Revolution

VII Flying Man

To Zen's surprise, it was Danny who raised the most strenuous objections.

"The MESSKIT was designed to get you out of the aircraft, not haul people around," Danny said.

"No, it was designed to help you guys get around," said Zen. "Annie adapted it to use as a parachute. It's still basically the same tool you started with. Which means it's a lot more than a parachute. We picked that car up the other day, General," he added, making the pitch to Samson himself. "The exoskeleton is extremely strong. To conserve fuel, I'll glide all the way down to the mountain. I fire it up when I get there."

"How do you get out of the plane, Jeff?" asked Breanna. There was fear in her voice — she was worried for him.

"He goes out from one of the auxiliary seats up here," said

Dog. "Right, Zen?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinking, Colonel. What do you say?"

"I say it's up to General Samson," said Dog. "But I think it may be our best bet."

"Get moving," said Samson. "Let's do it now."

In outline, the plan was simplicity itself. Zen would eject at 30,000 feet, five miles from the hill, far from sight and earshot of the troops below. He'd then glide down to the president and his family, and use the MESSKIT to fly them to another spot four miles away, where the Osprey would arrive to pick them up.

The details were where things got complicated.

Because Zen couldn't walk, he'd to have to land as close to the president as possible. The large bare spot near the crest of the hill would be the easiest place for a rendezvous; if that didn't work, there were two places farther down that might. One was an elbow turn in a dried-out creek bed about halfway down the hill; the opening was roughly thirty by twenty feet. The other was a gouge close to the base of the hill, fifty yards in from the road. The gouge was probably the remains of a gravel mine, and was much wider than either of the other two spots. But it was also very close to a makeshift lookout post set up by the soldiers surrounding the area.

To make the pickup, Zen would need to be in direct communication with the president. The technical side of this was difficult enough: Zen would trade his Flighthawk helmet for a standard Dreamland flight helmet, swapping in the MESSKIT guidance and information system, a piece of software that connected to the helmet's screen functions via a program card about the size of a quarter. He would then hook the helmet into a survival radio to communicate with the Johnson rather than the Bennett, since it would be easier to coordinate communications aboard the pressurized ship. The Johnson, meanwhile, would capture the president's mobile phone call through the Dreamland channel and then relay it to Zen. The need to communicate presented an inherent risk: While they would use an obscure frequency rather than the emergency band commonly monitored, there was nonetheless a chance that it could be intercepted. Its sixty-four-bit encryption would be difficult to decipher, but the radio waves could be tracked.

The field where they would meet the Osprey was well west of the house, and could be approached without running past any of the antiaircraft guns, most of which were closer to the house. Zen would fly by two of the guns, but the radar experts believed that his profile would be small enough, and low enough, that the radar used by the weapons would completely miss him. The guns could be visually sighted, but that took time and would be hard in the dark.

Three trips. In theory, Zen could do it all in an hour, once he landed.

The question was how close together would theory and reality fall.

Voda hadn't called back. The mission would be scrubbed if they didn't hear from him.

As Dog flew EB-52 Bennett into position, Zen got out of his specially designed flight chair and slipped to the deck of the Megafortress. Then he crawled to the ladder at the rear of the compartment and climbed to the flight deck.

"Hey, Zen, why didn't you tell us you were on your way?" said Spiff, getting up from his radar station as Zen crawled toward him.

"I didn't think it would be worth the trouble."

"Jeez, let me help you."

Zen knew from experience that the sight of a grown man crawling along the floor unnerved some people, and sometimes he got a twisted pleasure from seeing them squirm as he did it. But Spiff's worried expression took him by surprise, and he let Spiff help him as a way of putting him at ease.

"I just need a hand getting strapped in," he said, pushing up into the seat. "I'm hoping I fit."

As Zen pressed himself into the seat, he glanced up at the outlines of the hatch he was going to be shot through. It looked terribly small.

He turned his attention back to his gear, taking one last inventory. He slapped his hand down to the survival knife in the scabbard pocket at his thigh, then slipped his hand into his vest, making sure his Beretta was easily accessible.

"Let's get this show on the road," he said. "I'm ready to fly."

"Secure anything loose," Dog told the crew. "Make sure your oxygen masks are nice and snug. Get your gloves on. Not only is it going to get noisy and windy in here, but it'll be cold too."

"We're ready, Colonel," said Sullivan.

"We have to work our way down to altitude gradually. There'll be no rushing," added Dog. "Everybody check your gear one last time, make sure the oxygen is tight and you have a green on the suit system."

He checked his own restraints, then glanced at his watch, intending to give the rest of the crew a full minute.

