Revolution (41 page)

Dreamland Command trailer,
Iasi
0012

“I
F THEY'RE CARRYING BOMBS
,
MY BET IS THEY'RE GOING
after the gas line,” Dog told General Samson. “They'll do serious damage, a lot more than that guerrilla strike. Given the tactical situation, I'd say we should consider the rules of engagement obsolete. I say we get them right now.”

Part of Samson wanted to agree; the other part realized that this was just the sort of thing that could be used to end his career.

“We can always call Washington,” suggested Dog.

Samson started to reach for the headset, intending to do just that, then stopped. Bastian was lionized in Washington. Why? Because he didn't stop and ask for permission every time he wanted to do what was right. He just went ahead and did it, consequences be damned.

A good way to end your career if you were a general, however.

But damn it, Bastian was right. If they hesitated now, the pipeline would be blown up. And he would get the blame for that, no matter what else happened.

“Give me that damn headset,” he told Dog.

Aboard EB-52
Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
0013

G
ENERAL
S
AMSON'S GRAVELY VOICE BOOMED IN
S
TARSHIP'S EARS
. “This is Samson. What's your status, Flighthawks?”

“Ready to engage, General. If I can cross the border.”

“That's what I want to hear. Shoot the bastards down. Those are my orders.”

The line snapped clear.

“Wow, he sounded a little like Colonel Bastian,” said Englehardt.

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Starship, changing course as he laid on the gas.

Like most pilots who had the misfortune to deal with Flighthawks, the MiG drivers didn't realize they were under attack until the first flash of bullets streaked across their windscreens. By then it was too late for the lead pilot. Within seconds of Starship pressing his trigger, the MiG's cockpit exploded.

Hawk Three
's momentum took it out of position to attack the second MiG in the formation, as Starship had originally planned. He jammed his controls, trying to drag the small plane's nose around to the north to get a shot as the MiG shot past. But the MiG pilot had gone to afterburners as soon as he saw the flare of the gun in the night sky, and Starship realized following him would be pointless.

“
Bandit Two
is by me,” Starship told Englehardt.

“Roger that, we see him.”

Starship felt the bomb bay's doors opening behind him as he turned his attention to
Hawk Four,
which he'd aimed at the other two MiGs. The computer had flown the plane perfectly, but its human counterpart in the MiG managed to evade the Flighthawk's first attack, pushing over and twisting
away in a ribbonlike pattern, despite the heavy burden under its wings.

Starship took over the plane from the computer, trying to press the attack as the targeting pipper blinked red, then turned to yellow. Abruptly, the plane squirted upward, throwing the Flighthawk by him in a flash. The maneuver worked, but Starship realized that the weight of his bombs would negate most if not all of his engines' advantage over the Flighthawk. He pulled the robot plane back in the MiG's direction, matching the climb. As he got closer, the Russian rolled his plane over. Starship got two bursts in, then slid on his wing to follow. As the MiG leveled, it ejected his weapons stores and asked the engines to give him everything he had.

“Missiles!” yelled Starship.

“Weapons are AS-12 Keglers,” said the radar operator. “He's out of range. They won't make the border.”

“
Bandit Three
is out of it,” Starship reported. “I'm going after
Bandit Four.
”

“Starship, we have two Sukhois coming at us from the north,” warned Englehardt.

“Copy,” said Starship, filing the information away in his brain. It was too theoretical to act on at the moment.

“Splash
Bandit Two
!” said the copilot, Lieutenant Terry Kung. “Two hits!” The Megafortress's missiles had just taken down the MiG.

Bandit Four
had tucked south, away from Romania, but was now coming back north. Starship took over
Hawk Three,
slapping the throttle slide against the final detent as he vectored toward an intercept.

Zen had once described flying the robot aircraft as an act of sheer imagination—that to fly the Flighthawks successfully, a pilot had to see himself in the cockpit. Sometimes, Zen claimed, the illusion became so real he could feel the plane shake and shudder in the air.

Starship disagreed. He didn't feel any illusion that he was
inside
Hawk Three
as it thundered toward the MiG. He didn't think of either plane as a plane at all—they were vectors and flashes on his screen, triangles and dots, with a thick box at the top of the screen showing where the MiG's lethal range began.

The MiG altered course, heading toward the southern end of the box.
Hawk Three
was coming at him from an angle off his right wing. According to the computer, it would arrive at an intercept in exactly fifty-two seconds.

The computer also calculated that Starship would have exactly three seconds on target—enough for a single burst of gunfire.

Probability of a fatal hit: twenty percent.

“
Johnson,
can you take
Bandit Four
?” Starship asked.

“We're being targeted by the Sukhois,” said Englehardt. “We have only four missiles left.”

“I'll get one of the Sukhois,” said Starship.

“Negative. Take the MiG. We have the Sukhois.”

Engelhardt's choice was technically correct—the Megafortress had to be protected at all costs, and the
Johnson
was in a better position to strike the Sukhois immediately. But in Starship's opinion it was too conservative. Following the book, Englehardt was clearly intending to fire two missiles each at the Sukhois to cover for any malfunctions or screw-ups. One of those missiles could be used against the MiG, with the Flighthawks backing him up.

There was no time to argue. Starship tried to urge some more speed from the Flighthawk, nudging his nose down, but he was already at roughly the same altitude as his quarry and couldn't afford to give up much.

“Intercept in thirty seconds,” said the computer.

The targeting pip appeared. It was solid yellow. He wasn't even close to a shot.

The MiG started to turn west, taking it even farther from the Flighthawk. He wasn't going to make it.

He didn't have to shoot the MiG down—not on his first try, anyway. All he had to do was get him to break off his attack.

The Russian had overreacted to the first encounter, going south. Maybe he could be bluffed into doing that again.

