Revolution (43 page)

If so, it had exploded before striking the Megafortress—far enough away, in fact, that the big aircraft shrugged off the shock of the ninety kilogram warhead without a shudder.

What? incoming message flashed on the dedicated Dreamland communications screen. Englehardt tapped the screen with his thumb.

“You're welcome,
Johnson,
” barked General Samson from
Boomer.
“Now get that radar back on so we can see what the hell these Russian bastards are up to.”

Aboard B-1B/L
Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0042

B
REANNA
S
TOCKARD EXHALED SHARPLY AS SHE LEANED
back from
Boomer
's targeting console. Her head was still spinning—she'd barely strapped herself in for takeoff when General Samson saw that the
Johnson
was in trouble and ordered her to target the missile. Samson had pulled
Boomer
almost straight up, riding her powerful engines to the right altitude for the hit with no more than a half second to spare.

“All right, Stockard, good work.” The general's voice was a deep growl. “Now let's get ourselves up north and ready for anything else these bastard Russkies throw at us.”

“You got it, Gen.”

Samson turned his head toward her. “If you're going to use a nickname, it's Earthmover.”

“OK, Earthmover.”

“That's more like it, Stockard,” said Samson, pushing the plane onto the new course.

Aboard EB-52
Bennett,
over northeastern Romania
0045

D
OG'S COMMENT ABOUT TAKING OFF AS SOON AS HIS RESTRAINTS
were buckled was an exaggeration, but only just. The Megafortress left the runway just on the heels of the B-1s, getting airborne in time to use its radar to help orient
Boomer
to the Russian missile tracking the
Johnson.
Data was shared over the Dreamland Command network with all aircraft in the battle package, and in fact could be shared with any Dreamland asset anywhere in the world.

“Sukhois are turning south over the Black Sea,” said Rager. “Looks like there are two more MiG-29s approaching, though, high rate of speed, very low to the water. You see them, Colonel?”

“I got them, Rager. Thanks.” Dog flicked the Transmit button. “EB-52
Bennett
to
Johnson.
Mikey, how are you doing up there?”

“We're holding together, Colonel,” said Englehardt, the
Johnson
's pilot. “But we're out of Scorpions.”

“Roger that. I want you to go west and cover the area near the president's summer house for the Osprey. We'll take your station here.”

Englehardt's acknowledgment was overrun by a broadcast from General Samson, whose scowling face appeared in the communications screen. Samson's visor was up, his oxygen mask dangling to the side, his frown as visible as ever. But to Dog's surprise, Samson didn't bawl him out for usurping his authority.

“Mike, Dog is right. You get yourself down there and stay out of trouble. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry, General,” said Dog. “That was your call.”

“No problem, Colonel. I couldn't have put it better myself. Now, let's get ourselves ready for these MiG drivers. You
want to take them, or should we give the laser system another field test?”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,
approaching Stulpicani, Romania
0047

D
ANNY
F
REAH PUT ON HIS SMART HELMET AND TAPPED INTO
the Dreamland database, asking the computer with verbal commands to display the most recent satellite photo of the area where the president's house was located.

The picture was several days old, taken right after the attack on the pipeline, but it was adequate for planning purposes.

From the description that had been relayed to him, Alin Voda was hiding about a quarter mile northeast of his house, near an old structure. But the structure wasn't visible on the map. Danny zoomed in and out without being able to see it among the trees. Finally he backed out, looking for an easier spot to pick him up.

The hill was wooded all the way to its peak. There was a rift on the back slope about fifty feet down, where a drop created a bald spot. The Osprey couldn't land there, but they could fast-rope down, put the president into a rescue basket, and haul him back up.

They'd need some close-in reconnaissance before attempting the pickup, to figure out where the Romanians were. And they'd need a diversion to get into the area.

“What do you think, Cap?” asked Boston, who was standing beside him. “Doable?”

“Oh yeah, we can do it,” Danny said, pulling off the helmet. “Just need a little coordination.”

He checked his watch. The Osprey was roughly twenty minutes from the mountain house. Hopefully, Voda could hold out that long.

Aboard EB-52
Bennett,
above northeastern Romania
0049

T
HE TWO
R
USSIAN AIRCRAFT APPROACHING THE
R
OMANIAN
coast of the Black Sea were brand new MiG-29Ms, upgraded versions of the original MiG-29. Equipped with better avionics and more hardpoints, the fighters were potent attack aircraft, capable of carrying a wide range of weapons. Because they were flying so low, the
Bennett
's radar was unable to identify what missiles or bombs they had beneath their wings, but their track made it clear they were heading for the Romanian gas fields.

“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 Kogălniceanu.”

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)

M
ACK
S
MITH HUNCHED OVER THE CONSOLE IN
D
REAMLAND
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

“G
ENERAL
,
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 Locusta. “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

W
ITH GUIDANCE FROM THE
B
ENNETT
,
THE TWO
R
OMANIAN
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
Şoim Unu
and
Şoim Doi—Falcon One
and
Falcon Two.

“Şoim Unu
, this is Dreamland Flighthawk leader. You read me?” said Zen. The word
Şoim
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.

Şoim 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.