“The helicopter plane?”

“Yes, sir. Air defense reports that the Russians have attacked them near the border, and that at least one Russian airplane has been shot down.”

What the hell was going on?

No sooner had the question formed than Locusta realized the answer: The Russians were gunning for the pipeline.

“Are any of our airplanes in the air?”

“Well no, General.”

“Get the air force chief of staff. Tell him I want to talk to him personally. And tell him that we need his precious MiG-29s. The Russians are attacking us.”

“Yes, General.”

“And then find the number or whatever it is that I must call to speak to the Americans directly. To Colonel Bastian, the so-called Dog.”

386

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

0041

STARSHIP’S MAIN SCREEN BLINKED AND AN ICON APPEARED

in the upper right corner, indicating that long-range radar was no longer being provided to the Flighthawks. But the enemy MiG and the triangular cross hairs targeting it remained at the center of the screen, provided by the Flighthawk’s own radar.

Compared to the Megafortress’s radar, which was as powerful as the radar in an AWACS, the system aboard the robot was very limited. But it was fine for the task at hand—

Starship steadied his thumb on the trigger, pushing the spray of bullets into the MiG’s wing.

The MiG’s right wing suddenly seemed to expand. A thin gray funnel appeared at the middle of it—and then red flashed everywhere. One of Starship’s bullets struck through the disintegrating wing, hitting square on the detonator of a five-hundred-pound bomb. The explosion that followed was so severe, the shock waves sent the Flighthawk into a spin to the left.

And then Starship’s screen went blank. He’d lost his connection to the robot.

ON THE FLIGHT DECK ABOVE STARSHIP, ENGLEHARDT LEANED

closer to the instrument panel, willing the big plane away from the missile. Panic vibrated through his arms and legs; his throat felt as if it had tightened around a rock. He struggled to control the plane, and himself, jerking back to the north as the copilot released another set of chaff.

“He’s terminal! Big flare!” yelled Kung.

Englehardt tensed, bracing for the impact. He cursed himself—he should have knocked off the radar sooner.

There was a flash to the right side of the cockpit.

REVOLUTION

387

The missile?

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

BREANNA STOCKARD 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.

388

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0045

DOG’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 REVOLUTION

389

want to take them, or should we give the laser system another field test?”

Aboard Whiplash Osprey,

approaching Stulpicani, Romania

0047

DANNY FREAH 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.

390

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

above northeastern Romania

0049

THE TWO RUSSIAN AIRCRAFT APPROACHING THE ROMANIAN

coast of the Black Sea were brand new MiG-29Ms, upgraded versions of the original MiG-29. Equipped with better avi-onics 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.