Strike Zone

“Open the bay,” Dog told Delaney. “Eject the missiles. I’ll get the gear down.”

Delaney was too hoarse to argue. Dog lowered the gear, the plane objecting strongly. His airspeed dropped and he got a stall warning.

A fresh flood of tracers shot across their bow. The interceptors closed into tight formation all around them, adjusting their own speed as if they were flying an air show demonstration. Though they might have been temporarily confused, it was just a matter of time—seconds, really—before one of their bursts nailed them.

Dog reached over and hit their lights—everything, even the cockpit lights.

“Two on our tail, one on each wing,” said Delaney, his voice a croak.

“Wave at ’em,” Colonel Bastian said. “Show them we know they’re there. Wave.”

Dog turned to the cockpit window on his left and gave the high sign.

“Wave, Wes,” said Dog. “Like we have the whole thing under control.”

He waved again, then turned his attention back to the front of the plane. The tracers had stopped.

Was Zen right? Did the Chinese pilots think they were up to something? Had they heard the transmissions from the ground and finally decided to comply? Were they simply confused?

Or were they cats, taking a last moment to enjoy the fear of their prey before finishing him off?

“Wave, Wes. Smile at the bastards,” said Dog.

“Uh.”

“Wes?”

“The flight on our nose is asking for instructions,” said the specialist. “Sir, uh, we’re being asked our intentions.”

“Honorable,” said Dog. “Put me on their frequency.”

Epilogue:

Heroes, after a Fashion

Beijing

Page 245

15 September 1997

1200

IN THE BESTof all worlds, Dog would have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

In the worst of all worlds, he would also have preferred to be anywhere but Beijing.

But Beijing was where he was. And as an honored guest, to all forms and appearances.

A car stopped a few feet away from the building where he was standing with the Chinese officers who had met Raven. The American ambassador stepped from the plane, accompanied by a Chinese official.

The ambassador stepped smartly to Dog, saluting first—Dog was a little taken aback, but gave the proper response—and then shaking his hand.

“A hell of a job,” said the ambassador. “Washington’s told me everything.”

“Okay,” said Dog, truly surprised as the ambassador grabbed him in a bear hug.

“Did the self-destruct go all right?” whispered the ambassador.

“Yes. Completely,” said Dog. “The computers are completely fried.”

“Excellent.” He turned and smiled at the Chinese officials. “Washington will throw a ticker-tape parade for you.”

The ambassador introduced the man who had come with him as the Chinese foreign minister. Dog tried to bow, though his back was a bit stiff from the flight and fatigue.

“You have saved Beijing,” said the minister. “You are a hero.”

Dog smiled weakly. A few weeks ago he’d thought he’d be ordered to bomb Beijing, not save it. But such were the twisted fates of war.

“They’re having a ceremony to open the discussions between Taiwan and the Mainland,” said the ambassador. “The Taiwanese president will thank you, and the Mainland premier may actually thank you too.”

“I’d rather sleep,” said Dog honestly.

The ambassador looked as if he were going to have a heart attack.

“But I’ll do my duty,” added the colonel.

“Good,” said the ambassador, starting away.

Taiwan

1200

STARSHIP ROLLED OUTof bed, even though he’d had less than four hours’ sleep. He’d come to a decision about the Brunei offer.

Page 246

No way would he take it. Major Smith would be disappointed, but that was too bad. He’d worked too long and too hard to get to Dreamland.

Granted, the assignment wasn’t everything he thought it would be. But then, he wasn’t everything he thought he was either.

He glanced at his watch. Noon. He could grab a beer, something to eat.

He’d be all right if he didn’t drink too much.

It wouldn’t matter today how much he drank. Major Alou said today was an off day. Off meant off.

He’d give that to Alou—when he said off, he meant it. Not like Zen.

Zen and the others on Raven were being called heroes. Good, he thought; they deserved it. They were heroes.

He wasn’t. But he had done his job, and because of that, an Osprey’s worth of Marines and Air Force crewmen were alive.

He pulled on his pants. Maybe he’d see if Kick was awake.

Brunei

1235

MACKSMITH FLIPPEDoff the television, killing the news broadcast just as it began showing the crowds in downtown Beijing cheering the arrival of the two Chinese leaders.

Or were they cheering for Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, who had saved them from incineration a few hours ago?

Mack preferred to think it was the former—not that he didn’t like Dog; on the contrary, he liked the colonel quite a bit. He had to—the colonel’s blessing was needed for him to work out the arrangement as Brunei’s new chief of the Air Force Command.

Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command. His own title. At the moment, he was still technically a member of the U.S. Air Force on duty as Whiplash’s political officer. But that was just a technicality—he already had his office, two floors of plush offices in the capital, complete with a lounge and an office for the chief that looked like a lounge.

No staff yet, but he’d take care of that this afternoon. Talk to Starship again, and maybe some of his old cronies. Paradise here, my friends—the babes are unbelievable, and boy do they put out.

Next order of business—purchasing twelve F-15s from America, along with six Megafortresses.

Mack didn’t particularly want the Megafortresses himself, but the sultan insisted. And hey, it was his dough.

Getting the aircraft from America was probably going to take some heavy-duty diplomacy.

Megafortresses had never been sold overseas. Even F-15s weren’t sold to just anyone. In fact, only Japan, Israel, and Saudi Arabia currently had them.

Page 247

Mack could fix that with a little charm in the right places. He was a born diplomat.

Secretary of state someday. Though personally he’d prefer defense.

Once they got the planes, they’d pull a few mods from the Dreamland playbook. Which meant he needed some brainpower as well.

And some mechanical monkeys. Not that he’d call them monkeys to their faces.

Chief of the Brunei Air Force Command Mack Smith. A boss in paradise—what more could he ask for?

Beijing

1240

THE HOTEL WHEREthe Chinese had put up the Dreamland crew was not exactly handicapped-friendly, and Zen found himself having to ask two of the staff to help him down the two steps from the hallway to the lobby. As indignities went, it was hardly the worst he’d ever suffered, but after struggling with the sink upstairs in his room and pushing his way through the narrow maze they called a hallway, he was hardly in the best of all moods. And the fact that he couldn’t call the States from his room didn’t exactly calm his mood.

Nonetheless, he managed to ask for a phone politely, explaining that he wanted to call home. It took three tries—the hotel perso