Revolution

IV Burnt Wood and Flesh

Stoner rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he looked at the photo of the house and the aftermath of the guerrillas' explosion. There was a torso in the foreground. The other photo showed a baby's arm clutched around a doll.

The American ambassador to Romania pushed the rest of the photos toward the far side of his desk, no longer able to look at them. The ambassador, rarely seen in public without a tie, wore a hooded yellow sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans, as if he were going to work on his car when they were done.

"Pretty gruesome, I'd say." The ambassador shook his head. "Bastards."

"Yeah," said Russ Fairchild, the CIA station chief. "This is what they're up against."

"Was it the Russians or the guerrillas?" asked the ambassador.

"Had to be the Russians," said Fairchild. "That much explosives?"

Stoner leaned forward and took the rest of the photos. Fairchild was probably right about the source of the explosives. But the description of the operation he'd heard from the Dreamland people made it sound too amateurish for Spetsnaz.

He flipped through the pictures, which had been taken by the Romanian army on the scene. The guerrillas were in pieces, their bodies shattered when the explosives blew.

Stoner found a severed leg. He slipped the picture onto the ambassador's desk.

"They were guerrillas," he told the others. "See the shoes?"

"God," said the ambassador, reacting to the gruesomeness of the shot.

"An old Puma," said Fairchild.

"The Spetsnaz people who came after me had new boots," explained Stoner. "Besides, the Russians would have tried to shoot their way out."

Fairchild nodded. The ambassador seemed to be in shock.

"Can I have these?" Stoner asked, rising.

"By all means," said the ambassador. "We can print more."

"Mark?" Fairchild called after him as Stoner started down the hall. "Stoner — where are you going?" "I should be back tomorrow," he said.

Samson paced behind the console near the front of the Dreamland Command Center, impatiently waiting for the connection to the White House Situation Room to go through. He'd put the call in ten minutes earlier, and had been standing by ever since.

Dealing with the National Security Council and the White House was still new to him, and try as he might, Samson couldn't help but feel a little excited. And nervous. He'd had Mack Smith prepare a PowerPoint presentation, complete with images from the explosion. The photos were dra matic, illustrating again what the Dreamland people—his people — were up against.

And by extension, what a good job he was doing commanding them.

"Connection with the White House," said the specialist at the station to his right.

Samson raised his chin and looked at the main screen. Instead of a video feed of NSC head Philip Freeman, however, Jed Barclay's face came up.

"General, sorry I was late. The President called me into a meeting."

"Yes," said Samson, trying to hide his disappointment that he was dealing with a kid barely out of his teens instead of Freeman himself.

"Do you have an update?"

"I have the report from Colonel Bastian regarding the guerrilla attack," said Samson. "The Dreamland units tracked the guerrillas and helped detain them. As a matter of fact, I have a presentation—"

"Yes, sir. I was wondering if there was an update on the Russian aircraft. You'd told me about that earlier."

"There's not much more to tell," said Samson. "They had contacts at a very long distance. Bastian believes there are spies in Iasi that watch them take off."

"OK."

"I have images from the Flighthawk of the guerrillas exploding the house," said Samson. "I had them prepared for the President. If you'd like to see it—"

"We got some photos from the embassy an hour ago," said Jed. "So I think we're good. They came from the army. Pretty gruesome. That's pretty much all we need."

"OK."

"I'm sorry, I'm late," said Jed. "If you want to upload the report, I can check it out when I get back."

Samson fumed. What was the kid late for? A date?

"I'll have my aide do it," said Samson frostily. "Oh, there was something I wanted to mention to you," added Jed. "Kind of on down low." "Down low?"

"Between us. There was a discussion today relating to the B-1 laser project. Apparently some members of Congress were asking the Pentagon what was going on with it."

"What questions?"

"You'll have to sweat the specifics through channels, General. I didn't get the details myself, but the tone was, uh, um, hard-nosed. Like they wanted to kill the plane completely. Seems the B-1 has a bad reputation."

"Unjustly."

"Well, the reason I'm mentioning it is, the President was looking for an update."

"It's right on schedule," said Samson. Then he remembered that in fact it was a few weeks behind. "More or less on schedule. What is the President's concern?"

"I really can't speak for him," said Jed. "But, uh, you know with the way Congress is, um, funding… "

Samson got the message. Well, at least Jed was good for something. And maybe Freeman had purposely had the kid talk to him, so his "fingerprints" weren't on the warning.

"I just thought you'd like the heads-up before someone from the Pentagon calls," added Jed.

"Yes, yes, actually — thank you, Jed. Good information. I owe you one."

"Uh, yes, sir." Jed signed off.

"Where the hell is Mack Smith?" Samson thundered.

Mack Smith stared at the mountain of folders on his desk for a moment, then picked up the phone. "Mack Smith."

"Is this General Samson's chief of staff?" "Yes, sir."

"I figured you'd be working late. This is Robbie Denton. Colonel Denton."

"Oh yes, Colonel Denton."

The name was vaguely familiar. Mack quickly flipped through the folders. Darby, Denton… ah, Denton was the man General Samson had tapped to take over Combined Air Wing 1, the new designation for the Megafortresses and other aircraft and personnel when on a Whiplash deployment.

"Colonel, good to hear from you," bellowed Mack. "All right. Glad I happened to be working late tonight. A real fluke. Now, as far as security procedures go, I'm afraid we're a little anal about the process. The first thing you need to do—"

"Listen, Major, I'm going to save you a little time here. I've had second thoughts on the job." "S-Second thoughts, Colonel?"

"Actually, I never really wanted to take it in the first place. I love what I do now. It's the best job in the world. I just had a hard time telling Terrill that the other day."

"Um—"

"He's a force of nature," Denton told Mack. "That's why they call him Earthmover."

"Colonel, you really want to tell him this yourself."

"No, no, that's why I asked for you. I was his chief of staff back when he was in Strategic Air Command," added Denton. "I don't envy you."

"Oh."

Mack dropped the handset on the cradle. Samson wasn't going to be happy; by Mack's count, Denton was the third person he'd offered the job to. Part of the problem was that Samson only wanted proven overachievers, all of whom already had high-profile jobs to begin with. But they were also men he knew personally, which meant they'd served time under him… and therefore knew that working for Samson wasn't exactly a holiday.

As he could testify firsthand.

He got up from his desk. There was no question of going home — he had a week's worth of work that had to be finished by the morning. But he was hungry and could use a break.

The phone rang again. He started to leave anyway, thinking he'd let it roll over to voice mail, then saw that the light indicated it was an internal call.

"Mack Smith," he said, picking it up.

"General wants you down in Dreamland Command ASAP," said Lieutenant Stephens, the com specialist on duty there. "Actually, faster than ASAP."

"Tell him I'm on my way," said Mack.

Maybe he's going to compliment me on my PowerPoint presentation, he thought as he walked briskly down the hall to the elevator.

Perhaps. But "good" and "job" were two words that Samson rarely put together, except as a preface to an order for more work. If Samson did like the report, he would probably tell him to make a hundred copies each with personalized comments and have them sent out by midnight to everyone in the Pentagon.

The ride down to the secure command center was so quick Mack felt a little light-headed; he regretted not grabbing something to eat earlier. He nodded at the security sergeant standing in front of the door, then pressed his palm against the reader. The doors opened.

"Where have you been, Mack?" growled Samson from down near the center screen.

"Going through some reports, General. How'd the White House briefing go?"

"Fine," said Samson in a voice that suggested the opposite. "What's the status of the B-1 program?"

"Pretty much what it was the other day. Program head is due sometime next week and—"

"What are we doing in the meantime to get it back on schedule?"

"It's not really that far off, General. In some respects—"

Mack stopped short. Samson's eyebrows furled and his cheeks puffed out. Had he opened his mouth just then, he would have looked like a grizzly bear.

And not a particularly happy one.

"What I mean, General, is we're moving it right back to schedule, as you directed," said Mack quickly. "We do have the pilot shortage to deal with."

"Why don't we have pilots, Major?"

"Well we do, but in terms of being checked out—"

"That's your solution?"

"I'm working on it, General."

"That's not a good enough answer, Major. You've been working on this for days." Hours at least, thought Mack.

"General, I can't just shanghai pilots from other projects or units. Even once the budget line—" "Why not shanghai them?" Mack blinked.

"I don't care what you do, Major. Find a solution. Get the program back on schedule. I want the B-1s on line. I want to tell the White House tomorrow that they're ready to go operational. I want to tell them to gear up the production line."

"Well, they are ready to fly, General, that's not—" Mack stopped speaking as General Samson walked up toward him. It wasn't just his face that looked like a grizzly bear now.

"There's one thing you have to understand when you work for me, Major," said Samson, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't like excuses. I don't like explanations. Results. That's what I like."

"Yes, sir."

"Get it done, Mack." Samson's voice was almost inaudible. "Get it done."

"I'm on it right now, General."

The Lakers were down by two with eight seconds to go when Kobe Bryant took the ball in bounds. He looked across court, saw that Rick Fox was covered, then turned down toward the key.

Shaquille O'Neal had just drawn double coverage. Kobe hesitated just a second, as if he was going to scoop the ball up for O'Neal anyway. And then in a flash he was running toward the foul line. As he reached the paint, he jumped high in the air. The ball twirled off his fingertips as the buzzer sounded.

Rimming the hoop, the ball fell into the basket with a swish.

A referee ran from the scrum near the backboard, his hand in the air. Kobe had been fouled.

"Oh my God," said Breanna. She'd spent practically the whole fourth period on her feet, as the Lakers had mounted a stop-and-start comeback after trailing by fifteen. And her knee felt fine.

"Great game, huh?" said Sleek Top, next to her.

"Fantastic."

Kobe went to the line for the point that would win the game. He bounced the ball a few times, bent his knees, then bounced it again. Finally, he lifted it, raised it toward the basket, and let it go. The ball spun sharply, hit the glass and slapped in. The crowd shouted at the top of their lungs. Sleek Top grabbed Breanna and hugged her.

"What a game!" he yelled in her ear. "What a game!"

The fans were slow to leave the arena, but once in the hallway there was a mad rush for the exits and the cars. Sleek Top led Breanna around a line of cars to a row of men holding signs for private taxis. Recognizing one of the drivers, he pointed at him and then started to follow, ushering Breanna along.

Breanna was still in the glow of the game when they got into the back of the Lincoln. She was thinking how jealous Zen was going to be that he'd missed it.

