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Near Stulpicani, Romania
0116
VODA’S EYES WERE WIDE, CLEARLY NOT BELIEVING WHAT HE
was seeing.
“You’re not the same man. You’re not Zen.”
“No, I’m Danny Freah. Your wife and son are safe. Now you and I have to get out.”
“Is there an army of flying men?”
Danny smiled and shook his head. “Come on.”
There were too many trees above them to try crashing straight upward and out. They’d have to move to a clearer spot. But going back to where he’d come down seemed too dangerous.
“Mack, I have him,” said Danny.
“Get the hell out of there.”
Mack Smith, master of the obvious.
“All right, Mr. President, what we’re going to do is move down the slope until we come to an opening where we can fly from. Then I’m going to strap you to me and we’re out of here. Right?”
“Call me Alin.”
“OK, Alin. Let’s do it.”
With the first step, Danny realized Voda had hurt his leg.
He put his arm under Voda’s shoulder and helped him forward. They had only gone a few yards when he heard the shouts of the men above.
“Stay in front of me,” said Danny.
He raised his gun. A burst of automatic gunfire blazed through the brush.
“Johnson, we need a diversion,” said Danny. He grabbed Voda and pulled him next to him, starting down the slope. “I have a bulletproof vest, Alin. Stay between me and the bullets.
I know your leg hurts—just do the best you can. Come on.”
444
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0121
“DO WHATEVER YOU HAVE TO,” SAMSON TOLD ENGLEHARDT.
“Shoot them up. Just get him to Bucharest.”
“Roger that,” replied Englehardt. “Johnson out.”
Samson turned to Breanna. They were still five minutes away from the MiG flight.
“You ready over there, Stockard?”
“Ready, Earthmover.”
“What’s your nom de guerre?” he asked.
“Sir?”
“Your handle? Nickname?”
“Um. People sometimes call me Rap.”
“Don’t like it,” said Samson, checking his course.
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
over northeastern Romania
0122
THE MISSILES APPEARED ON DOG’S SITREP, FLASHING
toward the MiGs. The Russians had not yet seen the Megafortress, nor its missiles. Apparently unaware that they’d been targeted, they continued blithely on course.
Dog turned his attention back to the Flighthawks.
“Hawk Two, suggest target.”
The computer suggested Bandit Nine, far back in the pack.
“Hawk Two, target approved.”
As soon as Dog acknowledged that the location of the target was beyond control range, the Flighthawk peeled off to the west. This route, at least, was direct and obvious.
“MiGs taking evasive action,” said Sullivan over the interphone.
They were, but it was too late. Dog saw Scorpion One and REVOLUTION
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the lead MiG intersect on the screen. A red starburst appeared, indicating that the missile had hit its mark.
Missiles three and four struck their targets in rapid succession.
Two missed, self-destructing harmlessly a half mile away.
As he watched the screen, Dog realized why Hawk One had gone north. Russian air doctrine not only organized the MiGs into four distinct groups, but dictated their routes of escape when attacked. Hawk One was perfectly positioned to take out its MiG as the aircraft cut to the north.
But it would have to do it on its own. The words hawk one: connection lost flashed on the screen, followed a few seconds later by a similar message for Hawk Two.
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0123
VODA STARTED DOWN THE HILL. THERE WAS NO MUSIC PLAYing in his head now, just the rapid drum of his heart and the too-loud rustle of the brush as he pushed his legs across the ground. Danny Freah twisted and turned through the thick branches, pushing this way and that, prodding him through the gray tangle of leafless brush and trees.
Suddenly, Danny stopped short, grabbing him. Voda slipped and fell to the ground.
“Stay down,” whispered the American, crouching next to him.
A dozen soldiers were coming up the hill.
“That’s where we’re going,” Danny whispered, pointing to the right.
Voda saw a patch of moonlight between the trees. It was a small clearing, ten or fifteen yards away.
“There should be a diversion here any second,” Danny said. “We have to add to the confusion.”
446
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Voda couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. Danny reached to his vest, then held something out to him. “Two grenades,” he explained. “How far can you throw?”
“Throw?”
“A baseball?”
Voda shook his head. He had no idea what Danny was talking about.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Danny whispered.
“In about thirty seconds there are going to be some flares launched above us. We’re going to throw these grenades as far as we can down the hill. They’re flash-bangs—they make a lot of noise and light, but they won’t hurt anybody. As soon as you throw the first grenade, turn around and run with me to that clearing. When we get there, grab my neck. And hang on. I’ll set down as soon as I can and we’ll get you in the harness. We’ll be OK if you hang on. Just grip me tight. Keep your head down—we’ll definitely be hitting branches. All right? Do you think you can hold on?”
No, Voda thought, he didn’t think he could. His fingers were frozen stumps.
“Yes,” he said weakly.
“Careful, these are primed,” hissed Danny, handing him a grenade. “You let go, they’ll explode in a few seconds.”
Flares sparkled above, a fire show of light.
“Throw!” yelled Danny.
He heaved his grenade, then started to run with the American.
There was more gunfire, explosions.
As they reached the clearing, Danny grabbed Voda with one hand. There was a whooshing sound. Voda threw his arm around the American’s neck. As he did, he realized to his horror that he had only thrown one of the grenades. The other one dropped from his raw, numb fingers.
God!
Voda’s head spun. Dizzy—something smacked hard against him, grabbed and scratched him.
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He was airborne, flying over the trees. The ground lit with a boom and a flash.
VODA’S GRIP WAS SO TIGHT, DANNY STARTED TO CHOKE. HE
had intended to put down on the road, but tracers showered all around him, and he knew the best thing was simply to fly.
He pushed forward, zipping over the road toward the next hill.
Their feet smacked into the top of the tree branches as he steered the MESSKIT. He kept his head straight, trying to keep his frigid hands steady on the controls.
As they came up over the crest of the hill, he saw the Osprey off in the distance, already in the air. Fire leaped from it—it was shooting at one of the antiaircraft guns.
“Whiplash Osprey, what’s going on?” he said, but there was no answer.
He backed off his power. The fuel in MESSKIT was limited; he had very little room to improvise.
The Osprey stopped firing and spun to his left, heading away from him. Danny saw trucks moving on the road below.
He veered to the right, back toward the original landing zone.
A tone sounded. He had only a minute of fuel left.
What was the Osprey doing?
Voda groaned.
“We’re gonna land!” Danny shouted to him.
They glided downward, skimming over a rooftop and dipping into a farm field fifty yards from the one where Zen had landed. Danny tried to walk as he came in, but Voda was facing backward and they ended up tumbling awkwardly.
Even after the fall, Voda held his grip; Danny had to pry him off and shout at him to get free.