Revolution

II An Honor and Privilege

The gun was an old revolver, a Ruger Blackhawk, a good gun but an odd one to find in northeastern Romania.

And not one particularly welcome when it was pointed at his head.

"Put the pistol down," said Stoner. His hand was in his pocket, his own .45 aimed at the Romanian's chest.

"You are Stoner?" the man with the gun asked.

"You think anybody else is going to be standing out in the middle of this fucking road at this hour?"

The man glanced to his right, looking at his companion. It was a half second of inattention, a momentary, reflexive glance, but it was all Stoner needed. He leaped forward, grabbing and pushing the man's arm up with his left hand while pulling out his own gun with his right. The Romanian lost his balance; Stoner went down to the ground with him, pistol pointed at the man's forehead. The Romanian's gun flew to the side.

"Identify yourself, asshole." Stoner pushed the muzzle of the weapon against the man's forehead.

The Romanian couldn't speak. His companion took a step closer.

"You come any closer, he's fucking dead!" Stoner yelled. "He doesn't speak English," said the man on the ground. "Tell him, you jackass. Tell him before I blow your brains out. Then I'll shoot him, too."

In a nervous voice, the Romanian urged his friend to remain calm.

"Now tell me who the hell you are," said Stoner.

Though they were dressed in civilian clothes, Stoner knew the man and his companion had to be the two soldiers sent to help him sneak across the border, but there was a point to be made here. Pulling a gun on him was completely unacceptable.

"I am Deniz. He is Kyiv. He does not speak no English," added the man on the ground. "We were to help you."

"Yeah, I know who the hell you are." Stoner jumped up, taking a step back. "You're going to check me out, you do it from a distance. You don't walk right up to me and draw your gun. You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

Deniz gave a nervous laugh, then reached for his pistol. Stoner kicked it away, then scooped it up.

"This is your only weapon?" he asked.

Deniz shrugged.

"What's he carrying?"

"No gun. The captain said—"

"No gun?"

"We are to pretend we're civilians," said Deniz. "No uniform, no rifle. Not even boots."

Idiot, thought Stoner. "You know where we're going?" he asked.

Deniz nodded.

Stoner looked at them. Deniz was twenty, maybe, taller than he was but at least fifty pounds lighter. Kyiv was a pudge of a man, his age anywhere from fifteen to thirty-five. He looked like a baker who liked his work a little too much, not a fighter.

Neither would be much help if things got rough. On the other hand, Stoner not only didn't know the area, but knew only a few phrases in Romanian.

"Kyiv knows the border very well," said Deniz, trying to reassure him. "Part of his family lives there. Yes?"

He repeated what he had said in Romanian for Kyiv, who nodded and said something in Romanian.

"The girls are better on the other side," added Deniz. "We go there often. No guns. Not needed."

Stoner frowned, then led them to his car, parked off the road behind some brush.

"You know how to use these, I assume," he said, opening the trunk and handing them each an AK-47.

"It is not dangerous where we are going," said Deniz.

"It's always dangerous," said Stoner, pressing the rifle on him. "Don't kid yourself."

He took his own gun — another AK-47, this one a paratrooper's model with a folding metal stock — and doled out banana magazines to the others.

"This is the spot," he said, unfolding the satellite photo he'd brought. "The GPS coordinates are for this barn."

Deniz took the paper, turning it around several times as he looked at it. Then he handed it to his companion. The two men began talking in Romanian.

"He knows the barn," said Deniz finally. "Five kilometers from the border. The woman who owned it died two years ago. A neighbor mows the field."

"Who owns it now?"

Kyiv didn't know.

"The rebels have been quiet this week," said Deniz as Stoner adjusted his knapsack. "We have become a very silent area."

"That's good to know."

"We could take your car," added the Romanian. "No. We walk."

Taking the car would mean they'd have to pass through a Moldovan as well as a Romanian military checkpoint, and their procedures required them to keep track of every car or truck passing through by recording the license plate. Even if it wasn't likely there would be trouble, Stoner didn't want the trip recorded. Besides, going on foot would make it easier to survey the area and avoid an ambush or double-cross. Five kilometers wasn't much to walk.

"We drive over many times," said Deniz.

"Walking's good for you. You should be able to do five kilometers inside an hour without a pack."

The soldier frowned. Neither man seemed in particularly good shape. Stoner assumed their training regime was far from the best.

They walked in silence for about fifteen minutes, the pace far slower than what would have been required to do five kilometers in an hour. Even so, Stoner had to stop every so often to let them catch up.

"Why are we going?" asked Deniz after they had crossed the border.

"We're meeting someone."

"A rebel or a smuggler?"

Stoner shrugged. Deniz chortled.

"A smuggler," guessed Deniz.

"Why do you care?"

"Curious. The captain told us an American needs a guide. That's all we know," answered the Romanian. "That's more than you should."

Kyiv said something. His tone was angry, and Stoner looked at Deniz for an explanation.

"The smugglers are the men with the money," said Deniz. "They throw cash around. My friend thinks it's disgusting."

"And you?"

"I just want what they want."

Deniz gave him a leering smile. Stoner had been planning on giving the men a "tip" after they returned; now he wasn't so sure he'd bother.

"Tell me about the rebels," he said. "They don't scare you?"

"Criminals." Deniz spit. "Clowns. From the cities." He added something Romanian that Stoner didn't understand.

"They are dogs," explained Deniz. "With no brains. They make an attack, then run before we get there. Cowards. There are not many."

"How many is not many?"

Deniz shrugged. "A thousand. Two, maybe."

The official government estimates Stoner had seen ranged from five to ten thousand, but the Bucharest CIA station chief guessed the number was far lower, most likely under a thousand if not under five hundred. What the rebels lacked in numbers, the Romanian army seemed to make up for in incompetence, though in fairness it was far harder to deal with a small band of insurgents bent on destruction than a regular army seeking to occupy territory.

"You speak English pretty well," Stoner told Deniz, changing the subject.

"In Bucharest, all learn it. TV. It is the people here who don't need it." He gestured toward Kyiv. "If you live all of your life in the hills, there is not a need."

"I see."

"On the computer — Internet — everything good is English." "Probably," said Stoner." "Someday, I go to New York."

"Why New York?"

"My cousin lives there. Very big opportunity. We will do business, back and forth. There are many things I could get in New York and sell here. Stop!"

He put his hand across Stoner's chest. Stoner tensed, worrying for a moment that he might have sized the men up wrong.

"There is a second Moldovan border post there," said Deniz, pointing to a fence about a hundred meters away. "A backup. If you don't want to be seen, we must go this way through the field."

"Lead the way."

Folded, the Man/External Synthetic Shell Kinetic Integrated Tool — better known as MESSKIT — looked like a nineteenth century furnace bellows with robot arms.

Unfolded, it looked like the remains of a prehistoric, man-sized bat.

"And you think this thing is going to make me fly?" asked Zen, looking at it doubtfully.

"It won't take you cross-country," said scientist Annie Klondike, picking it up from the table in the Dreamland weapons lab where she'd laid it out. "But it will get you safely from the plane to the ground. Think of it as a very sophisticated parachute."

Zen took the MESSKIT from her. It was lighter than he'd thought it would be, barely ten pounds. The arms were made of a carbon-boron compound, similar to the material used in the Dreamland Whiplash armored vests. The wings were made of fiber, but the material felt like nothing he'd ever touched — almost like liquid steel.

Six very small, microturbine engines were arrayed above and below the wing. Though no bigger than a juice glass, together the engines could provide enough thrust to lift a man roughly five hundred feet in the air. In the MESSKIT, their actual intention was to increase the distance an endangered pilot could fly after bailing out, and to augment his ability to steer himself as he descended.

"You sure this thing will hold me?"

"Prototype holds me," said Danny.

"Yeah, but you're a tough guy," joked Zen. "You fall on your head, the ground gets hurt."

"It's much stronger than nylon, Zen, and you've already trusted your life to that," said Annie.

A white-haired grandmother whose midwestern drawl sof tened her sometimes sardonic remarks, Annie ran the ground weapons lab at Dreamland. MESSKIT was a "one-off" — a special adaptation of one of the lab's exoskeleton projects. Exoskeletons were like robotic attachments to a soldier's arms and legs, giving him or her the strength to lift or carry very heavy items. The MESSKIT's progenitor was intended to help paratroopers leaving aircraft at high altitude, allowing them to essentially fly to a target miles away.

Annie and some of the other techies had adapted the design after hearing about the problems Zen had had on his last mission using a standard parachute. If MESSKIT was successful, others would eventually be able to use it to bail out of high-flying aircraft no matter what altitude they were at or what the condition of the airplane. MESSKIT would allow an airman to travel for miles before having to land. If Zen had had it over India, he might have been able to fly far enough to reach an American ship and safety when his plane was destroyed. And because it was powered, the MESSKIT would also have allowed him to bail out safely from the Megafortress after the ejection seat had already been used.

"Try it on," urged Danny, who'd served as the lab's guinea pig and done some of the testing the day before. "You put it on like a coat."

"What's with these arms? What am I, an octopus?"

"You put your hands in them. Your fingers slide right in.

See?"

"Yours, maybe."

"Starship can test it just as well," said Danny. "I got it," snapped Zen. "You don't need to use reverse psychology on me."

"Now would I do that?"

Zen gave the MESSKIT to Danny to hold and wheeled himself to the side of the table. He maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and onto a backless bench, then held up his arms.

"I am rea-dy for the operation, Doc-tor," he said in a mock Frankenstein monster voice.

Once on, the gear felt like a cross between football pads and a jacket with a thin backpack attached. His hands fit into metallic gloves. Bar grips extended from the side "bones" of the suit; they looked a bit like silver motorcycle throttles, with buttons on the end.

"Comfortable?" Danny asked.

