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He reached for it, took it out.
“Yes?”
“Yo, Mr. President, I was afraid I’d lost the connection for good,” said the American, Mack Smith. “You need to keep the phone on.”
“I had it on. It must have turned off when I fell.”
“Well don’t fall anymore, all right? What’s going on?”
“They’re coming for me. I can hear them nearby. Above me.”
“Well hide. Go. Go!”
Yes, thought Voda. There were some fallen trees not too far away. He pulled himself up, then started for them, dragging his aching leg.
As he reached them, Voda realized they wouldn’t provide much cover. But they did give him an idea. He stripped off his shirt and tucked it between the tree branches, making it just visible. Then he began moving in the other direction.
The dogs barked nearby.
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0205
“THEY THINK THEY HEAR HIM,” MAJOR OZERA TOLD LO-custa. “It won’t be long now.”
“I want no more reports until he is dead,” Locusta said.
His satellite phone rang. Locusta answered it. It was his aide, back at headquarters.
“General Karis of the Third Division has ordered his troops back to their barracks.”
“What?” demanded Locusta.
“That’s the only report I have.”
Karis was a key ally. Locusta didn’t understand what he was doing, except that it was not what they had agreed. The troops would be needed to keep order.
He would have to talk to Karis personally.
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“The Dreamland people want to talk to you as well. General Samson—”
“I don’t have time for them. Tell them they are to return to Iasi. Things are critical.”
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0206
DANNY FREAH WATCHED ZEN DESCEND. THE LANDING
wasn’t the most elegant he’d ever seen—Zen came down too fast before cutting his power, and the trio collapsed forward like mail sacks thrown from the back of a truck—but it did the trick.
Boston reached them first, pulling Zen upright.
“Man, how’d you tie this?” he asked. He yelled to Sergeant Liu, who was running up with the med kit. “Nurse, where’s the knife?”
“Don’t cut it,” said Zen. “I got one more to go.”
Danny knelt down and unhooked Mrs. Voda, then handed her off to Liu. Julian, the president’s son, looked at him as if looking at a ghost.
“She’s in shock,” said Liu. “But OK.”
“Get them into the Osprey,” said Danny as Boston finally undid the knot. He picked up the boy and gave him to Boston, who cradled him in his arms and began double-timing toward the rotor plane.
“I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” said Zen. “Maybe less.”
“Wait.” Danny grabbed his shoulders. “Give me the MESSKIT. I’ll go.”
“I got it.”
“Zen, they’re closing in on him. Voda’s going to be hiding.
You won’t be able to find him.”
“We’ll just tell him to run to the clearing.”
“They’re all around him.”
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Zen lifted his arms to fly. Danny tried to push them down.
Zen was too strong and shrugged him away.
“Let’s not screw around,” said the pilot angrily.
“If you get killed, the Flighthawk program stops,” Danny told him. “If I’m lost, it’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal.”
“Listen, we’ve been through a lot together. I’m the best person for this job. You know it. Don’t let your pride get in the way.”
A long moment passed. Then, finally, Zen reached down and began undoing his straps.
Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0208
EVEN FOR A PAIR OF MEGAFORTRESSES AND TWO B-1B/LS, sixteen MiGs was a lot to take on. And General Samson’s force wasn’t in the best position to do so either. The Johnson was out of long-range missiles, and had to stay near the hill to help pinpoint President Voda. The Bennett had a depressurized cabin and no one to fly its Flighthawks.
But Samson liked challenges. And he had one of the best combat air tacticians alive to help him meet this one.
“Forget borders, rules of engagement, all that other bull crap,” he told Dog. “Come up with a plan to kick these bastards in the teeth.”
“Missiles engage the leaders, Flighthawks break up the flight, lasers pick them off one by one,” said Dog without hesitating. “The sooner we engage them, the better. The Johnson stays with the Osprey. We leave Big Bird back as free safety while you and I go out over the Black Sea.”
“We’re on it. Give us a heading,” replied Samson.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0208
VODA CRAWLED ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES UNDER THE
narrow rock ledge. It looked like the best hiding place he could find, though far from perfect.
“Still with me?” asked the American on the cell phone when he held it to his ear.
“I’m here,” said Voda.
“Your signal is real scratchy.”
“I’m beneath a rock ledge.” A beep sounded in his ear.
“What was that noise?”
“Wasn’t on my side.”
Another beep.
“My battery is running low,” said Voda.
“Our guy is ten minutes away,” replied Mack. “Just hang in there.”
“They’re all around me,” whispered Voda. He saw a dark khaki uniform moving through the trees near him. “I can see them. I can’t talk anymore.”
Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Bennett,
over northeastern Romania
0110
“KILL OUR RADARS,” DOG TOLD HIS CREW. “WE’LL USE THE
Johnson’s. No sense giving them a road map.”
It took roughly sixty seconds for the crew to secure the radars. In the meantime, Dog brought the Bennett north, acting as if nothing was going on. As soon as they were no longer splashing their radio waves into the air, he turned to the east and applied full military power, racing toward an intercept.
The MiGs were coming at them at about 1,200 knots. They were just southwest of Odessa, flying around 28,000 feet, a bit under 230 miles away. The MiGs were slowing down—
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they couldn’t fly on afterburner very long if they wanted to make it home—but were still moving at a good clip. As Dog completed his turn and began to accelerate, the Megafortress and the Russians were closing at a rate of roughly 27 miles per minute.
“Time to Scorpion launch is four and a half minutes at this course and speed, Colonel,” said Sullivan. “I can lock them up any time you want.”
While Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses were excellent missiles, substantially improved over the basic AMRAAMs, head-on shots at high speed and long range were not high probability fires. Statistically, Dog knew he had to fire two shots for each hit; even then, he had a less than 93 percent chance of a kill.
But if they were going to overcome the overall odds, they had to take chances.
“One missile per plane,” he told Sullivan. “Wait until we’re just about at the launch point before opening the bomb bay doors.”
“Right.”
“After the radar-guided missiles are off, we change course and set up so we can pivot behind the survivors and fire the Sidewinders.”
“Um, yes, sir. That means getting pretty close.”
“Pretty much. Make sure you have enough momentum to fire if they’re still moving this fast.”
“Um, OK. Where are you going to be?”
“I’m going to go downstairs and see if I can help the Flighthawks take down some of the other planes.”
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0112
DANNY DIDN’T QUITE FIT INTO ZEN’S CUSTOMIZED ARM AND
torso harness; his arms and shoulders were smaller than the 438
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
pilot’s. But this proved to be a blessing—it let him keep his body armor and vest on.
He held his breath as he went over the first hill. There were two roads between him and the president’s hiding place. Troops were posted on both, according to the ground radar plot from the Bennett. An antiaircraft gun had been moved in as well.