"Sullivan, you ready?" Dog asked.

"Ready, Colonel."

"Spiff?"

"Good to go." "Rager?" "Ready, sir."

"Zen?"

"Roger that."

"All right. Let's find out where the hell our rescuee is," said Dog, tapping the Dreamland Command line.

A clump of prickle bushes had grown up around a fallen tree about fifty yards from the bald spot on the hill. The brush formed an L, with the long end extending almost straight down. Not only did the bushes provide cover, but they also cut down on the wind, which seemed to Voda much stronger on this side of the hill. The pain in his knee had settled to a sharp throb that moved in unison with his breath. He passed the cell phone from one hand to another, staring at it. His fingers were numb.

"What's going on?" Mircea asked.

"I'm calling the Americans back," he told her.

Now he couldn't remember any part of the number. He could feel the panic rising in his chest. Part of him wanted to fling the phone down and simply run up the hill. He'd shout, make himself a target, run at the soldiers, let them kill him. It would be a relief.

He wasn't going to do that. He was going to get his family out of there. And then he was going to save his country.

Voda began working through the unfamiliar menus to find recently dialed calls. The number was there.

Reverse the last two digits. That was the problem.

He could just call the ambassador, have him make the transfer again.

He tried reversing the digits first. A man answered immediately.

"President Voda, I'm very glad you're able to call," said the man in a bright, southwestern-tinted American accent. "You are working with some of the best people in the business. We'll have you out of there before you can sing your national anthem."

Voda didn't know what to say, nor did he have a chance as the man continued breathlessly.

"My name is Mack Smith and I'm going to making the communications connections for you. We're going to need you to stay on the line once it goes through. I know you're worried about your battery, but we're in the home stretch now. You're going to be talking directly to the fellow who's going to pick you up. His name is Zen Stockard. He's got a bit of an ego to him, but don't be put off by that. He is one kick-ass pilot."

"You are sending a helicopter?"

"Not exactly. I'll let Zen give you the dope. Now. You ready?"

Voda was confused by Mack's slang as well as his accent. "OK," he replied. "Here we go."

There was a slight delay, then a new voice came on the line.

"President Voda, this is Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. Do you recognize my name, sir?"

"Yes, Colonel. You are very famous. You head the Dreamland squadron."

"Yes, sir. I'm in a plane a few miles from the hill where you are. In just a few minutes one of my men is going to pick you up."

"By helicopter?"

"No, sir. We're afraid it would be shot down. What's going to happen is this: One of my men will rendezvous with you on the ground. He'll be wearing a special device that you can think of as a jet pack. He'll fly you and your family one by one to safety."

A jet pack?

"If it will work—" started Voda. He didn't get a chance to finish the thought.

"It will work, sir. But we need your help. We'd like you to go to a point where it will be easy to find you. There's a bald spot near the crest of the hill, on the far side of the hill, that is, from your house."

"I can't go there. The soldiers are there."

"All right. We have alternatives."

He heard Dog take a hard breath.

"A little farther down the hill there's a creek," said Dog. "It's either completely dry or just about; it's hard to tell from the satellite photo I've seen. But it's wide, and it takes a sharp turn down the hill and there's an open space in the woods. Can you go there?"

"I–I don't know where it is."

"If you were at the bald spot, it's exactly 232 meters below it, and fifteen meters to the north, which would be on your right if you were looking downhill. Does that help?"

"Yes," said Voda. He could find it simply by going down the hill. The creak bed should be obvious; when they hit it, he would turn right.

"I need you to stay on the line," added Dog. "I know you're worried about being found or running out your battery. But it will help us immensely. We may need you to guide us. I don't want to have to call you back."

Mircea and Julian were huddled against him. He could feel them shaking. If this didn't work, they would freeze to death.

"All right, I'll try," said Voda, struggling to his feet. "We're on our way."

Even though he knew it was coming, the jolt from the seat as it shot upward took Zen's breath away. The shock was so hard that for a second he thought he'd hit the side of the hatch going out. Zen hurtled up into a black void, the sky rushing into his head like the water from a bathtub surging into a drain. The seat fell away, the restraints cut by knives as he shot up, but he didn't notice; to him, the only thing he could feel was the roar in his body, as if he had become a rocket.

A grayish grid ghosted on the visor of helmet. The MESSKIT's activation light began to blink.

All right, Zen thought, let's get this done.

He spread his arms, trying to frog his body. The screen altimeter lit; he was at 32,053 feet, a little higher than he'd expected.