"Different," said Zen.

Annie was looking over the device, adjusting how it sat on his back. Zen moved back and forth, twisting his torso.

"Here, press the left-hand button once and pick this up," said Danny, bringing over a twenty pound dumbbell.

Zen could curl considerably more than twenty pounds with either hand, but he was amazed at how light the weight felt.

Danny laughed. "Don't throw it. You should see it on boost. You can pick up a car."

He was exaggerating — but only slightly. The MESSKIT used small motors and an internal pulley system to help leverage the wearer's strength.

The more Zen fidgeted with the suit, the more he saw its possibilities. Annie and the rest of the development team might think of it as a way to help him get out of a stricken Megafortress. But Zen realized that a similar device with artificial legs instead of wings could help him walk.

Like a robot, maybe, but still…

"So when do we test it?" he asked.

"It looks like a good fit," said Annie, tugging down the back as if she were a seamstress. "We can set up the gym and go at it tomorrow."

"Why not today?" he asked. "Why not right now?"

The others exchanged a glance, then Danny started to laugh.

"Told you," he said.

"Come on," said Zen. "Let's get to work."

The news about Lieutenant Colonel Bastian's Medal of Honor hit General Samson like the proverbial ton of bricks. The more he thought about it, the more he felt as if a house had fallen on him.

Though his first reaction was to swell with pride.

Samson had seen combat himself in his younger days, and he knew how tenuous courage on the battlefield could be. He also knew that for a soldier to get the Medal of Honor while managing somehow to survive was extremely difficult — luck really, since by definition the sort of selfless act the honor required meant death in nearly every case.

Samson had been on the mission that the President was citing Dog for.

Well, in the theater at least — and even a vague association provided at least a modicum of reflected glory. A commander takes responsibility for all that his people do, good and bad; personal feelings toward Dog aside, the colonel's success reflected well on his commanding officer, no matter how far removed from the actual event.

But as Samson thought about the implications, his mood quickly sank. For one thing, he wanted Bastian gone from Dreamland, and the medal would make it harder to push him out. It might even be impossible if Bastian decided to fight.

Worse, what if Bastian put his hand up to become wing commander? How could he refuse a Medal of Honor winner?

Bastian wasn't a full colonel, and wing commanders almost always were. But hell, the guy had held a post a major general now commanded, and had won a Medal of Honor in combat — only a supercilious prig would deny him the post if he truly wanted it.

How did Bastian get the medal, anyway? Samson wondered. Wasn't the process normally begun with a recommen dation from his commander? In what drunken stupor had he written that recommendation?

Samson's phone rang. He picked it up, and heard his chief civilian secretary, Chartelle Bedell, tell him in her singsong voice that Admiral Balboa was on the line.

"Samson," he said, pushing the button to make the connection.

"General. Congratulations are in order," said Balboa. "Your command is to receive an armful of medals for the action off India and Pakistan."

"We heard rumors, Admiral. I was wondering, though. Usually—"

"The order comes directly from the commander in chief," continued Balboa. "And as a matter of fact, he wants to meet with the personnel in question personally. As soon as possible."

"Sir, I—"

"You have a problem with that, Samson?"

"Of course not, Admiral. We'd be honored to have the President here. The security arrangements—"

"Make them. There'll be no press. The President happens to be on his way to the coast for some conference or other and wants to personally shake Colonel Bastian's hand. It's his idea, Terrill. He loves to press the flesh. You know that. I'm surprised he's not more concerned about germs."

"Well yes, sir, of course."

"You can expect him first thing in the morning. Throw out the red carpet."

"Tomorrow?" asked Samson, but it was too late — Balboa had already hung up the phone.

The attack on the gas line was made several hours earlier than General Locusta expected, and his first reaction was genuine surprise and anger. Locusta was in the small house used as his army corps headquarters, having a late tea with some of his officers, when word came. The news was delivered by a Romanian army private who'd driven from the attack site five miles away; the man had sprinted from the parking area and barely caught his breath before delivering the news.

"Where?" demanded Locusta. "Have they been repulsed?" "They are gone, General," said the man. "We have had two casualties."

"Two?"

The private nodded.

"How many guerrillas were killed?"

The man shook his head. While that was probably a good thing — had the men been killed, it was very possible their true identities would have been discovered — Locusta was furious. The Russian had promised him none of his men would be harmed. The general had practically gift wrapped the pipeline for him, and he responded by killing two of his men.

That was what came from working with the Russians.

"General?" the private prodded him.

"The pipeline is broken?" asked Locusta.

"There was an explosion. Our captain was ordering the line closed as I left."

"I will inspect it myself." Locusta turned to one of his captains. "Send a message to the capital immediately. Tell them to shut the entire line down. As a precaution. Add that the situation is under control for the moment and I am on my way personally to inspect the site."

"Comfortable, Zen?" asked Annie, talking to him through the radio in the test helmet.

"I'm just about to nod off," he replied.

"I'll bet. We're counting down from five. Here we go. Five, four… three… "

Zen flexed his arms. He was sitting on a high-tech aluminum step ladder — it looked more elaborate than the models you'd find in a hardware store, but that was essentially what it was. Besides the MESSKIT, he was wearing a harness attached by very thick rubber straps and nylon safety ties to anchors on the "gym" ceiling, walls, and floor. Thick cushion pads covered nearly every surface in the hangarlike room; the only spaces left unprotected were small clear plastic panels for video cameras and various sensors, and the window of the control room, protected by a webbed net that hung across the open space.

Zen took a last look across at the control room — it was at about eye level, ten feet off the ground — and thought to himself that it would be just his luck to be propelled into the netting like a school of mackerel if the experiment went haywire.

"Ladder away," said Annie, continuing the countdown.

The metal seat that had been supporting him slid back. Zen didn't move — his weight was now entirely supported by the safety harnesses, which were quickly checked by the computer monitoring the test.

"Green light on ladder retrieve," said one of the techies in the control room.

Behind him, the ladder's "closet" opened and the ladder began folding itself away. But Zen was too focused on the MESSKIT to pay any attention. The device seemed to barely weigh anything.

"We're ready any time you are, Zen," said Annie.

"Opening the umbrella," he said, extending his arms before pushing the button on the control in his left hand.

The wings unfolded with a loud thump, the sort of sound a book makes falling off a desk. Zen was tugged upward gently. He pushed his arms back, spreading his wings — the skeleton and its small bat wings moved easily.

Zen worked left and right, just getting used to the feel, while Annie and the others in the control room monitored the device. After a few minutes, the tension on the suspension straps holding him off the floor was eased. Zen settled about six inches, then another six; he flapped his arms playfully, not trying to fly, but testing the safety equipment to make sure everything was still in order.

"All right, the safety harnesses are working," said Annie. "We're going to give you some breeze. If you're ready."

"Let 'er rip," Zen said, and leaned forward, anticipating the next set of tests as some of the giant cushions on the wall slid upward to reveal small louvered slots.

"Two knots, then five," said Annie.

Even at two knots, the effect of the wind on the wings was immediately noticeable. Zen pushed his hands down as the wind hit his face; the microsensors in the MESSKIT's skeleton transferred his movements to the small motors that controlled the wing's surface, and suddenly he was pitched downward. The guide ropes and harness kept him from going too far forward, but the shift was still an abrupt enough to catch him by surprise.

"Wow," he said. "I'm flying."

"Not yet, Major," said Annie dryly. "Maybe by the end of the day."

The engineers who transformed the B-1B into Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2 had left the throttle controls to the left of each pilot's position, but otherwise there was little similarity between the aircraft's cockpit and that of its "stock" brethren. A sleek glass panel replaced the 1970s-era gauges, dials, and switches that had once faced the pilots. The panel layout was infinitely configurable and could be changed by voice command to different presets adapted to a specific mission or pilot. The electronics behind the panel were even more radically different. Dreamland B-1B/L Test-bed 2 could simultaneously track 64,237 targets and potential threats anywhere in the world. The number was related to the processing capacity of the chips used in the radar and computers but was still somewhat arbitrary. Ray Rubeo's answer, when Dog asked him why that number was chosen, had been, "They had to stop somewhere."

Gathering the data through the Dreamland communication network — and eventually through standard military systems— the plane's advanced flight computer could not only keep tabs on any potential enemy in the world, but provide the pilot with a comprehensive plan to evade detection or destroy the enemy before it knew the plane was targeting it.

Or the computer could do it all itself, without human help — or interference. Which was what today's test was all about.

"Ready any time you are, Colonel," said the copilot, Marty "Sleek Top" Siechert. A civilian contractor, a former Marine Corps aviator who'd returned to flying fast jets after working as a mid-level manager at McDonnell Douglas, Siechert's nickname came from his bald head, which looked like a polished cue ball.

Not that Dog could see it. Both men were dressed in full flight gear, with g suits and brain buckets, even though the cabin was fully pressurized.

"Let's get this pony into the air," said Dog, putting his hand on the throttle.

Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2—more commonly and affectionately known as Boomer—rocked as her engines revved to life. The four General Electric F101-GE-102 engines she was born with had been replaced by new GE models that were about seventy percent more powerful and conserved much more fuel. Unlike the Megafortress, the B-1B was a supersonic aircraft to begin with, and thanks to its uprated engines, had pushed out over Mach 2.4 in level flight — probably a record for a B-1B, though no one actually kept track. More impressive— at least if you were paying the gas bill—Boomer could fly to New York and back at just over the speed of sound with a full payload without needing to be refueled.

"I have 520 degrees centigrade on engines three and four," said Sleek Top.

"Roger that," replied Dog. The temperature readings were an indication of how well the engines were working. "Five twenty. I have 520 one and two."

They ran through the rest of the plane's vitals, making sure the plane was ready to takeoff. With all systems in the green, Dog got a clearance from the tower and moved down the ramp to the runway.

