"Holding made sense earlier," said Samson. "Now we're ready to grab him."
"General, there are Zsu-zsu's lined up all along the roads around the property," warned Spiff, the ground radar operator aboard the Bennett, referring to the antiaircraft guns the Romanians had moved into the area. "They'll shoot the Osprey to pieces on the way in, or the way out."
"We're just going to have to risk it," said Samson. "Osprey— we'll help you plot a path."
"I have a better idea," said Zen. "I'll get them."
VII
Flying Man
To Zen's surprise, it was Danny who raised the most strenuous objections.
"The MESSKIT was designed to get you out of the aircraft, not haul people around," Danny said.
"No, it was designed to help you guys get around," said Zen. "Annie adapted it to use as a parachute. It's still basically the same tool you started with. Which means it's a lot more than a parachute. We picked that car up the other day, General," he added, making the pitch to Samson himself. "The exoskeleton is extremely strong. To conserve fuel, I'll glide all the way down to the mountain. I fire it up when I get there."
"How do you get out of the plane, Jeff?" asked Breanna. There was fear in her voice — she was worried for him.
"He goes out from one of the auxiliary seats up here," said
Dog. "Right, Zen?"
"That's exactly what I'm thinking, Colonel. What do you say?"
"I say it's up to General Samson," said Dog. "But I think it may be our best bet."
"Get moving," said Samson. "Let's do it now."
In outline, the plan was simplicity itself. Zen would eject at 30,000 feet, five miles from the hill, far from sight and earshot of the troops below. He'd then glide down to the president and his family, and use the MESSKIT to fly them to another spot four miles away, where the Osprey would arrive to pick them up.
The details were where things got complicated.
Because Zen couldn't walk, he'd to have to land as close to the president as possible. The large bare spot near the crest of the hill would be the easiest place for a rendezvous; if that didn't work, there were two places farther down that might. One was an elbow turn in a dried-out creek bed about halfway down the hill; the opening was roughly thirty by twenty feet. The other was a gouge close to the base of the hill, fifty yards in from the road. The gouge was probably the remains of a gravel mine, and was much wider than either of the other two spots. But it was also very close to a makeshift lookout post set up by the soldiers surrounding the area.
To make the pickup, Zen would need to be in direct communication with the president. The technical side of this was difficult enough: Zen would trade his Flighthawk helmet for a standard Dreamland flight helmet, swapping in the MESSKIT guidance and information system, a piece of software that connected to the helmet's screen functions via a program card about the size of a quarter. He would then hook the helmet into a survival radio to communicate with the Johnson rather than the Bennett, since it would be easier to coordinate communications aboard the pressurized ship. The Johnson, meanwhile, would capture the president's mobile phone call through the Dreamland channel and then relay it to Zen. The need to communicate presented an inherent risk: While they would use an obscure frequency rather than the emergency band commonly monitored, there was nonetheless a chance that it could be intercepted. Its sixty-four-bit encryption would be difficult to decipher, but the radio waves could be tracked.
The field where they would meet the Osprey was well west of the house, and could be approached without running past any of the antiaircraft guns, most of which were closer to the house. Zen would fly by two of the guns, but the radar experts believed that his profile would be small enough, and low enough, that the radar used by the weapons would completely miss him. The guns could be visually sighted, but that took time and would be hard in the dark.
Three trips. In theory, Zen could do it all in an hour, once he landed.
The question was how close together would theory and reality fall.
Voda hadn't called back. The mission would be scrubbed if they didn't hear from him.
As Dog flew EB-52 Bennett into position, Zen got out of his specially designed flight chair and slipped to the deck of the Megafortress. Then he crawled to the ladder at the rear of the compartment and climbed to the flight deck.
"Hey, Zen, why didn't you tell us you were on your way?" said Spiff, getting up from his radar station as Zen crawled toward him.
"I didn't think it would be worth the trouble."
"Jeez, let me help you."
Zen knew from experience that the sight of a grown man crawling along the floor unnerved some people, and sometimes he got a twisted pleasure from seeing them squirm as he did it. But Spiff's worried expression took him by surprise, and he let Spiff help him as a way of putting him at ease.
"I just need a hand getting strapped in," he said, pushing up into the seat. "I'm hoping I fit."
As Zen pressed himself into the seat, he glanced up at the outlines of the hatch he was going to be shot through. It looked terribly small.
He turned his attention back to his gear, taking one last inventory. He slapped his hand down to the survival knife in the scabbard pocket at his thigh, then slipped his hand into his vest, making sure his Beretta was easily accessible.
"Let's get this show on the road," he said. "I'm ready to fly."
"Secure anything loose," Dog told the crew. "Make sure your oxygen masks are nice and snug. Get your gloves on. Not only is it going to get noisy and windy in here, but it'll be cold too."
"We're ready, Colonel," said Sullivan.
"We have to work our way down to altitude gradually. There'll be no rushing," added Dog. "Everybody check your gear one last time, make sure the oxygen is tight and you have a green on the suit system."
He checked his own restraints, then glanced at his watch, intending to give the rest of the crew a full minute.
"Sullivan, you ready?" Dog asked.
"Ready, Colonel."
"Spiff?"
"Good to go." "Rager?" "Ready, sir."
"Zen?"
"Roger that."
"All right. Let's find out where the hell our rescuee is," said Dog, tapping the Dreamland Command line.
A clump of prickle bushes had grown up around a fallen tree about fifty yards from the bald spot on the hill. The brush formed an L, with the long end extending almost straight down. Not only did the bushes provide cover, but they also cut down on the wind, which seemed to Voda much stronger on this side of the hill. The pain in his knee had settled to a sharp throb that moved in unison with his breath. He passed the cell phone from one hand to another, staring at it. His fingers were numb.
"What's going on?" Mircea asked.
"I'm calling the Americans back," he told her.
Now he couldn't remember any part of the number. He could feel the panic rising in his chest. Part of him wanted to fling the phone down and simply run up the hill. He'd shout, make himself a target, run at the soldiers, let them kill him. It would be a relief.
He wasn't going to do that. He was going to get his family out of there. And then he was going to save his country.
Voda began working through the unfamiliar menus to find recently dialed calls. The number was there.
Reverse the last two digits. That was the problem.