"That's right."
"I have an aircraft in that region. We've been trying to get in contact with you," said Samson. "We can provide a great deal of help. We'll catch those bastards, too."
"Your assistance is appreciated but not needed," answered Locusta. "This is a delicate political matter, General. I'm sure you understand."
Sure, I understand, thought Samson — you want to take over the country and don't want any interference from us.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Samson. "We can help."
"Whether you understand or not, stay away from the area. I would hate to have one of your planes shot down accidentally."
The arrogant son of a bitch!
"Listen, General—" started Samson, before he realized Locusta had killed the connection.
With guidance from the Bennett, the two Romanian MiGs were able to change course and set up their own intercept over Moldovan territory.
"Let them take the first shot," Dog told Zen. "But don't let the Russians get by."
"Roger that," said Zen.
He checked everyone's position on his sitrep, then dialed into the Romanian flight's communications channel. They were using the call signs §oim Unu and §oim Doi — Falcon One and Falcon Two.
"§oim Unu, this is Dreamland Flighthawk leader. You read me?" said Zen. The word §oim was pronounced "shoim."
"Flighthawk leader, we are on your ear," said the pilot. "I'm your ear too," said Zen, amused. "You know American English?" "Ten-four to this."
"You want to take both planes yourselves? Or should we divvy them up?"
"We may first attack. Then, you sloppy seconds."
"Where'd you learn English?"
"Brother goes to American college."
His letters back home must be a real blast, thought Zen.
"All right," he told the Romanians. "I'll be to the northeast. If they get past you, I'm on them. You won't see the UM/Fs on your radar. They're small and pretty stealthy."
"What is this UM/F?"
"Flighthawks. They're unmanned fighters."
"Oh yes, Flighthawk. We know this one very well."
Had he been flying with American or NATO pilots, Zen would have suggested a game plan that would have the two groups of interceptors work more closely together. But he wasn't sure how the Romanians were trained to fly their planes, let alone how well they could do it.
The Russian planes were in an offset trail, one nearly behind the other as they sped a few feet above the water toward land. The Romanians pivoted eastward and set up for a bracket intercept, spreading apart so they could attack the Russians from opposite sides.
At first Zen thought that the Russians' radar must not be nearly as powerful as American intelligence made them out to be, for the planes stayed on course as the two Romanians approached. Then he realized that the two bogeys had simply decided they would rush past their opponents. Sure enough, they lit their afterburners as soon as the Romanians turned inward to attack.
§oim Unu had anticipated this. He bashed his throttle and shot toward the enemy plane.
"Shoot!" yelled Zen.
But the Romanian couldn't get a lock. The two planes thundered forward, the Romanian slowly closing the distance. And then suddenly he was galloping forward — the Russian had pulled almost straight up, throwing his pursuer in front of him.
Frustrated, Sloim 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 running out of altitude. He pulled back, trying to slide away with a jink to his right.
Zen pushed Hawk One in for the kill. As the Mikoyan turned, it presented a broad target for his 20mm cannon. Two long bursts broke the plane in half; the pilot grabbed the eject handles and sailed clear moments before the forward half of the aircraft spun out and corkscrewed into the Black Sea.
"One down," said Zen. "One to go."
"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 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 disconnect directional homers to the cell phone frequency," said Rubeo.
"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 consent. 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?"
"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 Jennifer Gleason.
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 dinner or ask if they needed something.