"Burners," he told Sleek Top as he put the hammer down.

The afterburners flashed to life. The plane took a small step forward, then a second; the third was a massive leap. The speed bar at the right of Dog's screen vaulted to 100 knots; a half breath later it hit 150.

"We're go," said Dog as the airplane passed 160 knots, committing them to takeoff.

The plane's nose came up. Boomer had used less than 3,000 feet of runway to become airborne.

Like the stock models, the B-1B/L's takeoff attitude was limited to prevent her long tail from scraping, and the eight-degree angle made for a gentle start to the flight. Gentle but not slow — she left the ground at roughly 175 knots, and within a heartbeat or two was pumping over 300.

Dog checked the wing's extension, noting that the computer had set them at 25 degrees, the standard angle used for routine climb-outs. Like all B-1s, Boomer's wings were adjustable, swinging out to increase lift or maneuverability and tucking back near the body for speed and cruising efficiency. But unlike the original model, where the pilots pulled long levers to manually set the angle, Boomer's wings were set automatically by the flight computer even when under manual control. The pilot could override using voice commands, but the computer had first crack at the settings.

The wings' geometry capitalized on improvements made possible by the use of the carbon composite material instead of metal. The goal of these improvements had been to reduce weight and improve performance, but as a side benefit the new wings also made the plane less visible on radar.

They were also, of course, considerably more expensive to manufacture than the originals, a problem the engineers were finding difficult to solve.

It was also a problem that Dog no longer had to worry about or even consider. All he had to do was finish his climb-out to 35,000 feet and get into a nice, easy orbit around Range 14a.

"Way marker," said his copilot. "We're looking good, Colonel. Ready for diagnostics."

"Let 'em rip," said Dog.

The B-1Bs flown by the Strategic Air Command were crewed by four men: pilot, copilot, and two weapons systems operators. Boomer had places for only the pilot and copilot, with the weapons handled by the copilot, with help from the threat and targeting computer. The arrangement was under review. Experience with the Megafortress had shown that under combat conditions, dedicated weapons handlers could be beneficial. There was plenty of room for them on the flight deck, but the additional cost in terms of money and manpower might not be justifiable.

Indeed, Dog wasn't entirely sure the presence of the pilot and copilot could be justified. The Unmanned Bomber project, though still far from an operational stage, demonstrated that a potent attack aircraft could be flown effectively anywhere in the world from a bunker back in the States. The next generation of Flighthawks — the robot fighters that worked with the Megafortress as scouts, escorts, and attack craft — would contain equipment allowing them to do just that, though they still needed to be air-launched.

The next generation of Flighthawks was very much on Dog's mind as the diagnostics were completed, because the afternoon's test session was a mock dogfight between a pair of Flighthawks and the B-1. The aim of the test was to put Boomer's airborne laser through its paces, but of course from the pilots' point of view, the real goal was to wax the other guy's fanny.

Dog wondered if the computers thought like that.

"Boomer, this is Flighthawk control. Hawk One and Two are zero-five minutes from the range. What's your status?"

"Rarin' for a fight, Starship," responded Dog. "Are you ready, Lieutenant?"

"Ready to kick your butt," said Starship.

Dog laughed. Starship — Lieutenant Kirk "Starship" Andrews — seemed to have broken out of his shell a bit thanks to his temporary assignment with the Navy. In fact, he'd done so well there that the commander he'd been assigned to, Captain Harold "Storm" Gale, had tried to keep him. Considering Storm's general attitude that Air Force personnel rated lower than crustaceans on the evolutionary scale, his attachment to Starship was high praise.

"I didn't mean any disrespect, sir," added Starship hastily.

"No offense taken," said Dog. "Let's see how you do, Lieutenant."

Dog and Sleek Top turned over control to the computer and settled back to watch how Boomer did. The tests began quietly, with the two Flighthawks making a head-on approach at Boomer's altitude. The B-1's radar tracked them easily, identified them as threats, presented itself with several options for striking them, then worked out the solution most likely to succeed.

The computer system used to guide the Flighthawks— known as C³—already did this, but the task was considerably more difficult for a laser-armed ship. While in sci fi flicks lasers regularly blasted across vast tracts of space to incinerate vessels moving just under the speed of light, back on earth lasers had not yet developed such abilities — and might not ever. The laser weapon aboard the B-1 fired a focused beam of high-energy light that could burn a hole through most materials known to man, assuming it stayed focused on its target long enough.

And that was the rub. Both Boomer and its airborne targets were moving at high rates of speed, and while there might be some circumstances under which the B-1B/L could count on getting off a sustained blast of ten or more seconds, dogfight conditions meant that blast length would often be measured in microseconds.

For the laser to be a practical air-to-air weapon, its enemy's specific vulnerabilities had to be targeted and then hit repeatedly. That was where the computer did most of its number crunching. It was able to assess the typical vulnerabilities of its opponent, prepare what was called a "shooting plan" to exploit those vulnerabilities, and then direct the laser fire as both aircraft moved at the speed of sound. And it could change that plan as the battle progressed.

For example, if the B-1 was tangling with a MiG-27, the computer would realize that the motors the MiG used to adjust its wings in flight were extremely heat sensitive. Depending on the orientation of the two planes, the computer would target those motors, crippling his enemy. As the MiG slowed down to cope with the malfunction, the computer would then fire a series of blasts on the port wing fuel tank, aiming not to punch holes in the wing, but to create a series of hot spots in the tank, which would disrupt the fuel flow, slowing the plane down. For the coup de grace, the computer would ignite the antiair missile on the plane's right wing spar, in effect having the MiG destroy itself.

This would all happen in a span of seconds. While the human controlling the weapon could approve each individual targeting stage, ideally he would simply tell the computer to take down the bandit, and he could then worry about something else.

A MiG-27, though relatively fast, was an easy target, since it was big, conventionally flown, and most important of all, well-known. The Flighthawks, by contrast, were much more difficult opponents. Not only had they been designed to minimize some of the traditional vulnerabilities, but their lack of a pilot removed one of the laser weapon's neatest tricks— blasting the cockpit with heat and making the enemy pilot extremely uncomfortable.

"We're ready," declared Sleek Top as they finished the first battery of tests. "Clear computer to engage in encounter."

"You feeling lucky yet?" Dog asked Starship.

"Don't need luck, Colonel."

"Let's do it."

The Flighthawks swung east, preparing to make their attack. The Flighthawks — officially, U/MF-2/c, which stood for "unmanned fighter 2, block c" — were about the size of a Honda Civic and were equipped with cannons. They were slower than the B-1B/L but more maneuverable.

On the first test, everyone followed a prepared script. The two Flighthawks passed a quarter mile to the east. The computer picked them up without trouble, adjusted Boomer's speed to get longer shots on their engines, and then recorded a simulated hit.

"Two birds down," reported the copilot.

"Hear that, Starship?" said Dog. "You're walking home."

"I always walk home, Colonel. Ready for test two?"

"Have at it."

The Flighthawks banked behind Boomer and began to close, aiming to shoot their cannons at the fat radar dome at the plane's tail. This was a more realistic attack scenario, and was further complicated by Starship's handling of the planes — he kept them jinking and jiving as they approached, making it difficult for Boomer to lock its laser. The fact that there were two targets made things even more complicated, as the computer had trouble deciding which of the two aircraft provided a better target and kept reordering its plan of attack.

"I'm tempted to do an override," said Sleek Top, who could have solved the computer's problem by designating one of the planes as primary target.

"Let's see how it does."

The words were barely out of Dog's mouth when the laser fired, recording a simulated hit on Hawk One. It took nearly thirty seconds, but it recorded a fatal strike on Hawk Two as well.

Then the fun began.

"On to test three, Colonel," said Starship. "Anytime you're ready, son."

The Flighthawks dove toward the earth. Test three was entirely free-form — Starship could do anything he wanted, short of actually hitting Boomer, of course.

"Tracking," reported Sleek Top.

Dog could see the two aircraft in the radar display; they were about a mile off his wing. They changed course and headed toward Glass Mountain, at the very edge of the test range.

"Why's he running away?" Sleek Top asked. "He's not. He's going to get lost in the ground clutter. He wants us to follow, hoping we'll be impatient." "Are we going to?"

Had Dog been flying the plane, he would have: It was more macho to beat the other guy in the battle he chose. But the B-1's computer made the right decision, at least by the playbook it had been taught — don't get suckered into the battlefield the other guy wants you to fight. It maintained its position.

"He's off the scope."

"Mmmmm," said Dog.

Boomer increased the distance between itself and its adversary. Starship would be able to track his position and would soon realize that he wasn't biting.

What would he do then?

"Here we come," said Sleek Top. He read out the course and heading of the first contact, Hawk One, which was streaking toward them from the west.

"So where's the other?" asked Dog.

"Still in the bushes somewhere."

The computer abruptly threw the plane on its left wing, plunging toward the earth — just as the second Flighthawk appeared on his screen to the east, almost directly below him.

"How the hell did he do that?"

Dog resisted the temptation to grab the stick as the big airplane pulled to its left. Too late, Boomer's computer realized it had been suckered—Hawk One, flying directly behind Hawk Two so its radar profile couldn't been seen, had snuck onto the laser ship's tail.

"Bang, bang, you're dead," said Starship as the computer recorded a fatal blast from the Flighthawk.

"Damn," said Sleek Top.

Actually, the computer had done very well. Only Starship's skill — and the young man's battle-tested cleverness — had defeated it.

"What do you say, best two out of three?" said Sleek Top. "I have a better idea," said Starship. "Go to manual controls."

That was a gauntlet Dog couldn't resist — though he checked to make sure they still had plenty of time on the range.

"You're on," said the colonel, circling around as the Flight-hawks disappeared again.

"I'd like to see him try that again."

"He won't," said Dog.

