Revolution

by Dale Brown

  “^oim Doi, I’m going to close right,” Zen said, pushing the throttle to the limit. “Slide a little farther to his left and be ready if he goes toward you.”

  “Yes,” answered the Romanian.

  Zen turned the Flighthawk in toward the Russian and lit his cannon. A few bullets nicked the MiG’s tail, but the pilot worked his stick and rudder so deftly that Zen couldn’t nail him. He was just about to turn the plane over to Dog when a heavily accented voice warned him off. ^oim Unu had rejoined the fight.

  The Romanian flight leader had circled around to the west and managed to get in front of the other planes as they jabbed at each other. He turned in, still pushing the pedal to the metal, and made a front quarter attack at high speed, cannon blazing. Most if not all of his bullets missed, but the spooked MiG driver rolled downward and to the south.

  The move took him into the path of the other Romanian. ^oim Doi pumped a dozen or more 30mm slugs into the enemy MiG before he overtook the plane and had to break off.

  Though battered, the Russian managed to come back north, pointing his nose in the direction of the pipeline. But there was no escape now—both Romanians were on his tail. The Russian fired his air-to-ground missiles—much too far from the pipeline to strike it—then turned hard to the right, trying to pull one of the Romanians by him so he could open fire. The maneuver worked, to an extent—^oim Unu started to turn, then realized the trap and broke contact. Before the Russian could take advantage, however, ^oim Doi closed in for the kill. The canopy exploded and the Russian shot upward; by the time his parachute blossomed, his aircraft had crashed to the ground.

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0101

  GENERAL LOCUSTA FOLDED THE MAP OVER THE HOOD OF the car. He was losing time; he wanted to be in Bucharest by first light. This needed to be wrapped up. Now.

  “What’s this building?” he asked, pointing to a small square on the map.

  Major Ozera shook his head. “Abandoned. It’s small. One of our teams is near there now. The president is not there.”

  “He has to be on the mountain somewhere.”

  Locusta looked back at the map. He could send swarms of men onto the hill to find Voda, but he doubted they would kill the president.

  He would have Voda brought to him, take him into the ruins, then have him killed.

  Along with his family, who must be with him.

  And the soldiers who found them? He’d have to kill them too.

  Was it worth risking complications?

  Not yet.

  Ozera and his men would have to do a better job.

  The general’s attention was distracted by the sound of a helicopter flying nearby.

  “I told you I didn’t want the helicopters involved,” Locusta told the major. “Their pilots can’t be trusted.”

  “It’s not ours. The sound is different. Louder. Listen.”

  Locusta listened more carefully, then pulled out his satellite phone.

  “Get me the Dreamland people. General Samson. Immediately.”

  Aboard Dreamland Osprey,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0105

  “WE’RE ABOUT FIVE MINUTES AWAY FROM THE TOP OF THE hill,” the Osprey pilot told Danny Freah. “Where’s your man?”

  Danny shook his head. He’d checked with Dreamland Command, but Voda had not called the number the ambassador had given him. And the ambassador said that Voda was worried that if they called him, the phone would be heard.

  “We can search with the infrared cameras,” the pilot told Danny. “We should be able to find them. The night’s pretty cold.”

  “You sure, with all those trees?” asked Danny.

  “There’s no guarantee. But if they move around—if they want us to see them, we should be able to. I’d say the odds are probably sixty-forty we find them, maybe even higher.”

  Danny had been on search teams in the Sierra Nevadas at the very start of his Air Force career and he wasn’t quite as optimistic. Besides, if Voda was hiding, the people they saw might actually be his pursuers.

  “We’ll give him another five minutes,” he told the pilot. “Let’s see what happens.”

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0107

  TO VODA, IT SOUNDED AS IF THE DOGS AND TROOPS WERE less than ten feet away.

  A wind had whipped up, and it blew through the trees like a torrent of water streaking over a high falls. The cold had turned his wife’s nose beet red; Julian’s hands felt like stones in his. Their fear had stopped providing them with energy. They were at the edge of despair, ready to give up.

