range. Then he clicked into the frequency the Navy plane had used to hail the Piaggio.

  “Dreamlan
d Playboy One, this is Hawk Leader. I am an American fighter monitoring your flight. Acknowledge, please.”

  There was no answer.

  “Dreamland Playboy One. Identify yourself and give your flight heading.”

  “Hawk Leader, Dreamland Playboy One acknowledges. We are following on our filed flight plan. Stand by for compass headings and position, as requested.”

  Son of a bitch. There was no mistaking that smooth, full-of-himself voice. Mack was flying the plane.

  Jeff clicked the transmit button to dial into the JSTARS command frequency.

  JED HAD JUST RECONNECTED WITH MS. O’DAY WHEN the major did his arm-waving routine again. Jed asked her to stay on the line this time, then clicked over to find his cousin.

  “We have Smith,” said Jeff.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Jed.”

  “Hang on,” Jed told him, desperately trying to flag down the major so he could patch both lines together.

  Turned out all it took was pushing a button near the switch.

  “Hawk Leader, please repeat what you told me,” Jed told his cousin when the connection was set.

  “We have Smith in a plane heading east over the Mediterranean. We’re not sure whether we can force him down or not, but we can try.”

  “Jed, I need to talk to you alone, please,” said Ms. O’Day. “A single, secure line. Now.”

  He pushed the button quickly and got the knob back, holding on to the D.C. scrambled satellite transmission.

  “The plane has to be stopped at all costs,” O’Day told him. “No pilot. No trial in Iran.”

  “They’re on it,” he said.

  “Jed, listen to what I said. No trial. And this does not come directly from me, do you understand? You’re not running tape.”

  “Well, of course not.”

  “Hawk Leader probably is.”