"Great seats," she said to Sleek Top.

"Yeah. I don't know what happens next year when they open the Staples Center. I may go to the back of the line. But for now, gotta enjoy it."

The driver eased into the line of cars waiting to get out.

"Want to go and get a drink?" said Sleek Top. "A little nightcap?"

"How are you going to fly home?" said Breanna.

"We could stay over and leave in the morning," he said, putting his hand on her knee.

His touch brought a dozen other hints into focus.

Oh no, she thought. How did she miss this? How could she be so stupid?

She took his hand off her knee. Gently, but firmly.

"I think you have the wrong idea," she told him.

"Really? You sure?"

"Very."

"Doesn't have to be anything serious."

"You're a nice guy, Sleek, but no. No thanks."

He gave her a brave smile, the sort she hadn't seen since well before she got married. She felt a pang in her heart. But she wasn't about to cheat on Zen.

"No hard feelings?" he asked.

"Never happened."

"Hawthorne Airport, same as usual," he told the driver. "I'll get you right around to the hangars." "Great," said Sleek Top, still wincing a bit.

Stoner had to pound on the door before Sorina Viorica answered.

"Stoner?" she called from inside.

"Open up."

She worked the locks and pulled the door open. She was wearing a sweatshirt over a thin cotton nightgown. "You need to get dressed," he told her.

"What?"

"Come on. We have to go."

She took it the way he thought she would — as a warning that she had been found. Her sleepy expression changed instantly. Quietly, she turned and went inside, changed and started to throw her things into a bag.

"You won't need a bag," said Stoner. "We have to move quickly."

She came out wearing the dark clothes he had first seen her in.

"You should look a little less… " He searched for the word. "Militant."

Without saying anything, she turned and went back inside. She came out a few moments later wearing a thick brown sweater over the dark pants, along with a red patterned scarf. It softened her look and made her look prettier, though Stoner tried not to notice.

He found a cab within a block of the apartment.

"Train station," he said in English.

The man said in Romanian that he didn't understand.

"Which train station, Mark?" Sorina asked.

She told the driver; when they reached the station, she bought the tickets. They made the train just as it was boarding.

"Where are we going?" she asked as it pulled out. "You bought the tickets." "Yes, but the town—"

"You'll see," Stoner said, and refused to tell her anything else.

Sorina became more nervous at each stop as they headed north. "Are you giving me up?" she asked finally.

He looked at her, looked into her pretty eyes, then shook his head.

"What then?"

"You'll see," was all he would say.

Dog gave his crew the morning and early afternoon off, but the long night mission he'd just completed didn't earn him any extra rest; he had to report to a meeting of the local Romanian army commanders with the defense minister in Bacau at 0800. Fortunately, the base commander was going there as well, and Dog was able to hitch a ride, slumping in the backseat and half sleeping during the thirty minute drive.

Word of his pending Medal of Honor had apparently been making the rounds, and his overnight e-mail included a number of congratulations from people he hadn't heard from in years. With each message, he felt more and more phony.

No, phony was too strong a word, but he certainly didn't feel as if he merited the award — less now even than before. He'd done what he had to do — there was no choice involved, as far as he was concerned.

Was that what made you a hero?

No, he thought. But pointing that out to people would make him sound even worse.

The meeting was held in a former school building near the center of town, a brown-brick structure that dated from the mid-nineteenth century and had first been used as a music academy. The original builder had created a mosaic of musical notes and instruments on the foyer and hallway floor, and the ceiling's chipped plaster sconces were in the shape of musical scrolls.

Armed soldiers guarded the entrance and stood in bunches along the halls; they wore combat fatigues and their guns showed signs of wear, the wood furniture scraped and dented. This made the soldiers also seem like part of the past, and Dog felt as if he were walking through a newsreel of World War II.

Danny Freah had beaten him to the meeting room and was standing near the front of the room, arms folded, staring down at a map unfurled over the table. The large-scale topo map showed not only where the guerrillas had hit the night before, but where they'd made raids in the past. Dog noticed that the attacks clustered south of the highway, and that most of them formed a rough arrow pointing from Moldova; there were more attacks near the border, the cluster narrowing as it moved eastward. There were a few attacks outside the cluster, most notably the attack on the pipeline, which was well to the north.

"How you doing, Danny?" Dog asked. "Get any sleep?"

Danny shook his head. "You should have seen what they took out of the house, Colonel. Parts of bodies. It was pretty awful. Worse than Bosnia."

Danny looked at him as if expecting him to say something, but Dog didn't know how to answer. It sucked, plain and simple. Some of the younger guys had a saying. "Embrace the suck," meaning that you had to somehow find a way to deal with it. But the more horror you saw, the harder it became to come up with any sort of saying that put it to rest.

"They're still not sure how many guerrillas were involved," said Danny. "Body parts were all mixed up together." Dog shook his head.

"They know there are camps over the border," said Danny. "They ought to attack them there." "I agree," said Dog.

"Maybe you should suggest it. They aren't listening to me."

Everyone around them snapped to attention. Dog turned in time to see General Locusta and two of his aides enter the room. Locusta also looked like he hadn't slept; there were deep purple rings around his eyes, making his face look almost like a hound dog's.

Locusta had barely reached the front of the room when the defense minister, Fane Cazacul, arrived. A tall, aristocratic-looking man in his thirties, he wore a finely tailored black suit and smelled vaguely of aftershave. He nodded at Locusta; it was clear from their body language that the two men could barely stand each other.

The general opened the meeting without any preliminaries, talking in rapid Romanian about the evening's events. He was clearly angry, though since he wasn't speaking English, Dog could only guess what he was saying. Several of the men in the room shifted uncomfortably as the speech continued; they seemed to be singled out by the general for criticism. After twenty minutes of this, the general ran out of steam. He glanced around the room, gesturing as if to ask whether anyone had anything to say. When no one spoke up, he looked at Dog.

"This is Colonel Bastian, of the U.S. Air Force," he said, speaking first in English for Dog's benefit, and then in his native Romanian. "His men assisted last night, though they were not able to stop the attack. Perhaps next time."

The general sat down. The defense minister looked at Dog, apparently waiting for him to say something.

"I am sorry about the deaths last night," Dog said. "I see what monsters you are up against. Anyone who would kill innocent children — there can be no mercy."

The men nodded.

"I'm sorry that I don't speak Romanian. I'm not even sure my English is all that good," continued Dog. He meant that as a joke, though he was the only one who cracked a smile. He continued, reminding himself to speak slowly and distinctly. "Beginning today, we will have aircraft up around the clock, helping survey the border areas. Captain Freah and his men will help prepare—"

The defense minister raised his hand a few inches, his forefinger extended as if to ask a question.

"Sir?" prompted Dog.

"Will two aircraft be enough?" the minister asked in English. "In light of this attack, I am sure we would welcome more."

"The number isn't up to me, sir, but I will definitely ask for more," said Dog.

Apparently feeling that the Americans were being criticized, the colonel whose unit had been responsible for surrounding the house began explaining that the Dreamland team had played an important role in finding the guerrillas.

"We believe they were intending another attack today," said the Romanian. "Perhaps they would have hit a school, or a bank. The Americans helped us a great deal."

"One thing I don't understand," said Danny, interrupting. "Why don't you guys attack their bases? Hit them where they live?"

General Locusta shot an angry glance at Cazacul, then rose, saying something in heated Romanian before stalking from the room.

"He said, 'That's the first thing that anyone's said that makes sense,' " whispered the Romanian general who'd accompanied Dog to the meeting.

"I didn't mean to cause trouble," Danny told Dog after the meeting broke up. "It just seemed pretty obvious."

"Don't worry about it. The politics are complicated. Obviously Locusta and Cazacul don't like each other. The general told me that Locusta wants to go over the border, but the government is afraid it will start an incident that will get out of control."

"It's already out of control," said Danny. "I talked to Mark Stoner this morning. The CIA officer we worked with in Asia."

"Sure, I know Stoner."

"He's been assigned special duty out here. He thinks the Russians are involved somehow." "In this attack?"

"No, not directly. But he wanted samples of the explosives if I could get them. He thinks that probably came from them."

Dog nodded.

"They could send scout teams across the border and watch for them," said Danny. "Or better, follow the guerrillas after an operation and track them down."

"That's their call." Dog rubbed his forehead. "If they mount an operation, we won't be able to support it. Our orders are explicit. The border is off limits. And you're included in that."

"We have to get the rules changed."

"Copy that," said Dog.

The guerrilla raid on the village police station and the guerrillas' subsequent decision to blow themselves up left General Locusta in a foul mood. It was probably true, as his aides insisted, that a much more serious attack had been averted; clearly the guerrillas were planning to do serious harm. But that was of small consolation. Coming so soon after the attack on the pipeline, politicians in Bucharest were raising questions about his ability. If he was stripped of his position, his entire plan would crumble.

The Russians were no doubt behind this. They were more trouble than they were worth. As for the Americans…

Well, at least they had the right idea about what should be done. Though they were a problem as well.

The general was mulling the difficulties on the way back to his headquarters when he received a text message from a Yahoo address declaring that the state oil company's stock was going to split and that it would be wise to invest as soon as possible.

The message looked like a routine piece of spam, but in fact it had nothing to do with oil or stock. It was from the Russian military attache, Svoransky, asking for an immediate meeting.

Asking or demanding?

Locusta preferred to think the former, but the arrival of a second message twenty minutes later drove him to cancel his afternoon schedule. He called a number ostensibly registered to the Romanian information ministry but which in fact forwarded his call to a machine at the Russian embassy. He named a time—2:00 p.m. — and hung up.

Locusta got up from his desk and began pacing, thinking about what he had done — not now, but months making contact with the Russians, using them to advance his dream of running Romania the way it should be run, of establishing the country as the most important in Eastern Europe.

From the start, it had been a deal with the devil. But what other choice did he have?

He needed to extricate himself somehow, perhaps with American help.

But wouldn't that simply be making matters worse?

The only solution was to move ahead with the coup as quickly as possible. Then these complications could be untangled.

Locusta hoped that Svoransky would send another message, saying that the meeting was too far from the capital for the Russian to make, giving him a perfect excuse to call it off. But no message came; the meeting was on.

Two hours later, Locusta told his aides that he wasn't feeling well and was going home for a nap.

"Perhaps I'll take a ride in the country," he added offhandedly, as if it wasn't his intention all along.