Actually, Starship tried something similar. Having learned that he could fool most radars by flying the Flighthawks extremely close together, he lined Hawk One and Two back up and then came at Boomer from above. Dog, thinking Star-ship was trying to sneak one of the UM/Fs in at him off the deck — another favorite trick to avoid radar — realized what was going on a fraction of a second too late. As Hawk Two came onto his tail, he pushed his nose down, outaccelerating it before Starship could fire.

Then he banked hard, flattened the plane out, and turned the tables on the Flighthawk as it started to recover.

"Fire," he told Sleek Top calmly.

"Can't get a lock — he's jinking and jiving too much."

"Stay on him," said Dog. His own hard g maneuvers were part of the problem, as his free-form flight path made it hard for the laser to get a bead on its enemy. Dog put his nose straight down, trying to turn into Hawk Two and give Sleek Top a better shot. But before he could get his nose where he wanted it, the other Flighthawk started its own attack run, and Dog found himself between both of them. He pushed hard left, felt the aircraft starting to invert — then got an idea and pushed her hard in the other direction. Boomer wobbled slightly, fierce vortexes of wind buffeting her wings, but it held together and followed his commands. Dog jammed his hand on the throttle, accelerating and turning his belly toward Hawk One.

"Locked!" said Sleek Top.

"Fire!" answered Dog. "Don't wait for me."

The computer gurgled something in his ear — a warning saying that flight parameters were being exceeded. Dog ignored the warning, rolling Boomer's wings perpendicular to the earth. For two or three seconds his belly was exposed to Hawk Two.

Two or three seconds was all the computer needed.

"Splash Hawk Two," shouted Sleek Top, his normally placid voice alive with the excitement of the contest.

"Where's Hawk One?"

"Still tracking. Our left. Parallel."

The laser had not been able to stay with Starship's evasive maneuvers, and now Dog found himself in trouble. The B-1 had used up much of its flight energy, and to prevent itself from becoming merely a falling brick, had to spread its wings. That was a dead giveaway to Starship that his adver sary was weak, and the fighter jock did what all fighter jocks are bred from birth to do — he went for the jugular. He pulled Hawk One onto Dog's tail, aiming the cannon in his nose at the big tail filling his gun screen. Dog ducked and rolled, trying to trade altitude for enough speed to get away.

While he managed to keep Hawk One from getting a clean shot, he couldn't set one up for himself either. The Flight-hawk kept closing, angling to stay above the laser's angle of fire. Finally, there was only one way to extricate himself: Dog reached for the throttle and lit his afterburners, out-accelerating the smaller craft.

Or running away, depending on your point of view.

"I'd say that's a draw," said Starship over the radio.

"Draw my foot," answered Sleek Top. "We got one of yours."

"I kept you from accomplishing your mission," said Star-ship smugly.

"Our mission was to shoot you down."

Dog laughed. He was going to miss these guys when he left Dreamland.

Stoner put his head down and held his breath as the truck passed a few yards away. There was a hole in its muffler, and the engine coughed every fifth or sixth revolution, chuttering and sending smoke out from the side. The noise drowned out the sound from the second truck, and was so loud Stoner wasn't sure there were any others behind them. He waited a few seconds, then raised his head cautiously. There were no other vehicles.

"Smugglers," said Deniz, the Romanian army corporal.

"What are they taking across?"

"This way, nothing. They can come back from our country with anything. Food. Medicine." He paused and smiled. "Women."

Stoner couldn't tell whether that was meant to be a joke.

"How do they pass the checkpoints?"

"Twenty euros. I tell you, we could have driven."

Stoner got up from behind the stone wall. Deniz whistled to Kyiv, the other Romanian soldier, who came out from behind the tree where he'd been hiding. The three men resumed their walk along the dirt road. It had taken nearly three hours for them to cover five kilometers, largely because Stoner was being overly cautious, stopping even when he heard aircraft passing overhead. Being late, he knew, was not as big a problem as not arriving at all.

The long trek had given him more time to judge his guides. As soldiers, they were more competent than he'd thought at first, good at spotting possible ambush points and wary enough to plot escape routes before moving through fields they weren't already thoroughly familiar with. He trusted them, to a point, but knew that if they were captured by guerrillas, it wouldn't take much for them to give him away.

Deniz said something to Kyiv and the two men laughed. Stoner frowned, figuring it was probably some sort of joke at his expense.

"We are almost there. We stay on the road unless we hear something," said Deniz, gesturing. "Two hundred meters."

Stoner grunted, thinking, watching. He had a pair of night vision goggles in his pack, but there was more than enough light from the moon to see along the road and well into the nearby fields. The steeple of a church stood up on the right, marking a hamlet. Two houses sat near a bend in the road ahead. Otherwise, the way was clear.

Even though there were no lights shining in the windows or smoke coming from the chimneys, Stoner had Kyiv lead them into a field opposite the two houses so they could pass without taking any risks. The field connected with another; a narrow farm lane ran north along the end of this second field, separated from a neighboring farm by a thick row of trees.

Stoner put his night vision glasses on as he walked, growing warier as the shadows in the distance multiplied. But nothing was stirring.

The detours cost them another fifteen minutes. Finally, he saw the ramshackle barn where he was supposed to meet his contact. It stood above the field on the opposite side of the road, its foundation built into the crest of the hill.

He scanned the building carefully, then shook his head.

"So?" asked Deniz.

"I don't see anyone."

"No?"

Stoner turned his view to the nearby field. It too was empty.

The Romanians watched him silently. They weren't joking any more, nor whispering. For most of the night they'd left their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. Now they held the guns with both hands, ready.

Stoner began moving to his right, keeping the barn in sight. The dirt and dead grass had heaved up with the evening frost, and it crunched as he walked. After he'd gone about thirty yards, he stopped and once again carefully examined the barn and nearby fields.

No one.

Slowly, he made his way up the hill, the two Romanian soldiers trailing behind him. About five yards from the barn, Stoner saw a shadow on the ground in front of it. He froze, steadied his gun.

"Champagne," he said loudly.

The shadow moved, revealing itself as a man with a rifle.

"Champagne," repeated Stoner. He curled his finger against the AK's trigger, slowly starting to apply pressure.

"Parlez-vous frangais?" said the shadow. Do you speak French?

That wasn't the agreed upon phrase, and the accent was so un-French that Stoner had trouble understanding it.

"Champagne," he said again.

"Vin blanc," answered the shadow. White wine.

That was the right answer, but the delay made Stoner wary. Had it been just a human mistake, or a giveaway that something was wrong?

"I don't speak French," said Stoner in very slow Russian.

"Anglaise?" responded the man.

Was it a trick? The contact would surely expect him to speak English. It had to be a trick.

"You don't speak Russian?" said Stoner. The man again asked, in English, whether they could use that language.

Stoner exhaled very slowly. He had to either trust the man — or shoot him. Doing nothing was more dangerous than either.

"I can speak English," said Stoner.

The shadow took two steps forward. Though his voice was deep, he stood barely five feet tall, and had a scraggly beard that matched his thin body. He stopped abruptly, spotting the other two men a few yards behind Stoner.

"They're with me." Stoner gestured with his left hand. His right continued to hold the gun, his trigger finger still ready to plunge.

"This way, we go," said the man, pointing to his right.

Stoner let him start. His stomach had tightened into a boulder. They walked eastward across the field, down to a narrow creek, then began following it northward. His escorts fell farther and farther behind; twice Stoner stopped for them.

"You trust him?" asked Deniz when he caught up the second time.

Of course not, thought Stoner. But he only shrugged. After about a half hour of walking, the stream entered a culvert under a paved road. The stream was wider here; and while it remained shallow, it was more than four feet across.

"Wait," said the man who had met them. He put up his hand.

Stoner nodded. The man went up the embankment to the road.

"I don't trust him," said Deniz when he caught up again. "What is he doing?"

Stoner shook his head. The elaborate precautions made sense — if a man was going to betray his comrades, he would have to expect himself to be betrayed.

"Maybe we should find some cover," suggested Deniz. "To cover you."

"Do it," said Stoner.

He'd already spotted two good places on the right bank of the stream, both protected on three sides by large rocks or thick tree trunks. The Romanians saw them as well and moved toward them.

"Where are your friends?" the man asked when he returned. He looked around nervously.

"They're here. Where is the man I'm to meet?"

"A house. Two hundred meters." He pointed to the right.

"Lead the way."

The man shook his head. "I'm not to go. Not your friends either. Only you."

Stoner looked into his face. He had the face of a man who'd been beaten many times. He seemed more nervous than before.

"All right," said Stoner. "Deniz, I'm going up the road. Stay with our friend."

"Yes," Deniz called out from his hiding spot.

Stoner began walking. The setup seemed too elaborate for an ambush, but he couldn't be sure. He tried focusing on his mission, tried pushing away the fear.

He dropped to his knee when he reached the road, scanning carefully. The house stood very close to the road, just beyond a curve ahead. It was tiny, barely bigger than a garden shed would be back in the States. The woods thickened to his right, but there was a hill on his left and a clear field. He went up the hill, approaching the house from the back.

The cold ate through his coat. He opened his mouth, flexing his jaw muscles. The tendons were so stiff they popped, as if he were cracking his knuckles.

A dim light shone through the two rear windows of the house. Stoner walked up slowly, moving his head back and forth as he tried to see through them.

Nothing.

He was almost to the back of the building when he heard a footstep on the gravel in front of him. Dropping to his knee, he waited.

"Who's there?" said a woman's voice.

"Champagne," said Stoner, trying not to sound surprised that his contact was a woman.

"Vin blanc."

"Take two steps forward."

The woman did so, walking out from the path near the corner of the building. She had a submachine gun in her hands.

"Why are you armed?" Stoner asked. His own rifle was aimed at her chest.

