Dreamland

“Hawk One to Tomcat bearing along 320, at grid AA-5,” he told the airplane. “Have you visually.”

“Hawk One, this is Shark Flight Leader. Not reading you on radar.”

Zen gave him his heading. The Tomcat acknowledged, though his voice seemed so hesitant Jeff wasn’t sure he really did see him.

“We’re checking out some civilians,” said Shark leader. “Do you require assistance?”

“Negative. Just checking positions.”

Zen pushed the Hawk closer to the water. The Med glowed a greenish blue, the water a gentle ripple edged with sun-reflected light. Twenty or thirty boats lay ahead, apparently unaware of the rampage that had taken place a few miles further west. He checked back with Bree, who was already starting to look for the tanker. The Osprey was clearing the coast.

Zen punched through the Navy circuits, listening to the aircraft challenge flights in the vicinity. His attention was starting to flag; he had a long way to go and needed something to keep him awake.

One of the exchanges suddenly did the trick.

“Dreamland Playboy One, acknowledging,” said a faint American voice. “We are following a filed flight plan.”

The voice sounded a little hesitant, but the Tomcat acknowledged and cleared the craft to proceed.

Dreamland? Dreamland?

Playboy One?

Playboy One was Knife’s old call sign, the one he’d used the day of Mack’s accident.

Coincidence?

No way in the world.

“Shark Leader, request data on Dreamland Playboy One,” Zen said, bolting upright.

“Hang on,” said the Navy pilot. He gave him over to his pitter, or radar and weapons system operator, in the backseat of the plane.

“Italian flying boat,” said the Navy captain. The backseater had lists of civilian flights to check against.

“Was his call sign filed-as Dreamland Playboy One?”

“Unknown. We’re not the FAA here. But it’s definitely on our list. Civilian plane, registered to an Italian fishing and tourist company.”

“Can you give me his last position?”

“No offense, Hawk Leader, but I’m a little busy.”

“That’s why I’m going to double-check him myself,” answered Zen.

MACK STEADIED HIS HAND ON THE SPLIT THROTTLE, trying to even out the engines. The Piaggio wasn’t particularly difficult to fly, though it did feel weird as hell. It wasn’t so much because the controls and instruments dated from the late 1940’s; they were classic stick and rudder jobs, dials and toggles. You went where you pointed.

But the props were mounted above and behind him, pushing instead of pulling. They sounded like a pair of lawn trimmers, and he just couldn’t seem to get them at the same rpm. No matter how he played with the controls, the plane continued to pull slightly but definitely to the right, pushed by a stronger engine on the opposite side.

Worse, he felt like he was walking over the water. Or crawling. The Italian flying boat went incredibly slow, even though it had two engines.

Walking on the water. The Imam would like that.

The Iranian had been vague about where they were heading, but it was obviously Egypt. Mack guessed the Iranians had made some sort of deal with the Egyptian Air Force to escort them over to the Red Sea if necessary. Or Turkey. Could be Turkey. Plenty of fuel. But Turkey was pretty friendly with the U.S.

Egypt was too, though. Or at least it had been.

Mack had blown it when the Navy plane challenged him, not expecting that the Iranians or Libyans or whoever had set the plane up had actually filed a flight plan. The damn Tomcat pilot was off the air so fast Mack couldn’t think of any way to tip him off.

Dreamland Playboy One. The old call sign had shot into his mind when the Imam poked him in the neck with his gun.

Those were the days, huh?

Would have been easier if the Tomcat had gotten down in his face. Then there might be a chance of getting out of this thing.

Now the best he could hope for was to take the Imam out with him. The question was, should he crash in the water or on land?

ZEN FOUND THE ITALIAN SEAPLANE HUGGING THE Libyan coast.

“Come on, Bree. Tighten it up,” said Jeff as the meter began sinking downward.

“I’m doing my best, Jeff. We have a hole in the fuselage, remember? And about two thirds of an electrical system. Push it and you’re going to be lighting candles back there.”

“I don’t have candles.”

He eased the throttle back a notch, concentrating on making sure he was well inside the optimum control range. Then he clicked into the frequency the Navy plane had used to hail the Piaggio.

“Dreamland Playboy One, this is Hawk Leader. I am an American fighter monitoring your flight. Acknowledge, please.”

There was no answer.

“Dreamland Playboy One. Identify yourself and give your flight heading.”

“Hawk Leader, Dreamland Playboy One acknowledges. We are following on our filed flight plan. Stand by for compass headings and position, as requested.”

Son of a bitch. There was no mistaking that smooth, full-of-himself voice. Mack was flying the plane.

Jeff clicked the transmit button to dial into the JSTARS command frequency.

JED HAD JUST RECONNECTED WITH MS. O’DAY WHEN the major did his arm-waving routine again. Jed asked her to stay on the line this time, then clicked over to find his cousin.

“We have Smith,” said Jeff.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Jed.”

“Hang on,” Jed told him, desperately trying to flag down the major so he could patch both lines together.

Turned out all it took was pushing a button near the switch.

“Hawk Leader, please repeat what you told me,” Jed told his cousin when the co

“We have Smith in a plane heading east over the Mediterranean. We’re not sure whether we can force him down or not, but we can try.”

“Jed, I need to talk to you alone, please,” said Ms. O’Day. “A single, secure line. Now.”

He pushed the button quickly and got the knob back, holding on to the D.C. scrambled satellite transmission.

“The plane has to be stopped at all costs,” O’Day told him. “No pilot. No trial in Iran.”

“They’re on it,” he said.

“Jed, listen to what I said. No trial. And this does not come directly from me, do you understand? You’re not ru

“Well, of course not.”

“Hawk Leader probably is.”

“Boss, are you telling me to terminate the pilot?” asked Jed, finally understanding what she had told him.

The National Security Advisor didn’t answer.

“Ms. O’Day?”

“Jed, a trial now will prolong a crisis that you know must be ended quickly.”

“I_„

“Why do you think you’re there, Cascade?” she said.

Before he could say anything else, the line snapped clear.

DANNY FREAH AND THE REST OF THE WHIPLASH assault team practically whooped as they cleared the coast and headed out over the Mediterranean.

The ex-hostages didn’t seem too disappointed either.

“Yo, hold it down,” yelled the pilot. “We got a situation. I’m trying to hear what the hell Raven’s doing.”

Da

“We’re still available for SAR,” he told the lieutenant. It was a command, not a question.

“Raven and Hawk One are tracking a seaplane,” said the pilot. “They think Major Smith is aboard.”

“Shit,” said Freah. “Get us there.”

“Captain, hang on.” The pilot pressed his hand against his earphones. “Task force is directing us to an assault ship. It’s about ten minutes away, dead north.”

“Where’s the seaplane?”

“That way,” said the pilot, pointing back toward the coast. “Captain, seriously.”

“Seriously, get us there,” insisted Da

“HEY, COUSIN,” SAID CASCADE, SNAPPING ONTO THE line.

The scrambled line gave voices a synthetic, machine-like sound. Even so, Jeff heard a tremor in his cousin’s voice.