  Mircea started to rise. Voda practically leaped over Julian to grab her. She opened her mouth; Voda clamped his hand over it.

  “Sssshhhh,” he whispered in her ear.

  She gave him a look that he had never seen directed at him before, a stare that in his experience she’d used only twice during their relationship. Both times, it was directed toward members of the old regime, men who were her sworn enemy.

  “We’ll get through it,” whispered Voda.

  She didn’t answer.

  The men were louder, closer. Or maybe just the wind was stronger, pushing their voices toward them.

  The dogs began to bark wildly. Voda reached for Julian with his other hand, pulling him close. He thought of the pistol—should he take their lives to spare them whatever torture Locusta had in mind?

  Killing himself would mean dying a coward’s death. But it would be an act of mercy to spare his son and wife humiliation and suffering.

  Julian shivered against his side.

  There was no way he could kill his son; simply no way. Not even for the best reasons.

  The barking intensified. The dogs were getting closer.

  But they were going in the wrong direction! Confused by the shifting wind, they were doubling back over the trail.

  Voda barely trusted the senses that told him this. He waited, holding his breath. Finally, his wife shook her head free of his hand.

  “You have to call the Americans,” she said. “You have to, so they can find us.”

  “Yes,” said Voda. “Come on, we’ll cross over to the other side of the hill while they’re going in the other direction. We have to be quiet.”

  He picked up Julian. The boy seemed even heavier than he had earlier.

  “Are you going to call?” Mircea asked.

  “I will.”

  “I hear a helicopter.”

  Voda froze. “Hide!” he said. “Get as low to the ground as you can.”

  Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,

  over northeastern Romania

  0108

  GENERAL SAMSON HIT HIS TALK BUTTON.

  “Samson.”

  “This is General Locusta. You have helicopters in my area.”

  “I don’t have helicopters.”

  “Don’t lie. I can hear them.”

  “We have an Osprey standing by in the area where we are operating,” said Samson, hedging, of course. “It is a search and rescue craft, ready in case one of our planes—or yours—is shot down by the Russians.”

  “We believe the criminals have taken prisoners, perhaps the president’s son and wife,” said Locusta. “They may kill them if they get desperate. Tell your helicopter to back off.”

  “I can release my aircraft to assist you,” said Samson.

  “We do not require your assistance.”

  “In that case, I want it on station for an emergency.”

  “If your aircraft persists, I’ll shoot it down myself,” said Locusta.

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0110

  THE CLOUDS HAD CLEARED, ALLOWING THE MOON TO SHINE brightly. Voda saw more of the woods around them, but this wasn’t a good thing—it meant the men searching for them would have an easier time as well.

  He and his wife and son cleared the crest of the hill and sta
rted down. There was a bald spot a few yards from the top. As Voda reached it, his footing slipped. Julian fell from his grasp and both father and son tumbled down against the rocks, rolling about five yards before coming to a stop.

  Voda’s knee felt as if it had been broken. The pain seized his entire leg, constricted his throat. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, as if his head had been buried in the dirt.

  Julian began to whimper. Voda forced himself over to the boy, pulled his arms around him.

  “Alin?” hissed his wife.

  “Sssssh. We’re here. I’ll call now.”

  Voda pulled out the phone. His hands were trembling. What if it had broken in the fall? He should have called earlier, no matter the risk.

  He pressed the Power button, waiting for it come to life.

  If it didn’t work, they’d go down the hill, they’d find a way past the soldiers, they’d walk, they’d crawl all the way back to Bucharest if they had to. They would do whatever they had to do, just to survive.

  The phone lit.

  Voda tapped the number the ambassador had given him. It was an international number—but it didn’t seem to work.

  Voda realized he had not remembered it correctly.

  “We can’t stay here. It’s too easy to see us,” said Mircea, reaching them.

  “We’re not going to stay,” he told her. “Come on.”

  He grabbed her side and pulled himself up, thumbing for the number of the ambassador while they started down the hill.

  Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

  over northeastern Romania

  0110

  “ROMANIAN AIRCRAFT ARE RETURNING SOUTH, COLONEL,” said Spiff. “No more Russians. I think we’ve seen the last of them.”