"It is not safe here to be without a weapon. Not for me. Nor you," she added.

"Put your gun down," he told her.

"And you yours."

"All right." But he waited until she had placed hers on the ground and stood again.

"You are the American?" asked the woman. Her English was accented, but not as heavily as Deniz's or the man who had led him here.

"Yes."

"You're more than an hour late."

"It took a while to get across the border."

The woman's answer was cut short by a scream and the sound of gunfire back near the road.

Stoner scooped up his rifle. The woman already had her gun and was running. He aimed at her, then realized she was running toward the field.

"This way!" she yelled. "Come on!"

Before he could answer, a hail of bullets rang out from the woods, whizzing over his head.

Annie Klondike bent over Zen as he finished his checks. He was sitting on a folding metal stool, which had been pressed into service as a kind of launching pad so he didn't have to start by sitting on the ground. His wheelchair was unsuitable, and the standard suits were always used standing up.

"Now listen, Jeff, no kidding," said Annie in her sternest voice. "We've done a lot today. If you're the least bit tired—"

"I'm fine," he told her, pulling on his Whiplash smart helmet, equipped with full communications gear and a video display in the visor. He reached back near his ear to the small set of controls embedded in the base, activating the integral communications set.

Danny Freah was standing a few feet away, wearing his own exoskeleton test unit. The Exo3 was fully integrated with a battle suit; its bulletproof armor was twice as thick as the regular units used by the Whiplash troopers, enough to prevent penetration by 35mm cannon rounds, though a round that large was likely to cause considerable internal damage since the suit wasn't big enough to diffuse all of the shell's kinetic energy. Some facets of the suit had not yet been implemented; it would eventually be equipped with LED tech nology to make its wearer invisible in the sky. But otherwise it was very similar to MESSKIT. Danny had taken it for over a dozen flights already. "Helmet on," he said.

Zen could tell he was getting a kick out of playing pilot. "Hat's on," he replied.

"Go to ten percent," Danny told him.

Zen looked down at his right hand, then pushed the button he was holding with his thumb. The microjet engines in the back of the MESSKIT powered to life. They were relatively quiet, making a sound similar to a vacuum cleaner at about fifty paces.

Zen slowly twisted the control, moving the engines carefully to five percent total output, then to seven, and finally to ten. As the number 10 flashed in his visor indicator, his wings tugged him gently off the stool.

"You're looking good," said Danny. "Let's go to seventeen."

As he said that, Danny pushed his throttle and held out his arms. He rose abruptly. Zen tried the same thing, but without Danny's experience, he started moving backward rather than up. He pitched both hands down, as he'd practiced in the gym. This brought him forward abruptly, but he was able to back off into a hover without too much difficulty.

The designers had worked hard to make the unit and its controls as intuitive as possible, but the feel of flying still took some getting used to. Zen slipped his power up two degrees and found that pushing his head forward helped him stay in place as he rose.

His helmet's visor projected an altitude reading in the lower right corner, showing that he was 4.112 meters off the ground.

"How's it feel?" asked Danny.

"Like I'm on an amusement park ride."

Danny laughed.

The sensation also reminded Zen of the zero gravity ex ercises he'd gone through early in the Flighthawk program, when the developers were trying to get a handle on how difficult it would be for someone in a plane maneuvering at high speed to control the Flighthawks. He didn't feel exactly weightless, but the exoskeleton relieved what would have felt like a great deal of pressure on his shoulder muscles. He thought about this as he and Danny rose to fifty and then a hundred feet, practicing emergency procedures. Zen had a small, BASE-style parachute on his chest, just in case; the chute was designed to deploy quickly at low altitude if anything went wrong.

Confident that he could handle an emergency, he started putting the MESSKIT through its paces, accelerating across the marked course, then gliding into a circular holding pattern.

"You're getting pretty good with this," said Danny as they completed a figure eight. "You sure you haven't flown before?"

"Ha ha."

"How are your arms?" "They don't feel bad at all."

"The thing to worry about are cramps," said Danny. "When we were first starting the experiments, Boston cramped up so badly we had to replace him in the program."

Danny was referring to Sergeant Ben "Boston" Rockland, another member of the Whiplash special operations team. Zen got plenty of upper body exercise, and felt confident that whatever strain the MESSKIT was putting on his shoulders was minimal. His real concern was what he would do if he had a bad itch.

"All right, let's do a few sprints, then see how you are at landing," said Danny.

"Last one to the flag is a rotten egg," said Zen.

He leaned forward and twisted his throttle. The wind rushed passed his helmet — but so did Danny. Zen pitched his body down farther, then felt as if he was going to fall into a loop. He backed off, slowing immediately. He looked up, and saw that Danny had already crossed the finish line.

But Danny didn't have any time to gloat.

"Captain, we have an automated alarm going off on Access Road 2," said one of the security lieutenants, breaking into the frequency. "I have an aerial en route and hope to have a visual in thirty seconds. Maybe a car accident."

An "aerial" was a small UAV, or unmanned aerial vehicle, used for surveillance.

"Go ahead and scramble the response team," said Danny.

"They're out at Test Area 12, covering a broken leg."

"Call Team 2," said Danny.

"They're standing by for the fighter exercises. They're already covering three ranges."

Because of the distances involved, not to mention the danger inherent in the base's experiments, Dreamland procedures called for a pararescue team to stand by near the range whenever live exercises were being held. The recent deployment and a ramp-up in Dreamland's research activities had stretched the available personnel, and there were times, such as now, when only two full teams were immediately available.

"Stand by," said Danny.

"Problem?" asked Zen, who'd heard the conversation over the radio.

"Maybe a car accident out on Road 2."

"Why don't we go check it out?" said Zen.

"Just what I was thinking. But—"

Zen knew what that but meant. He didn't bother to answer, pushing his head forward and sliding the power reading to 15.

"Major, I really believe you should wait until you're fully checked out," said Annie from the ground.

"Thank you," Zen replied, as if she'd paid him a compliment.

There were four access roads to Dreamland, but only Road 1, which ran from Nellis Air Base, was paved. The others were hard-packed dirt, or as his wife Breanna liked to say, hard-packed holes with rocks scattered in between. But even though it was about as smooth as a battered washboard, Road 2 was often used by base personnel as a shortcut. Not only was it a few miles shorter than Road 1, but its horrible conditions restricted traffic to those in the know, lowering the wait at the security post where it entered the main road. That could save as much as an hour during the busy times of the day.

Road 2 came off the southeastern end of the base perimeter and ran due south for a mile and half before jogging lazily east. Zen started in that direction, then increased his speed as Danny shot ahead.

"Security Command, this is Freah. I'm on my way via Exo3. Major Stockard is with me. Alert the perimeter system — I don't feel like being shot down."

Friend or foe identifiers in the gear would prevent the Razor antiair lasers from firing on them, but any uncleared flight over the perimeter fence would elicit an armed response from the robot Ospreys, which would force them to land or simply shoot them down.

The surveillance UAV zipped ahead from the west, dropping into a hover over the road three miles from the perimeter fence. The small aircraft — its rotors would have tucked neatly under the deck of a household lawn mower — was flying about twenty feet below Zen. It looked like a hive supported by a swarm of bees.

"Car is upside down," reported the security supervisor.

"Roger that, I see it on my screen," said Danny. "I have a smart helmet. Have the aerial back off."

"McDaniels and Percival are en route from the guard station. They're ten minutes away."

"Roger that."

A Ford Explorer lay on its roof about thirty yards from the side of the road.

"Zen, check your fuel," said Danny as they approached.

"It says ten minutes, plus reserve."

"When you hit reserve, go back."

Of course Danny wanted him to go back, Zen thought — he couldn't be useful on the ground. "We'll take it as it comes," he replied. "I'm going to check the area and see if anyone was thrown out."

"Roger that. Good idea."

Danny waited for the UAV to back off before tucking his arms into a U-shape and sliding his power down. He settled onto the dusty road about fifteen feet from the spot where the Explorer had gone off. The truck had traveled a good distance before stopping, and the marks in the desert made it look as if it had flipped at least twice.

Dropping to his knees, Danny unlatched the wing assembly to keep it from getting damaged. Then he hopped up and ran to the wreck.

The front of the SUV was crushed. He could smell gasoline as he got down on his hands and knees to peer inside. The driver was suspended in her seat, wedged against the roof and wheel, a deflated air bag wrapped against her face and torso. He couldn't tell if she was alive.

The driver's side window had been smashed, but the metal was so mangled it was impossible to reach her. He went around to the other side. There was a bit more room there, but it was still a very tight squeeze just to get his hand in.

Danny smelled gasoline as he groped with his fingers, trying to reach her neck and get a pulse. He snaked his arm back out, then took off his helmet, hoping he could reach in farther without it. As he started to slide his hand inside the car, he saw the woman move her head.

Alive!

He grabbed his helmet.

"Security Command, this is Danny Freah. I have a very injured woman trapped in the vehicle. Send Team 2 immediately. Order the test ranges closed down."

"Roger that, Captain."

"Give them a sitrep. Tell them to be ready with the Jaws of Life."

"Yeah, roger, roger, Cap. I'm on it."

The Jaws of Life was a special tool that worked like a hydraulic pry bar; in this case, it would be used to pull the squashed door away from the cab so the victim could be extricated. Danny took a step back from the wreck, frustrated that he had to wait, even for a few minutes, and worried that the gasoline he smelled meant there was a dangerous leak.

He could use the exoskeleton to help him open the door. He crouched back down by the vehicle, trying to find a grip.

"What's going on?" asked Zen, who was hovering above.

"Trying to get her out," grunted Danny.

His first try failed: The mechanical hand gripped the metal of the crushed door so hard that it gave way as he pulled it off.

"Need help?" asked Zen.

"If I can figure out how to open the car without breaking it into pieces, I'll be fine."

