by Dale Brown
"How's it lookin', boys?" he asked.
"Ready for action, Colonel," said one of the crew dogs. "You want missiles on the wingtips?"
"No time. We have to get into the air."
"Yes, sir."
Not one of the three ground-crew members was legally old enough to drink, but each had a huge responsibility on his shoulders. Dog and the rest of the members of EB-52 Johnson were putting their lives in their hands.
"Ready for your walk-around, Colonel?" asked Technical Sergeant Chance Duluth.
"Where's Greasy Hands?" Dog asked. Parsons was the crew chief; Chance was his assistant.
"Chief Parsons is over straightening something out with Boomer, Colonel. He sends his regrets."
"Along with how many four letter words?" Dog asked, walking toward the front of the plane.
"Quite a few."
Chance — his name inevitably led to many poor puns — had worked under Parsons for many years. He had inherited the chief master sergeant's fastidious attention to detail, if not his gently cantankerous manner. Where Greasy Hands would frown, Chance would turn his head sideways, smile, and say, "Hmmm."
Dog was anxious to get airborne; the Osprey had already taken off, and the B-1s would shortly. He moved quickly through the preflight inspection, examining the exterior of the plane from its nose gear to the lights atop its V-shaped tail. In truth, he trusted the crew implicitly, and probably could have skipped the walk-around without feeling any less safe. But the inspection was as much ritual as examination, and it would have somehow felt disrespectful to the ground crew not to look over their work.
"Damn good job," said Dog loudly when he was done. "Damn good."
"Thank you, Colonel," said Chance. He'd probably heard that particular compliment a few hundred times, but his face still flushed with pride.
Dog was just about to go up the ramp into the belly of the plane when Zen rolled up.
"Beauty before age," Dog told the Flighthawk pilot.
"Oh yeah," said Zen, backing into the special lift hooks fitted to the ladder. "I'm feeling real beautiful tonight."
As Zen disappeared into the belly, Dog heard Breanna calling behind him. He turned around. She had her helmet and flight gear under her arm.
"Aren't you supposed to be getting ready to take off?" Dog asked her.
"They had a glitch and had to repack the computer memory. I have five minutes to… " Her voice trailed off. "Something wrong?" he asked. "I just wanted — to talk to Zen."
"You have something to say to Zen, you better hurry. I'm taking off as soon as I buckle my seat belt."
"Thanks, Daddy." She kissed him and scampered up the ramp.
Dog shook his head. He hated when she called him Daddy while he was working.
* * *
Zen looked up, startled to hear his wife's voice behind him.
"What are you doing here?" he said. "Come to see how the other half live?"
"I don't want you mad at me," said Breanna. "I don't want to go on a mission with things between us — with things the way we left them."
"I'm not mad," he said.
"Yes you are. You think I should have stayed home. In bed." "I do think that," he said.
"And you're mad. I can hear it in your voice. It's angry." "I'm not mad." But even while saying this, Zen heard his tone. She was right; he did sound angry. "I'm mad a little." "Just a little?"
He started to laugh. That was the problem with being in love with Breanna — you just couldn't be mad at her, no matter how hard you tried, or how justified you were.
"I guess I'm mad at you, but I'm not really mad at you," he told her. "I do love you. A lot."
She came close and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his head.
"What's with the parachute gear?" she asked, noticing that his emergency equipment was different.
"It's the new gizmo Annie Klondike worked up. I told you about it. MESSKIT."
"Is it ready?"
"More than ready," he told her. "Come on, now, get lost. We gotta get goin'."
"I'm out of here. Kick some butt."
Breanna smiled at him, then disappeared down the ladder to the tarmac.
Aboard EB-52 Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
0030
The MiG pilot, confident that he'd shaken the Flight-hawks and knowing that the Romanian air defenses could not touch him, backed off on his speed in order to conserve fuel for the long trip home. He was at 15,000 feet, descending gradually, no doubt intending to glide right at his target, Starship thought, pop up as he pickled his bombs, then gun north over the border and head home.
As long as he stayed on his present course, Hawk Four would meet him exactly eight miles from his target — roughly a mile and a half before the MiG was in range to fire the air-to-ground missiles. And as an added bonus, Hawk Three would come back into Starship's control a few seconds later. The enemy plane would be caught between the two Flight-hawks, its escape routes cut off.
A perfect plan, except for the fact that the Bennett was jinking hard to duck a pair of radar-seeking missiles.
The Russian weapons were Kh-131A radar-seeking mini-Moshkits. Based on the air-to-ground Kh-31P, the large anti-radiation missile used two stages: a standard solid-rocket engine for the first stage, with a jet engine taking over for the final stage. The jet engine was no ordinary power plant; it gave the missile an enormous burst of speed on its final approach, propelling the warhead to Mach 4.5. The acceleration was designed to make the missile more difficult for antimissile systems such as the Patriot to intercept.
There were several ways to deal with mini-Moshkits. Arguably the most effective was the simplest: turning off the Megafortress's powerful radar, to deprive the missile of its target. But doing that would essentially blind Starship, since the Flighthawks relied on the mother ship's radar for everything except firing their guns or scanning very close targets.