Up until now, Zen had always tried to make his practice jumps last — he wanted to glide slowly to earth. Tonight, his goal was to get down as quickly as possible. So he instructed the MESSKIT to deploy at 10,000 feet, figuring it would be easier to fall to that altitude quickly than to fly to it.

The device didn't like the instructions. It flashed the words beyond safety protocols on the screen.

"Override," he told it.

But the computer wouldn't. Annie Klondike hadn't wanted to take chances with his life, and so had programmed various safety protocols into the unit that would initiate deployment based not only on velocity, but on time elapsed and altitude drop. Zen was forced to open his wings at 21,500 feet.

He compensated by leaning forward and pushing his arms back, turning the exoskeleton as close to a jet as possible. His descent increased to 25 feet per second before the safety measures kicked in, once more preventing him from dropping any faster.

"This is Zen. Johnson, you hearing me?"

"We have you, Zen," replied Lieutenant Englehardt in the Johnson. "You ready to talk to President Voda?"

"Yeah, roger that."

"Be advised he's hard to understand. And probably vice versa. Speak as slowly and distinctly as you can." "Yeah, roger that."

"What am I hearing?" said a foreign voice, distant and faint.

"This is Zen Stockard, Mr. President. I'm going to help you. How far are you from the stream location?" "I am still looking."

"I'm about twelve minutes away," Zen told him. "Do you think you can find it by then?" "I will try."

"Stay on the line, all right?" "Yes, yes."

"No,General.There are no bodies in that part of the house," repeated Major Ozera. "Or in any part of the house. The president must have escaped the attack. He has to be on the property somewhere."

General Locusta pounded his fist against the hood of the car. Where in God's name was the son of a bitch? He couldn't do anything until he found him.

Ozera trembled.

"Where is the search party?" demanded Locusta, trying to calm his voice.

"They've moved up the close side of the hill and are now working their way up to the summit. The dogs are having trouble with the wind," Ozera added. "And they got a late start. The cold helps preserve the scent, but there are limits."

More likely the problem was with the handlers, Locusta thought. He retrieved the area topographical map. They'd gone too far. Voda must be hidden somewhere on the hill.

The general's sat phone began to ring. He ignored it.

"Pull the teams back to this side of the ridge," Locusta told the major. "Have them concentrate on the area around that old pump building or whatever it is. There's probably another secret passage."

"Should I add the regular troops to the search?"

"No!" He raised his phone and hit the Receive button. "Lo-custa."

"General Locusta, I trust you are having an interesting night."

It was the Russian attache, Svoransky. "Why have you sent planes to attack my troops?" Locusta boomed.

"Relax, General. They were trying to attack the Americans, not your troops." "Liar."

Locusta took control of himself. No one, not even Ozera, knew he had dealt with the Russians; he had to be careful about what he said.

"General, please. We should remain civil. We have much to gain from working together. I called to offer help."

"How?"

"I've heard rumors about the president. They say he is dead, but I suspect they are false." "You suspect?"

Did the Russian have a spy in his organization? Locusta glanced at Ozera. Who else could it be?

No. Svoransky had to be bluffing.

Locusta turned his back and took several steps away from the major. "What business is it of yours if he is dead?"

"None, if he truly is. But I believe he is not. I believe, in fact, he is trying to escape. And that you are looking for him."

The spy might be lower ranking — one of the men on the assassin team, or even the regular army, an officer who was a little too clever for his own good.

Or maybe the bastard Svoransky was simply guessing.

"We have a person at the national telephone company as well," added the Russian. "If you wish, he might be able to provide information about cell phone calls in your area."

"The president hasn't used his cell phone, or his satellite phone," said Locusta. He had taken the precaution of having the lines monitored. "Thanks very much."

"No, he hasn't. But one of his bodyguards has. The woman assigned to his son — she is in the area very close to where you are searching."

Breanna studied the radar plot that was forwarded from the Megafortresses, the overlapping inputs synthesized by the computer into a wide-ranging view. EB-52 Johnson was flying about two miles west of the Romanian president's house and slightly to the north. The Bennett was twenty-five miles south, descending to an altitude where oxygen masks would not be needed. Boomer was to the west, getting ready to cover the Osprey as it came north. Dreamland's second B-1, Big Bird, was near the northwestern border, on the watch for more Russians, though they seemed to have lost their appetite for confrontation.

The radar also showed Zen, circling down toward the hill. Breanna remembered how angry he'd been — and how he'd given in, kissing her, admitting he was no longer angry.

Don't let that be our last kiss, she prayed silently.

"You're awful quiet over there, Stockard," said Samson, with his usual bark.