"Maybe I can hold one side," suggested Zen.

"I'm afraid that we'll end up jostling it too much," said Danny. "Hang on."

He pushed his left arm against the crushed top of the car, and then positioned his right against the door. The smell of gasoline was strong now. The car radio was on — he worried that the slightest spark would set off a fire or explosion.

"One, two, three, push," he told himself aloud, flexing his arms. The sensors in the exoskeleton felt the resistance and ramped up the power to help. It was designed to supply a slow, gradual push — moving too fast under certain circumstances could pull his body apart.

The crushed car parts moved about eight inches apart before the carbon skeleton began to pull through the metal.

"I think I'm almost there," Danny said, repositioning himself. ***

What Zen thought was a body turned out to be a tire, which had left the SUV as it careened off the road. He turned to the north and did a slow circuit around the wreck, making sure he hadn't missed anything. The bumper and part of the fender had fallen off, and there was glass back near the road. A man's jacket had tumbled out as well.

Hearing Danny talking to himself, Zen came back over the SUV.

"Danny, you need help down there?"

"Think I got it," grunted the captain.

Zen saw the security team's black SUV driving up the road in the distance, dust spewing behind it. A moment later he heard the heavy beat of an Osprey approaching. He backed off, watching cautiously as the aircraft landed on the other side of the road and disgorged its team of pararescuers. He'd never felt quite so intimidated by the aircraft's huge rotors before.

By the time the PJs reached the truck,Danny Freah had pried the vehicle open enough to lean in and examine the driver. She was breathing, with an irregular though strong pulse.

While the PJs went to work stabilizing her body and removing her from the wreck, Danny walked to the back, trying to find the source of the gas leak. The roof of the car, now the closest part to the ground, was soaked with fuel.

He bent down, then heard a groan from inside.

He thought at first that it was the driver. But a second groan sounded more male than female. He stepped back, took out his small LED flashlight, then went back and peered inside. He saw a leg on the back floor.

His stomach turned.

Then the leg moved and Danny jumped back. It took a second before he realized the leg hadn't been amputated by the crash and that he was seeing someone trapped under the car, his leg sticking out through a rear sunroof.

"We got another back there!" shouted one of the PJs.

"Yeah, I see him!" yelled Danny. "He's trapped underneath. His leg is moving."

Trying to clear his head from the gas fumes, Danny walked a few feet from the wreck. Watching the PJs set the driver out on a stretcher, he recognized her as one of the women who worked in the all-ranks cafeteria. He knew she had at least one kid at home.

"She's pretty bad, Captain," said the sergeant in charge of the rescue team, Gabe McManus. "We need to get her over to the med center stat."

"Go," said Danny.

"What about the other guy?"

"We're going to have to lift the truck to get him. That'll take a while," said Danny. "We'll need to hook the Osprey up. Let's save her first."

McManus nodded. The others had already immobilized the driver and lifted her gently onto a stretcher.

It would take at least ten minutes for another Osprey to arrive, and a good ten if not more after that to secure a chain and lift the truck safely. Twenty minutes wasn't a lifetime— but it might be to the trapped man.

"Maybe we can jack the truck up with the gear in the Jimmy," McManus said.

"Ground's kind of loose," said Danny. "I'd worry about it slipping."

"Yeah," agreed the sergeant. "But it might do that when we hook up the Osprey, too. Car looks like it's kind of perched on some of the rocks there — slip a bit too much and he's in even worse trouble."

McManus dropped flat and peered underneath. "All we really need is about two feet," he said. "We might be able to get a couple of guys on the side, lift gently—"

"I have a better idea," said Danny.

Zen saw Danny standing next to the truck. He looked like he was trying to gauge whether he could push it over. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"We have another guy underneath. I think I can use the arm to lift it."

"You want help?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Zen came over slowly, his power at seven percent. "We can lift it straight up," he said.

"We're going to have to pull up together," Danny told him. "Just tell me what to do."

Danny explained how to use the skeleton's fingers as clamps, then coached him on slowly revving the power. They'd have to work as a team, each clamped on one side of the vehicle.

The ease Zen had felt just a few moments before had evaporated. He jerked to the side, unable to get into the right position. His legs dangled uselessly below him. He forced his arms closer together, slipping back on the power. Sweat poured out of his body. It wasn't the heat, though it was plenty hot. His nerves were melting.

It's easy, he told himself. We're going to save this guy, save his legs. Don't let him end up like me.

His own feet were touching the ground. He edged closer to the SUV, trying to find a good place to grip.

"Got it, Zen?" asked Danny.

"Hold on. I'm still new at this."

Zen hooked his arm under the chassis and found a solid hold for the body. The finger extensions on his arm seemed too weak to hold, and left part of his hand bare — he could feel the grease and grime from the chassis.

I hope I don't crush my hand, he thought.

"Ready," he told Danny.

"Ramp up slow, real slow. On three. One, two… "

Zen twisted his wrist as gently as he could, as saw the power move up to 15, then 20. The exoskeleton was straining, but the SUV didn't budge. He twisted his hand on the throttle, fighting the urge to rev it as high as it could go.

"That's it, keep steady!" said Danny. "Steady! Just hold it there. You OK, Zen?"

"Yeah, I got it."

The PJs scrambled to brace the man and get him out. Zen could hear them talking through their radios. They were near the victim — he was conscious, answering them, complaining about his legs.

At least he felt pain. That was a good sign.

A tone sounded in Zen's helmet. He was into his fuel reserves.

"Danny—"

"Yeah, I heard it. Let's move it, you guys. McManus — you have two minutes."

It took nearly three. Zen and Danny held the truck up together for another minute and a half; by then it was too late for Zen to fly back. Instead, he fluttered down to the ground, exhausted, landing ignobly in a heap. Before he could say anything, two of the PJs grabbed him and hustled him into the back of the security Jimmy.

"Way to go, Major," said the man on his left as they slid him into the back.

"Yeah," said Zen. "Thanks."

The truck started to move. The passenger they'd pulled out was laying on a flat board across the folded-down seat, his ride cushioned by four large balloonlike buffers. The truck moved slowly down the road, avoiding the worst of the potholes.

"Major, am I going to be all right?" the passenger asked.

Zen glanced at the parajumper behind him. He was a certified combat medic, the closest thing to a doctor you could find on the front line, and more experienced in dealing with trauma injuries than many emergency room specialists. The

PJ made a slight movement with his eyes, signaling to Zen that he didn't know.

"Yeah, kid," he said. "I think you're going to be cool. I'm pretty sure you are."

"Wow, that's a relief," said the young man.

Zen recognized him as a maintainer, one of the engine specialists responsible for the EB-52 power plants. A crew dog who'd worked on his aircraft many times, he was sure.

"I wasn't wearing my seat belt," he continued. "We went off the road — there was a jackrabbit or something weird. I bounced up and down and the top flew open. The next thing I knew, it felt like the whole world was sitting on top of me and I was being pulled apart. I am gonna make it, right?"

"You'll make it," said Zen.

"My legs are kinda numb."

Zen glanced up at the PJ, who now had a pained expression on his face. He'd been prodding the young man's foot with a pin, apparently getting no response.

"They gave you painkillers," Zen said. "I'm surprised your head's not numb."

"As long as I can walk."

"Just close your eyes and relax now," said the pararescue man, resting his hand gently on the young man's chest. "We'll be at the med center in a few minutes."

Stoner fought the urge to return fire, knowing it would just give away their position. He lay still, gun ready, waiting as the bullets continued to fly. The cold seeped up through his jacket into his chest; his pants grew damp with the chill.

Finally, the rounds slacked off. Stoner waited, expecting more.

The ground smelled vaguely like cow dung. He funneled his breath through his mouth as slowly and silently as he could, worried that his breath might be visible in the moonlight. Finally, when he hadn't heard any gunfire for a few minutes, he began edging to his right. He raised his head ever so slightly as he moved, trying to see down the hill.

There were two shadows near the road, but by the time he spotted them they were moving toward the cottage and he didn't have a clear shot. He waited until their shapes had been consumed by the cottage then got up and ran down the hill toward the road.

Meanwhile, two flashlights played across the windows of the cottage. There was more gunfire, this time muted — a nervous gunman firing inside the house, Stoner thought.

The woman he'd come to meet was somewhere near the ridge, but he wasn't sure where; he'd lost track of her when the shooting began. He felt certain she wasn't in the building, but if she was, there was nothing he was going to do about it now. Stoner edged further down the hill, aiming to find a place where he could easily ambush the gunmen when they came out of the house. As he did, however, he sighted a shadow moving along the road. He held his breath as it disappeared in a clump of trees.

His night goggles were in his ruck, but he was afraid getting them out would be too noisy: the trees were less than twenty years away.

If there was just one man by the road, he would take him out as quietly as possible, then turn his attention back to the cottage. If there were more…

If there were more he would have to fight his way through them.

No. It would be better to simply leave. He could do that, but it would mean giving up on his contact.

Wasn't she just a lure, though? Wasn't this an elaborate ambush?

Stoner transferred the AK-47 to his left hand, then reached with his right to his knife scabbard. Killing a man with a knife was not an easy thing, a fact Stoner knew from unfortunate experience: Some years back, he'd failed in his one attempt to do so, sneaking up on a border guard between China and Vietnam. He'd put his knife on the man's throat, but his pull hadn't been deep enough; the man had managed to shout an alarm before a second slash of the knife, this one deeper, killed him.

Stoner worked his fingers around the knife's hilt, trying to get the right grip. Only when he was sure he had it did he start working his way in the man's direction.

The cigarette tip flared again, then faded. Twenty yards was a long way to cross without being seen or heard. Stealth and speed had to be balanced against each other. Stoner bent his legs slightly as he walked, lowering his center of gravity, hoping that the way the trees threw their shadows would keep him hidden. He got to within ten yards, then five, then three — less than the distance across a kitchen.