Starship left it to the Megafortress to deal with the missile as he concentrated on the MiG heading toward the gas pipeline. The computer's tactical section diagrammed the best angle of attack in his screen, suggesting that the Flighthawk pivot and swoop in directly on the fighter's tail. It was a no-brainer, and yet another example of the advantage the robots had over traditional planes. In a manned plane, the maneuver would knock the pilot unconscious.
Just as Starship reached the point where he had to start the cut, the Megafortress turned hard to duck the missiles. At the same time, the plane dropped about a hundred feet in a fraction of a second. He slammed against his restraints and, despite his pressure suit, felt his head start to float as the mother ship dropped sharply in the air.
Stay on him, stay on him, Starship told himself, trying to hold the Flighthawk to the proper path. The small plane made its turn, jerking its nose hard back toward its right wing, literally skidding sideways in the air. For a brief moment the plane's aerodynamic qualities were overcome by the laws of gravity and motion; it dropped more than two hundred feet, more like a brick than a plane. As the Flighthawk began to accelerate, the MiG popped into Starship's screen.
The pipper went red. The pilot pressed the trigger. Bullets flew past the MiG's right wing. Starship nudged his stick, working the stream toward the body of the target.
"Disconnect in five seconds," wailed the computer.
"Bitch," yelled Starship.
"Unrecognized command."
"Johnson!"
"Stand by to lose external radar," replied Englehardt. That was about the last thing Starship wanted to hear.
* * *
Up on the flight deck,Lieutenant Englehardt and his copilot had managed to duck one of the radar homing missiles by their sharp maneuvers. But the other one kept coming, and was now just over twenty miles away.
"Radars are off," Terry Kung, the copilot, told Englehardt.
"Chaff. Turn."
As the copilot fired canisters of metal shards into the air to confuse the missile, Englehardt threw the Megafo
rtress into a sharp turn south, then rolled his wing down, plunging like a knife away from the cloud of decoy metal. The maneuver was second nature in a teen-series fighter; the Megafortress, even with all its improvements over the standard B-52, groaned and shuddered.
The mini-Moshkit following them had a backup semi-active radar, which Englehardt expected would take over once it realized it had lost the signal it was following. If that happened, he hoped the radar would "see" the cloud of tinsel in the air, think it was the plane, and dive on it.
"Still not terminal," said Kung. The flare as the missile fired its hypersonic jet engine would be picked up on the Megafortress's infrared launch warning.
Englehardt pushed the Megafortress lower, then swung back to the east, trying to "beam" the missile's search radar and make it harder for the enemy to see him. But they were too close — he could feel the missile coming in.
Presidential villa,
near Stulpicani, Romania
0040
General Locusta resisted the urge to kick the dead bodies that been placed near the back of the garage at the president's mountain house. It wasn't out of respect for the dead that he didn't. On the contrary, he had no respect for any of the bodyguards, Voda's men all. But the soldiers looking on might not understand.
"These are the only people you found in the house?" he asked them.
"General, it wasn't us who found them," replied the sergeant who was standing with the two other men, both privates. "The special forces men who reached the house first placed them here."
According to Major Ozera, the special unit that had staged the attack had lost a dozen of their own, hastily evacuating them before the regular army arrived. In a way, thought Locusta, it was good that so many commandos had died: It sharpened the survivors' lust for vengeance, for they had changed into their uniforms and now made up the party of searchers hunting the president.
Locusta walked toward the cave where Voda had supposedly hidden after the initial attack. He examined it, and despite the broken door had a difficult time believing Voda had been here. The cistern system Ozera claimed he had used to escape was closed with heavy metal panels; a weakling such as Voda would never be able to lift them.
The entire back of the house had been flattened by the mortars. More likely the president was buried under there. If the dogs were tracking anything, it was one of the bodyguards who'd been sleeping or had run away out of fear.
His satellite phone rang.
"What is it?" he snapped, answering before the first ring died.
"General, all of the Dreamland planes have taken off from Iasi, including the Osprey," said his chief of staff. "The helicopter plane?"
"Yes, sir. Air defense reports that the Russians have attacked them near the border, and that at least one Russian airplane has been shot down."
What the hell was going on?
No sooner had the question formed than Locusta realized the answer: The Russians were gunning for the pipeline. "Are any of our airplanes in the air?" "Well no, General."
"Get the air force chief of staff. Tell him I want to talk to him personally. And tell him that we need his precious MiG-29s. The Russians are attacking us."
"Yes, General."
"And then find the number or whatever it is that I must call to speak to the Americans directly. To Colonel Bastian, the so-called Dog."
Aboard EB-52 Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
0041
Starship's main screen blinked and an icon appeared in the upper right corner, indicating that long-range radar was no longer being provided to the Flighthawks. But the enemy MiG and the triangular cross hairs targeting it remained at the center of the screen, provided by the Flighthawk's own radar.
Compared to the Megafortress's radar, which was as powerful as the radar in an AWACS, the system aboard the robot was very limited. But it was fine for the task at hand— Starship steadied his thumb on the trigger, pushing the spray of bullets into the MiG's wing.
