Dreamland: Revolution Part 56

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 Stars.h.i.+p, since the Flighthawks relied on the mother s.h.i.+p's radar for everything except firing their guns or scanning very close targets.

Stars.h.i.+p 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 Stars.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p dropped sharply in the air.

Stay on him, stay on him, Stars.h.i.+p 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 Stars.h.i.+p's screen.

The pipper went red. The pilot pressed the trigger. Bullets flew past the MiG's right wing. Stars.h.i.+p nudged his stick, working the stream toward the body of the target.

"Disconnect in five seconds," wailed the computer.

"b.i.t.c.h," yelled Stars.h.i.+p.

"Unrecognized command."

"Johnson!"

"Stand by to lose external radar," replied Englehardt.

That was about the last thing Stars.h.i.+p 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 Megafortress 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 semiactive 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' l.u.s.t 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 h.e.l.l 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.

STARs.h.i.+P'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-Stars.h.i.+p steadied his thumb on the trigger, pus.h.i.+ng 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 Stars.h.i.+p'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 Stars.h.i.+p's screen went blank. He'd lost his connection to the robot.

ON THE FLIGHT DECK ABOVE STARs.h.i.+P, 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 himself-he should have knocked off the radar sooner.

There was a flash to the right side of the c.o.c.kpit.

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 h.e.l.l these Russian b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 alt.i.tude 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.set 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 b.u.t.ton. "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?"