Revolution

by Dale Brown

  “We’re on it. Give us a heading,” replied Samson.

  Near Stulpicani, Romania

  0208

  VODA CRAWLED ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES UNDER THE narrow rock ledge. It looked like the best hiding place he could find, though far from perfect.

  “Still with me?” asked the American on the cell phone when he held it to his ear.

  “I’m here,” said Voda.

  “Your signal is real scratchy.”

  “I’m beneath a rock ledge.” A beep sounded in his ear. “What was that noise?”

  “Wasn’t on my side.”

  Another beep.

  “My battery is running low,” said Voda.

  “Our guy is ten minutes away,” replied Mack. “Just hang in there.”

  “They’re all around me,” whispered Voda. He saw a dark khaki uniform moving through the trees near him. “I can see them. I can’t talk anymore.”

  Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Bennett,

  over northeastern Romania

  0110

  “KILL OUR RADARS,” DOG TOLD HIS CREW. “WE’LL USE THE Johnson’s. No sense giving them a road map.”

  It took roughly sixty seconds for the crew to secure the radars. In the meantime, Dog brought the Bennett north, acting as if nothing was going on. As soon as they were no longer splashing their radio waves into the air, he turned to the east and applied full military power, racing toward an intercept.

  The MiGs were coming at them at about 1,200 knots. They were just southwest of Odessa, flying around 28,000 feet, a bit under 230 miles away. The MiGs were slowing down—they couldn’t fly on afterburner very long if they wanted to make it home—but were still moving at a good clip. As Dog completed his turn and began to accelerate, the Megafortress and the Russians were closing at a rate of roughly 27 miles per minute.

  “Time to Scorpion launch is four and a half minutes at this course and speed, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “I can lock them up any time you want.”

  While Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses were excellent missiles, substantially improved over the basic AMRAAMs, head-on shots at high speed and long range were not high probability fires. Statistically, Dog knew he had to fire two shots for each hit; even then, he had a less than 93 percent chance of a kill.

  But if they were going to overcome the overall odds, they had to take chances.

  “One missile per plane,” he told Sullivan. “Wait until we’re just about at the launch point before opening the bomb bay doors.”

  “Right.”

  “After the radar-guided missiles are off, we change course and set up so we can pivot behind the survivors and fire the Sidewinders.”

  “Um, yes, sir. That means getting pretty close.”

  “Pretty much. Make sure you have enough momentum to fire if they’re still moving this fast.”

  “Um, OK. Where are you going to be?”

  “I’m going to go downstairs and see if I can help the Flighthawks take down some of the other planes.”

  Near Stulpicani, Romania

  0112

  DANNY DIDN’T QUITE FIT INTO ZEN’S CUSTOMIZED ARM AND torso harness; his arms and shoulders were smaller than the pilot’s. But this proved to be a blessing—it let him keep his body armor and vest on.

  He held his breath as he went over the first hill. There were two roads between him and the president’s hiding place. Troops were posted on both, according to the ground radar plot from the Bennett. An antiaircraft gun had been moved in as well.

  Sure enough, he saw the shadow of the four-barreled weapon to his left as he came over the first hill. He kept his head forward, focused on where he was going.

  “I’ve lost the transmission,” said Mack, back in Dreamland Control.

  “Just send me to his last point.”

  “I may be sending you into an ambush.”

  “Just direct me, Mack.”

  “All right, don’t get your jet pack twisted. Come to 93 degrees east and keep going.”

  The sound of the jet was loud in his ears, but it was an unusual sound; if the soldiers on the ground heard it, he was by them so quickly, none of them could react.

  Danny had put on Zen’s helmet, rather than trying to get the smart helmet to interface with the MESSKIT’s electronics. But the moon was bright, and he could see the bald spot near the crest of the hill in the distance ahead.

  He could also see two figures moving across it—the search party looking for the president.

  “Hard right, hard right,” said Mack Smith.

  He turned, and slipped closer to the ground.

  “There’s a truck coming on the road. Be careful.”

  Even though he’d studied the satellite photos and the radar plots from the Megafortress while waiting for Zen, Danny still had trouble orienting himself. He couldn’t find the creek elbow where Zen made the first pickup, nor could he spot the wedge that had been the old gravel mine near the base of the hill. He zeroed back the thrust, slowing to a near hover.

  “You’re ten yards from the last spot,” said Mack. “It’s on your left as you’re facing uphill.”

  Something passed nearby. A bee.

  No, gunfire. There were troops on the road, and they saw him in the air.

  Danny pushed himself forward.

  “Too far.”

  “I’m landing,” Danny said, spotting a small opening between the trees.

  VODA HUNKERED AS CLOSE TO THE GROUND AS HE COULD. He tried not to breathe. The soldiers were ten yards away.

  Should he go out like this, dragged like a dog from a hole? Better to show himself, die a brave man—at least the stories of his death would have a chance of inspiring someone.

  No. They’d make up any story they wanted. He would become a coward to history.

  The soldiers stopped. Voda remained motionless, frozen, part of the ground. The soldiers began running—but to his left, away from him.

  DANNY CROUCHED NEXT TO THE TREE, GETTING HIS BEARINGS. There was a group of soldiers somewhere above him; they had dogs and they were making their way down the hill. But there were also soldiers below him, the ones who had been shooting. How far away they were, he couldn’t tell.

  “You have to move forty yards to the north,” said Mack. “It’s almost a direct line.”

  He picked his way through the brush, but stopped after a few yards. He was making too much noise.

  “Thirty-two to go,” hissed Mack in his ear. “Let’s move.”

  Shut up, Danny thought, though he didn’t say anything. He could see the patrol above, maybe twenty yards away, shadows in and out of the scrub. Six or seven men moved roughly in single file. They walked north to south across the hill.

  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 Megafortress, 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 their 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.