"Just making sure where all the players are," Breanna said. "Dreamland Osprey is holding ten minutes from touchdown."

"Good."

Breanna looked out the windscreen. The night was rapidly giving way to day. Don't let that be our last kiss. Please.

The creek was so narrow that Voda missed it at first. It wasn't until his wife slipped behind him, tripping over the rocks and cursing, that he realized where they were. He pulled Julian with him as he went back up the hill.

"My ankle," said Mircea. "It feels like it's broken."

"Come on. Lean on me. We have to go in this direction."

Voda braced himself as his wife leaned against him. His knee felt as if it was being twisted, even though his leg was perfectly straight. He took a deep breath and began moving again.

Mircea started to weep.

"Come on, now," Voda told her. "Our rescuers are on the way."

"Mama, come," said Julian. The boy took her hand, but she only cried harder.

"We're almost out," Voda whispered. "We've got just a few meters — look there."

The creek dipped sharply to the left, past two white-barked trees, where he saw the clearing the Dreamland people had told him about.

"We're there," he said into the phone. "Where are you?"

"I'm right above you," said the voice. "Here I come."

There was a light sound in the air, the sort a spruce made when it sprang back after being weighed down by snow. Voda looked up toward the sky and saw a shadow dropping toward him. Had he not been speaking to the man, he would have sworn it was an angel.

Or a devil.

The figure descended toward the rocks, then abruptly fell to the earth, crumpling in a pile.

Voda froze. It was the last disappointment, the last dash of his hopes.

Zen cursed, angry at himself for misjudging his altitude and botching the landing. Unlike a radar altimeter, which gave an altitude reading above elevated terrain, the MESSKIT's altimeter told him only his absolute height above sea level. He'd thought he was a few feet higher than he turned out to be as he skimmed in for a landing.

He pushed himself up, repositioning the exoskeleton and squirming around until he was sitting.

"Well, where are you?" he said into his radio. "President Voda? Mr. President?" There was no answer. "Hey," said Zen, louder. "Are you there?" He pulled off his helmet.

"President Voda?" he said in a stage whisper. "President Voda?"

"Papa," said Julian. "Papa, someone is calling you."

Slowly, Voda regained his senses. He heard the voice himself and took a tentative step toward it.

"Here," he answered.

The figure on the ground turned around.

"Hey, come on," said Zen. "Let's go."

Voda let go of Julian and went to help his wife. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he practically carried her to the clearing.

"Why are you sitting?" he asked Zen.

"Because I can't walk. I'm Zen Stockard. You were talking to me on your phone."

"You're hurt?"

"It's OK, don't worry. It's been a long time since I've walked. This device on my back will take care of that. Who's coming with me first?"

"My wife," said Voda. "Her ankle is hurt."

"No, take Julian," she said.

"I'm not leaving you," said the boy.

"Hey listen, guys, somebody has to be first. What's your name, kid?"

Julian didn't answer until Voda tapped him on the back. "Ju-li-an Voda."

"You ever dream of flying in a spaceship?"

"N-No."

Zen laughed. "Well, you'll be able to tell all your friends that you did. Almost."

There was a noise above them, someone falling down the hillside, cursing in Romanian.

Two hundred yards away? Zen wondered. No more than that.

"All right. No more fooling around," he said. "Mr. President, come on. You first." "No. My wife and son." "We all go," said Mircea.

"I can't hold all three," Zen told them. "Maybe two. Come here. On my lap."

Julian began to cry as Voda helped him on. Zen wrapped his arm around him.

"Mrs. Voda. Come on."

Mircea hobbled closer. "I don't understand," she said.

"When I press this button, the engines will activate, and we'll go up. These skeleton pieces along my arm will help hold your weight. I have only one clasp on the harness set here, so we'll secure you and hold your son between us."

The dogs were barking.

"They're coming," said Mircea. She turned away from Zen, but he grabbed her, pulling a belt around her and locking it onto the strap on his chest.

"This isn't going to take long. I want you to hold on tight," he told them. "Very tight. Mr. President, it's going to take me ten minutes to get there, and maybe ten back. Will you be OK?" "Yes."

"Stay on that line."

Zen snapped the helmet back into place. He attached some wires to the base, then held both hands out and started the jet pack. The sound was like a loud vacuum cleaner. As Voda watched, Zen began to rise. Mircea seemed stuck for a moment, but then she too rose, clinging to his arms. Julian was tight between them.

And then they were gone.

"They've just heard some sort of noise!" shouted the major. "It's the far side of the hill. They're going down."

About time, thought Locusta. But he only nodded and took out his satellite phone. The Russian had driven a hard bargain.

