“Rager, where are those other two MiGs?” Dog asked the airborne radar specialist.

“Halfway home by now, sir. Probably on their way to get their laundry cleaned.”

“How close to the ground troops is that MiG going to be if he gets over the border?”

“A couple of miles. If the ground troops call for support, he’ll be close enough to give it.”

* * *

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THE MIG KEPT SLIDING TOWARD THE RIGHT OF THE SCREEN, edging closer to Moldovan territory as it approached HawkOne. Zen leaned with it, willing the plane into the triangular piper at the center of his screen.

The gunsight began blinking red. He pushed the trigger, sending a stream of 20mm bullets over the MiG’s left wing.

The MiG immediately nosed down and then cut back hard in the direction he’d come from. Surprised and out of position because he’d been worried about the border, Zen had trouble staying with the Russian.

The MiG turned south, breaking clean from the Flighthawk’s pursuit. Zen knew he’d hit it earlier, but it showed no sign of damage.

I’m nailing that son of a bitch, he thought, throwing the Flighthawk into a hard turn.

The MiG’s tail came up in his screen, too far to shoot—but Zen’s adrenaline and anger took over, and he pressed the trigger anyway. The slugs trailed down harmlessly toward the earth.

The MiG driver once more leaned on his throttle and slowly began pulling away. He was still going south; Zen started to tack in that direction, thinking he might be able to cut him off a second time.

The Flighthawk computer warned him that he was running low on fuel, but Zen didn’t care. He was going to get the son of a bitch.

Then the computer gave him another warning: His path south was taking him out of control range.

“Bennett, this is Flighthawk leader. I need you to come south.”

“What’s your status, Flighthawk?” asked Dog.

“I’m on the MiG’s tail. I almost have him. Come south.”

“Negative. We have the trucks approaching the border. We need you to provide cover.”

“I’m on his tail.”

336

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Come back north, Flighthawk. The MiG is no longer a player.”

“What the hell sense is coming north?” asked Zen. “I can’t go across the border if the trucks get in trouble.”

There was a pause. A warning flashed on Zen’s screen: DISCONNECT IN TEN SECONDS, NINE …

“Come north, Hawk leader,” said Dog.

“Colonel—”

“That is a direct order.”

It was all Zen could do to keep from slapping the control stick as he complied.

“TARGET THE MIG,” DOG TOLD SULLIVAN.

“Targeted. Locked.”

Dog looked at the sitrep. He needed Zen to move off before he fired.

The Flighthawk lurched to the right.

“Take him down.”

“Fire Fox One!” said Sullivan. The radar missile dropped off the rail. It accelerated with a burst of speed.

“MiG is turning back east,” said Sullivan. “Missile is tracking.”

Dog brought the ground radar plot on his control board. He had the same situation on the ground as he had in the air—if the Moldovans attacked, he’d be unable to do anything until they came over the line.

“Splash MiG!” shouted Sullivan.

“Close the bay doors,” said Dog.

“Colonel, looks like the Moldovan ground forces are going to miss our guys,” reported Spiff. “The trucks just got on the highway, heading east. Eight, nine troop trucks. Ten, twelve. Whole force looks like they’ve caught the wrong scent.”

Thank God, thought Dog.

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Bacau, Romania

2300

GENERAL LOCUSTA STARED DOWN AT THE MAP BEING USED

to track the raid’s progress. The appearance of the MiGs had dramatically changed the mood in his headquarters conference room.

“I still can’t get them on the radio,” said the communications specialist.

“Prepare a rescue mission. Ground and air.”

“Standing by, General. The helicopters should be refueled within ten minutes.”

Damn the Russians. They would claim that they were merely honoring their treaty with Moldova, but Locusta knew this was actually aimed at him—a pointed reminder that he could not count on the Americans in the future.

As for the Americans …

“The Dreamland people. What are they doing?”

“Continuing to engage the aircraft at last report.”

“Have them pinpoint the route of the helicopter toward the border.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Losing one helicopter does not mean the mission was a failure, General,” whispered one of his aides as Locusta stalked across the room for coffee.

“Yes,” he muttered. His thoughts were split between the operation, the men he’d lost—and the president.

The call should have come an hour ago.

“General, we have an urgent call for you from Third Battalion.”

About time, thought Locusta, though as he turned he made his face a blank.

“The unit near the president’s house—they’re responding to an attack by the guerrillas.”

“What?”

“Here, sir.”

338

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Coffee spilled from Locusta’s cup as he practically threw it back down on the table and strode to the phone.

“Locusta.”

“There has been an attack,” said one of the captains at the headquarters of the unit assigned to help guard the president.

“Guerrillas.”

“When? What’s going on?”

Locusta listened impatiently as the man related what he knew. The alarm had come in only a few minutes before.

Guerrillas had struck at the battalion’s radio and the local phone lines around the same time, making it difficult to communicate with the base.

“When did this occur?” demanded Locusta.

The man did not know. The attack had apparently begun sometime before.

“Where is the President?”

“Our troops are only just arriving,” said the captain. “We have not yet made contact with his security team.”

“Didn’t they send the alert?”

“No.”

They hadn’t been able to—as part of his plan, Anton Ozera had directed his team to activate a cell phone disrupter just before the attack. Like everything else that would indicate the assault was more than the work of unsophisticated guerillas, it would have been removed by now.

“Keep me informed,” said Locusta.

He handed the aide back the phone.

“We have another developing situation,” he announced.

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

2315

VODA WATCHED FROM THE SMALL, GLASSLESS WINDOW OF

the cave as two more members of his presidential security REVOLUTION

339

team were carried out to the space in front of the barn. They were clearly already dead; their bodies bounced limply when they were dropped.

The men carrying them were soldiers—or at least were dressed in Romanian army uniforms. The fighting seemed to have died down; Voda couldn’t hear any more gunfire.

Julian was trembling, either with the cold or fear, or maybe both. Voda pulled him close.

“We’re going to be OK,” he whispered. “It’s going to take us a little while, but we’ll be OK.”

“What are they doing?” Julian asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Lights arced through the window. Voda froze, then realized they had come from the headlamps of trucks driving up past the garage. He rose and looked out the corner of the window. Two trucks had just arrived. Soldiers ran from the back, shouting as they disappeared.

“What’s going on?” Mircea asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Is the army here?”

“Yes, but there’s something odd about it.”

“What kind of odd?”

Voda couldn’t bring himself to use the word “coup.” He watched as two soldiers came into view, walking from the direction of the house. He moved his head to the very side of the window as they took up their posts guarding the bodies yet not hardly looking at them, save for a few glances—guilty glances, Voda thought, though they faced the street, their backs to him.