At least Julian was safe. He could accept death knowing that.
What a strange life he’d had. Mozart and politics.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
The Sonata in A Minor, K. 310, began playing in his head, The pace of the music quickening, matching his pounding heart.
Grabbing onto a small sapling, Voda pulled himself up and began walking. The pain in his leg seemed to have fled—or maybe he’d stopped feeling anything at all. Then his feet gave way. He tumbled down five or six yards, smacking hard against a tree.
He pushed to get up, but found he couldn’t.
This was where it was going to end, he thought. He reached for his pistol.
It was gone. He’d lost it somewhere above.
Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
0153
STARSHIP SLID HIS HEADSET BACK, WATCHING THE CLOCK
dial revolve on the Flighthawk control screen. Finally the hand stopped. The screen blinked, and update loaded appeared in the center.
He pushed the headset back into place.
“Ready,” he told Englehardt.
“Let ’er rip,” answered the Johnson’s pilot.
Easy for him to say, Starship thought. If the update screwed up, he was the one who’d lose total control of HawkThree. And knowing General Samson’s reputation, it was a good bet he would be paying for the aircraft out of his own pocket.
He and all his offspring, for the next seven generations.
“Reboot C3 remote, authorization alpha-beta-six-six-beta-seven-four-zed-zed,” he said, giving his authorization code.
“I am Lieutenant Kirk Andrews.”
The computer thought about it for a second, then beeped its approval.
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429
“Hawk Three is coming to course,” Starship told Englehardt. He banked the Flighthawk out of the figure-eight patrol orbit it had been flying and took it near the hill. He had to stay above 10,000 feet or he’d be heard; he nudged the aircraft to 10,500.
A yellow helix appeared on the screen. The symbol was usually used by the computer to indicate where a disconnected Flighthawk was; now it showed the location of the cell phone they were tracking.
No. It was three miles from the hill, to the south, near an army watch post. It was the wrong transmission.
Starship took the Flighthawk farther north.
Nothing.
“Hey, you sure this guy is on the air?” Starship asked Englehardt.
“We’ll have to ask Mack.”
“Well, get him on. I’m not picking up anything.”
Dreamland Command
1558 (0158 Romania)
“THE CELL TRANSMISSION DIED,” THE COMMUNICATIONS
specialist told Mack.
“What do you mean, it died?”
“He lost his connection or his battery died. I don’t know.”
“Call him,” said Mack.
“I don’t know, Major. We don’t know how close he is to the people looking for him.”
“Call him the hell back.”
“Incoming transmission from the Johnson. ”
“Screen.” Mack turned around. Lieutenant Mike Englehardt’s face bounced back and forth. Though Mack was sure he’d been told a million times to keep his head still while he spoke, the pilot still jerked around nervously. Good thing he didn’t fly that way.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Major Smith, we’re having trouble here with the cell phone from President Voda.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m on it. Keep your speed pants zipped.”
“Major, we’re getting a broadcast over the Romanian air defense frequencies you want to hear,” said the communications specialist, cutting into his conversation. “Channel Two.”
“Stand by Johnson.” Mack felt the hives on his hands percolating as he flicked into the transmission. “Damn, man.
This is in Romanian.”
“It comes back in English.”
A few seconds later the English version began.
“All planes flying above latitude 46 degree north will immediately cease operations and return to base. This airspace is closed to all military and civilian flights, foreign and do-mestic. All flights will vacate this space immediately.”
“What a load of crap,” said Mack. He looked up at the communications desk. “Get me Samson—no wait. Let me talk to Dog.”
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
over northeastern Romania
0200
MACK SMITH’S FACE SNAPPED INTO DOG’S VIDEO SCREEN.
“Did you receive that Romanian air defense broadcast?”
Mack asked.
The sound of the wind in the depressurized cabin was so loud, Dog had to crank the volume to hear.
“We’re listening to it now,” he said.
“What are you going to do, Colonel? Tell them to shove it, right?”
“I’m not going to tell them that,” said Dog. “That’s General Samson’s job.”
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431
Mack frowned.
“He’s the reason you have your job as chief of staff, Mack.
You got what you wanted.”
“Wasn’t that a mistake.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Dog. “I’m sure he’s heard it by now anyway.”
Dog tapped his screen. His daughter Breanna’s helmeted face appeared.
“Bree, I have to talk to the general.”
“The no-fly order, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s talking to one of the Romanian air force generals right now. Not that it seems to be doing any good.”
“I can wait.”
Dog checked his position on the sitrep. They were flying an oval-shaped orbit at 8,000 feet east of the president’s vacation house, roughly between it and the border. Hawk One and Two were in a standard patrol position fore and aft of the Bennett, flown entirely by the computer.
Despite the blown hatch, the Megafortress flew a level course, responding to the control inputs flawlessly. As long as they made easy maneuvers and stayed in their pressurized suits, the crew shouldn’t have any problems.
“What a bunch of blockheads,” said Samson, coming on the line as blustery as always. “Locusta must be behind this.”
“Absolutely,” said Dog.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to comply.”
“Agreed. We only need a few more minutes,” said Dog.
“Zen is almost at the Osprey rendezvous.”
“I better tell Washington what’s going on. Someone may get their nose out of joint.”
Dog was about to suggest that Samson might not bother to pass the information along for a few minutes, just in case someone at the White House decided they should comply immediately. But he was interrupted by his airborne radar op-
432
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
erator, who shouted so loud he would have easily been heard even if Dog didn’t have his headset on.
“Colonel! We have more MiGs! A lot of them this time …
sixteen! And they are coming at us like wolves at a pig roast!”
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0205
ZEN FELT A BIT OF STRAIN IN HIS SHOULDER AS HE ROSE
over the second hill and started downward. The exoskeleton handled the enormous strains imposed by flying, but the weight of Mrs. Voda and her son was mostly borne by his body. They tugged him away from the wing unit; like an ancient Roman enemy of the state, hitched to a pair of chariots and about to be pulled asunder.
The Osprey sat like a vulture ahead to his right, opposite a small barn. Zen leaned slightly in that direction, adjusting his movements to the extra weight he was carrying.
“Almost there,” he yelled. “You’ll be on the ground in just a second.”
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0205
VODA SAT STARING AT THE SKY, LISTENING TO THE MUSIC
in his head. He was lost, done. But at least he had saved his wife and son.
That was a man’s duty.
But was it a president’s? Should he have put them ahead of his country? Should he have gone and left them to die?
History would have to judge.
His body began to buzz. His leg was on fire.
No, it was the cell phone, vibrating.
REVOLUTION