They were soldiers, or looked like soldiers. An army truck had pulled up to the driveway. Men jumped out.
Thank God!
But Voda's relief died as he saw two men dragging a woman into the light cast by the truck's headlights.
He recognized her clothes and hair. It was Oana Mitca.
The soldiers dumped her the way they would dispose of an old rag. She lay limp.
Another man came up; an officer, he thought. He had a pistol. Oana Mitca's head exploded.
Why would they kill his son's bodyguard?
"Voda?" whispered his wife. "What's going on? I hear trucks, and I heard a shot."
"There's more trouble than I thought," he said, sliding back from the door.
The MiGs had finally realized the helicopters were to their south. They were ten miles from the closest group. Even if the pilots took their time and waited for the perfect shot, they'd be in position less than three minutes from now. And still far from the border.
"Why the hell aren't we doing something?" snapped Zen over the interphone. "Colonel, you can't keep us here."
"We have our orders," responded Dog.
Zen checked the positions on his screen. He could get Hawk One over the border, tell the computer to take out the lead MiG. Even if the Megafortress flew west, out of control range, the onboard computer guiding the robot plane would take it in for the kill.
He had to do it. He couldn't let the men aboard those choppers die.
If he did that, he knew he'd be disobeying a direct order. He'd be out of the Air Force, maybe even imprisoned.
"Colonel, we have to do something."
"No, Zen. Keep the planes where they are. Be ready if they come over the border. If you can't follow my orders, you'll be relieved."
Fuck that, thought Zen.
It was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to keep his mouth shut — and the planes where they were.
On the sitrep view of the radar screen Dog was watching, it looked as if one of the helicopters stopped in midair.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"He just popped up, gaining altitude," said Rager. "He's making himself a target. It's a decoy."
Dog saw the helicopter peeling back, trying to decoy the MiGs away. It was a noble idea, but it wasn't going to work— there were too many MiGs.
"Sully, open bomb bay doors. Prepare to fire Scorpions."
"You got it, Colonel."
Sullivan quickly tapped the controls and the Megafortress rocked with the opening of the bay doors.
"Scorpion One is locked on target!" yelled Sullivan. "Fire. Lock the second — lock them all, and fire." Sullivan quickly complied.
Not one member of the crew objected. They'd all put their careers, possibly a good portion of their lives, in Dog's hands. They knew the orders, realized how explicit they were: Do not under any circumstance cross the border or fire across the border, do not engage any Russian aircraft.
Under any circumstance.
Everyone aboard the Johnson wanted to disobey those orders, Dog realized, and would, gladly it seemed, if he led the way.
Was it because he had a Medal of Honor?
They were good men, men who knew right from wrong and valued honor and duty as much as he did; they weren't easily influenced by medals.
Dog checked his radar screen. The first MiG had suddenly jinked back east. Missile one, tracking it, jerked east toward the border.
"Self-destruct missile one," said Dog.
"Colonel?"
"Sully, hit the self-destruct before it goes over the border. Now!"
Dog tapped his armament panel to bring up the missile controls, but it was unnecessary — Sullivan did as he was told. He did the same for missile three as its target also turned east, taking its missile with it.
The last two aircraft continued toward the helicopters.
"Missile two, tracking and true," said Sullivan. There was a tremor in his voice. "Missile four, tracking and true."
"Self-destruct missile two," said Dog as the missile neared the border.
"Colonel?"
Dog ignored him, reaching for the panel and killing both missiles himself.
"Missile launch," said Rager, his voice solemn.
A launch warning lit on his dashboard. One of the MiGs had just fired a pair of heat seekers at the helicopter.
Stoner grabbed onto the spar as the helicopter whirled hard into the turn. The pilot had spotted a small clearing on the hillside ahead. He launched flares in hopes of decoying the Russian missiles, then pushed the nose of the helicopter down, aiming for the hill.
The helicopter blades, buffeted by the force of the turn,made a loud whomp-whomp-whomp, as if they were going to tear themselves off.
Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.
"When we get out, run!" Brasov yelled. "Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours' walk."
The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.
The helicopter pitched hard to the left.
"You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met," Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.
"You too," said Stoner.
"Until we meet."
Brasov held out his hand.
As Stoner reached for it, he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she'd looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he'd had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.
There was a flash above him and a loud clap like thunder.
And then there was nothing, not even pain or regret.
VI
Fear of the Dead
Zen stared in disbelief as the helicopter disappeared from the screen.
"Helicopter Baker One is off the scope," said Rager. "It's been hit."
"Confirmed," said Spiff. "Ground radar saw it breaking up."
Zen tightened his grip on the yoke, trying to concentrate on the MiGs. The two that had fired at the helicopter and shot it down were now flying toward the border. If they didn't turn in about thirty seconds, they'd cross over.
He pushed Hawk One toward an interception — then got a warning from the computer that the aircraft was nearing the end of its control range.
"Bennett, I need you to come south," said Zen. Even with recently implemented improvements to the control communications network, the robot had to be within fifty miles of the mother ship.
"Flighthawk leader, we have to stay near the northernmost helicopter group," said Dog.
"Damn it — the MiGs are here," said Zen. "Come south."
Dog answered by turning the aircraft back south, staying near the Flighthawk.
The MiGs started a turn meant to take them back east. But it was more of a gradual arc than a sharp cut, and it was clear to Zen even before he asked the computer to project their course that they would still cross over the border.