Starship pushed the Flighthawk to the right and began firing, even though the piper showed he was still out of range. The change in the angle put his bullets even farther off the mark. But it also made his tracers more obvious—he wanted the MiG pilot to know he was under the gun.

The first burst had no effect, but as he laid on a second, the Russian dipped on its left wing and dove off to the left, heading southwestward.

A warning flashed on Starship's screen as he went after it.

“Johnson, I need you to stay with me,” he said.

“We have to deal with the Sukhois,” said Englehardt.

Starship gave
Hawk Three
to the computer, telling it to stay on the MiG; it would fly pursuit even if the connection was lost. Then he took
Hawk Four
and pulled it south. It was still too far from the MiG to get into a tangle, but he might be able to use it when the MiG came back toward its target.

The
Johnson,
meanwhile, was climbing northward over the mountains, moving away from the Sukhois. The Su-27s were carrying several air-to-air missiles, but as of yet had not targeted the Megafortress.

Starship flicked the sitrep plot onto his main screen as the Flighthawk separated from his control. The MiG was still running due west. Starship thought, sooner or later, the pilot had to turn north.

Maybe he had a secondary target. Starship reached to his left, tapping the control for the mapping module in the computer. The module could display details on ground features, with identification tags such as highway routes.

“Highlight pipeline,” Starship told the computer.

“Instruction not understood.”

“Highlight trans-Romanian gas pipeline,” he said.

“Instruction not understood.”

Frustrated, Starship put his finger on the pipeline that the MiG had been targeting.

“Identify.”

“IFC International Pipeline Junction 245A,” said the computer.

“Highlight IFC International Pipeline and all junctions.”

The pipeline lit in yellow on the map, with small rectangles of color along the way.

There was a block ten miles south of
Hawk Three
—exactly on the vector the MiG was taking.

His secondary target.

“
Johnson,
move west,” said Starship.

“We will if we can.”

“He has a target to the west. This is it,” said Starship, tapping his computer to transmit the image to the pilot's console.

“Missiles in the air!” said the copilot. “Mini-Moshkits—they're homing in on our radar!”

Iasi, Romania
0015

Z
EN STOPPED AT THE FOOT OF THE ACCESS RAMP AS HE
came out of the trailer.

“Breanna, what the hell are you doing here?” he said, shocked to see his wife.

“Hello to you too, lover.” She walked over and kissed him.

“No, really, why are you here?” he insisted.

“I'm here as a copilot on
Boomer,
” she said, pointing in the direction of the plane. “What's the matter?”

“There's no way in the world you should be flying.”

“What?”

“Jeez, woman.”

“What do you mean, ‘jeez woman'?”

“You were—hurt.”

“When?”

“Don't give me that. In India.”

“So were you.”

“You were unconscious for days, for God's sake.”

“I was sleeping. The doctors say I'm fine.”

Zen shook his head.

“You were on that island as long as I was,” she said. Her face had flushed, her hands were on her hips, and her eyes had narrowed into slits. Zen knew she was mad, but he was furious as well.

“I wasn't knocked out in a coma,” he told her.

“I'm better now. If you don't like it, tough.” She turned and began stomping toward the hangar. Suddenly she stopped, spun around, and said, “And it's good to see you, too.”

The people nearby tried pretending they hadn't noticed. Zen wheeled forward, angry that his wife was here, but not sure what he could do about it.

The door to the Command trailer opened, and he turned back as Colonel Bastian came down the ramp.

“Did you see her?” asked Zen.

“Who?”

“My wife.”

“Breanna's here?”

“She's copiloting
Boomer
.”

Dog frowned but said nothing.

“You think that's OK?” he asked.

“Did she check out medically?”

“She claims she did.”

“It's not up to me,” Dog said finally. “Come on. We have to get in the air.”

Presidential villa,
near Stulpicani, Romania
0015

A
LIN
V
ODA KNELT NEXT TO THE PUMP HOUSE
,
HOLDING HIS
son against his body to warm the boy. He was feeling the cold himself. At first adrenaline had kept him warm, then fear; now neither was sufficient as the temperature continued to drop toward freezing.

The dogs were below them, near the creek. He wasn't sure how much longer it would be before they picked up their scent and started up the hill. But even if the dogs couldn't track them, Voda knew that sooner or later the soldiers would begin a large-scale search through the woods. The sounds of trucks moving in the valley below filled the hills with a low rumble. There must be dozens if not hundreds of potential searchers.

The Americans had promised to help. Voda wasn't sure what that promise would yield, but at the moment it was all he had.

“They're coming up the hill,” said Mircea. “What do we do?”

This was as far up the property as either of them had gone; Voda had no idea what was beyond. But they clearly couldn't stay here; if they did, they'd be discovered.

“Let's keep climbing,” he said.

“Papa, I'm too tired,” said Julian.

“You've got to get up!” shrieked Mircea, almost out of control and far too loud.
“You've got to!”

“Sssshhh,” said Voda. He leaned down and hoisted the boy up onto his back. It had been years since he'd carried him this way, long years.

“Are we going to die, Papa?”

“No, no,” said Voda, starting to walk. A tune came into his head and he began to hum, gently, softly. He'd gone at least a dozen yards before he realized it was the old folk song that had started him on this path.

Iasi Airfield, Romania
0020

C
OLONEL
B
ASTIAN'S FATIGUE LIFTED AS HE WATCHED THE
ground crew top off the
Bennett
's fuel tanks. Dog gave them a thumbs-up, then ducked under the belly and watched as the ordies—the bomb ordinance specialists—removed the safety pins and made sure the last Scorpion AMRAAM-plus was ready to be fired. There were four Scorpions and four Sidewinders on the revolving dispenser.