  “Don’t place any bets,” said Dog.

  The Dreamland channel buzzed. Samson was on the line.

  “Bastian.”

  “Locusta claims he’ll the shoot the Osprey down if it flies over the hill,” said Samson. “He implied that the guerrillas have the president’s son and wife as hostages, and that they’ll kill them if we get too close. I think it’s a bunch of bull.”

  “All right.”

  “What the hell do we do now, Bastian?” Samson asked. “If we can’t use the Osprey, how do we get him out? How do we get our people in there?”

  “Let’s ask them,” said Dog.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Conference everyone in and see what they think.”

  Samson didn’t say anything. He was used to working from the top down—he came up with ideas, and people genuflected.

  Dreamland had never worked that way. Neither had Dog.

  “All right,” said Samson finally. “How the hell do we do that?”

  THE PROBLEM WASN’T JUST GETTING THE PRESIDENT OUT—they had to find him first. The Bennett’s radar couldn’t spot him because of the trees, which would also block the infrared sensors aboard the Flighthawks unless the aircraft descended low enough to be heard.

  Zen took Starship onto another channel to give him some pointers for tweaking the filters the computer used to interpret the infrared, even though he knew it was a long shot. The sensors’ long-range capabilities were designed primarily to find objects in the sky; they simply couldn’t do what they wanted.

  By the time they went back on the conference line, Danny was suggesting that he and his men parachute into the hill.

  “Even with the moon out, it’s still dark enough to jump without being seen,” he said. “If we take the Osprey to 25,000 feet, it won’t be heard.”

  “How do you get out of there?” Dog asked.

  “There’s a spot at the base of the back hill that’s not covered by the patrols the troops have set up,” said Danny. “We can come down the hill, work our way across and then out. We get across the road, then we have the Osprey pick us up on the other side of this second hill here.”

  “That’ll take hours,” said Dog.

  “I don’t think he’s getting out on his own,” said Danny.

  “General Samson, incoming message from the ambassador,” said Breanna.

  “Good. Stockard, can you plug me into him?”

  It took Zen a moment to realize Samson was talking to his wife. No one spoke, waiting for the general.

  “I want this on line. Can you get it on line?”

  Zen could hear Breanna explaining in the background that they could conference it, though the quality would be poor.

  “Well, do it,” said Samson gruffly. “Is everyone listening?”

  “We’re here,” said Dog.

  “Stockard, can you get us on line?” Samson asked again.

  “It’s on.”

  Zen heard someone breathing in the background.

  “President Voda, are you there?” said Samson.

  “Yes. The men with the dogs are on the other side of the hill,” answered a soft, distant foreign voice. “But there are many soldiers around.”

  “Where exactly are you?” asked Danny.

  “We’re on the other side of the hill from my house.”

  “Below the bald rocks?”

  “The rocks? Yes, yes. About twenty feet below them, in the center.”

  “Good.”

  “They’re coming!” Voda shouted, his hushed voice rising.

  There were muffled sounds.

  Oh God, thought Zen, we’re going to hear him get killed.

  But they didn’t.

  “I have to leave,” whispered Voda a few seconds later. “We have to move.”

  The phone dropped off the circuit.

  “Stockard, get Dreamland Command to call him back,” said Samson. “Osprey—get moving. We’ll have him vector you in.”

  “If we call him and they’re nearby, they’ll hear and kill him,” said Dog.

  “Holding made sense earlier,” said Samson. “Now we’re ready to grab him.”

  “General, there are Zsu-zsu’s lined up all along the roads around the property,” warned Spiff, the ground radar operator aboard the Bennett, referring to the antiaircraft guns the Romanians had moved into the area. “They’ll shoot the Osprey to pieces on the way in, or the way out.”

  “We’re just going to have to risk it,” said Samson. “Osprey—we’ll help you plot a path.”

  “I have a better idea,” said Zen. “I’ll get them.”

  VII

  Flying Man

  Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

  over northeastern Romania

  29 January 1998

  0112

  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 a
s 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.