"This is General Locusta," he told the air force officer who answered his call. "I need a no-fly zone across my entire army corps area. That includes all planes, military and civilian."

"The Americans too?"

"Everyone," he said. "Tell them we are at a delicate stage. Tell them we want them to return to their bases. I've spoken to their general, but he is a pigheaded idiot. Complain to the ambassador. Do whatever you must."

He killed the transmission without waiting for a response. The Americans undoubtedly would ignore this latest order, but they would pay heavily for it.

Zen felt the boy slipping as soon as he cleared the first set of trees. He couldn't grab him because of the wing assembly, and instead tried to push in his stomach toward him. But that started to pitch him forward.

"Hold on, hold on," he said, though he knew the kid couldn't hear. Mircea pushed tighter, gripping the boy, but even so, Zen felt Julian's weight slipping.

The road was on his left, two or three hundred yards away. Zen turned toward it, then realized he wasn't going to make it.

Where was the cutout from the gravel pit? To his right?

The kid clawed at him. There wasn't any time — Zen pushed right. The clearing appeared just a few yards away. He leaned forward, gliding to it, then backing off on the power. As he did, Julian slid between his mother and Zen, who cut his power abruptly. All three of them fell together, until at the last second, Zen jerked the engines back to life, preventing another hard landing.

"Let's try again," he yelled, adjusting the thrust from the engine so his feet were hovering just above the ground. "Mrs. Voda, loosen the strap at my arms and string your son through it."

Mircea didn't move.

"Come on now. I have to go back and pick up your husband. Go!"

She still didn't move. Zen started to undo the strap that held her to him, then saw Julian stumbling toward him.

"Come on, Julian," he said. "We have to move so we can help your dad."

The strap, custom-designed to fit Zen's body, didn't have any play in it. The only other thing he could use was the belt that strapped his lower body to the MESSKIT. Loosening it meant he wouldn't have as much control over the device, but there was no way the kid was going to be able to hold on.

Zen slid his hand out from the wing assembly and helped Julian climb up between him and his mother, then undid the lower torso strap and threaded it around the boy's arms, pulling it so tight that it must have hurt, though Julian didn't react. Then Zen hooked it around his chest strap in a knot.

"Hang on," he said, and they started upward once more.

Mack paced in front of the big display screen.His stomach was rumbling and he had a headache. Every time he scratched the side of his head, more hairs fell out. And he swore he saw hives on the back on his hand.

This behind-the-scenes crap was hell on the nerves. Much better to be on the front line actually doing something instead of pacing back and forth and disintegrating miles from the action.

"Jennifer Gleason for you, Major Smith," said the communications officer.

"There we go." Mack punched in the line. "Got it?"

"I do. It wasn't as easy as Ray thought. First I had to code—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do we do?"

As soon as his wife and son rose into the sky, Voda remembered that he hadn't kissed them good-bye. He'd never been an overly sentimental man, but he cursed himself as he started down the slope. He might very well never see them again.

Voda followed the elbow of the creek, walking along the rocks for about twenty yards. He could hear the dogs now, barking loudly. He turned and started down. But his weakened knee betrayed him — he collapsed, falling through a spread of prickle bushes.

At least Julian was safe. He could accept death knowing that.

What a strange life he'd had. Mozart and politics.

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.

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 Hawk Three. 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.

"Hawk Three is coming to course," Starship told En-glehardt. 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 En-glehardt.

"We'll have to ask Mack."

"Well, get him on. I'm not picking up anything."

"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 Engle-hardt'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.

"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 domestic. 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."

Mack Smith's face snapped into Dog'svideo 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."

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 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!"

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."

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.

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.

"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.

"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."

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."

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.

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.

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."

"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 — 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 Flight-hawks take down some of the other planes."

Danny didn't quite fit into Zen's customized arm and torso harness; his arms and shoulders were smaller than the 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.

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."

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.

"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 outcropping 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."

The Bennett had already stabilized its cabin pressure, so as long as Dog stayed clear of the hatchway, there was 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, unbalanced 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:

"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:

"Affirmative," replied Dog.

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

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

Hawk One pivoted north.

North? What the hell was the computer thinking?

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."

"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.

The missiles appeared on Dog's sitrep, flashing toward the MiGs. The Russians had not yet seen the Mega-fortress, 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 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.

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."

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.

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.

"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 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."

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, Bandits Three, 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 Bre-anna, 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."

"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."

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.

Hawk Two had a slightly more difficult time: Its target relinquished 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 nemesis 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.

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."