He stopped at his house, a modest cottage on a large piece of land owned by a family with royal blood. The housekeeper had come and was just finishing; he told her not to worry about him, that he had just stopped by to feed his cat. The woman, a portly grandmother type who had been employed on the estate in one capacity or another since she was a teenager, nodded approvingly, then went back to work as he got out the kibbles to fill the pet's bowl.

There was something soothing about the mewing of a cat. Locusta waited on his haunches as the pet scampered into the kitchen, rubbing its side against his bent leg as a thank-you before digging in. He gave it a scratch behind its ears, then rose. He told the housekeeper she was doing a very good job. With one last stroke of the cat's back, he walked out to his car and drove toward the highway.

The peace the cat brought dissipated by the time he was halfway to the small cafe where they were to meet. Ordinarily, he felt comfortable at the restaurant, which was run by a distant relative in a town about thirty miles southwest of Bacau, but today he felt awkward, moving as if his clothes were a half size too small.

He was ten minutes early, but Svoransky was already there. And not alone.

"This is Major Jurg," said Svoransky, gesturing to the dark-haired, ruddy-faced man in a poorly cut gray suit who sat next to him, nursing a glass of vodka. "He is a good man to know."

"I'm sure," said the general, pulling out his chair. It was the first time since they had been meeting that the attache had brought a companion.

Svoransky signaled to the waiter. "Stew?" he asked Lo-casta.

"I'm not very hungry this afternoon."

"A drink, then?"

Locusta asked for some bottled water. "That was a desperate attack yesterday evening," said Svo-ransky.

"A dozen of my men were killed," said Locusta. "The only consolation is that all of the criminals died as well."

He looked up as the waiter returned with his glass and the bottle of carbonated spring water. He sipped it slowly, waiting until the server had again retreated.

"My explosives experts believe the criminals may have had as much as a suitcase worth of plastic explosives," said Locusta. "I wonder where they would have gotten that."

"I would guess from the Iranians," said Svoransky smoothly. "They have made a habit of selling such items very cheaply."

"I would think that a chemical analysis would show that it came from Russia," said Locusta, staring at Major Jurg. Jurg stared back.

"Russian? Nyet. We would not sell to criminals. Of course, items can always be obtained on the black market. Over that we have no control."

"You had nothing to do with the attack, I presume," said Locusta, his eyes still locked with Jurg's.

"General, please," said Svoransky. "Your voice is rather loud. I thought you chose this place to be discreet."

"The death of my men bothers me. A great deal." Locusta leaned across the table toward Jurg. "I was especially bothered the other evening to find my men were killed in an attack on the pipeline."

"Casualties must be expected in a war," said Svoranksky.

"I am not fighting a war," said Locusta. "Yet."

Svoransky had the good sense not to answer. It seemed to Locusta that Jurg had a smirk on his face, but if so, he'd covered it with his glass.

"What precisely is it you want to talk about?" Locusta asked.

"The Americans are an extremely arrogant people," said Svoransky. "Pushy and interfering."

"They are our allies," said Locusta.

"The government's allies only. I hope. You would not mind seeing them suffer an embarrassment, I think."

"What sort of embarrassment?"

Svoransky shrugged. "An attack?"

"My people are defending their base," said Locusta.

Svoransky turned to Jurg and began speaking in Russian, presumably translating what he had just said, though it seemed to Locusta that Jurg had understood. Jurg's stubble and dark skin made him appear crude, but he wore a gold watch on his wrist — an expensive watch, Locusta thought.

The man must be a member of the Spetsnaz. Very likely he was in charge of the squad that had killed his soldiers at the pipeline; it was even possible he had been on the raid himself.

Locusta worked to suppress his loathing. All he had to do was raise his hand and his cousin would come from the back with a gun. Or he could be more subtle, wait until the meeting was over, then have their car blown up.

But it would be foolish. Svoransky's superiors might hate Voda and the government, but they would not stand idly by while their agent was assassinated. They would change sides in an eye blink.

"Perhaps your people could be moved," suggested Svoran-sky finally.

General Locusta turned toward Jurg. "What exactly do you want, Major?" he asked in English. "Be specific. And have the courtesy to speak to me directly."

"We want two things," said Jurg, switching to English. "We want to embarrass the Americans, as Mr. Svoransky has said."

"Embarrassing them is one thing. An attack while my men are guarding them is very difficult."

"Not if you help."

"I do not need to be at war with the Americans."

Locusta started to rise. Svoransky grabbed his arm. "You misunderstand," he said. "Your men will not be involved. All they need do is look the other way."

"I doubt that can be arranged."

"You owe us quite a bit, General," said Jurg.

Locusta's anger flared, and for a moment he considered what would happen if he punched the major. The man was shorter than he was, but built like a wrestler, thick around the neck, with large forearms and a chest like a barrel.

If he decked him, there would be a moment of elation, then consequences.

"I owe you nothing," said Locusta. "And I will owe you less if there is an attack on the base."

"General, our relationship has been profitable and surely will be more so in the future. You do not want Romania to be a member of the EU, or NATO. Nor do we. You want to be president — we find that very acceptable."

"What's your point?" snapped Locusta.

"The point is, we will do as we please," said Jurg. "You will have to accept it."

As a young boy, Locusta had struggled to control his emotions. He had gone to great lengths to learn the discipline needed to push away his anger and clear his head for logic. As a twelve-year-old he had stood in his parents' kitchen, his hand over the burning wick of a candle, testing how long he could leave his fingers there despite the pain. His goal had been to recite the times tables backward from twelve times twelve while holding his hand above the candle. It was a game as much as an exercise, but it had served him well. When his anger threatened to careen out of control, he often thought back to the candle and the sensation of heat at his fingertips, and regained control.

"I will accept no more casualties at your hands," he said coldly as he rose.

"General, who said anything about casualties?" said Svoransky. He put his hand out and touched Jurg on the shoulder. "A way will be found to embarrass the Americans without involving you. We just want you to be aware of it. My companion and his people won't even be involved."

"Don't contact me again," said Locusta.

"Now now," said Svoransky. "Remember, we are friends."

The words impaled themselves in Locusta's consciousness, playing over and over as he drove himself back to his Second Corps headquarters.

It took roughly six hours for the train to get from Bucharest to the station near Piatra Neamt. Sorina Viorica spent most of the time sleeping. She lay against Stoner's shoulder, the weight and her scent pleasant despite everything he told himself.

"We need a cab," he said to her when they got to the platform.

"A town like this won't have a taxi." "Then we'll hire a driver."

"Where?"

"The stationmaster will know," said Stoner, heading toward the ticket office. "He'll have a brother-in-law or a friend in need of work."

It turned out to be a sister, which was fine with Stoner. He gave her the address he'd written down.

The woman read it and glanced at him, a worried look on her face. Stoner nodded solemnly, then fanned the ten twenty-dollar bills he'd concealed in his fist.

The address belonged to the house that had been blown up. It took nearly an hour to get there. When they arrived, the police and a small contingent of soldiers were still guarding it, but they were able to drive up the road and park a short distance away, close enough to see the ruins.

And smell them. The scent of burnt wood and flesh still hung in the air when they got out of the car.

Stoner led her toward the house. Rags covered with blood lay on the front lawn.

"What is this?" Sorina Viorica asked.

"Your friends did this," he told her. "The ones you don't want to turn in. The dregs who are left. Six children died. This is their blood. Girls, one to ten years old. Or maybe there were seven. The remains were so mangled, it's hard to tell."

"Look." Stoner pulled the photos from his pocket. "See if you can tell which were the bombers and which were the victims."

Tears streamed down Sorina Viorica's face. She started to look at the photos, then pushed them away and ran back toward the car.

Breanna threw off the covers and got out of bed, wincing a little as she walked toward the bathroom.

"Time to get up, time to get up," she told herself, throwing on the shower.

She'd had only a few hours sleep, but she was determined to get her rehab session over with, then get over to the base, kick butt on the physical and whatever other bs the doctors threw at her, and get herself back on full duty.

Full flight duty. Flying.

She was back. During the entire Lakers game she hadn't thought about being hurt once. Her head felt fine. Her legs, ribs, arms — there were still bruises and a few creaks in her joints, but she was A-okay. There was no reason she couldn't get back in the air.

Zen was back. Mack was back. Her father was back.

The only difference between her and them was her gender. And that was absolutely not going to make a difference.

The cold water hit her like an electric shock. She resisted the urge to pump it up to hot, instead lathering and moving as quickly as possible. She'd do her hair after her workouts.

Sleek Top had been quite the gentleman after the game. He was such a sweet guy that she hated hurting him. If it weren't for Zen…

Her teeth chattered as she hopped out of the shower. She pulled a towel around her, more to ward off the cold than to actually dry herself, and walked out to the kitchen to get Mr. Coffee working. Then she went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

She was getting back in action, all the way back. There was no other goal, and no rest until that goal was achieved.

"I will tell you where they hide in Moldova," Sorina said in a quiet voice on the train back to Bucharest. "But I must do it in my own way."

"You can do it any way you want," Stoner told her.

"They were not always so… "

Her voice trailed off. She couldn't find the right word. He could think of several — ruthless, despicable, gutless — but he said nothing.

They were sitting opposite each other in a first class car, the space between them divided by a table. Sorina Viorica got up and slid next to him. Then, clutching his chest, she began to sob.

The night was a slide down a long slope, preordained. He brought her back to the apartment and started to leave; she looked at him and took a step, and from that moment he no longer resisted, no longer had another self, a professional self, to stop him.

He'd had occasion to use sex as a weapon, or, more accurately, as a means to an end several times in his career. This wasn't like that. It was considerably more dangerous. It was real.

He slipped into bed with her, moving quietly, softly. Then his hunger grew. Making love, it became insatiable.

He fell asleep with Sorina in his arms, his last thought that he had crossed a line that should never be crossed.

The last five minutes were sheer hell. Breanna felt as if her legs were going to fall off and her lungs were about to collapse within her chest. But she kept running.

She kept running because she was coming back, and nothing was going to stop her.

She leaned forward, pushing the soles of her sneakers against the treadmill surface, pushing and pushing as she struggled to finish the stress test. When she'd started, she thought of it as a race, and pitted herself against the clock. Now it was just survival, a race against the growing ache in her muscles, against pain that surged from her bones.

She was going to make it. She had to make it.

The buzzer sounded but she continued to run, comprehending that it was over yet unable to transmit the message to her legs.

Simply collapsing was not an option — the doctor was right behind her, taking it all in.

