Both of them continued to sink.

I’m going to die here, he thought.

Danny flailed desperately, poking and punching and kicking, forcing his injured leg to move, using every ounce of energy in his body to push off his attacker. His lungs were bursting, his nose and mouth starting to suck seawater.

Suddenly, the hands slipped away. Danny threw himself up toward the surface. He burst above the waves, gulped a breath, half air, half water. Coughing violently, he slipped back down, fought his way back to the air, tried to float. He gasped and coughed at the same time.

“Here, here!” someone shouted nearby.

Danny turned over to paddle but his arms were too tired 358

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

now. His body sagged and exhaustion felt very near. He pushed once, then slipped down below the waves, happy to rest finally.

Then he felt himself moving upward. He took a breath and coughed. He coughed until the world around him was red. When he stopped, he found himself in a small rigid-hulled craft from the Sharkboat.

“You OK, Captain?” said a sailor, standing over him.

“That guy …”

“Don’t see him anywhere.”

Too tired to look himself, Danny collapsed against the gunwale.

Aboard the Levitow ,

over India

0614

ZEN CHECKED HIS WATCH. THEY WERE THREE MINUTES TO

Point Baker, where the Megafortress would begin its five-minute climb to the launch point.

“Bandits ahead,” warned Stewart. “ID’d as MiG-21

Fishbeds. Four planes. They don’t see us yet.”

Zen saw them on the sitrep as the copilot read off their heading and altitude. They were at eight thousand feet, flying northwest on a course that would bring them to within two miles of the Megafortress, just at the point where Breanna would have to start to climb.

“Jeff, you think we can sneak past these guys?” asked Breanna.

“I was just about to ask you the same question,” Zen told his wife. While it would be foolish to underestimate the fighters, their radars were limited and there was a decent possibility that the EB-52 could get past them without being noticed.

“If we didn’t have to climb, I’d say we take the chance,”

Breanna told him. “But if they see us, they’ll be on our back at the worst possible time.”

END GAME

359

“Roger that, Levitow. I have the lead element.”

“Look at our flight path—can you hold off until they’ve crossed it?”

“That’s not a problem,” said Zen.

“We’ll use Scorpions on Bandits Three and Four,” explained Breanna. “I’ll pivot and fire two missiles. If I recover quickly, I’ll be back on course in just over a minute and a half.”

“Roger that.”

AS ZEN TOOK THE FLIGHTHAWK NORTHWEST AND BEGAN TO

climb, he worked out the game plan in his head. The MiGs were flying close enough for him to take both planes out in a single pass. He’d loop in from the west, firing on the wingman first; it would take barely a nudge on his stick to get his sights on the lead plane. The MiGs were moving at 320 knots; he’d be able to close on them easily.

It was a great plan, but the Indians didn’t cooperate.

When they were less than three miles from the Megafortress, the planes suddenly accelerated.

“I think they see us,” said Stewart, her voice shrill.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Zen told her. “Relax there, Levitow.”

“Trying,” said the copilot.

Zen knew better than to bother chasing the lead element; he might catch one of the planes but couldn’t hope to take two.

“Bree, let’s swap targets. I’ll take Three and Four, you go for One and Two.”

“Roger that, Flighthawk. Kick butt.”

“You got it, baby.”

STEWART’S FINGERS GREW COLD AS SHE WORKED THROUGH

the screen, redesignating her targets. It was easy, it was simple, she’d done it gadzillion times in the drills—but she could feel her heart pounding harder and harder.

“Ease up, Jan,” said Breanna. “You’re hitting the touch-screen like you’re fighting Mike Tyson.”

360

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I guess I am,” she said. She put her hands together, warming her fingers. She didn’t relax, exactly, but she did pull back from hyper mode.

“Bay,” said Breanna. “Fire when ready.”

If we wait that long, we’ll be dead, Stewart thought.

THE SECOND ELEMENT OF MIGS ALTERED COURSE, BANKING

into a tight turn to put themselves behind the Megafortress.

The MiG-21 had been designed in the 1950s, and while outdated long ago, the aircraft retained many of its original virtues. Small and maneuverable, it could touch Mach 2 if necessary, and was tough in a close-quarters knife fight.

The two Indian jocks who were turning toward the Levitow’s tail undoubtedly thought they had the Megafortress right where they wanted her—about five miles ahead and several thousand feet below them. All they had to do was close in; their heat-seekers would do the rest.

The problem with that strategy came in the form of 20mm shells ripping through the nose and canopy of BanditFour. Zen hit the MiG from above, riding his cannon through the humped midsection of the plane. Two or three dozen bullets hit the aircraft in a fraction of a second, shredding the plane’s avionics, engine, and most of all its pilot.

Zen pulled his nose up and found Bandit Three dead on in his gunsight. The weapons bar went red; he waited a full second then fired. The MiG rolled its wing left, trying to duck away. Zen had too much momentum to follow and still get a kill; instead he banked back in the direction of the Megafortress, losing sight of his opponent.

“Fire Fox One! Fire Fox One!” warned Stewart. Though still excited, her voice wasn’t nearly as shrill as it had been.

Two missiles spurted from the bay of the EB-52, AARAAM-pluses heading for Bandits One and Two.

Zen looked at the sitrep, trying to figure out what had happened to the other MiG. The plane wasn’t on the display, but he knew it had to be around somewhere; the radar END GAME

361

had difficulty seeing objects very close to the ground behind its wings.

“Levitow, I lost Bandit Three,” Zen warned.

“Roger that, Flighthawk. Tail Stinger is activated. We’re climbing,” added Breanna.

Zen decided that the other MiG had either gotten away south or was running parallel to him somewhere beyond the Megafortress’s right wingtip, where it would be difficult for the radar to spot.

He started crossing, then realized there was a possibility he hadn’t considered—just below his own tail.

Tracers exploded past his nose. Now the tables were turned, and Zen was the surprised target. He cut back to his left, hoping to throw the MiG out in front of him as he began to weave in the sky. But the Indian pilot didn’t bite, and Zen had to duck a fresh stream of bullets.

He wasn’t completely successful. Three shells went into the Flighthawk’s left wing. The computer tallied the score: DAMAGE TO CONTROL SURFACE. DEGRADATION FIVE PERCENT.

Zen continued to zig up and down, back and forth, depriving the other pilot of an easy shot. If they hadn’t been so close to the Megafortress, he would have started a turn; if the MiG followed, he could use the Flighthawk’s superior turning radius and maneuverability to reverse their positions. But that wasn’t an option here, since it would leave the way clear for the MiG to close on the Megafortress before he could get back.

The launch warning sounded—the MiG had fired two heat-seeking missiles at him. Now he had to get out of the way. Zen tossed flares and tucked toward the ground, then immediately zigged right and hunted for the MiG. Sure enough, the Indian jock was accelerating straight ahead, trying to close on the EB-52’s tail.