Revolution

VIII For Freedom

The evening before the Dreamland team returned home from their deployment, the president of Romania hosted a special reception for them. When he first heard of the plan, General Samson began to fret — because of the rush, he hadn't packed his Class A uniform, bringing only his battle fatigues and flight suits.

In another command the mistake might very well have been fatal. But when you headed Dreamland, people expected you to be a little different. Samson, though perhaps still not entirely comfortable, realized he was beginning to adjust.

President Voda didn't seem to care how the Dreamland people were dressed. He was back in control of his country, with the northern army corps dispersed and the units under all new command. General Locusta was in prison, as were his co-conspirators.

The guerrillas had stopped their attacks, though no one was sure whether they were simply biding their time or if the movement had collapsed, as Sorina Viorica had predicted.

The Russians, while not acknowledging that they had tried to attack the pipeline, had announced that they were appointing a new ambassador to Romania and overhauling the embassy personnel. More significantly, they had lowered the price of the natural gas they supplied to Europe.

President Martindale had personally telephoned Samson to tell him about the Russians.

"I'm surprised you went to Romania yourself, General," he said. "I thought your priority was at Dreamland."

"My priority is my people, Mr. President. And my mission."

"I'm glad you did," said Martindale. "You need a sense of what's going on. I like that sort of initiative."

So did Samson. The mission had shown him exactly how much there was to a Dreamland Whiplash deployment, how much it depended on the proper mix of technology and old-fashioned warrior spirit. It had also convinced him that while he still had trouble stomaching Tecumseh "Dog" Bastian at times, the lieutenant colonel deserved every accolade he'd ever received, and then some.

It happened that Samson and Colonel Bastian were seated next to each other at the reception. When the band stoked up following the speeches of gratitude and friendship, President Voda rose to dance with his wife. While he favored his injured knee — the ligaments had been strained but not torn— he still cut an acceptable figure on the floor, moving with a slow, dignified grace.

Dog and Samson found themselves alone at the table.

"So," said Samson. "Have you given any thought to your next assignment?"

"Not really," said Dog. "Maybe I'll retire."

"Retire? Quit?"

"I don't know if it's quitting."

"You know, Dog — if I can call you that."

"Sure."

"You have a hell of a lot of experience. And you're being promoted to colonel."

"I can't be promoted for a few months at least."

"Way overdue." Samson waved in the air. "Everyone knows you're going to be promoted. You're on the fast track to general. Assuming you don't quit."

"I don't think retiring is the same as quitting. I don't have anything left to prove," said Dog.

He leaned back his seat. Samson followed his gaze. He was looking at his daughter, who was kissing Zen at the next table.

"No, true. You have absolutely nothing to prove," agreed Samson. "But on the other hand, you have a lot to offer. A lot of commands could use you. Mine, for instance."

Dog turned to him.

"Look, I know we don't get along. Hell, Tecumseh, when I met you, I thought you were a big jerk. I still think that. To an extent. A lesser extent."

Dog started to laugh. It was the same laugh, Samson realized, that he'd heard from Breanna in the plane during the mission, after he'd said that some people were conceited.

It must be embedded in the family genes.

"But we don't have to be friends," Samson continued. "That's not what Dreamland is about. Or the Air Force. Hell, I don't need friends. What I need is someone to run the air wing. Someone with ability. Integrity. Creativity. Balls. A leader."

"I thought you offered that job to someone else."

"Don't worry about that. I've been known to make mistakes. Sometimes… " He broke into a smile. "Sometimes I even admit it."

"I thought Danny was going to shoot me when I told him we should go back and let President Voda talk to the soldiers," Zen told Breanna, finishing the story he'd started before she began kissing him.

"Hey, bullshit on that," said Danny, returning to the table with their drinks. "I wasn't going to shoot you. Throw you out of the Osprey, yeah."

Breanna laughed.

"The president's son tried teaching me Romanian on the way back to the capital," added Zen. "I can say hello."

"Hello?" "'Ello."

"That doesn't sound Romanian." "You think he was gaming me? I paid him a buck." Breanna laughed, finally realizing that Zen was joking. "He's a cute kid," she said. She'd met Julian earlier that evening.

"Our son's going to be cuter," said Zen.

The remark froze Breanna. Their son?

Was Zen finally ready to talk about having children?

"Jeff?"

Zen smiled. Before Breanna could find a way to press him, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and found General Samson standing behind her.

"Captain Stockard, would you care to dance?"

"Um—"

"As long as your husband doesn't mind, of course. I don't need unnecessary dissension in the ranks."

"Dance away," said Zen. "A little unnecessary dissension never hurt anyone."

"I'm going to hit the WC," Zen told Danny. "Want anything on the way back?"

Danny shook his head and held up his beer.

"I'll be back."

Danny took a long pull from the beer as Zen disappeared. He leaned back in his seat, thinking about the past few days, thinking especially about Istanbul, and Stoner.

The Moldovans claimed they'd only found three bodies in the wreckage. Stoner's wasn't among them.

Did it mean he was alive?

Undoubtedly not. The photos showed a horrific scene. The helo had crashed at the edge of a swamp; most likely Stoner had been thrown from the wreck and his body was lying somewhere in the mud, submerged.

No one would hold a reception for him; there'd be no fistful of medals. He wouldn't even get a wake. The government would never acknowledge that he'd been on the mission, or even been in Romania, let alone Moldova.

Yet, he'd done as much as they had. More really. He'd given his life.

Danny put down the beer and got up. He'd seen a cute Romanian woman who worked in the defense ministry at one of the tables near the door. Maybe she'd like to dance…

Dog watched General Samson lead his daughter to the dance floor. Samson wasn't a bad dancer at all.

Nor was he a bad commander. In fact, he might even be a pretty good one. He'd seemed a lot less controlling over the past few days, more willing to improvise and go beyond the book.

Was it just that he hadn't given Samson a chance at first? Or had Samson started to grow into the role? Was flying Boomer responsible? Was the battle? Or was Dreamland?

Maybe all Earthmover needed was time to forget the political bs he'd had to learn once he made general. Maybe the mission had given him a chance to remember what it was he liked about the Air Force in the first place.

Dog picked up his drink. He remembered his own first days at Dreamland. He'd changed as well.

For the better.

And he'd change again, and again, and again. Because that was what heroes did.