Gradually, she got her legs to slow. Her breathing was still labored, but as she slipped into a walk, her breathing began to ease and the pounding of her heart grew less intense.

Her knee was throbbing — running put a great deal of pressure on the joint — but it held. She stepped off the machine, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"Well?" she asked the doctor. "What do you think?"

He didn't say anything. Instead, he motioned her toward the curtained examining area at the back of the room.

"You're going to check my blood pressure?" Breanna asked as he took the cuff from its little shelf on the wall.

"Of course."

"Didn't those machines tell you everything you need to know?"

He shrugged. Clearly he was determined to give her a hard time.

"And?" she said pointedly.

"There's no doubt that you have a healthy heart, Captain," he said. "And that in general you're fit." Breanna started to smile.

"That doesn't mean I'm clearing you to fly," he added. "Your knee doesn't hurt?"

She shook her head.

"Hold out your arm," he ordered.

Breanna did so. The cuff felt hard against her bicep. She tried to relax. The doctor took the reading, frowned again, then let the pressure off.

"Well?" she asked.

"It's all right."

"How all right?"

"Diastolic, seventy. Systolic 115." "That's 115 over seventy, right?"

"Yes."

"Which is normal."

It was actually the highest Breanna could remember her blood pressure being, but it was in fact well within the normal range. The doctor had no alternative but to declare her fit for duty — active duty, active flying, back in the air.

Back! Back! Back!

But not quite.

"You need General Samson's approval," he said.

"What?"

"Procedure. The wing commander has to sign off. The wing commander hasn't arrived, so you have to go to General Samson."

"You don't want me to fly, do you?" she said.

"I think you need more rest, yes," he said. "And I'd urge you to take a couple of weeks off."

"I don't want to take time off."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't."

"You're being stubborn."

"Where does that fit on your medical chart?"

The doctor shook his head. "The truth is, I can't hold you back. I know, and you know, that if you'd taken this same test a couple of months back, you wouldn't have been huffing at the end. I also know you did a lot better on it than probably half of our pilots. Physically, you've definitely recovered from your ordeal. I should write a paper on your recovery." He smiled, trying to soften his sarcasm.

"But… "

He took out his stethoscope and twirled it around his hand.

"But what?" asked Breanna. "That coma bothers me."

"You call it a coma. I was just tired and asleep. My body had to heal."

"Listen, Breanna. I haven't known you that long. I know you're driven. I appreciate that. And you've achieved a hell of a lot. I know it must have been twice as hard for you because you're a woman. But really, you should take it easier. Slower. If you were Jeff—"

"What would you tell Zen?"

"I'd tell him to slow down, too," said the doctor. "Listen, if you do get approval from the general, would you please try to take it easy? Just a little?"

Breanna threw her arms around him joyfully.

"I will," she said. "Now do you have papers for him or what?"

As a rule, General Samson didn't like Marines. They tended to be too full of themselves for his taste. But Marty "Sleek Top" Siechert was a retired Marine, and while the Marines had a saying that there was no such thing as an ex-Marine, Samson considered that his separation from the service and the intervening years — Sleek Top was close to fifty — had sanded some of the edges off.

Colonel Denton's decision not to take the spot as wing commander under him — a career killing move if ever there was one — forced Samson to make some compromises. Naming a retired Marine pilot head of the B-1B/L program was one of them. But he wanted to move the colonel he'd tapped for the B-1L/B project over to wing commander, and, just as important, he needed the B-1s ready to hit the flight line yesterday.

"Heading the program is a big responsibility, General," said Sleek Top as they finished a walk around Boomer. "And I was under the impression that you wanted all active military heading programs."

"You are military," said Samson.

"I'm retired, sir."

"A bit young to be hanging up the saddle."

"I meant, I'm a civilian, General."

"Yes, yes, I know that," said Samson. "I've considered it.

But you're my man. The B-1s — we need them operational. The Pentagon is pushing for a demonstration very soon. Congress is very keen on this, and the President himself likes the aircraft. It will be a good spotlight for your future career."

"There's nothing really holding them back," said Sleek Top. "The basic air frame has been tested and retested. They're not that much different than the standard B-1Bs in terms of overall systems. The laser, of course, and the engines are more powerful, but the core of the computer system was adapted from the Megafortress, and we know that works. All that's necessary is to complete the testing cycle."

"Then get moving."

"General, that's not quite as easy as it sounds. For one thing—"

"How did Bastian get the EB-52s operational?" said Samson. Sleek Top laughed. "What's so funny?"

Sleek Top shook his head. He looked as if he had a goldfish in his mouth and it was tickling his tongue.

"Out with it, Marine," demanded Samson.

"Well, Colonel Bastian—" Sleek Top interrupted himself to chuckle. "Colonel Bastian made a habit of putting the weapons right into the mix, officially approved or not. His whole theory was that the real tests didn't happen until they were on the battlefield anyway, so he'd send the geek squad out with the planes, get everything in motion. Sometimes it blew up in his face, of course, but mostly it worked. Then when the Pentagon came around asking questions, he'd roll out the results. Had them eating out of his—"

"How close is close?"

"Excuse me?"

"The B-1s. What would happen if they went into combat?"

"Well, uh—"

"If Colonel Bastian were here and he suggested it, what would you say?"

"I'd say… " Sleek Top thought about it for a moment. "I'd say that if you had enough pilots, there'd be no problem. But I'm the only pilot regularly assigned and—"

"Get the planes ready. I'll find the pilots."

"General, you just found one," said Breanna Stockard.

Samson turned around and saw Breanna standing behind him, a broad grin on her face. She'd been listening to most of the discussion.

"Captain, good morning."

"General, I need you to approve my flight fitness report, sir. I'm ready to get back in the air."

"You think that's a good idea so soon?" asked Sleek Top. "You were in some pretty heavy action."

"I'm ready. I just passed a stress test."

Breanna handed Samson a folder with her medical report. The general opened it and took a quick glance. At the top of the page — excellent health.

There were typed comments at the bottom: "Although Bre-anna Stockard is physically in top shape and appears to have recovered from her ordeal off the Indian coast, I would still recommend that she take a few weeks off… "

Doctors, thought Samson. Always finding excuses for people not to do things.

He looked up from the folder. Breanna was a good-looking woman — not that he would let himself be influenced by that. But she was definitely in good shape, and her record spoke for itself. The after-action reports, even though they'd been written in terse, matter-of-fact prose, read like war novels.

Of course, she was also Colonel Bastian's daughter. But you couldn't hold the sins of the fathers against the offspring.

"You're in good shape?" he asked.

"Sir, I'm ready to kick butt. Can I fly?"

"Damn straight you can fly." Samson shut the folder abruptly. "Get this over to my office, get it signed off by the chief of staff. I'm looking for big things out of you, Captain."

Tears were brimming in Breanna's eyes. That was the one thing about women that Samson couldn't entirely handle— they got emotional at the drop of a hat.

"Carry on," he told her, and spun away.

Stoner woke to the smell of coffee. He jerked out of bed, grabbed his watch. He'd slept for nearly ten hours. He hadn't been out that long in ages.

He pulled on his clothes and went to the kitchen. Sorina Viorica was there, cooking something in a frying pan. She'd taken a shower or a bath while he was sleeping; the scent of her soap filled the room.

She'd done something else, as well — dyed her hair jet black.

"Hello there," she said.

"You did your hair."

"Black, yes. The color of an outcast."

He went to her, not knowing what to expect, either of himself or her. She folded her body to his willingly; his complied without hesitation.

"We have a lot to do," he said.

"Yes, but first we should eat," she said. "I bought some eggs."

"Hey,Colonel, another message incoming," yelled Sergeant Lee "Nurse" Liu, who was handling the communications desk at the back end of the Dreamland Command trailer.

Dog sighed and turned back around. He'd been hoping to take a nap before the night's sortie, but one thing or another had interrupted him since returning from the Romanian command meeting.

"It's a private phone call, Colonel," said Liu, rising.

"Phone call? From the States?"

"No, sir. Sat phone. Encrypted too."

Dog sat down at the terminal and put on a headset while Liu slipped discreetly to the front of the trailer.

"This is Bastian."

"Colonel Bastian, this is Mark Stoner. Do you remember me?"

"Sure I do, Mark. How are you?"

It wasn't likely he'd forget. The CIA officer had helped save Breanna after action in the Pacific more than a year before.

"I'm fine, Colonel. As it happens, I'm working on a job in your neck of the woods. I can't go into detail at the moment, but I'd like to speak to you personally as soon as possible. This afternoon."

"Why don't you come here? I'm in Iasi."

"I'd like to stay out of the city if I could. I have a place picked out that's not that far from you. Could you be there around three-thirty?"

"I can try."

"It might be best to wear civilian clothes, if you could," said Stoner. "And have a civilian car. You shouldn't tell the Romanians where you're going."

Stoner knew Colonel Bastian well enough to trust him, but that didn't mean the Romanians didn't have him under surveillance. So he was careful about choosing their meeting place.

With as little help from Sorina as possible, he selected a village that was small enough to watch but not so small that doing so would attract attention. Dolcina was about twenty minutes northwest of Bacau, and it had two outstanding assets: first, there was no police department or army detachment in town, and second, there was only one road in and out.

An hour before the colonel was due to arrive, Stoner double-checked the tavern he'd selected for the meeting. There was still only one regular at the bar, an old woman who sat in the corner and mumbled to herself while sipping Pernod, probably from the same glass he'd seen two hours before. Walking around the building, he found a garbage can and used it to boost himself onto the roof, where he surveyed the local street and the dozen or so buildings nearby. If anyone was watching him, they were well hidden.

He stayed on the roof until Colonel Bastian arrived. Then he waited another ten minutes before calling the bar from his sat phone.

"I wish to speak to a man named Tecumseh, if he is there," said Stoner in the Romanian Sorina Viorica had carefully rehearsed with him.

"Tecumseh?"

"Yes."

The bartender asked him something in Romanian that Stoner didn't understand; all he could do was repeat what he'd said before.

There was silence. Then just as he thought he'd have to climb down and go inside himself, Dog came on the phone.

"This is Tecumseh."

"Sorry for the intrigue, Colonel. I need you to drive down the street, out of the village. Continue for exactly two kilometers, then pull off the road."

Stoner killed the connection. Then he crawled to the front of the roof, watching as Dog left the bar and got into his car.

No one seemed to be following him. Still, Stoner waited another few minutes before climbing down. When he did, he trotted in the opposite direction, going back toward the highway to the abandoned gas station where he'd left his motorcycle.

