"Your handle? Nickname?"

"Um. People sometimes call me Rap."

"Don't like it," said Samson, checking his course.

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0122.

THE MISSILES APPEARED ON DOG'S SITREP, FLASHING toward the MiGs. The Russians had not yet seen the Megafortress, 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.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0123.

VODA STARTED DOWN THE HILL. THERE WAS NO MUSIC PLAYING in his head now, just the rapid drum of his heart and the too-loud rustle of the brush as he pushed his legs across the ground. Danny Freah twisted and turned through the thick branches, pushing this way and that, prodding him through the gray tangle of leafless brush and trees.

Suddenly, Danny stopped short, grabbing him. Voda slipped and fell to the ground.

"Stay down," whispered the American, crouching next to him.

A dozen soldiers were coming up the hill.

"That's where we're going," Danny whispered, pointing to the right.

Voda saw a patch of moonlight between the trees. It was a small clearing, ten or fifteen yards away.

"There should be a diversion here any second," Danny said. "We have to add to the confusion."

Voda couldn't quite understand what he was saying. Danny reached to his vest, then held something out to him. "Two grenades," he explained. "How far can you throw?"

"Throw?"

"A baseball?"

Voda shook his head. He had no idea what Danny was talking about.

"Here's what we're going to do," Danny whispered. "In about thirty seconds there are going to be some flares launched above us. We're going to throw these grenades as far as we can down the hill. They're flash-bangs-they make a lot of noise and light, but they won't hurt anybody. As soon as you throw the first grenade, turn around and run with me to that clearing. When we get there, grab my neck. And hang on. I'll set down as soon as I can and we'll get you in the harness. We'll be OK if you hang on. Just grip me tight. Keep your head down-we'll definitely be hitting branches. All right? Do you think you can hold on?"

No, Voda thought, he didn't think he could. His fingers were frozen stumps.

"Yes," he said weakly.

"Careful, these are primed," hissed Danny, handing him a grenade. "You let go, they'll explode in a few seconds."

Flares sparkled above, a fire show of light.

"Throw!" yelled Danny.

He heaved his grenade, then started to run with the American.

There was more gunfire, explosions.

As they reached the clearing, Danny grabbed Voda with one hand. There was a whooshing sound. Voda threw his arm around the American's neck. As he did, he realized to his horror that he had only thrown one of the grenades. The other one dropped from his raw, numb fingers.

G.o.d!

Voda's head spun. Dizzy-something smacked hard against him, grabbed and scratched him.

He was airborne, flying over the trees. The ground lit with a boom and a flash.

VODA'S GRIP WAS SO TIGHT, DANNY STARTED TO CHOKE. HE had intended to put down on the road, but tracers showered all around him, and he knew the best thing was simply to fly. He pushed forward, zipping over the road toward the next hill.

Their feet smacked into the top of the tree branches as he steered the MESSKIT. He kept his head straight, trying to keep his frigid hands steady on the controls.

As they came up over the crest of the hill, he saw the Osprey off in the distance, already in the air. Fire leaped from it-it was shooting at one of the antiaircraft guns.

"Whiplash Osprey, what's going on?" he said, but there was no answer.

He backed off his power. The fuel in MESSKIT was limited; he had very little room to improvise.

The Osprey stopped firing and spun to his left, heading away from him. Danny saw trucks moving on the road below. He veered to the right, back toward the original landing zone.

A tone sounded. He had only a minute of fuel left.

What was the Osprey doing?

Voda groaned.

"We're gonna land!" Danny shouted to him.

They glided downward, skimming over a rooftop and dipping into a farm field fifty yards from the one where Zen had landed. Danny tried to walk as he came in, but Voda was facing backward and they ended up tumbling awkwardly.

Even after the fall, Voda held his grip; Danny had to pry him off and shout at him to get free.

"Whiplash Osprey! Whiplash Osprey!" he yelled into the helmet's microphone as he grabbed his submachine gun. "We're ready for pickup!"

Again there was no response. Finally, Danny realized what had happened. While he was taking off he'd inadvertently pulled the wire connecting the helmet to the radio from its plug.

He punched it in.

"Osprey, I'm down!"

"Roger, Captain. We see you and are en route. Stand by."

Danny looked toward the house, about 150 feet away. Someone was watching from a lit window at the top.

He heard gunfire, but it wasn't aimed at them or nearby, and he couldn't see who was shooting.

The Osprey whipped toward them, a hawk swooping in for its prey. As it dropped into a hover nearby, two trucks stopped near the house. Figures emerged from the back-soldiers.

"Come on. Here's our taxi," Danny said, turning to Voda.

The president was crouched over on one side, a pool of vomit on the ground.

"Come on, come on," said Danny, pulling him.

The Osprey's wings were tilted upward. It flew like a helicopter, gliding in between them and the house as Danny and Voda ran out of the way to give it more s.p.a.ce. The aircraft spun, keeping the gun under its chin pointed at the troops that had come out of the truck, but they didn't fire.

"In, let's go, let's go!" yelled Danny, pulling Voda with him.

Sergeant Liu sprang from the ramp at the rear. He grabbed Voda from the other side and together he and Danny held the president suspended between them. When they reached the ramp, they threw themselves head first into the aircraft as it began to move.

Boston was standing in front of the side door, manning a .50 caliber machine gun. He sighted at the men below but didn't fire; neither did they.

"b.u.t.ton up! b.u.t.ton up!" yelled the crew chief. "We're outta here."

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0125.

BREANNA STUDIED THE TARGETING SCREEN, WATCHING AS THE MiGs scattered under the pressure of the Bennett's long-range missile attack. The airborne radar operator in the Johnson was playing traffic cop, divvying up the remaining targets as the Russian aggressors found new courses toward their target. Bennett and its Flighthawks were to tackle three planes, Bandits Three, Eight, and Nine. That left ten for the B-1s.

"Boomer, you have Bandits Five and Six," said the operator.

"Roger that," Breanna said.

"Boomer, you also have Bandits Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen. Do you copy?"

"You're adding those," she said, glancing at the sitrep. "We have Five, we have Six, we have Ten, we have Twelve, Thirteen, we have Fifteen. Boomer copies."

All of their targets were currently headed south, though they would have to cut back north soon to strike the pipeline. The closest, Bandit Twelve, was seventy-five seconds from firing range. They were dead-on to its nose.

The trick, though, wasn't taking out just one plane, or even two. Breanna knew she had to make like a pool player intent on running the table. If she took too long between shots, one or more of the MiGs would be by them and dropping their bombs before they had a chance to shoot them down.

"Earthmover, I need you to come back north," said Breanna, giving Samson not only a heading but a speed.

"Hmmmph," said Samson.

"Did you get it?"