by Dale Brown
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 Breanna, 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.”
“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.
A human pilot would have done that. But not the computer. It jerked the Flighthawk back, shrugging off close to eleven g’s to put its nose in the direction of the MiG’s canopy. Then it fired a long burst.
That was the end of
the Russian plane.
UPSTAIRS, SULLIVAN WAS POSITIONING THE BENNETT TO take down Bandit Three, which had escaped its earlier AMRAAM-plus.
The MiG had its head down and was running toward northern Romania at well over the speed of sound, not even thinking about defending itself. Sullivan banked as the MiG approached, jamming his throttles to set up a shot toward the fighter’s tailpipe.
“Fire Fox Two,” he said as the Sidewinder missile clunked off the dispenser. He fired a second heat-seeker, then buttoned up the plane.
Had the Megafortress been an F-15, or if its target had been a less capable aircraft, Sullivan would have nailed it. But even with its uprated engines spooling to the max, the Megafortress simply couldn’t accelerate out of its turn quickly enough to get the proper initial momentum for the missile. The Sidewinders tried valiantly to catch up to their prey but they soon lost its scent and self-destructed.
“Son of a bitch,” said Sullivan, dejected. “He’s by me, Colonel. I’m sorry. Shit.”
DOG HAD SEEN EVERYTHING ON THE SITREP. SULLIVAN HAD done a hell of a job, but he sounded as if he was ready to bang his head into the bulkhead because the Megafortress couldn’t do the impossible. He was holding the plane—and more important, himself—to an impossible standard.
Same thing I would have done to myself, he thought.
And it would have been just as unfair.
Sullivan had done an incredible job, no matter what scale he was measured against.
It was difficult to be objective when you were used to pushing yourself. High standards were important when so many lives were at stake, but you couldn’t let that blind you to your actual achievements.
And that was true of the medal, he realized. He deserved it, not just because it symbolized the efforts of the people around him, but because he had earned it.
“You did fine, Sully,” Dog told the pilot. “You did fine. One of the other planes will take him.”
White House Situation Room
1530 (0130 Romania)
“TH-TH-THERE’S NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, MR. PRESIDENT,” said Jed. “Those are Russian planes, on a deliberate mission to attack the gas pipelines. It—It’s the third wave of attacks against Romania.”
“Enough is enough,” said Martindale. He walked over to the desk manned by the duty officer, but rather than addressing him, picked up the red phone at the side.
It was the so-called hotline to the Kremlin.
“Sir, I have to punch in an authorization code for the call to work,” said the duty officer.
“Do it,” said Martindale. “Either these attacks stop here or I’m going to launch an immediate counterattack on every Russian air base east of the Urals.”
Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0145
“LASER CYCLING!” SAID BREANNA.
“Roger!” said Samson.
“Engaging.”
The beam of energy from Boomer’s belly drilled a small hole in the right wing of the MiG; as the metal disintegrated, fumes in the tank ignited and the wing imploded. The rest of the MiG crumpled into very expensive scrap metal.
“Splash Bandit Fifteen,” said Breanna. “Double trifecta.”
“Perfecta, Captain. Damn good show.”
“You weren’t too bad yourself, Earthmover.” Breanna leaned back from the targeting console. Her neck was so stiff the joints in her vertebrae cracked as she twisted toward the pilot. “That’s got to be some sort of record.”
“The hell with the record,” said Samson. “I’d like to see Congress veto our funding now.”
The situation was looking good. Danny and President Voda had reached the Osprey and would soon be off. The Johnson was swinging south to escort it.
“Bennett radar is coming on line,” said Breanna. “It will take a second for the computer to coordinate the feeds.”
The images blurred, snapped into focus, then blurred and came back.
“Bandit Three is through,” said Breanna, examining the plots. “It’s flying south. Big Bird won’t be able to get it.”
“Stand by, Stockard. We’re going to catch that son of a bitch. And you better acknowledge that with a strong voice.”
“Kick ass, Earthmover,” she said, bracing herself as Samson torched the afterburners.
Presidential villa,
near Stulpicani, Romania
0150
GENERAL LOCUSTA COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING.
“They’re continuing to search,” said the major. “But they think the flying man may have take President Voda away.”
“A flying man?”
The major shook his head.
It was too much for Locusta. “I’m going to corps headquarters, then to Bucharest.”
“But the President—”
“The hell with him. We’re too deep to pull back down,” said Locusta. “The coup will proceed as planned.”