Sorina Viorica had already left.

Not exactly the way they had planned it. He hoped she hadn't had second thoughts. Or worse, that he'd missed a setup.

He had to hit the electric starter twice before the bike would turn over. Once it was humming, however, the single-piston engine sounded as smooth as a V-8. He revved the bike onto the roadway, circled once again to make sure he wasn't being watched, then headed toward the rendezvous.

Dog watched the odometer carefully.Assoonas it reached two kilometers, he pulled the car onto the shoulder, leaving it idling as he looked around. There were empty farm fields to his left and right. No one was in sight.

Undoing his seat belt, he took his service Beretta pistol out of his belt, checked it, then put it down between the seat and the transmission hump next to him. It was months since he'd used it, and then it had been on an indoor range. He wasn't a particularly good shot and hoped he didn't need it.

A cloud of dust appeared in the field to his left. Dog thought about getting out of the car, then decided against it.

The dust swirled, then settled to reveal a motorcycle. Dog rolled down his window, watching as the bike came toward him. Its driver wore a helmet with a dark face shield.

Dog slumped down, using the dashboard for cover, waiting as the motorcycle came closer. He put his hand on the gun.

The bike suddenly accelerated, passing by in a blur. He watched in his side mirror as it veered off the road behind him, then began circling back from his right. He rolled down his window and waited as it drew near. His hand was still on the pistol, now in his lap.

The motorcycle coasted next to him and stopped. The rider leaned down.

"Who are you?" demanded the driver.

Dog was surprised. The voice, muffled by the helmet, was foreign and belonged to a woman.

"I'm waiting for someone," he said.

"For who?"

"A friend. Mark Stoner."

Another bike appeared in his rearview mirror. This one came straight down the road. The woman who'd stopped glanced back but stayed on her motorcycle as the second bike drew near the driver's side of the car.

He'd had Liu check the voice pattern of the call earlier, so Dog was sure he'd been talking to Stoner. But now his paranoia grew, and his imagination spun out of control.

He could slip the car into gear and accelerate, get the hell out of there.

Shoot the motorcyclist on his right first.

The second bike stopped on his left.

"Colonel, I'm sorry for the precaution," said its rider, leaning close to the window. He pulled up his face shield, revealing himself. It was Stoner.

"It's all right, Mark. What's going on?"

"Just a second."

Stoner slipped the bike forward, then parked on the other side. The woman had gotten off her bike, and she joined Stoner as he slipped into the backseat of the car.

"My friend has some information that will be very valuable," said Stoner after he shut the door. "But if she's seen meeting you, there are a number of people who could cause problems."

"OK," said Dog.

"The location of the guerrilla stronghold is over the border," said Stoner.

Dog knew this was valuable information, and immediately guessed why the woman didn't want to be seen — she must be a guerrilla herself.

"I don't know how I can help," he said.

In the mirror, Dog saw Stoner put his hand on the woman's thigh, stopping her from moving toward the door.

"You can pass the information on in a way that it can't be traced to her," Stoner said. "And, there is a condition."

"What's that?"

"Asylum in America."

"You'd know more about that than I would," said Dog. "I'm just a pilot."

"You are very famous," said the woman. "I recognize your face from the television. You are the head of Dreamland."

Dog nodded. This wasn't the time or place to explain the current chain of command.

"I can take care of the technicalities, once she's out of the country," Stoner said. "Getting her out of the country — that's where we'll need your help."

"Why?"

"Because if I were to go into an airport," said the woman, "I would most likely be recognized. If you don't trust Mark—" "I trust him."

"Can you do it?" Stoner asked.

If the woman weren't in the back of the car, Dog would have explained his hesitation. Transporting a guerrilla well known enough to be on a watch list wasn't exactly part of his mission brief. He could just imagine what General Samson's reaction would be.

On the other hand, knowing the location of the guerrilla strongholds would be very valuable information.

"I can probably come up with something," he said finally. "Assuming she keeps her end of the bargain."

"There will be no problem with that," said Sorina.

"Why are you betraying your friends?" asked Dog.

He saw her face in the mirror. There was pain, and then a mask.

Was it all an act? Or had she debated that very same question?

"The Russians have taken over the movement. There are some devoted revolutionaries, but most of the operations now are being directed by Moscow. The things they are doing turn my stomach."

Dog glanced in Stoner's direction. The CIA man's expression made it clear that he didn't want him to keep asking questions. To the spy, reasons or motivations weren't important; results were.

But to Dog, the question was everything. People didn't give up their friends easily, even if the rest of the world thought it was the right thing to do.

"The Russians know that I am against them," Sorina went on. "They would kill me as gladly as the Romanian army or police."

"And in America you can have a fresh start?" said Dog.

"I don't want to go to America. Get me to Turkey."

"I don't know if I can get you to Turkey."

"Across the border, then, to any European country. I can move on from there."

"Where are the hideouts?" asked Dog.

"Not until I am safe," said Sorina Viorica. "When I am safe, then I will say. Only to Mark."

Dog's message to Danny was vague to the point of being cryptic, though only if you knew the way Colonel Bas tian normally did things. It had been passed along by one of the aides at the small unit where Danny was working with the Romanian soldiers.

Danny's curiosity was piqued further when he saw Colonel Bastian waiting for him on the tarmac when the Osprey touched down.

"Hey, Colonel, what's up?"

"You eat dinner yet, Danny?"

"Didn't have a chance."

"One of the Romanian officers told me about a restaurant in the city. Let's go."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"I do."

Dog didn't give any further explanation, and in fact remained silent on the drive. Danny, who hadn't seen much of Iasi, found himself staring at the buildings. Like much of Eastern Europe, the city at first glance seemed drab, still hungover from the days of Soviet bloc domination. But if you looked long enough, the gray and brown tones gave way to color in unexpected places. There were signs for Coca-Cola, along with billboards advertising Sony televisions and Italian fashions. White facades on new houses, blue stones, an office building with a dramatic, sweeping rise — the city was shaking off the gloom of the old era like a spring daffodil poking through rotted leaves.

The restaurant was another surprise. Large and modern, it could have been located in any American city. The food was Italian, and not bad — Danny ordered spaghetti and meatballs for the first time in months, and cleaned the plate.

"So, eventually you're going to tell me what's going on," Danny said to Dog as he finished.

The colonel pushed away his plate. He had only picked at his food.

"I talked to Mark Stoner today. And a friend of his."

Danny listened as Dog told him about the meeting. His first reaction was anger: He felt the colonel should have told him what was going on beforehand, and not taken the risk himself. But it was hard for Danny to be mad at Dog, and he knew how welcome the information about the location of the guerrilla training camps would be. He also knew from talking with Colonel Oz that Locusta had authorized at least two spy missions over the past few months, without results. The Romanians didn't have access to spy satellites; even if they did, Danny knew that small groups of rebels could prove frustratingly difficult to observe or even detect.

"You think that's a good trade?" he asked. "Sneak her out of the country in exchange for the information? She may be a murderer herself."

"I don't know," said Dog. "The truth is, it's probably not up to me."

"'Probably'?"

Dog smiled. "Definitely not up to me. Hard letting go, I guess."

It was a lot harder letting go than Dog wanted to admit, certainly to himself. Was it just the power? Or had he grown so used to cutting through red tape and bureaucracy that the necessity of working through channels and responding to the proper chain of command tired him out?

He would have preferred to think it was the latter. But faced with the need not just to report to Samson, but to ask permission to proceed, he realized it was mostly the former.

Before they left the restaurant, Dog and Danny worked out a plan to assure that the woman would tell where the guerrilla hideout was after she was flown out of the country. It wasn't very complicated — Danny and one of his men would stay with her; she would communicate the information to Stoner, and then they'd wait until Stoner confirmed that the information was correct before letting her go.

After Sergeant Liu made the connection, Dog sat down in the seat at the com console, leaning back while he waited for the officer on duty at Dreamland Command to get the general. He was surprised when, rather than Samson, Mack Smith's face appeared on his small screen.

Mack's voice boomed in his headset: "Colonel, how are you?"

"How are you, Mack?"

"Surviving. Barely. Between you and me, Colonel… "

"Yes?"

"Between you and me, I want to get back on the flight line yesterday."

"Wish I could help you there, Mack."

"So do I. What's up?"

"I have something I need to talk to the general about." "Shoot."

"I have to talk to him personally."

"Might as well talk to me," said Mack. "Shit rolls downhill."

"You sound tired, Mack."

"Didn't get much sleep last night, Colonel. Or the night before. Or any night. So what can I do for you?" "You can get the general on the line." "Yes, sir."

"So what the hell is so damn important that you get me out of a meeting with my science department?" said Samson, his snarling voice snapping onto the line. There was no visual; he was using the encrypted phone in his office.

"The CIA has developed an asset who knows where the guerrillas are hiding in Moldova," said Dog calmly. "As part of the deal to get the information, they want us to fly the source out of the country."

"What?"

"Yes, sir."

"And they came to you directly?" "It happens that I've worked with the CIA officer before," said Dog.

"You have?" Samson asked, this time without the sharp note of surprise. "Yes, of course you have. But can we trust him? Does he really have the information?"

"I met the asset. I think we can."

"You met the asset? Who authorized you to do that?"

"I didn't realize that was going to happen," said Dog. "In any event, General, I wouldn't have come to you with this unless I was thoroughly convinced it was both real and a benefit to our mission here. I wouldn't waste your time, General. I know you have better things to do than hold my hand."

"Hmmmph."

Dog outlined the plan that he and Danny had worked out, then suggested that the asset be flown to a U.S. base in Turkey, the country she'd requested.

"How do you want me to proceed?" he asked when he'd concluded.

"Do nothing until you hear from me."

"Not a problem. Also, the Romanians are asking for more support. The defense minister said he would go through the embassy, but I thought I'd give you a—"

Dog stopped speaking, realizing Samson had already hung up.

Robert Plank was a rich man, but he had a certain air of nervous danger about him.

Maybe, thought Jed Barclay as he watched him speak in the Oval Office, the millions he'd made had been seeded by some criminal activity that he would do anything to keep from being exposed.

Plank's sharply tailored suits showed off his wide shoulders and thick chest, and he looked to be strong enough to take on any two or three men who confronted him. His speech occasionally betrayed the urban landscape he'd grown up in; as a very young boy, he had lived only a few blocks from the White House, in one of the poorest and at the time most dangerous sections of Washington, D.C.