Dog had seen everything on the sitrep. Sullivan had done a hell of a job, but he sounded as if he was ready to bang his head into the bulkhead because the Megafortress couldn't do the impossible. He was holding the plane — and more important, himself — to an impossible standard.

Same thing I would have done to myself, he thought.

And it would have been just as unfair.

Sullivan had done an incredible job, no matter what scale he was measured against.

It was difficult to be objective when you were used to pushing yourself. High standards were important when so many lives were at stake, but you couldn't let that blind you to your actual achievements.

And that was true of the medal, he realized. He deserved it, not just because it symbolized the efforts of the people around him, but because he had earned it.

"You did fine, Sully," Dog told the pilot. "You did fine. One of the other planes will take him."

"Th-Th-There's no question about it,Mr.President," said Jed. "Those are Russian planes, on a deliberate mission to attack the gas pipelines. It — It's the third wave of attacks against Romania."

"Enough is enough," said Martindale. He walked over to the desk manned by the duty officer, but rather than addressing him, picked up the red phone at the side.

It was the so-called hotline to the Kremlin.

"Sir, I have to punch in an authorization code for the call to work," said the duty officer.

"Do it," said Martindale. "Either these attacks stop here or I'm going to launch an immediate counterattack on every Russian air base east of the Urals."

"Laser cycling!" said Breanna. "Roger!" said Samson.

"Engaging."

The beam of energy from Boomer's belly drilled a small hole in the right wing of the MiG; as the metal disintegrated, fumes in the tank ignited and the wing imploded. The rest of the MiG crumpled into very expensive scrap metal.

"Splash Bandit Fifteen," said Breanna. "Double trifecta."

"Perfecta, Captain. Damn good show."

"You weren't too bad yourself, Earthmover." Breanna leaned back from the targeting console. Her neck was so stiff the joints in her vertebrae cracked as she twisted toward the pilot. "That's got to be some sort of record."

"The hell with the record," said Samson. "I'd like to see Congress veto our funding now."

The situation was looking good. Danny and President Voda had reached the Osprey and would soon be off. The Johnson was swinging south to escort it.

"Bennett radar is coming on line," said Breanna. "It will take a second for the computer to coordinate the feeds."

The images blurred, snapped into focus, then blurred and came back.

"Bandit Three is through," said Breanna, examining the plots. "It's flying south. Big Bird won't be able to get it."

"Stand by, Stockard. We're going to catch that son of a bitch. And you better acknowledge that with a strong voice."

"Kick ass, Earthmover," she said, bracing herself as Samson torched the afterburners.

General Locusta couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"They're continuing to search," said the major. "But they think the flying man may have take President Voda away."

"A flying man?"

The major shook his head.

It was too much for Locusta. "I'm going to corps headquarters, then to Bucharest." "But the President—"

"The hell with him. We're too deep to pull back down," said Locusta. "The coup will proceed as planned."

"General, I don't think if he is alive we will succeed."

"Then call me when you've killed him," Locusta said, stalking to his car.

Voda hugged his wife and Julian. Both were sobbing. Someone had thrown a blanket over him; someone else handed him a plastic packet that produced heat when he grabbed it. The Osprey circled westward, climbing away from the gunfire.

He knew this was far from over. He had to pull himself up, ignore the smell of vomit on his clothes, ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, and regain control of his country. Now that his family was safe, his duty was clearly to Romania.

"I love you, Julian," he told his son, kissing his head. "And you, Mircea."

They grabbed him, but he pushed them away, rising to his feet.

"I need a phone," he told the Americans. "I need some way of communicating with my people."

Zen sat on the fabric bench across from the Romanian president, nursing a cup of coffee as Voda got to his feet. In barely the blink of an eye Voda seemed to have changed. He no longer had the look of a hunted animal. There was something deeper in his eye, something determined.

"You can talk to anyone you want," said Danny Freah, handing the president a headset. He showed him how it worked. "You're on a special line. Mack Smith will make the connections back at Dreamland."

"Good," said Voda. "We begin by calling the television stations, to let them know I am alive."

Voda looked out the window. He could tell from the moon and the highway they passed that they were heading south. He turned to Danny.

"Is it possible to go over the troops that have surrounded my house?"

"I don't think so."

"Can you get a loudspeaker?"

"The Osprey is equipped with one but—"

"They have to be told that I'm alive. I want to see what their reaction is. Are they for me? Or against me? Are they for a free Romania, or a captive one?"

"No way, sir. I just can't go along with it. They have antiair guns in some spots on the road. Even for us—"

"I believe the soldiers will drop their arms when they hear me. And if not," added Voda, "then I need to know what I'm up against."

