“Just give them time. I’m sure they’re on their way,” he said, removing the hatchet. He left her the flashlight. “Lock it behind me.”

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2240

ZEN WATCHED THE LONG-DISTANCE RADAR PLOT, MARKING

the progress of the helicopters as they left the field near the church. From all reports, the operation had been a resounding success. Both sites had proven to be rebel strongholds, and the guerrillas taken completely by surprise. Roughly a hundred guerrillas were killed or captured at the farm; a little less than half that at the church. Weapons had been stock-piled at both. The church had also yielded a treasure trove of documents and a computer.

“A lot of activity at border post M-2,” said Spiff, operating the ground radar upstairs. “Looks like the Moldovans have finally woken up.”

Zen switched his video view to Hawk Two, which was near the border post. He was too far to see anything however, and the terrain and nearby trees made it difficult to get much of a view of the small guardhouse unless he went into Moldovan territory—which of course he couldn’t do.

“First helicopter is over the line,” said Rager, who working the airborne radar.

Zen felt his body starting to relax. The operation would be over inside an hour, and they could stand down.

It wasn’t that he felt exhausted. It was that feeling of uselessness that he wanted to lose.

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“Shit—MiGs are back!” said Rager, practically yelling over the interphone. “Afterburners—they’re coming west, high rate of speed. Touching Mach 2.”

“Here we go again,” said Sullivan.

“Colonel, they don’t look like they’re coming for us,” said Rager a minute later. “They’re on a direct line for the helicopters.”

Moldova

2245

THE INSIDE OF THE HELICOPTER WAS SO LOUD IT WAS HARD

to hear Colonel Bastian’s voice over the roar of the blades.

Overloaded, the aircraft strained to clear the trees at the edge of the field. It cleared the top branches by only a few feet, but continued to steadily rise.

“This is Stoner!” Stoner yelled into the sat phone.

“Stoner, tell your pilot and Colonel Brasov there are four MiGs headed in your direction,” said Colonel Bastian.

“They’re about ten minutes away.”

“Four what?”

“Four MiGs. Russian fighters. Get the hell out of there. Get over the border.”

“We’re working on it, Colonel.”

Stoner turned to Colonel Brasov and tugged on his arm.

“There are fighter jets headed in our direction,” he said.

“They’re about ten minutes away.”

Brasov’s face blanched—he’d said on takeoff that it would take the helicopter roughly thirty minutes to reach the border—then went forward to the cockpit to tell the pilots.

There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, several boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Brasov returned, a frown on his face.

“We will stay very low to the ground,” he said, shouting in Stoner’s ear. “They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight.”

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2247

DOG SWUNG THE MEGAFORTRESS TO THE SOUTH, PUSHING

it closer to the border. The MiGs were definitely heading east in a big hurry, but while they were flying in the general direction of the Romanian helicopters, it was hard to tell if they knew exactly where they were.

“They shouldn’t be able to see them on their radar until they’re a lot closer,” Rager said. “But they will see them.

Those are Fulcrum C’s. Their radar is almost as good as an F-15’s.”

“Almost as good” covered a wide ground, but Dog wasn’t about to argue the point. Even if the radars’ look-down ability wasn’t up to American specs, the MiG pilots were on a course to fly almost directly over the choppers.

“Stoner, tell the helicopter pilots to cut south,” said Dog.

He’d decided to use the sat phone to avoid their conversation being monitored by the Moldovans or Russians. “They’re riding right on the vector the Russians are taking.”

“Copy.” Stoner’s voice was nearly drowned out by the heavy whirl of the helicopter engines above him.

“Colonel, we can take them down,” said Sullivan. “I have an intercept plotted.”

“We can’t do it, Sully,” said Dog.

“Those helicopters are dead ducks if they attack.”

Dog didn’t answer. He knew that what Sullivan had said was absolutely true—if the MiG pilots decided they were REVOLUTION

317

going to shoot the helicopters down, only luck would save them.

And what was he going to do? Just watch?

Dog punched the preset for the Dreamland Command com circuit.

“This is Bastian. I need to speak to General Samson.”

“Colonel, he’s in bed,” said Sergeant Louch, who was handling the communications duties at Iasi.

“Wake him up.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

ZEN BANKED HAWK TWO TO THE NORTH, STILL WATCHING

the border. The helicopters were about twenty miles from Romanian soil. That translated into roughly ten minutes of flying time. The MiGs, afterburners spent, had slowed to about 800 knots, and were about three minutes’ flying time from an intercept.

The helos began changing course, turning south. They were in four groups. One group, which had taken off from the farm, was already over the border and thus out of harm’s way. The other three groups, with eight helicopters apiece, were strung out in a semicircle approaching northeastern Romania. The helicopters in each group were flying in slightly offset single file, with the groups themselves forming three parallel hashes as they flew.

The trucks, meanwhile, were moving along a pair of parallel roads to the north. They too could be easily targeted, if the MiGs realized they were there.

One flick of his wrist and a push of his finger on the throttle slide at the back of his control yoke and Hawk One would be lined up perfectly for an intercept on the lead MiG. Zen wouldn’t even have to shoot it down to protect the helicopters—once he got their attention, he figured, they’d lose interest in everything else.

At least long enough to let them get away.

318

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Surely the colonel was thinking the same thing. Orders or no orders, they had to protect their people. Stoner was in one of the choppers.

Zen pulled back on the Flighthawk’s control, adding a little more altitude as he waited for the order to attack.

“WHAT THE HELL IS IT, BASTIAN?”

“We have four Russian MiGs pursuing the Romanian force out of Moldova. I want permission to intercept.”

“Where? Romania? You have it.”

“No. The MiGs may hit them in Moldova. If I go over the border, I can save them.”

“We went over this, Bastian. No. You can’t go over the border. No.”

“The helicopters will be easy pickings.”

“The President’s order was nothing over the border. No.”

“But—”

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

“General—”

“This conversation is done, Colonel. If those planes come over the border or attack you directly, take them down. But you stay on our side of the line. Is that clear, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Crystal, General.”

Moldova

2250

IT WAS STONER’S IDEA.

“When its nest is being attacked, a mother bird pretends to be wounded, drawing the predators away,” he told Colonel Brasov. “You could do the same—have one of the helicopters peel off, get the MiGs interested, then land. Everyone runs for it—the MiGs come down and investigate. The other choppers get away. We make our way home by foot.”