For most government officials — especially those whose appointment had been so blatantly political — Plank's occasional and unconscious sprinkle of four-letter words along with his habit of speaking bluntly would be serious defects. But in his case, they were assets, enhancing his reputation as a no-nonsense, seat-of-the-pants CIA director.

Plank was also a skilled politico, even if he'd never spent a day as an elected official. As he continued to brief the President on the CIA's successful recruitment of a guerrilla turncoat, Jed was impressed by the director's ability to subtly insert himself into the story. Jed knew the details as well as Plank — he'd gotten them from Stoner himself. So he knew that the guerrilla had initially offered contact, not the other way around, and that Stoner's primary interest lay in getting more information on the deaths of his comrades. But Plank packaged up everything as if finding the guerrilla base was his idea in the first place. He all but said that he knew the guerrilla movement was ready to crack, and had therefore handpicked one of his best international agents, plunking him down at just the right time, in just the right circumstance, to achieve a breakthrough.

It was difficult to judge how much of the act the President actually bought. Certainly Martindale, who had appointed Plank, knew that he'd gotten the job not because he was an excellent spymaster — Plank had worked on the analysis side of the Agency before going into private business. And given that he'd known Plank for many years, Jed assumed that he appreciated the CIA director's ability to put himself in the spotlight as well as anyone.

The only hint that Martindale might not be paying com plete attention was the pen he twirled in his fingers — a sign, Jed knew from two years of observation, that he was getting bored and wanted the speaker to get on with it.

"The Russian connection is the most intriguing aspect of the entire affair," said Plank. "If we can obtain real evidence of it, the countries that have been feuding in NATO and the EU will realize how badly they're being played."

"That's a wonderful theory," said Freeman, the National Security Advisor and Jed's boss. "But the only thing that's going to stop their fighting is a reduction in the price of natural gas. The futures have gone up another twelve percent in the commodities markets over the past day even though the last guerrilla attack wasn't aimed at the pipeline."

"Once we expose the Russians' involvement, the attacks will stop," said Plank.

"Once the Romanians expose it," said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. "If we do it, no one will believe it."

"One thing I'm concerned about are these Russian aircraft," said the President. He leaned forward on his desktop to look at Jed, who was sitting at the end of the row in front of him. "Recap that for us, Jed."

"Very briefly, Russian planes have shadowed the Dreamland Megafortresses on every flight," said Jed. "They've stayed roughly 250 miles away, as if they don't want to be detected. That's the published range of the radar, although depending on the circumstances, it can see a bit farther."

"We'd do the same if they were operating in our area," suggested Hartman.

"I think what they'd like us to do is go over the border," said Secretary of Defense Chastain. "The Russians have a defense treaty with Moldova. They could contend they were coming to their aid."

"I don't see what that gets them," said Hartman.

"Another twenty point bump in the price of natural gas," said Martindale.

"I agree," said Plank. "That's why we have to move on this. The agent would accompany the Romanians on the raid. This way he would gain information relating to the deaths of our people in Romania."

"Assuming the information is to be had," noted the President.

Plank gave Martindale a little smile, acknowledging that he'd been caught exaggerating, or at least polishing the apple.

"The price of natural gas in Europe is now double what it was last winter," said Freeman. "If the attacks on the pipeline continue and the supply is cut down completely, it will triple. And there'll probably be shortages."

"Urging the Romanians to go into Moldova is going to send alarms throughout Europe," said Hartman. "We cannot let them use our forces there."

"If we simply give the information, but keep our aircraft on the Romanian side of the border, what's the problem?" asked Chastain. "You see what beasts these guerrillas are. Killing children."

"That incident gives the Romanians some cover," said Freeman. "But I wouldn't send our people over. Not even the spy."

"If he doesn't go, he can't get the information," said

Plank.

"All right," said Martindale. "Give the information to the Romanians. Our people stay out of Moldovan territory. They don't engage in the fight. That is an absolute order. No one crosses the border, or fires over the border."

"My man?" asked Plank.

Martindale looked at Freeman, but the National Security Advisor said nothing.

"Let him go," said Martindale. "But… "

The pause that followed was significant. If anything happened to the officer, he would not be acknowledged. Plank nodded.

"And the request for additional support," continued Mar-tindale. "Can we do that?"

"I would leave that up to General Samson, sir," said Secretary Chastain. They'd discussed the request briefly at the beginning of the meeting. "His plan was always to beef up the force."

The President nodded. "Make it very clear that we are not to go over the border into Moldova."

"What if our people need to defend themselves?" Chastain asked.

"I wouldn't give Colonel Bastian that big a loophole," said Secretary of State Hartman. "We've seen what he's done with that in the past."

Martindale folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

"Colonel Bastian is not in charge of Dreamland anymore," said Chastain.

"No, but he's their point man. He's the one on the scene," said Secretary Hartman. "And he has an itchy trigger finger."

"No more than any of us do," said Chastain. "They have to have the right to defend themselves."

"They can defend themselves only if attacked in Romanian territory," said the President. "They cannot fire or attack over the border. They can't even fly over it. Understood?"

Chastain hesitated. "I can see circumstances where that might put them in grave danger."

"Which would you rather have?" asked Hartman. "A dead Megafortress crew, or world war?"

"It wouldn't come to that," said Chastain.

"No," Hartman agreed, "but Russia could go ahead and bomb the pipeline directly. Then we'll have a worldwide depression and the end of NATO."

"I hope that's not our choice," said the President.

With the details worked out,Stoner stayed north, waiting for word from Washington on whether his plan would be approved.

A small part of him — an insignificant, tiny slice — hoped it wouldn't be, at least not immediately. He wanted a few more days with Sorina Viorica.

He wanted more than that.

As soon as Fairchild relayed the OK — and the conditions— Stoner shut that part of himself away and called General Locusta at his corps headquarters. Locusta's aide was reluctant to even bother getting the general — until Stoner said he had definitive information on the location of the guerrilla camps in Moldova.

"Where are they?" Locusta snapped when he came on the line.

"I'll be at your headquarters in an hour. We'll talk," said Stoner. He killed the transmission, giving Locusta no time to respond.

Stoner had read everything the Agency had on General Locusta, but like most CIA briefs on military officers in Eastern Europe, it offered little beyond his resume, lacking insight into the man. Locusta was an infantryman by training; among his military honors was a marksmanship badge, earned as a lieutenant. He was well-regarded as a general officer, though considered abrasive by the defense minister and the president.

Locusta seemed to have been marked for greater things from the time he joined the army as a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant, fresh out of university. He'd received training in Russia as a young man and had been posted there for about a year in the early 1980s. He'd also toured Great Britain, Spain, and Italy as part of Romania's initiative to join NATO.

His family had connections to Ceausescu, the former dictator. That had hurt them in the years following Ceau-sescu's fall, but not so severely that the family wasn't well off now. Locusta himself had some property, though not great wealth.

Nothing in the report told Stoner what he wanted to know: the odds that Locusta would put a knife in his back just for the fun of it.

They were about fifty-fifty, Stoner guessed, after he finished telling the general about the guerrilla camps in Moldova. Average.

Locusta sat silently for nearly a minute after Stoner finished. Most of his aides had left for home hours ago; it was so quiet in the corps HQ that Stoner could hear the clock ticking on Locusta's desk.

"How did you find this information out?" said the general finally.

"I can't get into the exact methods we use," replied Stoner. He pulled over one of the seats — a metal folding chair — and sat down.

"Then how can I judge how accurate the information is?" Stoner shrugged. "I guess we'll have to find out together." "Together?"

"I want to go on the raid."

"Why?"

"I think the Russians are helping the guerrillas. I think they may have been responsible for killing some of our people, and this will help me find out."

Another man might have asked if Stoner didn't trust him, but the general accepted the explanation without comment. That told Stoner that the general understood the value of seeing things for yourself, that he was a man who liked to act, rather than have others act for him.

Interesting pieces of information, though not immediately helpful.

"So you have a spy?" asked Locusta.

"I can't get into specifics." "Where are the camps?"

"I don't have that information yet. There are two, and they're within fifty miles of the border."

"Practically half of the country is within fifty miles of the border."

The two men locked gazes. Stoner held it for half a second, then blinked and looked down, wanting the general to feel that he was his superior. He glanced back, then away, underlining his submission.

"I cannot commit troops to move across the border on vague hints," said the general.

"I'll have the information when the operation starts, not before."

"Nonsense."

Stoner smiled in spite of himself. Locusta was right; Stoner could get the information from Sorina as soon as she was safely out of the country. But Stoner wanted to verify that it was correct before letting her go, and she wouldn't agree to any delay.

Not that he didn't trust her.

"This is of no use to me," said Locusta. "Get out of my office."

Stoner rose silently and walked out, turning down the hall. He went out to his motorcycle. He had his helmet on when one of the general's aides ran from the building, flagging his arms.

"Perhaps the general was, acted, hastily," said the man, a major. "Not hastily but in anger. The criminals have caused us, have killed many people. Sometimes it is difficult to act rationally when dealing with them."

"Sure."

"Your information comes from a criminal?" "I believe my information is good information," said Stoner. "But the only way to actually find out is to test it." "You cannot use your planes to verify it?"

"The planes are not allowed over the border." "Satellites?"

"If we knew where it was, we could get pictures," said Stoner. "But we've looked at sat photos before without finding anything. I imagine that's happened to you."

"If an attack were to be launched, would the aircraft assist then?"

Stoner shook his head. "The Dreamland aircraft cannot violate Moldovan airspace."

"Give me a phone number." the man said, "and I will call you in a few hours."

General Locusta watched from his window as the American started his motorbike and drove away.

Locusta had no doubt the American's information would prove to be correct. Two of his soldiers had smuggled an American spy over the border a few days ago; this was obviously the fruits of his labor.

And their blood.

Fifty miles from the border. Much farther than the information their own spies had obtained, and at least a partial answer to the question of why his men had failed to find out themselves.

Though another part of the answer was that the rebels had been useful to Locusta, an excuse to build up his force. Now he no longer needed them.

Or the Russians.

Or the Americans, for that matter.

This was his opportunity: the perfect diversion. It supplied a ready-made excuse for mobilizing his units and commandeering the few helicopters available outside the capital.

And he couldn't wait much longer.

There was a knock at the door. The major he had sent after Stoner, Anton Ozera, appeared in the threshold.

"In," said Locusta, gesturing.

Ozera closed the door behind him.

"What did he say?" asked Locusta.

