"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 button. "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?"
Danny Freah put on his smart helmet and tapped into the Dreamland database, asking the computer with verbal commands to display the most recent satellite photo of the area where the president's house was located.
The picture was several days old, taken right after the attack on the pipeline, but it was adequate for planning purposes.
From the description that had been relayed to him, Alin Voda was hiding about a quarter mile northeast of his house, near an old structure. But the structure wasn't visible on the map. Danny zoomed in and out without being able to see it among the trees. Finally he backed out, looking for an easier spot to pick him up.
The hill was wooded all the way to its peak. There was a rift on the back slope about fifty feet down, where a drop created a bald spot. The Osprey couldn't land there, but they could fast-rope down, put the president into a rescue basket, and haul him back up.
They'd need some close-in reconnaissance before attempting the pickup, to figure out where the Romanians were. And they'd need a diversion to get into the area.
"What do you think, Cap?" asked Boston, who was standing beside him. "Doable?"
"Oh yeah, we can do it," Danny said, pulling off the helmet. "Just need a little coordination."
He checked his watch. The Osprey was roughly twenty minutes from the mountain house. Hopefully, Voda could hold out that long.
The two Russian aircraft approaching the Romanian coast of the Black Sea were brand new MiG-29Ms, upgraded versions of the original MiG-29. Equipped with better avionics and more hardpoints, the fighters were potent attack aircraft, capable of carrying a wide range of weapons. Because they were flying so low, the Bennett's radar was unable to identify what missiles or bombs they had beneath their wings, but their track made it clear they were heading for the Romanian gas fields.
"How are we handling this, Colonel?" Zen asked Dog over the interphone. He'd already swung his Flighthawks toward the border to prepare for an intercept.
"You take first shot," Dog told him. "We'll take anything that gets past you. Boomer will knock down any missiles."
"Roger that."
The MiGs were moving at just over 500 knots — fast, certainly, but with plenty of reserve left in their engines to accelerate. They were just under eighty miles from the border, and another fifty beyond the Flighthawks; assuming they didn't punch in some giddy-up, Zen knew he had nine and a half minutes to set up the intercept.
Almost too much time, he mused.
"We have a pair of Romanian contacts, Colonel. Two MiG-29s coming north from Mikhail Kogalniceanu."
The MiG-29s were the Romanians' sole advanced aircraft. Older than the Russian planes, they were equipped with short-range heat-seeking missiles and cannons. It would take considerable skill for their pilots to shoot down their adversaries.
Unless the Americans helped balance the odds.
"Let's talk to them," said Dog. "Sully, can you get us on their communications channel?"
"Working on it now, Colonel."
Mack Smith hunched over the console in Dreamland Command, watching the combined radar plot from the Bennett and the Johnson that showed where all the Dreamland people were.
The one thing it didn't show was where President Voda might be.
Which, as he read the situation, was the one thing above all else it ought to show.
"What the hell's going on with that NSA chick?" Mack asked the techie to his right. "She get those cell towers figured out yet or what?"
"They're working on it. It's not like they monitor every transmission in the world, Major."
Mack straightened. There ought to be an easier way to track Voda.
If the Megafortress types flying over Romania were the Elint birds — specially designed to pick up electronic transmissions — it'd be a no-brainer. They'd just tune to the cell phone's frequencies and wham bam, thank you ma'am, they'd have him.
But with all the high-tech crap in the planes that were there, surely there was some way to find the S.O.B.
The problem probably wasn't the technology — the problem was they didn't have enough geeks working it.
Mack turned around and yelled to the communications specialist, who was sitting two rows back. "Hey, you know Ray Rubeo's cell phone number?"
"Dr. Rubeo? He's no longer—"
"Yeah, just dial the number, would you? Get him on the horn."
Mack shook his head. He had to explain everything to these people.
"General, there's an urgent transmission coming through from Romanian air defense command," said Breanna.
"About time they woke up," said Samson, tapping the communications panel at the lower left of the dashboard. "This is Samson."
"General Samson, stand by for General Locusta."
"Locusta. He's the army general, right?" Samson asked Breanna. "The one who's probably running the coup?"
She didn't get a chance to answer as Locusta came on the line.
"General Samson, I am sorry to say we have not had a chance to meet."
Samson had a little trouble deciphering Locusta's English.
"Yes, I'm glad to be working with you, too," he told him, trying not to arouse his suspicions.
"We understand the Russians are attacking. We have our own interceptors on the way."
"Yes, I've seen the radar, and my colonel is attempting to contact them. We'll shoot the bastards down, don't worry."
"We are obliged. We appreciate the assistance," said Lo-custa. "Now, we are conducting operations in the north, in the mountain areas east of Stulpicani. You'll please keep your aircraft clear of that area."
Samson decided to employ a trick he'd learned when he was young and ambitious — when in doubt, play dumb.
"This is in relation to the attack on the president's estate?" Samson asked.