Dreamland: Revolution Part 68

"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 b.u.t.ton 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 ma.s.sive bolt of energy flew at the MiG, striking a spot just behind the canopy where a thick set of wires ran back from the c.o.c.kpit. 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n plane, Stockard," said Samson, goosing the throttle. "I don't take this abuse from just anyone."

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0130.

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 b.u.t.toned 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 b.i.t.c.h," said Sullivan, dejected. "He's by me, Colonel. I'm sorry. s.h.i.t."

DOG HAD SEEN EVERYTHING ON THE SITREP. SULLIVAN HAD done a h.e.l.l 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."

White House Situation Room

1530 (0130 Romania)

"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."

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0145.

"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 sc.r.a.p metal.

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

"Perfecta, Captain. d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.i.t.c.h. And you better acknowledge that with a strong voice."

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

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0150.

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 h.e.l.l 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.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0150.