Revolution

Frustrated, S¸oim Unu’s pilot fired a pair of his heat-seeking missiles just before he passed the enemy plane; one sucked on the diversionary flares the Russian had fired and plunged after it, igniting harmlessly a few feet above the water. The other missed its quarry and the flares, flying off to the west before self-detonating.

The Russian had proven himself the superior pilot, but he was no match for a plane he couldn’t see. As he turned back onto his course, tracers suddenly flew past his cockpit. His first reaction was to push downward, probably figuring he was being pursued by the other Romanian plane and hoping to get some distance between himself and his pursuer. But he was only at 3,000 feet, and quickly found himself ru

Zen pushed Hawk One in for the kill. As the Mikoyan turned, it presented a broad target for his 20mm ca

“One down,” said Zen. “One to go.”

Dreamland Command

1500 (0100 Romania)

“THIS IS RAY RUBEO.”

“Hey, Dr. Ray, how’s it hanging?”

“Major Smith. What a pleasure.” Rubeo gave Mack one of his famous horse sighs. “To what do I owe the dubious honor?”

“We’re in a little fix down here, and I need your help.”

“I am no longer on the payroll, Major. In fact, I am no longer on any payroll.”

“We have to locate this guy in Romania who has a cell phone, but we can’t seem to get access to the cell tower net-

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work, at least not fast enough to grab him,” said Mack, ignoring Rubeo’s complaint. Geniuses were always whining about something. “And I don’t have any Elint Megafortresses. I do have two radar planes, though, and two B-1s. Plus the Flighthawks and an Osprey. I figure there’s got to be some way to track the transmission down. Like we cross some wires or tune in somehow—”

“Which wires do you propose to cross, Major?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

Rubeo sighed again, though not quite as deeply. “You have Flighthawks in the area?”

“Sure. Four of them.”

Another sigh. This one was absolutely shallow.

A good sign, thought Mack.

“Reprogram one of the Flighthawk’s disco

“Oh sure. Cool. God, of course. How long will it take you?”

“If I were there and with access to the code library, and in a good mood, ten minutes.”

“Five if you were in a bad mood, right?”

“The question is moot, Major. When I was fired, my Dreamland security clearance was revoked. We really shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Rubeo wasn’t really fired. He had resigned by mutual con-sent. Forced out, maybe, but not really fired. Fired was different.

But he had a point about the clearance. Mack thought he could waive it on his authority.

Maybe.

What the hell. He was chief of staff for a reason.

“How long will it take you to get here?” he asked. “Or maybe I can send a helicopter—”

“By plane, it will take me six hours.”

“Six hours?”

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“I’m in Hawaii, Major. I decided to take the vacation I’ve been putting off for five years.”

Rubeo hung up.

Mack wracked his brain, trying to think who he could trust with the job. One of the geeks over at the guidance systems department probably could do it, but which one?

Maybe one of the Flighthawk people.

No, the person he needed was Je

Chester, New Jersey

1805 (1505 Dreamland)

JENNIFER GLEASON PUT DOWN THE BOX OF TISSUES AS THE

movie credits rolled across the television set. She’d watched Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times, and for some reason the ending made her cry.

Even though it was the third time she’d seen the movie this week.

The phone started to ring.

Should she answer it? It almost certainly wasn’t for her.

Unless it was her mother.

Or Dog.

More likely her mother, whom she didn’t feel like talking to.

On the other hand, it might be her sister, whose house she was staying in while recuperating. Maybe she wanted to suggest plans for di

Her sister didn’t have a cell phone; if Je

Je

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

seemed to take forever for her to reach the phone. The phone rang for the fourth time just as she grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“Je

“Speaking.”

“Stand by, Ms. Gleason.”

“Who—”

“Hey, Jen. How’s it hanging?”

“Mack Smith?”

“One and the same, beautiful. Hey listen, we have a serious situation here. Do you have your laptop with you?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Greeeaaat. Dr. Ray says this is super easy to do, with your eyes closed even … ”

Aboard EB-52 Be

over northeastern Romania

0101

WHILE ZEN AND HAWK ONE WERE TAKING CARE OF THE

first Russian MiG, S¸oim Doi had been hot on the tail of the second. The Russian fighter jock might or might not have been as accomplished as his wing mate, but he was far luckier. Jinking hard and tossing decoy flares as the Romanian closed on his tail, he managed to duck two heat-seekers without deviating too much from his course. S¸oim Doi pressed on, closing for another two-fisted missile shot. But bad luck—or more accurately, the notoriously poor Russian workmanship involved in manufacturing the export versions of the Atoll missiles—saved the Russian pilot: the lead missile of the Romanian self-detonated prematurely, knocking out not only itself but its brother less than a half mile from the target.

S¸oim Doi kept at it, however, following the MiG as it came east and crossed into Romanian air space. Zen, taking over REVOLUTION

399

Hawk Two from the computer, pounced on the bandit from above, pushing the Flighthawk’s nose toward the MiG’s tail.

With his first burst of bullets, the MiG jettisoned two of its bombs, then tucked hard right, then left, trying to pull away.

“S¸oim Doi, I’m going to close right,” Zen said, pushing the throttle to the limit. “Slide a little farther to his left and be ready if he goes toward you.”

“Yes,” answered the Romanian.

Zen turned the Flighthawk in toward the Russian and lit his ca

The Romanian flight leader had circled around to the west and managed to get in front of the other planes as they jabbed at each other. He turned in, still pushing the pedal to the metal, and made a front quarter attack at high speed, ca

The move took him into the path of the other Romanian.

S¸oim Doi pumped a dozen or more 30mm slugs into the enemy MiG before he overtook the plane and had to break off.

Though battered, the Russian managed to come back north, pointing his nose in the direction of the pipeline. But there was no escape now—both Romanians were on his tail.