"Yeah, but we're not committing suicide."

"If you're just looking to test the reactions," said Zen, "maybe we can overfly some troop trucks farther along in the valley."

"Troops on the outskirts of the action will be acceptable," said Voda.

Danny shook his head. "No way."

"Are you here to help me?" Voda asked sharply. "Or am I your prisoner?"

"You're not my prisoner," said Danny. "But I'm not going to let you do anything dumb."

"Who are you to judge me? You're a captain. I am a president."

"There's plenty of troops stopped along the highway, Danny," said Zen. "We can just pick some away from the antiair guns. It won't be too much of a risk."

"I'll give the order to the pilot myself," said Voda, starting forward shakily.

"Zen, this is nuts," said Danny, leaning down toward him.

"Hey, if the army's not going to back him, he's screwed anyway. He might as well find out now."

"He's already screwed. They were trying to kill him on the hill. This is going to get us shot down."

"Not if we pick the right place."

"No way." Danny straightened.

"I can pull rank," said Zen.

"I'm calling Samson."

"That's an option."

Danny pulled on his headset. Zen reached for his.

Terrill "Earthmover" Samson had flown B-1Bsfor a long time, but he'd never flown one like he flew Boomer. He'd never flown any plane like he flew Boomer—throttle mashed against the last stop on the assembly, wings pinned back so far against the fuselage the plane's sides were groaning.

The speedo bolted past Mach 2, but Samson wanted more. He needed more — the MiG was still three miles out of range.

But it was slowing — popping up.

To make its bombing run.

"You ready over there, Stockard?" he barked.

"I need two and half more miles," she answered. "And, General, we're too low. We have to be above him."

"The hell with that, Stockard. You're firing upside down. Ready, Stockard?"

"I'm ready."

Samson held the control stick tightly. Not only did he have to time the invert just right, he had to be careful coming out of it — he was down below 10,000 feet, and using altitude to kick up his momentum.

Eight thousand, going through 7,500, going through 7,000, going—

"In range!" shouted Breanna.

Samson flipped the aircraft onto its back, turning the laser director toward the MiG. The energy beam shot out, striking one of the missiles under the plane's right wing.

Two seconds later the missile's fuel ignited. Shrapnel peppered the MiG's belly. A piece of hot flying metal ignited the warhead on the missile sitting on the opposite hardpoint.

Flames consumed the MiG so quickly, the pilot couldn't hit the silk.

Samson didn't see any of it. He was too busy righting the B-1 and pulling out of its death dive toward the earth.

"Where do I need to be?" he shouted. "Anywhere you want, Earthmover. Scratch Bandit Three" Samson grinned.

"Incoming message from Whiplash Osprey," added Bre-anna. "Major Stockard and Captain Freah."

Samson hit the preset. There was no visual; Danny and Zen were on the line from the Osprey. Zen explained President Voda's request.

"Captain Freah believes it might be an unnecessary risk," added Zen. "Right, Captain?"

"I think it's unwise, yes," said Danny.

"You know what, Captain? Just this once I'm going to disagree with you. I'm glad to see that these people have a president with some balls. Let him do what he wants, the way Zen just laid it out. Don't let him get killed."

"Um—"

"You have a problem, Captain?"

"Those two orders are in conflict. Sir. I mean—"

"Let the Romanian president do what he wants," said Samson. "Those are my orders. Boomer out."

"All MiGs are down, General," said Breanna. "All our aircraft are good. No casualties. Doesn't look like the Russians got a shot off."

Samson grinned. If some of the Dreamland people were a little full of themselves — well, if all of them were a lot full of themselves — now he saw why.

"You did a damn good job there, Captain," he told Bre-anna. "You kicked ass."

"Couldn't have done it without you, sir."

"You got that right," said Samson.

Breanna started to laugh.

"What's that?" he asked. Then he started to laugh as well. So maybe he was a little full of himself too. So what?

Danny pulled off the headset.

"He's only been here a few weeks," he said to Zen. "And already he's starting to sound like Colonel Bastian. Screw the risks. Get the job done."

"Dog has that effect on people," said Zen.

Reluctantly, Danny went forward and told the pilots what they had to do. The Osprey circled back north, skimming lower. As they came to the main highway leading to the road where Voda's house was, they spotted a pair of small jeeps guarding the intersection. It was about as safe a place as they were going to find.

"It's all yours," Danny told Voda, handing over the headset. "It's set to loudspeaker."

"They'll hear me over the rotors?"

"Yes. We've used it for rescues and crowd control. It's very loud. Wait until the flares get their attention. At the first sign of trouble, we're out of here. So hold on."

