Revolution

by Dale Brown

  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.

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0130

  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.”

  Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

  above northeastern Romania

  0130

  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.”

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  0130

  “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. “Locusta.”

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

  It was the Russian attaché, 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.”

  Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,

  above northeastern Romania

  0135

  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.

  Near Stulpicani, Romania

  0135

  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 altime
ter 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.