“Whiplash Osprey! Whiplash Osprey!” he yelled into the helmet’s microphone as he grabbed his submachine gun.

“We’re ready for pickup!”

Again there was no response. Finally, Danny realized what 448

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

had happened. While he was taking off he’d inadvertently pulled the wire connecting the helmet to the radio from its plug.

He punched it in.

“Osprey, I’m down!”

“Roger, Captain. We see you and are en route. Stand by.”

Danny looked toward the house, about 150 feet away.

Someone was watching from a lit window at the top.

He heard gunfire, but it wasn’t aimed at them or nearby, and he couldn’t see who was shooting.

The Osprey whipped toward them, a hawk swooping in for its prey. As it dropped into a hover nearby, two trucks stopped near the house. Figures emerged from the back—soldiers.

“Come on. Here’s our taxi,” Danny said, turning to Voda.

The president was crouched over on one side, a pool of vomit on the ground.

“Come on, come on,” said Danny, pulling him.

The Osprey’s wings were tilted upward. It flew like a helicopter, gliding in between them and the house as Danny and Voda ran out of the way to give it more space. The aircraft spun, keeping the gun under its chin pointed at the troops that had come out of the truck, but they didn’t fire.

“In, let’s go, let’s go!” yelled Danny, pulling Voda with him.

Sergeant Liu sprang from the ramp at the rear. He grabbed Voda from the other side and together he and Danny held the president suspended between them. When they reached the ramp, they threw themselves head first into the aircraft as it began to move.

Boston was standing in front of the side door, manning a

.50 caliber machine gun. He sighted at the men below but didn’t fire; neither did they.

“Button up! Button up!” yelled the crew chief. “We’re outta here.”

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449

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0125

BREANNA STUDIED THE TARGETING SCREEN, WATCHING AS THE

MiGs scattered under the pressure of the Bennett’s long-range missile attack. The airborne radar operator in the Johnson was playing traffic cop, divvying up the remaining targets as the Russian aggressors found new courses toward their target.

Bennett and its Flighthawks were to tackle three planes, BanditsThree, Eight, and Nine. That left ten for the B-1s.

“Boomer, you have Bandits Five and Six, ” said the operator.

“Roger that,” Breanna said.

“Boomer, you also have Bandits Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen. Do you copy?”

“You’re adding those,” she said, glancing at the sitrep. “We have Five, we have Six, we have Ten, we have Twelve, Thirteen, we have Fifteen. Boomer copies.”

All of their targets were currently headed south, though they would have to cut back north soon to strike the pipeline.

The closest, Bandit Twelve, was seventy-five seconds from firing range. They were dead-on to its nose.

The trick, though, wasn’t taking out just one plane, or even two. Breanna knew she had to make like a pool player intent on running the table. If she took too long between shots, one or more of the MiGs would be by them and dropping their bombs before they had a chance to shoot them down.

“Earthmover, I need you to come back north,” said Breanna, giving Samson not only a heading but a speed.

“Hmmmph,” said Samson.

“Did you get it?”

“I got it.”

“I need a good, strong, acknowledgment,” she said, moving the cursor toward the shot. “I can’t guess.”

“Affirmative. I have it.”

“It’s just that you mumble sometimes.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I’ll work on it, Captain.”

“Good. Laser cycling,” Breanna added, pressing the button to arm the weapon. “Preparing to fire.”

“Right—acknowledged,” said Samson. “Fire at will.”

“Engaging. Stand by for laser shot.”

“Hrmmph.”

Breanna smiled but said nothing.

A massive bolt of energy flew at the MiG, striking a spot just behind the canopy where a thick set of wires ran back from the cockpit. The burst lasted three and a half seconds; when it was finished, the wires had been severed and the MiG rendered uncontrollable.

“Bandit Ten disabled,” said Breanna. “Targeting Twelve. ”

“Roger that,” said Samson.

“Indicated airspeed dropping—increase speed thirty knots—come on, General, let’s move it!”

“You better hit every goddamn plane, Stockard,” said Samson, goosing the throttle. “I don’t take this abuse from just anyone.”

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0130

DOG WATCHED AS HAWK ONE CLOSED ON ITS TARGET. THE

aircraft was still out of control range, but from the looks of the synthesized sitrep view on the radar display, it didn’t need his help. It came toward the MiG at a thirty degree angle, pivoting seconds before the MiG came abreast. The turn—many degrees sharper than would have been possible in a larger, manned aircraft—put the Flighthawk on the Russian’s tail. If the MiG driver knew he was in the computer’s bull’s-eye, there was never a sign of it. The plane simply disappeared, disintegrating under the force of the Flighthawk’s gun.

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451

Hawk Two had a slightly more difficult time: Its target re-linquished its missiles and tried to maneuver its way free. The Flighthawk hung on, following the MiG through a climbing scissors pattern as the Russian pilot swirled back and forth, attempting to flick off his opponent.

Had the MiG pilot satisfied himself with simply getting away, he probably would have made it; he succeeded in opening a good lead as he reached 35,000 feet. But pilots are an aggressive breed, whether they’re Russian or American, and the MiG driver saw his chance to turn the tables on his nem-esis as he came out of his climb. He pushed back toward the Flighthawk and lit his cannon, dishing 30mm slugs toward the Flighthawk’s fuselage and nearly catching the plane as it turned.

But the U/MF, small and radar resistant, made for a very poor target. It jinked hard left, escaping the MiG’s path. Only two bullets struck its fuselage, and neither was a fatal blow.

The MiG started to throttle away, its pilot figuring that the Flighthawk was committed to its escape turn.

A human pilot would have done that. But not the computer.

It jerked the Flighthawk back, shrugging off close to eleven g’s to put its nose in the direction of the MiG’s canopy. Then it fired a long burst.

That was the end of the Russian plane.

UPSTAIRS, SULLIVAN WAS POSITIONING THE BENNETT TO

take down Bandit Three, which had escaped its earlier AMRAAM-plus.

The MiG had its head down and was running toward northern Romania at well over the speed of sound, not even thinking about defending itself. Sullivan banked as the MiG

approached, jamming his throttles to set up a shot toward the fighter’s tailpipe.

“Fire Fox Two,” he said as the Sidewinder missile clunked off the dispenser. He fired a second heat-seeker, then buttoned up the plane.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Had the Megafortress been an F-15, or if its target had been a less capable aircraft, Sullivan would have nailed it. But even with its uprated engines spooling to the max, the Megafortress simply couldn’t accelerate out of its turn quickly enough to get the proper initial momentum for the missile. The Sidewinders tried valiantly to catch up to their prey but they soon lost its scent and self-destructed.

“Son of a bitch,” said Sullivan, dejected. “He’s by me, Colonel. I’m sorry. Shit.”