Voda took the microphone as the Osprey sped toward the post.

Maybe Captain Danny Freah was right; maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he should just go on to Bucharest, make his speeches to the TV. It would be the prudent thing to do.

But what good would the speeches be if the people weren't behind him? And if he couldn't persuade two dozen soldiers to help him keep Romania free — well then, he had failed as president, hadn't he?

An illumination flare turned the night white. Two or three of the men pointed their weapons at the black aircraft as it hovered close, but no one fired.

"Open the door," he told the sergeant standing near it.

"Shit," said Danny.

But he nodded, and the door was opened. Voda looked down at the men. "I need to be lower." The captain shook his head. "Lower!" yelled Voda.

The microphone caught his voice, and it echoed through the cabin. The Osprey settled a little closer to the ground, close enough, at least, for Voda to see that the soldiers were kids: eighteen, nineteen. To them, the dictator was just some story their parents told when they were bored. They didn't know what it was like to be the slaves of a dictator.

Or free men, for that matter.

"Gentlemen of the army," began Voda, his voice shaky. "This is President Voda. I wish to thank you for your role in helping save me today. Our democracy has passed a great test, thanks to your help. Romania remains free! Romania for the people!"

The soldiers didn't react. Voda felt a moment of doubt. Then he leaned out the door.

"Thank you, Romania!" he yelled into his microphone. "We remain a free people, with a great future!"

The soldiers began to cheer. Voda waved so hard one of the Americans had to grab him to keep him from falling out.

"To Bucharest," he told Danny Freah.

"Damn good idea," said Danny. He waved toward the front. The door was closed and the Osprey wheeled back into full flight.

"Hey, Mr. President," said Zen Stockard, sitting across from him. "Whose fancy car is that?"

Voda crossed to the other side of the Osprey and looked out. It was a black Mercedes S series sedan with flags — one Romanian and the other…

The other bore the insignia of the Romanian army.

Locusta's car.

"I want that son of a bitch arrested!" he yelled. "Get him, now! Kill him if you have to."

"Now there's an order we can all live with," said Zen.

Locusta heard the aircraft but was confused.It couldn't be his helicopter — they were still several miles from headquarters.

A black beast swerved in front of the car. His driver hit the breaks. It was the Dreamland Osprey. What the hell were they doing?

Samson had ordered him to follow the Romanian president's orders. Still, Danny Freah didn't feel entirely comfortable shooting up the car.

"Get him to stop," he told the pilots. "Fly in front of him, train the guns on him. Then we'll have him surrender."

The Osprey pitched around, settling in front of the vehicle. Voda was on the loudspeaker, talking to Locusta.

"General Locusta," he said in Romanian, "I order you to place yourself under arrest. You are to come with these soldiers. No harm will come to you, unless you try to escape."

"Tell him to stop the vehicle," said Danny.

"General, stop the car," said Voda.

The Osprey was moving backward, its chin guns pointed at the Mercedes. Instead of slowing, the car picked up speed.

"Can he hear me?" Voda asked.

"Yeah, he can hear you. He's just being stubborn. I'm going to mash up his front end and take out his engine. The car is armored, but that's not going to be much of a problem."

"Do it."

"Yeah."

A second after Danny gave the order, the pilot began firing his chin cannon. The Mercedes veered to the side of the road.

Inside the car, General Locusta threw his arms forward, bracing himself as it skidded off the road.

How could this possibly be happening? How had Voda managed to escape — and not only escape, but come for him?

The Americans. Dreamland. The bastards. He'd kill as many of them as he could before they killed him.

He threw open the door and raised his gun.

Danny sprung from the side door of the Osprey, Sergeants Liu and Boston right behind him. The rear passenger side door of the car opened and a man leaped to the ground, rolled over, and came up firing a 9mm pistol.

The first two or three bullets flew wildly to the side.

Then one struck Danny in the chest, right above the heart.

His bulletproof vest saved him, deflecting the bullet's energy.

A second later Danny threw himself in the air. He couldn't fly without the MESSKIT, but flying wasn't what he had in mind. He came down on top of Locusta, who dropped the pistol under the force of the blow.

Two punches and it was all over. Locusta, stunned, lay limp on the ground, alive, breathing, but undoubtedly a condemned man.

His driver came out of the car with his hands high.

"You're under arrest by the authority of the president of Romania," said Danny.

"Under the authority of the people of Romania," said President Voda, picking up Locusta's gun from the ground. He hobbled forward, favoring his injured leg. "It's the people who have sovereignty in a democracy, isn't it, Captain?"