Dale Brown - Dreamland

“Two, one –”

Zen pulled the joystick back, ducking just close enough to the Megafortress to retain control. He lost he aircraft that had taken off from the Bedouin camp in the ground haze. The Flighthawk was barely twenty feet from the ground and the computer began spitting error codes.

“You have to get higher and close,” Jennifer broke in. “We’ve lost the laser-communication mode completely, and the radio error coefficient’s climbing. Jeff! Jeff!”

He was out there with it, beyond the tether. He went back to the FLIR view screen and saw the Pchelka dead ahead, its two antiquated engines churning a whirlpool of dust as it lumbered over the dunes.

His thumb clicked on the weapon-select button, toggling over to arm, then designate.

He didn’t want to shoot it down.

Fly over it. Force it down.

Zen eased back on the throttle, nudging the weapon-select toggle back to safe as he began to pull the stick back, gaining altitude even as his forward airspeed slowed.

And then everything went blank, the command link snapping.

“Shit!” he cursed.

“I know, I know,” yelled Jennifer. “It’s okay, it’s okay; it dropped into fail-safe. Damn. We’re maneuvering too violently at too far a distance. We’re under attack.”

Zen pushed his head back, realizing for the first time that they were under fire.

“Take the son of a bitch that fired the missiles out,” Cheshire ordered as she snapped the Megafortress onto a new course heading. The Libyans were somewhat better armed than they had been led to believe – semi-active radar missiles and Lark look-down radar. But they had no clue what they were up against; Raven’s EVMs quickly jammed the four missiles that had been fired – and every radar within two hundred miles for good measure.

She still had her hands full. The interceptors could go nearly three times as fast as the Megafortress with its antique power plants. And they were behind her – if they closed fast enough, they could use their heat-seekers, which were immune to Raven’s ECMs.

As the lead MiG closed, Cheshire swooped to the left, hoping to get the enemy planes to overtake her and provide an easy-rear quarter shot for her own weapons officer.

No dice. One of the MiGs dropped back while the other cut south. Cheshire tried turning into the second interceptor, only to nearly collide with one of the Flighthawks.

“Zen, Jesus!” she managed as she punched the plane lower.

“Targeting MiG. Bay,” called the weapons officer. “Fox One!”

He’d launched a Scorpion radar missile.

Zen cursed to himself as he brought Hawk One back under control. The flight computer had become confused by the mother ship’s maneuverings, almost fatally. He had to go to bird’s-eye view on the main screen to sort it all out, dropping speed on both planes. To make things worse, his left forefinger began to cramp; he went to voice control on the throttle for Hawk One. He needed the computer’s help to get both planes in their set positions, a half mile behind the Raven’s wings. By that time, the Pchelka was well off the screen.

“Splash one MiG!” declared the weapons officer. His nickname was “Deadeye,” the kind of moniker often applied ironically. From today on, it’d be said with respect.

“Second MiG going west. He’s running hot. My guess is he’s turning tail back for Libya,” reported the radar/navigator. “Whoo – looks like he’s got some friends. More contacts, well north. Unidentified, but definitely not friendlies.”

“Okay, folks, this is where we round up our horses and head out of town,” said Cheshire.

“Major, that was the Pchelka,” said Zen.

“I’ve already radioed their location and direction,” replied Cheshire. “They’re headed into the Navy search sectors.”

“Shit. They’re miles from the nearest patrol route.”

“I have no control over that, Jeff.”

“We can’t leave them now.”

Cheshire didn’t answer. But he could tell she wasn’t turning the plane around either.

“Nancy, damn it.”

“Zen, at this point, there’s nothing we can do. Now get those U/MFs in tow. They’ve got to be at bingo by now. You run out of fuel and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” said Zen.

Like what?

Like I’m a moron and a fucking cripple, he thought – but he kept his mouth shit. She was right about the planes at ‘bingo’ – a theoretical turnaround point computed to give them enough fuel to return home without running the fuel tanks dry.

“Bandits have turned around. They’re going north. Still looking for us. We’re clean,” reported Bobby. “That Pchelka’s off my screen too.”

“Computer, combat trail, standard offset,” Zen told the Flighthawk computer.

Sudan

23 October, 2000 local

“So, Major, it is you and I then,” said the Imam, standing at the edge of the camp. The Pchelka, with Gunny and Howland, had vanished in the distance. Overhead, the warplanes rumbled; Mack saw a flash in the distance.

“Have you ever been to Tripoli, Major?” asked the Imam. “It is a beautiful city, looking out on the ocean.”

“That were we’re going?”

“Our journey is long,” said Imam. “That is but one stop.”

“I hope we’re not walking.”

The Imam said nothing. As the jets above cleared, Mack head the low drone of a helicopter approaching.

“What’s going to happen to them?” Knife said.

“They will be put on trial, then shot.”

“Same as me?”

“Not yet,” the Imam said. “My superiors have taken an interest in you.”

“Why?” Knife’s ears started to ring – this didn’t sound good.

“At first it was suggested you be punished for attacking one of our soldiers while a prisoner in captivity, which as you know under the Geneva Conventions, is attempted murder, a serious offense. But then we received some interesting information. For some unknown reason, Major Mack Smith, you seemed to disappear from the Air Force roster for a long time. You were flying F-15’s for a time, then you disappeared, then you reappeared flying F-16’s. Odd.”

The Iranian delighted in seeing Knife swallow nervously.

“Well, Major, are you more than just another swaggering but incompetent fighter pilot?” he went on. “Perhaps you were involved in some secret activities? As you say in your insipid American television commercials, ‘Inquiring minds want to know.’ Inquiring minds in many nations in the Islamic brotherhood, and perhaps beyond. We shall find out what your official records do not tell us.”

“What do the Geneva Conventions say about taking prisoners of war to another country?” Smith asked. “You seem to apply the law only when it suits you.”

“And what of your country? An undeclared war against a peaceful nation? You forfeited your right to protection under the law when you accepted this unlawful mission.”

“Do whatever you want with me. I’m not talking to you or your so-called brotherhood.”

The Iranian smiled but said nothing.

Mack snorted with contempt. It was about all he could do – besides the manacles on his hands, there were four guards flanking him with their AK-47’s.

He felt like making a run for it anyway. In the long run, it probably didn’t matter – if anything, it was at least arguably better to be shot here, before they could use him for whatever propaganda extravaganza they were cooking up.

One thing was certain, this wasn’t exactly helping his military career. So much for being part of the A team.

“Major, you find me amusing?”

“No. I’m laughing at myself.”

“Good. This is the first step on the road to enlightenment. You will be assisted on the second step,” he added, grinning at his joke as a Jet Ranger whipped in for a landing.