He slid the rifle down. All or nothing now.

Two yards. The man lowered his head, cupping his hands, lighting another cigarette.

He was alone.

Stoner sprang forward. He grabbed the man's mouth with his left hand, while his right rode up and across the man's neck — too high, but with enough force that the mistake could be overcome. He pushed his knee into the man's back and rammed the knife hard across flesh that suddenly felt like jelly. Stoner pulled back with his left hand and plunged the knife across his neck a second time, the blade slicing through the windpipe and into the vertebrae. Stoner pushed his knee hard against the man's back, felt no resistance; he stabbed one more time, then let his victim fall away.

Even as the man hit the ground, Stoner reset his attention on the cottage, where the flashlights were now joined in an X near the outside wall. He scooped up his rifle, then grabbed the dead man's gun and began moving along the road.

If they saw a shadow coming from this direction, they would think it was their companion. The illusion would last only until they shouted to him. He wouldn't be able to answer, except with his gun.

Stoner stopped and undid the top of his backpack. Taking out the night glasses he put them on. The building, the night, turned silvery green. The men had gone back inside.

Stoner began trotting along the road, trotting then running, adrenaline pumping. He turned up a dirt path that led to the cottage's side door.

One of the flashlight beams appeared at the edge of the building. Stoner went down to his knee, ready to fire.

The beam grew longer, moving slowly back and forth across the yard.

Where was the other man? Or men? — He'd seen two flashlights, but there could always be another.

Stoner turned his head in the other direction quickly, making sure no one was coming across the front of the barn.

The man with the flashlight rounded the corner. He was dressed in fatigues, but Stoner couldn't see any insignia or other sign that he was a soldier instead of a guerrilla. He had an AK-47 in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

As the flashlight swung in his direction, Stoner fired a three-shot burst that took the man square in the chest.

The man's companion began shouting from behind the cottage as his friend fell. Stoner raced up the hill, then threw himself down as bullets began flying from the corner of the building. Stoner fired back, then got up into a crouch to swing to his right and flank the gunman.

A fresh burst of bullets cut him off. Stoner hunkered against the ground.

The man took a step out from the corner of the building. Stoner began to fire as the man reared back and threw something, then disappeared behind the building again.

A grenade.

Stoner saw it arc to his right. He threw himself leftwards, tumbling against the hillside, hoping to get as much distance between himself and the explosion as he could.

With the dogfight session over,Dog and Sleek Top put Boomer through a series of calmer tests, pushing her around the test range as special instruments recorded stresses on her frame and that of the laser housing. While the session was important — in many ways far more critical than the computer's dogfight was — it was nonetheless routine, and Dog found himself struggling to stay focused on his job. He thought of his lover, Jennifer, who'd had her knee operated on back East and would be staying with her sister in New Jersey for at least another two weeks. He thought of his daughter, Breanna, who'd been injured as well. He'd seen her the night before at the hospital. She looked so small in the bed, so fragile. For some reason, it made him think of all the time with her he'd missed when she was growing up.

Leaving, the hospital, he'd run into her mother. Surprisingly, he didn't feel any animosity toward her, and— uncharacteristically, he thought — she didn't display any toward him. Like the specialists who'd seen her, Bree's mother was baffled by the "coma-like unconsciousness" she'd suffered after landing, but she was very optimistic about her prognosis.

Dog's thoughts circled with the plane, until finally it was time to land. He let Sleek Top take the stick, and the copilot brought the plane in for a textbook perfect landing, taxi ing right into the B-1 development hangar without help from either of the waiting tractors. Downstairs, Dog and Sleek Top prepared separate briefs on the mission, answering questions for the engineers who'd been monitoring the tests.

No matter how routine the pilots considered it, the geeks always had something to talk about, and it was going on 1900—7:00 p.m. in civilian time — before they were satisfied enough to let Sleek Top and Dog go.

"Probably wore them out with our duhs," said Sleek Top as they rode up the elevator from the offices in the bunker directly below the underground hangar area. He mimicked one of the engineers' voices: " 'What did it feel like at thirty percent power as you came through the turn?' A lot like forty percent power, only slower, son."

Dog laughed.

"They haven't been up in the plane," Sleek Top continued, his tone more serious. "You should have some jump seats rigged and take them aloft."

"That's a good idea, Sleek. But it's not my call."

"It's your base."

"Not anymore."

"It'll always be your base," said the test pilot as the door opened.

General Samson was standing across the vestibule. It wasn't clear that he'd heard Sleek Top's comment — the elevator doors were sealed pretty tight — but Dog had a feeling he had.

So did Sleek Top. He grimaced, gave the general a wave, then strode quickly away.

"Colonel Bastian, a word," said Samson.

Dog followed him to the far end of the hangar ramp. Gently sloped, the wide expanse of concrete led to a large blast-proof hangar where the B-1s were kept. It looked like the ramp of a very wide parking garage.

Before he'd come to Dreamland, Dog had been in awe of generals — if not the men (and women), then at least the office. Part of his attitude had to do with his respect for the Air Force and tradition, but a larger part stemmed from his good fortune he'd had of working for some extremely good men, especially during the Gulf War.

Dreamland had changed that. While he wouldn't call himself cynical, he had a much more balanced view now. He realized that the process of rising to the upper ranks had a lot to do with politics — often a lot more than anything else.

Colonel Bastian had met some inept generals in his day. Samson wasn't one of them. He was capable, though bull-headed and cocky — characteristics critical to a combat pilot, but not particularly winsome in a commander, especially at a place like Dreamland.

"B-1 is a hell of a plane," said Samson, walking in the direction of Boomer. "I commanded a squadron of them for SAC."

"Yes, sir. I think you mentioned that."

"I don't know about some of these mods, though." Samson stopped short and put his hands on his hips. "Airborne lasers?"

"Going to be a hell of a weapon."

"Once it's perfected — that's the rub, isn't it? You know how many iron bombs one laser would buy once it's in production, Tecumseh?"

Dog actually did know, or at least could have worked it out, but the question was clearly rhetorical; Samson didn't wait for an answer.

"And having a computer fly it — that was your test today, wasn't it?" "Yes, sir."

"I don't like it." Samson practically spat on the ground as he spoke. "What we need are more planes and pilots. Not more gadgets. Widgets, I call them. They can't replace pilots."

Dog couldn't help but smile.

"Problem, Colonel?"

"You sound a little like my old boss, General Magnus," said Dog. "When he started. By the time he moved on, he was pushing for all the high tech he could get."

"I know Magnus. Good man. Had to retire. Couldn't play the Washington system."

That was probably correct, thought Dog — a point in Magnus's favor.

"But Magnus isn't here. I am," added Samson. He turned his gaze back to the aircraft. It seemed to Dog that he wished he were back in the pilot's seat again — back as a captain flying missions.

Who didn't? That was the best part of your career. Though it was a rare officer who understood it at the time.

"This airborne tactical laser can change a lot of things," said Dog. "It'll revolutionize ground support. With some more work, the laser will do a credible job as an antifighter weapon as well. And to do all that, it needs a pretty powerful computer to help the pilots fly and target the enemy."

"I don't need a sales pitch," said Samson sharply. Then he added, in a tone somewhat less gruff, "We've gotten off to a bad start, you and I. But I don't think it's necessary that we be enemies. In a way — in a lot of ways — you remind me of myself when I was your age. Ambitious. Tough. A bit strong willed — but that's a plus."

Dog didn't say anything. He knew that Samson was trying to be magnanimous, though to his ears the general sounded like an ass.

"Congratulations on your Medal of Honor," added Samson. "You've heard about it, I understand. You earned it, Bastian. You and the others did a hell of a job. Hell of a job. Made us all proud."

"Thank you, sir."

"The President is coming. Or at least, I hope he can squeeze us into his schedule. I have made a request — I'm sure I'm going to get him here. Maybe as early as tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Samson waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. "I still have to do some paperwork — you know, there are going to be hoops with this medal thing, so don't expect too much too quickly. But I thought it would be nice for the President to show his respect, and admiration."

"You don't have to go to any trouble. I don't— Medals don't really mean that much."

"The hell they don't!" Samson practically shouted. "They mean everything. They remind us how we should carry ourselves. What we're about!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dog saw that some of the aircraft maintainers were staring at them.

"So, Colonel, as I said, we've gotten off to a bad start, you and I," added Samson.

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything you'd like to say?"

Dog wasn't exactly sure what Samson was expecting, though he was clearly expecting something.

"Lieutenant colonel?" said Samson. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

In normal conversation, a lieutenant colonel was always called a colonel; as far as Dog was concerned, the only reason Samson would use his full rank now was to put him in his place — which was made all the more obvious by the emphasis he put on the word.

"Not really, General."

"Excuse me?" said Samson, raising his voice. "I have nothing I want to say. Thank you. I didn't expect a medal, but I'm very honored. Flattered. Humbled, really." "You don't want to apologize for anything?" "For getting off on the wrong foot?" "For not showing respect."

Dog stiffened. He didn't have anything to apologize for. Samson was just playing bs games, throwing his weight around.

"If the general feels an apology is warranted for anything," he said coldly, "then I apologize."

Samson scowled, pressing his lips together and furling his eyebrows out.

"I was wondering when you'd want me to run down the main projects and personnel with you," said Dog, trying to move the conversation past its sticking point. "I can make myself available at any—"

"That won't be necessary," snapped Samson, stalking back up the ramp toward the exit.

General Samson wassoangry, his lower lip started to tremble by the time he reached his waiting SUV. He'd offered the idiot the chance to apologize, to start fresh, and the jerk had all but spat in his face.

A cowboy, out of control, with no respect for anyone. From first to last.

