Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.
“When we get out, run!” Brasov yelled. “Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours’ walk.”
The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.
The helicopter pitched hard to the left.
“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.
“You too,” said Stoner.
“Until we meet.”
Brasov held out his hand.
As Stoner reached for it, he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.
There was a flash above him and a loud clap like thunder.
And then there was nothing, not even pain or regret.
VI
Fear of the Dead
Aboard EB-52 Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
28 January 1998
2258
ZEN STARED IN DISBELIEF AS THE HELICOPTER DISAPPEARED
from the screen.
“Helicopter Baker One is off the scope,” said Rager. “It’s been hit.”
“Confirmed,” said Spiff. “Ground radar saw it breaking up.”
Zen tightened his grip on the yoke, trying to concentrate on the MiGs. The two that had fired at the helicopter and shot it down were now flying toward the border. If they didn’t turn in about thirty seconds, they’d cross over.
He pushed Hawk One toward an interception—then got a warning from the computer that the aircraft was nearing the end of its control range.
“Bennett, I need you to come south,” said Zen. Even with recently implemented improvements to the control communications network, the robot had to be within fifty miles of the mother ship.
“Flighthawk leader, we have to stay near the northernmost helicopter group,” said Dog.
“Damn it—the MiGs are here,” said Zen. “Come south.”
Dog answered by turning the aircraft back south, staying near the Flighthawk.
The MiGs started a turn meant to take them back east. But 332
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
it was more of a gradual arc than a sharp cut, and it was clear to Zen even before he asked the computer to project their course that they would still cross over the border.
The Russians had fired on the helicopter at relatively low altitude, about 5,000 feet. They’d climbed through 8,000
feet and were still rising. The Flighthawk, by contrast, was at 25,000 feet. The altitude difference represented a serious advantage in speed and flight energy—and Zen intended to use every ounce of that advantage.
He tipped his nose down, studying the sitrep for a second as he lined Hawk One up for a double attack. With Hawk One touching Mach 1, the MiGs climbed up over the border. Zen twisted his wings, then pulled sharply on his stick, picking the nose of the plane up before slapping over and plunging straight downward. The loop slowed the Flighthawk’s forward progress just enough to put it directly above the MiG’s path. The Russian’s nose appeared in the right corner of the view screen, a bright green wedge slicing through the night’s fabric. The targeting piper flashed yellow, indicating that he didn’t have a shot yet, but he fired anyway, trusting that the MiG’s momentum would bring it into the hail of bullets. He slammed his controls, trying to hold the Flighthawk in position to continue firing as the MiG passed, but he had too much speed for that, and had to back off as the small plane threatened to flip backward into a tumble.
Losing track of his target, Zen dropped his right wing and came around, pulling his nose toward the path of the second fighter. The Flighthawk took ten g’s in the turn—more than enough to knock a pilot unconscious had he been in the plane. But aboard the Megafortress, Zen was pulling quiet turns more than forty miles away; he flicked his wrist and put his nose on the rear quarter of the MiG.
This one was a turkey shoot.
The MiG driver had an edge—ironically, his much slower speed would have sent the Flighthawk past him if he’d turned abruptly. But the MiG jock, perhaps because he didn’t know REVOLUTION
333
exactly where the Flighthawk was, or maybe because he pan-icked, didn’t turn at all. Instead he tried putting the pedal to the metal and speeding away, lighting his afterburner in a desperate attempt to pick up speed.
That only made it easier for Zen. The red flare of the engine moved into the sweet spot of the targeting queue, and he sent a long stream of bullets directly into the MiG’s tailpipe. The thick slugs tore through the titanium innards, unwinding the turbine spool with a flash of fire. There was no time for the pilot to eject; the plane disintegrated into a black mass of hurtling metal.
The other MiG, meanwhile, had tacked to the north, still in Romanian territory, damaged by Zen’s first pass. Checking the position on the sitrep, Zen brought the Flighthawk back in its direction. He slammed the throttle slide to full military power, plotting an angle that would cut off the MiG’s escape.
The small aircraft’s original advantages in speed and flight energy had now been used. If the dogfight devolved into a straight-out foot race, the Flighthawk would be at a disadvantage because of the MiG’s more powerful engines.
Though the smaller plane could accelerate from a dead stop a bit faster because of its weight, once the MiG’s two Klimov engines spooled up, their combined 36,000 pounds of thrust at military power would simply overwhelm the Flighthawk.
The MiG pilot apparently realized this, because he had the lead out. But Zen knew that he couldn’t stay on his present course, since it was taking him northwest, the exact opposite of where he wanted to go. So he backed off and waited.
He wanted the enemy plane. The desire boiled inside him, pushing everything else away.
It took precisely forty-five seconds for the MiG pilot to decide he was clear and begin his turn to the east. He was ten miles deep in Romanian territory; Hawk One was about six miles south of the point where the computer calculated it would cross.
334
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Doable, but tight.
Zen leaned on the throttle, pushing Hawk One straight up the border toward the MiG. Then he jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which had been patrolling along the route the helicopters were taking. He slid it farther north, positioning it to catch the MiG if it suddenly doubled back.
Back in Hawk One, Zen saw the approaching Russian plane as a black smudge near the top of the screen. He jabbed his finger against the slide at the back of his stick, trying to will more speed out of the little jet.
He wanted him. Revenge, anger—he felt something desperate rise inside him, something reckless and voracious. He was going to kill this son of a bitch, and nothing was going to stop him.
The targeting piper turned yellow.
UPSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHT DECK, DOG WATCHED THE MIG
and Flighthawks maneuvering on the radar screen. He was stewing, angry at the way Zen had cursed at him, and even angrier that his orders had led to the loss of the Romanian helicopter. Back at Dreamland, he’d wondered what happened to “heroes” at their next battle. Now he knew.
“Colonel, the trucks are nearing the border,” said Spiff.
“There’s a Moldovan patrol about a mile north of them.”
“Make sure our guys know that.”
“Yes, sir.”