"His source is one of the criminals. There will be no help across the border."

"But the information is good," said Locusta. "He's convinced of that or he wouldn't want to go along."

"The problem is, the Americans do not know the criminals as we do."

Locusta smirked. "I think they know them well enough."

The fact that a turncoat was willing to give the Americans information showed the terrible state the movement was in. They had failed to win the support of the people, and would now wither and die.

With a little help, of course. And as long as the Russians were removed.

"We could use the attack as a diversion," said Ozera. "It would explain the mobilization of forces."

"Always, Ozera, we think alike," said Locusta.

"Thank you, General."

"Your men?"

"We could strike in an hour. If the target was the president's northern home. The capital, as I said—"

Locusta raised his finger, and Ozera stopped talking. They had discussed the difficulties of striking Voda in the capital many times; the assassination itself would be easy, but the contingencies that would necessarily follow would be difficult to manage.

The general picked up his phone. "Connect me to the president's personal residence. It is a matter of great urgency."

He leaned back in his seat, waiting. He knew Voda's personal habits from experience; the president would be up even though the hour was late.

Sure enough, Voda came on the line within a few minutes.

"Mr. President, I have very important news," said Locusta.

He explained what Stoner had told him. As always, the president listened without comment or interruption. Only when Locusta fell silent did he speak.

"If there is a definitive location, I will review the plans and make my decision," he said.

"I will bring the plans personally to you," said Locusta.

"Only… "

"Finish your sentence."

"I have two thoughts. One is that I would like the assault to proceed rapidly, so that word of this turncoat does not leak out. And two, if I were to come to the capital, it is possible spies would alert the guerrillas. The Russians have been very busy."

"Yes." Voda paused a moment, thinking. "You suggest I come to your headquarters?"

"That too might generate some unwanted rumors." Lo-custa pretended to be thinking. "If you were at your estate in the mountains… "

"It's hardly an estate, Tomma. Merely an old farm."

And one that you love to visit, Locusta thought. He had met the president there many times, and had his own unit of troops nearby to provide additional protection.

"When would we meet?"

"If you were there tomorrow afternoon?"

"My aide will call you with the arrangements in the morning," said Voda.

Locusta gave Major Ozera a broad smile as he hung up, then rose and went to the door. In the hallway, he bellowed for his chief of staff.

"I want plans for an assault inside Moldova," he told him when he appeared. "Two sites to be hit as hard as we can."

"Where, General?"

"We won't know the precise locations until a few minutes before the assaults themselves. Plan for a large action against several buildings. Expect several hundred guerrillas."

"But the president—"

"I'll deal with the president. You prepare the plans. We will make the attack tomorrow night."

The Megafortress hit a stack of turbulent air, shuddering as she turned through the darkening sky over northern Romania. Dog tightened his grip on the stick, easing her through the rough patch of sky.

"Russians are back, Colonel," said Rager, watching the airborne radar behind him on the Bennett's flight deck. "Right on schedule."

"Has to be the most boring assignment in the world, shadowing us," said Sullivan. "Watching as we go around and around and around."

"Nah. They should try working the ground radar here," said Spiff, referring of course to his own job.

"I thought I heard snoring back there," said Sullivan.

"I have to get my z's in while Colonel Bastian's flying," replied the radar operator. "Life's too exciting when you're at the stick."

"Ha-ha-ha."

Downstairs on the Flighthawk deck, Zen put Hawk One into a bank south, waiting as the Megafortress got into position to launch Hawk Two. Tonight they were scheduled to work with two platoons, one near where the guerrillas had attacked the other night, the other over the gas pipeline. The two areas overlapped, and the Megafortress's patrol circuits had been plotted so the mother ship would be roughly equidistant to the two smaller planes throughout the night.

The computer would help fly the planes, of course, and the Flighthawks could operate on their own if necessary. But as an old school combat pilot, one who had come to the program from fighter jets, Zen mentally projected himself into each cockpit. It was a bit of a challenge to cover such a disparate area — a good challenge.

The first platoon was scheduled to call in at 2400— midnight in civilian time. The second would make contact a half hour later. In the meantime, Zen put the robot planes through their paces, surveying the ground with their onboard infrared cameras. The farm fields, fallow because of the winter, looked like calm patches of the ocean, their furrows of light waves barely breaking the surface. Houses glowed in the darkness, their chimneys bright with heat.

"Bennett to Flighthawk leader. What's your status?"

"Both aircraft are completing their orienting runs, Colonel," said Zen. "I have nothing but green on my boards. Systems are looking good."

"Bennett," acknowledged Dog.

Zen hit the preset button on his joystick control, and the visual in front of him changed from Hawk One's forward camera to Hawk Two's. He thought of it as "jumping" from one plane to another.

Hawk Two's views had more mountainous terrain, but the overall impression — of a quiet, peaceful night — was the same. For the sake of the Romanians below, Zen hoped it stayed that way.

Up on the flight deck, Colonel Bastian let Sullivan continue to fly the aircraft while he reviewed the mission's flight plan. There were a few sharp cuts involved to stay close to the Flighthawks as they patrolled, but otherwise the route looked like an elongated racetrack that had been squeezed in the middle.

If things got hot tonight, Dog would be able to scramble Lieutenant Englehardt and the Johnson to help out. The plane had arrived a few hours before, and while the crew could use some rest, it was already prepped for an emergency takeoff.

Dog still wasn't sure what additional aircraft, if any, would join them. It was a decision he was frankly glad he didn't have to make himself. Many people thought a force as large and powerful as the U.S. Air Force had nearly unlimited resources, but the truth was that there was always a heavy demand, not just on the planes, but on the men and women who flew them. Dog couldn't fault Samson for taking his time sending more planes — because of the recent action in India and the demands of the test programs, there were in fact only four other EB-52s currently in full flight condition at Dreamland, and none were radar ships. Dreamland's planes were supposed to be on call to air defense units in the U.S.; the bottom line was that there weren't enough ships to go around.

If Samson actually got the money he'd been promised, there would be more, but Dog knew that would inevitably mean more missions to fulfill — and the resources would once more be stretched.

"One of those MiGs just changed direction, Colonel," said Rager. "Contact one on your screen. Coming toward us."

Dog saw it on the radar display. The MiG's wingman was turning as well.

"They're lighting afterburners."

"Probably blowing the carbon out of their arses," said Sullivan. "The Russians are particularly constipated this time of year."

The planes were roughly 250 miles away, traveling at about 500 knots or nautical miles per hour. Lighting their afterburners — essentially dumping a lot of fuel into the rear of the engines to make the planes go fast — would quickly increase their speed up over the sound barrier. Still, they were a good distance away; it would take at least ten minutes and probably a little more before they were close enough to pose a threat to the Megafortress.

Assuming they were interested in doing that.

"Flighthawk leader, our friends are at it again," Dog told Zen.

"Yeah, Colonel, I'm looking at the radar. What are they doing?"

"Probably testing to see how we'll respond," said Dog. "Plot an intercept for Hawk One near the border just in case." "Done, Colonel."

Dog checked the radar image. The radar in the Russian fighters — or whatever was guiding them — wouldn't be able to see the Flighthawk at this range.

Three minutes later the MiGs were still running hot in their direction. Their speed was up over 1,100 knots. They'd switched their afterburners off — if they left them on too long they'd quickly be out of fuel — but kept their course steady.

"Contacts one and two looking at the border in a little over five minutes," said Rager.

"Let's show them we know they're on their way," said Dog. "Sully, open the bomb bay doors."

"On it, Colonel."

The plane shook with the vibration of the bomb bay doors swinging open. The Megafortress had six AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles loaded for air defense, along with two smart bombs. Dog wasn't aligned perfectly to fire them — his track was roughly perpendicular to the MiGs — but he could easily bring them to bear if the situation warranted.

By now Romania's ground radars along the seacoast had spotted the MiGs, and the antiaircraft missile batteries along the eastern border of the country were being alerted. The defenses dated from the mid-sixties, however, and would be of little concern to the MiGs if they crossed.

"Two minutes to the border, Colonel," said Rager. "They're— Shit! Weapons radars activated."

"Relax," said Dog. "ECMs, Sully."

The copilot activated the Megafortress's electronic counter measures, jamming the frequencies used by the MiG's radar missiles to home in on their target.

"Colonel, I can set up a better intercept over the border," said Zen.

Dog's orders specifically forbade him to send any of his aircraft over the line, and in fact directed him to "actively avoid contact" — which could be interpreted to mean that he should run away if the MiGs got any more aggressive.

He understood why, of course — the U.S. wanted to avoid giving the Russians even the slightest pretense for coming to the aid of the rebels. But he still bristled.

"Stay on our side of the line," said Dog.

"Roger that."

"Colonel, I have a fire indication! Missile in the air!

AMRAAMski! Two of them."

"What the hell?" shouted Sullivan.

Dog dipped his wing, turning so he could "beam" the enemy radar and make it harder for the missiles to track him. The planes were a little more than thirty miles from the border, and the Megafortress was another forty from that. They were just at the missile's effective range, maybe even a little beyond it.

"Missile one is coming for us," said Rager.

"Colonel, you want to take them?" said Zen.

"Negative," said Dog tersely. "Button us up, Sullivan."

"Yes, sir."

The closed doors made it easier for the Megafortress to maneuver.

"Zen, put Hawk Two between us. Look for the missile." "Roger that, Colonel."

Dog turned the Megafortress again, pushing hard to get away. What the hell were the Russians doing? Trying to start

World War III?

"Missile one — off scope," said Sullivan. "Missile two— gone."

"They self-destructed, Colonel," added Rager. "MiGs have turned." He gave a bearing and range — they were under fifty miles away.

"Stand down," said Dog. "Excitement is over, gentlemen. Let's get back to work."

"What was it all about, Colonel?" asked Sullivan after they had returned to their patrol route.

"They're trying to rattle us. It's an old Cold War game. First one to blink loses."

"Did we blink or did they?"

Dog frowned.

"Let's get back to work," was all he said.

Once a pilot learned the basics of flying, he or she could in theory fly anything. It was a little like learning how to ride a bicycle or drive a car — once the basic physical and intellectual skills were mastered, going from one cockpit to another wasn't all that difficult.

Of course, when you were a pilot who operated at the very top of the profession, who flew planes at the cutting edge in extreme situations, you did more things with your aircraft than the weekend flier puttering from small town to small town in his Piper. And when you were among the most elite members of the subspecies, your expectations of yourself as well as the plane were extremely high. They didn't change just because you were in an unfamiliar cockpit. Yes, you could strap just about any plane onto your back and take a nice, nonchalant orientation flight, not push the bird or your self very hard without a very steep learning curve. But that wasn't the way a top test pilot operated.

