Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) Read Online Free Page A

moving ahead of his brain. By the time his mind comprehended what had happened, his body had already moved to deal with it, trimming the plane to concentrate.
    “Captain, is there trouble?” asked his passenger.
    “Slight complication, Admiral. We’re good.” Turk’s mouth was suddenly dry. His chest pushed against the seat restraints—his heart was pounding like crazy.
    He was at 1,500 feet, 1,300. The nano-UAVs were still around him, though at least part of one was in the left engine, or what remained of it.
    Like a bird strike, he thought. Deal with it.
    “Whiplash Observer?” asked the control tower.
    “I’m landing.”
    “You’re on fire, Whiplash,” said the controller.
    Ordinarily, that would have been the cue to pull the ejection handle. But Turk worried that his passenger wouldn’t fare well—they were low, there wasn’t much margin for error, and it was doubtful the admiral had ever parachuted from a plane.
    And besides, he could land the damn plane with his eyes closed.
    Come on, Old Girl, he thought. Let’s take this easy now. You’ve seen harder challenges than this.
    He took the plane into a turn, realigning himself for a landing as quickly as he dared. Just as he straightened his wings, something popped on the right side. A shudder ran through his body, the rattle of a metal spike being driven into a bed of shale. He began moving his feet, pedaling, pedaling—he was three years old, trying to get control of a runaway tricycle plummeting down the hill of his parents’ backyard. The dog was barking in the distance. The world was closing in. Rocks loomed on either side; ahead, a stone wall.
    “Stand by. Landing,” he said tersely.
    Landing gear deployed, Turk felt his way to the strip, steadying the plane as she began drifting to the right. His nose started coming up; he fought the impulse to react too strongly, easing the Phantom down. The seconds flew by, then moved slowly, excruciatingly—the wheels should have touched down by now, he thought.
    The nano-UAVs dispersed just as the rear wheels hit the smooth surface of the runway. He was fast, and little far along the runway, but that was all right—he had another 10,000 feet of marked runway to stop, and miles of salt flat to steer through if necessary. The emergency vehicles were speeding up from behind . . .
    Turk’s relief vanished as a flame shot up from under the right side of the plane. The first nano-UAV had hit the belly, rupturing the tank there and starting a small fire.
    He popped the canopies as the F-4 braked to a stop. Undoing his restraints, he pushed himself up from the ejection seat, helmet still on and oxygen still attached. He ripped off the gear and hopped onto the wing, leaning back to grab Admiral Blackheart. Black smoke curled around them.
    “Out of here, Admiral, let’s go,” said Turk, grabbing the admiral under his left arm and lifting him out of the plane. He took a step back but slipped, falling backward onto the wing. The admiral fell onto his chest.
    A cloud surrounded them, enveloping the two men in a toxic blackness.
    “Almost home,” Turk told the admiral, struggling to get up. He reached his knees but the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see the tips of his fingers as he fished for a grip. He finally hooked his fingers into the admiral’s soft biceps. Turk pulled him to the edge of the wing, then tumbled with him to the ground. Blackheart’s head hit his chest as they landed, knocking the wind from him. Struggling to breathe, Turk turned to his belly and pulled up his knee, levering himself up and pulling the admiral with him.
    The smoke drenched them both in inky soot, covering their mouths and poking at their eyes, a caustic acid. Turk pushed and pulled and pushed, finally getting his balance and then his breath. He had the admiral under him like a messenger bag, moving forward until finally the sky cleared and it was bright again, the sky a faultless blue.
    There were trucks. A jet streaked