Sure enough, he saw the shadow of the four-barreled weapon to his left as he came over the first hill. He kept his head forward, focused on where he was going.

“I’ve lost the transmission,” said Mack, back in Dreamland Control.

“Just send me to his last point.”

“I may be sending you into an ambush.”

“Just direct me, Mack.”

“All right, don’t get your jet pack twisted. Come to 93 degrees east and keep going.”

The sound of the jet was loud in his ears, but it was an unusual sound; if the soldiers on the ground heard it, he was by them so quickly, none of them could react.

Danny had put on Zen’s helmet, rather than trying to get the smart helmet to interface with the MESSKIT’s electronics. But the moon was bright, and he could see the bald spot near the crest of the hill in the distance ahead.

He could also see two figures moving across it—the search party looking for the president.

“Hard right, hard right,” said Mack Smith.

He turned, and slipped closer to the ground.

“There’s a truck coming on the road. Be careful.”

Even though he’d studied the satellite photos and the radar plots from the Megafortress while waiting for Zen, Danny still had trouble orienting himself. He couldn’t find the creek elbow where Zen made the first pickup, nor could he spot the wedge that had been the old gravel mine near the base of the hill. He zeroed back the thrust, slowing to a near hover.

“You’re ten yards from the last spot,” said Mack. “It’s on your left as you’re facing uphill.”

REVOLUTION

439

Something passed nearby. A bee.

No, gunfire. There were troops on the road, and they saw him in the air.

Danny pushed himself forward.

“Too far.”

“I’m landing,” Danny said, spotting a small opening between the trees.

VODA HUNKERED AS CLOSE TO THE GROUND AS HE COULD.

He tried not to breathe. The soldiers were ten yards away.

Should he go out like this, dragged like a dog from a hole?

Better to show himself, die a brave man—at least the stories of his death would have a chance of inspiring someone.

No. They’d make up any story they wanted. He would become a coward to history.

The soldiers stopped. Voda remained motionless, frozen, part of the ground. The soldiers began running—but to his left, away from him.

DANNY CROUCHED NEXT TO THE TREE, GETTING HIS BEARings. There was a group of soldiers somewhere above him; they had dogs and they were making their way down the hill.

But there were also soldiers below him, the ones who had been shooting. How far away they were, he couldn’t tell.

“You have to move forty yards to the north,” said Mack.

“It’s almost a direct line.”

He picked his way through the brush, but stopped after a few yards. He was making too much noise.

“Thirty-two to go,” hissed Mack in his ear. “Let’s move.”

Shut up, Danny thought, though he didn’t say anything. He could see the patrol above, maybe twenty yards away, shadows in and out of the scrub. Six or seven men moved roughly in single file. They walked north to south across the hill.

Danny waited until they had passed, then got up out of his crouch and began moving again, much more slowly this time.

He slid through the underbrush as quietly as he could.

440

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Twenty-five yards,” said Mack.

The dogs were barking excitedly above him. He heard shots. The men who were below him heard them too—they yelled to each other and began running up the hill.

He was going to get caught in a three-way squeeze.

“You sure you’re right?” he whispered to Mack.

“This is his last spot. His cell phone is totally off the air.

Twenty-five yards dead north,” repeated Mack. “That’s my best guess.

Danny began crawling. The dogs had definitely found something.

After he’d gone about ten yards, he spotted a rock outcrop-ping to his left.

That must be where Voda had been, he thought. He got up and started toward it, walking, then trotting, and finally running.

VODA HEARD SOMEONE COMING. THEY WERE ON HIM NOW.

It was the end.

Finally.

He took a deep breath. They might lie about how he had died, but he would know. He would be satisfied with that.

He thought of Mozart, and the folk song.

“Good-bye Julian. Mircea,” he whispered, stepping up and out of his hiding place.

A black figure grabbed him and threw him down.

“Sssssssh,” hissed Danny Freah. “They’re just above us.”

Aboard Dreamland EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0115

THE BENNETT HAD ALREADY STABILIZED ITS CABIN PRESSURE, so as long as Dog stayed clear of the hatchway, there was REVOLUTION

441

little chance he’d be swept out of the plane. Still, the passage to the rear of the flight deck was nerve-wracking, especially with the wind howling around him.

He grabbed each handhold carefully, moving as fast as he dared. When he reached the ladder at the back of the deck, Dog took a deep breath, then dropped to the floor and grabbed the top of the ladder. He felt himself slipping, un-balanced by the plane’s sharp maneuvers as it got ready to engage the Russians.

Dog grabbed the ladder rail and climbed down into the compartment. When he reached the deck, he punched the button to close the hatchway, sealing off the lower level and banishing any possibility that he might fly out of the aircraft. He went to Flighthawk Station Two on the left side of the plane, plugged in his oxygen set, and powered up the console.

Dog knew only the general outlines of how the Flighthawk control system worked. There was no way he could pilot the small planes better than the computer, certainly not in combat. But that wasn’t necessary—all he had to do was tell them who to hit.

“Sitrep on main screen,” he told the computer after his control access was authorized.

The sitrep appeared. The Megafortress was at its center; Hawk One and Hawk Two were shown as crosses in blue. Dog struggled for a moment, trying to remember how to change the scale so he could see the targets as well. Finally he tried the voice command that worked on his console upstairs.

The screen flashed. When it reappeared, the entire battle area was presented. The MiGs were red daggers at the edge of the screen.

“Hawk One, designate target Bandit Five, ” said Dog.

A message flashed on the screen:

TARGET OUT OF RANGE

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Hawk One, suggest target,” said Dog.

The computer thought about it, then flashed a yellow line on the screen. It wanted to strike Bandit Eight, even though it was even farther away than Bandit Five.

“Colonel, we’re almost ready to fire,” said Sullivan over the interphone.

“Take your shots as soon as you’re ready.”

“Roger that. Opening bay doors.”

Dog tried to block out the sound and the Megafortress’s maneuvers. Should he accept the computer’s judgment? It didn’t quite make sense to him, but Zen often talked about how subtly different the tactics for the Flighthawks were when compared to conventional aircraft.

It came down to this: Did he trust the technology, or did he trust his own judgment?

When he first arrived at Dreamland, it would have been the latter. Now, he knew, he had to go with the computer.

“Hawk One targeting approved,” he said.

A new message flashed on the screen:

OK TO LEAVE CONTROLLED RANGE?

“Affirmative,” replied Dog.

The message remained. The computer had not accepted his command.

“Hawk One, authorized to leave controlled range for intercept,” said Dog.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Hawk One pivoted north.

North? What the hell was the computer thinking?