No, an elite pilot pushed a new plane and herself to the max. Which was where the frustration came in.

Breanna tried hard not to curse as Boomer gave her a stall warning coming out of the turn. Supplying more throttle, she powered through the maneuver, holding her position tightly to the ghosted course suggestion on her heads-up display.

"Good. I'm ranging. Locked. Ready to fire," said Sleek Top.

Sleek Top was sitting in the pilot's seat. Under normal circumstances, the copilot handled the targeting duties, but both consoles were fully equipped and either pilot could comfortably fly or control the weapons.

"Climbing," said Breanna, sighing as she turned toward her next mark.

"You're doing good, Bree."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't think you are?" "I guess."

Sleek remained silent as they worked through the rest of the exercise. Breanna didn't have a lot of time in either "stock" B-1Bs or the B-1B/L, but the plane was easy to adjust to compared to getting used to sitting in the second officer's seat. The world looked very different from the right-hand seat.

But if that's what it took to get back in the air, that's what she would do.

They finished off with a mock refuel. Breanna could have had the computer fly the plane through the rendezvous— and on a combat mission, that might have been the preferred option — but it felt like cheating. She held steady, eased up to the boom, and hooked in almost as easily as if she were flying an EB-52.

"You are a hell of a pilot, Breanna," said Sleek Top as they turned back toward the runway to land. "Hell of a pilot."

"For a woman?"

"Nah," he said quickly. "For anyone. You picked up the fine points really fast."

"I'm still working on it. I know I have a way to go." "Listen. About last night—" "It was a great basketball game." "I meant—"

"It was a great basketball game," she repeated. "Maybe Zen and I can join you at another. He's an even bigger fan than I am."

"I'd like that," said Sleek Top. "Very much."

"They fired on you?" said Samson.He could feel his anger rising as he paced in front of the large screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

"They launched missiles in our direction. I took evasive action. They blew up the missiles maybe twenty seconds after launch, over the Black Sea. I assume their plan all along was to spook us."

"These Russian bastards," said Samson. "We ought to shoot them out of the sky."

The general glanced at the screen. The video caught Dog's head jerking right as he glanced in the direction of his copilot. Samson felt a twinge of jealousy — he wanted to be in the air himself.

Let those Russian bastards try to spook him. Just let them try.

"I'm sorry, General," said Dog, turning his face back toward the camera in front of his station. "I missed what you said."

"Nothing. You have something else?" "Negative. Very quiet on the ground so far."

"And you did nothing to provoke the Russians?"

"All we did was take our station. At no time did any of our ships go over the border."

"You better be giving me the whole story here, Bastian. If I get my head handed to me on this, yours isn't going to be worth a nickel."

Dog didn't say anything.

"I'll get back to you," said Samson.

"General, if there's a mission in Moldova, I'd like permission—"

"What part of what I just said don't you understand?" "It's all crystal clear," said Dog. The screen blanked.

That was the problem with Bastian, thought Samson. Even when he was in the right, you had to be suspicious of him. He was a cowboy, always looking for a chance to blow something up.

Still, when he was right, he was right. "Get me the White House," the general told the communications specialist. "Tell them it's important."

Just in time for his country's evening news programs, the German chancellor had responded to the latest round of Russian price increases by threatening to cut off gas shipments through its pipelines to France unless the French paid Germany a special transshipping fee. The French had responded angrily, and now all of Europe seemed at each other's throats. The Italians, who had seen unemployment rise to nearly twenty percent of the workforce in the past two months, were even talking about leaving NATO and the European Common Market.

The National Security Council had called an emergency meeting to discuss the latest developments. Freeman had Jed come along to make it easier for him to keep up-to-date. The meeting was winding down when Sandra Collins, one of the NSC duty officers, appeared at the door and waved her hands frantically to get his attention. Jed waited for the Undersecretary of State to finish what he was saying — though he used a lot of words, his opinion basically was that the Italian threat was an empty bluff — then excused himself and went to the door.

"General Samson at Dreamland," whispered Collins. "He says it's urgent."

Jed went across the hall to the secure communications center, nodding at the duty officer as he went to one of the stations. He sat down at the desk, typed in his password, then put his eyes into the retina scanner. A few seconds later, General Samson's face appeared in his screen.

"General, what can I do for you?" asked Jed.

Samson frowned. Jed knew from their past communications that Samson expected to be talking to Philip Freeman every time he called. But the National Security Advisor had given specific orders that all Dreamland communications, including those that came through Admiral Balboa at the Pentagon, were to go through Jed, and while Samson surely had been told, he hadn't really gotten the message.

And probably never would.

"Jed, the Russians fired on one of our aircraft," said Samson. "The Russians?"

"Those MiGs that were shadowing Bastian. And he did nothing to provoke it. Now I want permission to shoot those bastards down, and I want it now."

"Um, General—"

"My people have to be able to defend themselves. Even Bastian. The orders have to be changed to allow them to do that."

"The President was pretty specific about them staying out of any sort of situation—"

"Then you get him on the phone so I can talk to him," said Samson.

"I'll do what I can, General. But, listen, the situation over there is pretty volatile. It may seem like it's just a dispute over gas prices, but—"

"Don't tell me how volatile it is. My people are on the front line here. I need to protect them."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

The NSC meeting had already broken up and Jed's boss was gone. By the time he caught up with him, Freeman was at lunch up at the Capitol, dining in the Members Dining Room as the guest of Larry Segriff, who, besides representing Wisconsin as its senior representative, was head of the Foreign Relations Committee.

Freeman saw Jed walking toward him. "Am I late already?" he said, glancing at his watch. "I just got here."

"Actually, um, Sally made a mistake on the schedule." Jed smiled at Segriff, trying to seem genuine as he offered an excuse. "You were supposed to be in a meeting with the President on the gas situation in Europe. She thought lunch was tomorrow."

"I'm not going to keep you, Phil." Segriff started to wave him away. "Go ahead. We'll have lunch a different time."

"Thanks, Congressman. I'm really sorry. It's good to exchange ideas."

"Yes. I'll have my secretary set something up."

Jed followed Freeman out of the room. At least a dozen pairs of eyes followed them as they left.

"Good, Jed. I think he half believed you," said Freeman.

"I thought—"

"You did fine. What's up?"

"One of the Dreamland aircraft was fired on by the Russians," Jed told him.

"What?"

"It looks like it was meant to intimidate them. In any event, General Samson wants permission to fight back."

Freeman set his lips together in a deep frown as they got into the limo for the short ride back to the Executive Office Building.

Within an hour Jed was sitting next to his boss in the Cabinet Room next to the Oval Office, briefing President Martin-dale on what had happened.

Martindale ordinarily took even the worst news calmly, and it was generally hard to read his emotions.

Not today. He pounded the table, then ran his hand back through his white hair so violently that it flew into a wild tangle.

"What the hell are the goddamned Russians up to?" he thundered. "They want a war? They want a goddamned war?"

The reaction caught both Jed and his boss off guard. They exchanged a glance.

"I don't know that they want a war, exactly," said Freeman. "I think they're pushing, to see how far they can go. How far we'll go."

Martindale's face flushed. He looked at them for a moment, and as Jed stared at his profile he realized how tired the President appeared, and how old he had become. The last few weeks had been a great triumph — but also an enormous strain. Whatever held his temperament together had been stretched to the breaking point.

"Yes, of course that's what they're doing. Pushing us. Pushing me."

Martindale began to relax, becoming more his old self.

"We do have a couple of options, Mr. President," said Freeman. "We could send the Dreamland people to support the operation in Moldova."

"No. That's what they want. That's what this is about — to try to provoke us." The President rose. "This isn't just about the price of the natural gas. Oh yes, that's part of it. Definitely part of it. But there's more. They want to break up NATO. Look at the quarreling that's going on. And what do you think will happen to our bid to expand NATO if we're seen taking sides like this?"

"We are taking sides," said Freeman. "We have to take sides."

"Yes, but with restraint. They want to make us look as aggressive as possible. They know we're riding high right now." Martindale shook his head. "Moldova is still off limits."

"OK," said Freeman.

"Um… "

Martindale turned to Jed. "What's that 'um' about, young man?"

"Sir, um, the Romanians have been asking for more support. They say two planes, even Megafortresses, aren't enough."

"What does Samson say?"

"Uh, I guess I don't know exactly."

"Find out what his plans are."

"Can the planes defend themselves?" insisted Freeman. "They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs," said Martindale. "No offensive action. Period."

"But—"

"Colonel Bastian will know how to interpret that order. Make sure it's relayed to him."

Once more,Samson found himself bristling as he talked to Jed Barclay, angry that the President wouldn't speak to him directly.

"Um, just that the President wants to know if you have an adequate force in Romania," explained Jed.

"Tell him we have more planes getting ready to fly as we speak," Samson said. "They'll be taking off this evening."

"Very good."

"Can we hit the Russians?" asked Samson.

"Actually, the President does not want American aircraft in Moldovan airspace. He thinks the Russians are trying to provoke us."

Samson folded his arms.

"His orders were, this is a direct quote: 'They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs. No offensive action. Period.' He wanted that relayed to Colonel Bastian."

"Very well. Dreamland out."

Samson dropped the phone on its hook.

"Chartelle!" he said loud enough to be heard in the outer office. "Get Mack Smith in here. Now!"

"Yes, General," said the secretary.

Mack appeared a few minutes later. The major had apparently been eating lunch, because a small bit of ketchup clung to his chin.

"Mack, I want our B-IB/Ls en route to Romania by tonight."

"The B-1s, General?"

"Is there an echo in this room?"

"General, the B-1 project—"

"Spit it out, Major. Let's have your objections in plain language."

"Yes, sir. It's not an objection, it's just — even with Breanna— I mean, Captain Stockard — I'm still one pilot short. We have Sleek Top, Jack Kittle, and Breanna. That's one short — and to be honest, I don't know if you can push Sleek into combat."

"If he volunteers, he can go."

"Well, I don't know that—"

"Have you ever heard of a Marine who didn't volunteer for combat?"

"Um, no sir. But even so, you're still one short."

"No, we're full up. I'll fly Boomer." Samson rose. "Get the others into my office right away. I don't care where they are. Get them. Now. We have a job to do."