“General, I don’t think if he is alive we will succeed.”
“Then call me when you’ve killed him,” Locusta said, stalking to his car.
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0150
VODA HUGGED HIS WIFE AND JULIAN. BOTH WERE SOBBING. Someone had thrown a blanket over him; someone else handed him a plastic packet that produced heat when he grabbed it. The Osprey circled westward, climbing away from the gunfire.
He knew this was far from over. He had to pull himself up, ignore the smell of vomit on his clothes, ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, and regain control of his country. Now that his family was safe, his duty was clearly to Romania.
“I love you, Julian,” he told his son, kissing his head. “And you, Mircea.”
They grabbed him, but he pushed them away, rising to his feet.
“I need a phone,” he told the Americans. “I need some way of communicating with my people.”
ZEN SAT ON THE FABRIC BENCH ACROSS FROM THE ROMANIAN president, nursing a cup of coffee as Voda got to his feet. In barely the blink of an eye Voda seemed to have changed. He no longer had the look of a hunted animal. There was something deeper in his eye, something determined.
“You can talk to anyone you want,” said Danny Freah, handing the president a headset. He showed him how it worked. “You’re on a special line. Mack Smith will make the connections back at Dreamland.”
“Good,” said Voda. “We begin by calling the television stations, to let them know I am alive.”
Voda looked out the window. He could tell from the moon and the highway they passed that they were heading south. He turned to Danny.
“Is it possible to go over the troops that have surrounded my house?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can you get a loudspeaker?”
“The Osprey is equipped with one but—”
“They have to be told that I’m alive. I want to see what their reaction is. Are they for me? Or against me? Are they for a free Romania, or a captive one?”
“No way, sir. I just can’t go along with it. They have antiair guns in some spots on the road. Even for us—”
“I believe the soldiers will drop their arms when they hear me. And if not,” added Voda, “then I need to know what I’m up against.”
“Yeah, but we’re not committing suicide.”
“If you’re just looking to test the reactions,” said Zen, “maybe we can overfly some troop trucks farther along in the valley.”
“Troops on the outskirts of the action will be acceptable,” said Voda.
Danny shook his head. “No way.”
“Are you here to help me?” Voda asked sharply. “Or am I your prisoner?”
“You’re not my prisoner,” said Danny. “But I’m not going to let you do anything dumb.”
“Who are you to judge me? You’re a captain. I am a president.”
“There’s plenty of troops stopped along the highway, Danny,” said Zen. “We can just pick some away from the antiair guns. It won’t be too m
uch of a risk.”
“I’ll give the order to the pilot myself,” said Voda, starting forward shakily.
“Zen, this is nuts,” said Danny, leaning down toward him.
“Hey, if the army’s not going to back him, he’s screwed anyway. He might as well find out now.”
“He’s already screwed. They were trying to kill him on the hill. This is going to get us shot down.”
“Not if we pick the right place.”
“No way.” Danny straightened.
“I can pull rank,” said Zen.
“I’m calling Samson.”
“That’s an option.”
Danny pulled on his headset. Zen reached for his.
Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0155
TERRILL “EARTHMOVER” SAMSON HAD FLOWN B-1BS FOR a long time, but he’d never flown one like he flew Boomer. He’d never flown any plane like he flew Boomer—throttle mashed against the last stop on the assembly, wings pinned back so far against the fuselage the plane’s sides were groaning.
The speedo bolted past Mach 2, but Samson wanted more. He needed more—the MiG was still three miles out of range.
But it was slowing—popping up.
To make its bombing run.
“You ready over there, Stockard?” he barked.
“I need two and half more miles,” she answered. “And, General, we’re too low. We have to be above him.”
“The hell with that, Stockard. You’re firing upside down. Ready, Stockard?”
“I’m ready.”
Samson held the control stick tightly. Not only did he have to time the invert just right, he had to be careful coming out of it—he was down below 10,000 feet, and using altitude to kick up his momentum.
Eight thousand, going through 7,500, going through 7,000, going—
“In range!” shouted Breanna.
Samson flipped the aircraft onto its back, turning the laser director toward the MiG. The energy beam shot out, striking one of the missiles under the plane’s right wing.
Two seconds later the missile’s fuel ignited. Shrapnel peppered the MiG’s belly. A piece of hot flying metal ignited the warhead on the missile sitting on the opposite hardpoint.