The MiG's right wing suddenly seemed to expand. A thin gray funnel appeared at the middle of it — and then red flashed everywhere. One of Starship's bullets struck through the disintegrating wing, hitting square on the detonator of a five-hundred-pound bomb. The explosion that followed was so severe, the shock waves sent the Flighthawk into a spin to the left.
And then Starship's screen went blank. He'd lost his connection to the robot.
* * *
On the flight deck above Starship, Englehardt leaned closer to the instrument panel, willing the big plane away from the missile. Panic vibrated through his arms and legs; his throat felt as if it had tightened around a rock. He struggled to control the plane, and himself, jerking back to the north as the copilot released another set of chaff.
"He's terminal! Big flare!" yelled Kung.
Englehardt tensed, bracing for the impact. He cursed him-self — he should have knocked off the radar sooner.
There was a flash to the right side of the cockpit.
The missile?
If so, it had exploded before striking the Megafortress— far enough away, in fact, that the big aircraft shrugged off the shock of the ninety kilogram warhead without a shudder.
What? incoming message flashed on the dedicated Dreamland communications screen. Englehardt tapped the screen with his thumb.
"You're welcome, Johnson," barked General Samson from Boomer. "Now get that radar back on so we can see what the hell these Russian bastards are up to."
Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0042
Breanna Stockard exhaled sharply as she leaned back from Boomer's targeting console. Her head was still spinning — she'd barely strapped herself in for takeoff when General Samson saw that the Johnson was in trouble and ordered her to target the missile. Samson had pulled Boomer almost straight up, riding her powerful engines to the right altitude for the hit with no more than a half second to spare.
"All right, Stockard, good work." The general's voice was a deep growl. "Now let's get ourselves up north and ready for anything else these bastard Russkies throw at us."
"You got it, Gen."
Samson turned his head toward her. "If you're going to use a nickname, it's Earthmover." "OK, Earthmover."
"That's more like it, Stockard," said Samson, pushing the plane onto the new course.
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
over northeastern Romania
0045
Dog's comment about taking off as soon as his restraints were buckled was an exaggeration, but only just. The Megafortress left the runway just on the heels of the B-1s, getting airborne in time to use its radar to help orient Boomer to the Russian missile tracking the Johnson. Data was shared over the Dreamland Command network with all aircraft in the battle package, and in fact could be shared with any Dreamland asset anywhere in the world.
"Sukhois are turning south over the Black Sea," said Rager. "Looks like there are two more MiG-29s approaching, though, high rate of speed, very low to the water. You see them, Colonel?"
"I got them, Rager. Thanks." Dog flicked the Transmit button. "EB-52 Bennett to Johnson. Mikey, how are you doing up there?"
"We're holding together, Colonel," said Englehardt, the Johnson's pilot. "But we're out of Scorpions."
"Roger that. I want you to go west and cover the area near the president's summer house for the Osprey. We'll take your station here."
Englehardt's acknowledgment was overrun by a broadcast from General Samson, whose scowling face appeared in the communications screen. Samson's visor was up, his oxygen mask dangling to the side, his frown as visible as ever. But to Dog's surprise, Samson didn't bawl him out for usurping his authority.
"Mike, Dog is right. You get yourself down there and stay out of trouble. You understand?" "Yes, sir."
"Sorry, General," said Dog. "That was your call." "No problem, Colonel. I couldn't have put it better myself. Now, let's get ourselves ready for these MiG drivers
. You want to take them, or should we give the laser system another field test?"
Aboard Whiplash Osprey,
approaching Stulpicani, Romania
0047
Danny Freah put on his smart helmet and tapped into the Dreamland database, asking the computer with verbal commands to display the most recent satellite photo of the area where the president's house was located.
The picture was several days old, taken right after the attack on the pipeline, but it was adequate for planning purposes.
From the description that had been relayed to him, Alin Voda was hiding about a quarter mile northeast of his house, near an old structure. But the structure wasn't visible on the map. Danny zoomed in and out without being able to see it among the trees. Finally he backed out, looking for an easier spot to pick him up.
The hill was wooded all the way to its peak. There was a rift on the back slope about fifty feet down, where a drop created a bald spot. The Osprey couldn't land there, but they could fast-rope down, put the president into a rescue basket, and haul him back up.
They'd need some close-in reconnaissance before attempting the pickup, to figure out where the Romanians were. And they'd need a diversion to get into the area.
"What do you think, Cap?" asked Boston, who was standing beside him. "Doable?"
"Oh yeah, we can do it," Danny said, pulling off the helmet. "Just need a little coordination."
He checked his watch. The Osprey was roughly twenty minutes from the mountain house. Hopefully, Voda could hold out that long.
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
above northeastern Romania
0049
The two Russian aircraft approaching the Romanian coast of the Black Sea were brand new MiG-29Ms, upgraded versions of the original MiG-29. Equipped with better avionics and more hardpoints, the fighters were potent attack aircraft, capable of carrying a wide range of weapons. Because they were flying so low, the Bennett's radar was unable to identify what missiles or bombs they had beneath their wings, but their track made it clear they were heading for the Romanian gas fields.