Voda heard someone coming.They were on him now. It was the end. Finally.
He took a deep breath. They might lie about how he had died, but he would know. He would be satisfied with that.
He thought of Mozart, and the folk song.
"Good-bye Julian. Mircea," he whispered, stepping up and out of his hiding place.
A black figure grabbed him and threw him down.
"Sssssssh," hissed Danny Freah. "They're just above us."
The Bennett had already stabilized its cabin pressure, so as long as Dog stayed clear of the hatchway, there was little chance he'd be swept out of the plane. Still, the passage to the rear of the flight deck was nerve-wracking, especially with the wind howling around him.
He grabbed each handhold carefully, moving as fast as he dared. When he reached the ladder at the back of the deck, Dog took a deep breath, then dropped to the floor and grabbed the top of the ladder. He felt himself slipping, unbalanced by the plane's sharp maneuvers as it got ready to engage the Russians.
Dog grabbed the ladder rail and climbed down into the compartment. When he reached the deck, he punched the button to close the hatchway, sealing off the lower level and banishing any possibility that he might fly out of the aircraft. He went to Flighthawk Station Two on the left side of the plane, plugged in his oxygen set, and powered up the console.
Dog knew only the general outlines of how the Flighthawk control system worked. There was no way he could pilot the small planes better than the computer, certainly not in combat. But that wasn't necessary — all he had to do was tell them who to hit.
"Sitrep on main screen," he told the computer after his control access was authorized.
The sitrep appeared. The Megafortress was at its center; Hawk One and Hawk Two were shown as crosses in blue. Dog struggled for a moment, trying to remember how to change the scale so he could see the targets as well. Finally he tried the voice command that worked on his console upstairs.
The screen flashed. When it reappeared, the entire battle area was presented. The MiGs were red daggers at the edge of the screen.
"Hawk One, designate target Bandit Five," said Dog.
A message flashed on the screen:
TARGET OUT OF RANGE
"Hawk One, suggest target," said Dog.
The computer thought about it, then flashed a yellow line on the screen. It wanted to strike Bandit Eight, even though it was even farther away than Bandit Five.
"Colonel, we're almost ready to fire," said Sullivan over the interphone.
"Take your shots as soon as you're ready."
"Roger that. Opening bay doors."
Dog tried to block out the sound and the Megafortress's maneuvers. Should he accept the computer's judgment? It didn't quite make sense to him, but Zen often talked about how subtly different the tactics for the Flighthawks were when compared to conventional aircraft.
It came down to this: Did he trust the technology, or did he trust his own judgment?
When he first arrived at Dreamland, it would have been the latter. Now, he knew, he had to go with the computer.
"Hawk One targeting approved," he said.
A new message flashed on the screen:
OK TO LEAVE CONTROLLED RANGE?
"Affirmative," replied Dog.
The message remained. The computer had not accepted his command.
"Hawk One, authorized to leave controlled range for intercept," said Dog.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Hawk One pivoted north.
North? What the hell was the computer thinking?
Voda's eyes were wide, clearly not believing what he was seeing.
"You're not the same man. You're not Zen."
"No, I'm Danny Freah. Your wife and son are safe. Now you and I have to get out."
"Is there an army of flying men?"
Danny smiled and shook his head. "Come on."
There were too many trees above them to try crashing straight upward and out. They'd have to move to a clearer spot. But going back to where he'd come down seemed too dangerous.
"Mack, I have him," said Danny.
"Get the hell out of there."
Mack Smith, master of the obvious.
"All right, Mr. President, what we're going to do is move down the slope until we come to an opening where we can fly from. Then I'm going to strap you to me and we're out of here. Right?"
"Call me Alin."
"OK, Alin. Let's do it."
With the first step, Danny realized Voda had hurt his leg. He put his arm under Voda's shoulder and helped him forward. They had only gone a few yards when he heard the shouts of the men above.
"Stay in front of me," said Danny.
He raised his gun. A burst of automatic gunfire blazed through the brush.
"Johnson, we need a diversion," said Danny. He grabbed Voda and pulled him next to him, starting down the slope. "I have a bulletproof vest, Alin. Stay between me and the bullets. I know your leg hurts — just do the best you can. Come on."
"Do whatever you have to," Samson told Englehardt. "Shoot them up. Just get him to Bucharest."
"Roger that," replied Englehardt. "Johnson out."
Samson turned to Breanna. They were still five minutes away from the MiG flight.
"You ready over there, Stockard?"
"Ready, Earthmover."
"What's your nom de guerre?" he asked.
"Sir?"
"Your handle? Nickname?"
"Um. People sometimes call me Rap."
"Don't like it," said Samson, checking his course.
The missiles appeared on Dog's sitrep, flashing toward the MiGs. The Russians had not yet seen the Mega-fortress, nor its missiles. Apparently unaware that they'd been targeted, they continued blithely on course.
Dog turned his attention back to the Flighthawks.
"Hawk Two, suggest target."
The computer suggested Bandit Nine, far back in the pack. "Hawk Two, target approved."
As soon as Dog acknowledged that the location of the target was beyond control range, the Flighthawk peeled off to the west. This route, at least, was direct and obvious.
"MiGs taking evasive action," said Sullivan over the interphone.
They were, but it was too late. Dog saw Scorpion One and the lead MiG intersect on the screen. A red starburst appeared, indicating that the missile had hit its mark.
Missiles three and four struck their targets in rapid succession.
Two missed, self-destructing harmlessly a half mile away.
As he watched the screen, Dog realized why Hawk One had gone north. Russian air doctrine not only organized the MiGs into four distinct groups, but dictated their routes of escape when attacked. Hawk One was perfectly positioned to take out its MiG as the aircraft cut to the north.
But it would have to do it on its own. The words hawk one: connection lost flashed on the screen, followed a few seconds later by a similar message for Hawk Two.