Last, as far as Samson was concerned. Medal of Honor or not, the sooner Bastian was gone from Dreamland, the better.

Mark Stoner had heard several explosions in his life, but none quite like this.

The grenade the gunman had thrown blew up with the sound a pumpkin makes when it hits the pavement. Part of the explosive packed beneath the hard metal shell failed to explode, whether because of manufacturing defects or poor storage during the fifty-some years since. But more than enough explosive did ignite to shred the metal canister and send splinters hurtling through the air in every direction, red hot metal spat from a dragon's mouth.

Stoner caught a small piece in his right side. There was no pain at first, just a light flick as if someone had tapped him there with a pen or a ruler. And then it began to burn. This was a fire on the inside of his skin, a flame that stayed in place rather than spreading, and was all the more intense because of it. His body twisted away from the pain. He couldn't breathe for a second. He lost his grip on his rifle.

The man who'd thrown the grenade came down the hill toward him, his flashlight waving over the ground.

Stoner reached for his gun but couldn't find it. He grabbed to the left, reached farther, found the barrel and began pulling it over. The flashlight's beam moved closer to him. He slid his hand along the rifle, trying to reach the trigger, but it was too late — the guerrilla's light hit him.

An assault rifle barked — a long, sustained burst, a thick run of death.

But the bullets didn't hit Stoner. They hadn't been aimed at him. They struck the man with the flashlight, cutting a dotted line across his back. The holes the bullets made were so close together, he was nearly severed in two.

A minute later the woman he'd come to meet stood over him, AK-47 in hand.

"You are the man who answered the message," she said.

"Yes."

"Where did they hit you?" He rolled over and showed her.

She knelt down. "It's shrapnel only. It has to be taken out. The wound can be cauterized."

"Yeah." He unsheathed his knife. "Do it." "It will hurt very much." "No shit."

She frowned. "There is blood all over this knife." "I killed one of them near the road." "Well then, let us get someplace where I can clean it and start a fire."

"No one's going to be looking for them?" Stoner asked as she helped him up. "They may. It will be best to do this quickly."

Her name was Sorina Viorica. She was Romanian. She called herself a freedom fighter. Stoner tried not to scoff.

A good idea, considering she had his knife in her hands and was poking out the grenade shard as she spoke.

"This government has done very little for the people, the poor people," she insisted, slipping the tip of the knife into his side as they sat on the floor of the house. She'd started a small fire nearby, and smoke curled in his nose. "The people are left to fend like animals as the fat get fatter. Hold still. You must hold still."

The tip of knife blade struck something underneath the metal, and a sharp pain ran through his abdomen, all the way to his fingers and toes. He felt faint.

"Out," she said, turning to the fire. "Now for the part that will hurt."

Stoner pulled his T-shirt up into his mouth and bit down, waiting as Sorina Viorica heated the knife in the fire. It was an old method of dealing with a wound — cauterizing it, basically burning the flesh so it would no longer bleed or spread an infection.

Effective, but extremely painful.

Stoner dug his fingers into his face as the pain wracked his body. His heart pumped fiercely; his head felt as if it would explode. His whole body writhed in agony. He swam in it, awash in pain.

"Are you still with me?" she asked.

"Oh yeah." The words were a relief. He pushed up.

"I have to wrap it."

"Yeah, yeah."

She stood up and took off the heavy coat she was wearing, removed a thick shirt and then stripped off a T-shirt. She had another beneath it, but he could see the outline of her breasts, loose against her body.

"This is just to keep dirt away from it," she said as she wrapped it around his torso. "There shouldn't be further problems. But you'll have to have it seen to."

"Yeah."

Stoner took a long, deep breath, trying to pull his thoughts back to the present, trying to push his mind past the pain.

"We should go," he told her. "This isn't safe."

Sorina looked up suddenly, as if she'd heard something outside. "Yes," she told him.

"I brought two men with me, as guides over the border. They're with the man who showed me here."

"Let's go, then."

Stoner got up slowly and followed her out of the cottage. He was in a kind of shock, his mind pushed back behind a wall of thick foam. It had separated itself from the rest of his body, from some, though not all, of the pain. He felt like he had a hole in his side; though the grenade fragment was gone, it felt as if it was still there, and on fire. He told himself he was lucky — absurdly lucky — to be hit by only a splinter and not the full force of the grenade, to be nabbed lightly in a part of his body where he could still walk, still use his arms, his head, his eyes. He told himself he was lucky and that he had to use that luck — that if he didn't move, he was a dead man.

Stoner went out into the night like an animal, his only instinct survival. He followed Sorina Viorica down the opposite side of the hill, holding his gun in his left hand, breathing hard. His midsection seemed to be twisting away from the rest of his body, a tourniquet that squeezed itself. The pain lessened ever so slightly and began to feel… not good, but familiar in a way that told him he could survive it.

When they reached a small stream, they turned left, back toward the road. After a hundred yards or so, Sorina stopped.

"I'm sorry I'm moving so fast. Catch your breath."

"I'm OK," said Stoner, though he was thankful for the rest.

"They were after me, not you," she said as he leaned back against the tree. "They have been trying to kill me for several days."

"Who are they?"

"Russians. Are you ready?" "Sure."

Stoner pushed off from the tree. Russians. He wanted to know more, suspected that they were to blame for the deaths, thought for sure they were pulling the strings. But he couldn't ask the questions he needed to ask. He had to walk first, had to get back over the border, away.

"Those were Russians that shot at us?" he managed.

Sorina was too far ahead even to hear. The pain flared. Stoner hooked his thumb into his T-shirt and stuffed the end into his mouth, biting hard. He tried thinking of her breasts, tried thinking of anything but the pain. He knew he was going to make it, but he had to push through, keep his legs moving and his lungs breathing.

Sorina Viorica stopped about fifty feet from the road. Stoner remembered his night goggles, but they were gone, along with his backpack. He rubbed his eyes, staring at the darkness across the road.

"You left them there?" Sorina said, pointing.

"Yeah."

"What was your code?" "There was none."

Stoner gathered his strength, then whistled. There was no answer. He tried again.

"Maybe I'm not loud enough," he said.

Sorina didn't answer. She started to the right, trotting toward a small copse of trees that bordered the road. Stoner fell steadily behind.

"Wait here," she said when he reached her.

"You can't go alone."

"I'll be fine. You just wait."

He slumped against one of the trees, too weak to protest. Sorina ran to the right, starting to slide around the spot where he'd left his escorts, flanking them carefully.

Was it possible this was all an elaborate setup? But if so, to what end?

Blame the Russians, not the guerrillas.

That made no sense.

So the Russians were involved.

Stoner had a satellite phone with him, a "clean" device that couldn't be traced to the CIA. He took it out and waited as it powered up. A single number was programmed in: a voice mail box that the Agency could check for emergency messages. Otherwise there were no presets to give him away if captured.

He pressed the combination. The phone dialed itself. A voice in Spanish told him no one was home but that he was free to leave a message.

"This is Stoner. I'm over the border. There was an ambush. I'm OK. I'm coming back. The Russians are involved somehow. My contact is a woman. Her name is Sorina Viorica."

The words came out as a series of croaks, like a hoarse frog. He needed water. He pressed the End Transmit button and put the phone away.

A few minutes later a shadow appeared before him. He started to raise his rifle, then realized it was Sorina Viorica.

"They're dead," she said.

"Who?"

"Your men. And Claude. Come."

Stoner followed her across the road. Claude, the guide who had met him at the barn, lay near the water. A bullet had shattered his temple. The two Romanian soldiers had fallen together a few yards away. Their bodies were riddled with bullets. Both of their guns were still loaded; they'd never had a chance to fire.

Or maybe they'd tried to surrender and the bastards killed them anyway.

Sorina was looking through the woods, examining the ground.

"There may be more than the three we killed. It's hard to tell," she said. "They usually work in three-man teams, but two together, so there would be six together."

"Spetsnaz?" said Stoner.

"I don't know the name, just that they're Russian."

"OK."

"If there is another team tracking us, they will be vicious. Where's your car?"

"On the other side of the border."

"That far? You walked?"

"I didn't want to get stopped." "You couldn't bribe the guards?"

"It didn't seem like a good idea at the time. Especially if I was coming back with you." She frowned at him.

"You wanted to talk. It's not safe to do it here." "You think I'm going to let you turn me into the military?"

"I'm not going to turn you into the military." She was holding her rifle on him.

Stoner kept talking. "If I was going to do something stupid like that, I wouldn't have come back to the house for you," he said. "Your message said that you had mutually beneficial information, and that we could work out a deal. That's why I came."

"With two soldiers."

"I needed guides over the border. I don't speak the language. I left them here — if I was going to ambush you, I would have."

"I don't know."

"Your people killed two Americans," added Stoner. "Maybe you killed them yourself."

"We haven't killed any Americans. Not even spies. It is the Russians. They have taken over the movement."

Stoner stared at the barrel of the AK-47. The moonlight turned the rifle's black metal silver, as if it were a ghost's gun, as if he were imagining everything happening.

"You didn't patch me up to shoot me now," he said.

"How do you know?"

"You've already made your decision to help," Stoner told her. "They're after you. It's all you can do." "I can do many things." "You have to trust me." "I trust no one."

Stoner nodded. "But you take chances." "Like you?" "Like me."

She lowered her weapon. "I will go," she told him. "But I will talk only to you, not the army, or to the government. They are all corrupt."

Stoner rose slowly. "What about them?"

She shook her head.

"You want to just leave them on the ground?" "Of course." "Even your man?"

"Very possibly he was the one who betrayed me."

All that remained was to test the MESSKIT the way it was meant to be used — from an airplane.

A C-130 configured for airborne training and recertifica-tion was used as the test plane. Danny joked that they ought to requisition an office chair with casters and use it to launch Zen into the air: They'd push him off the plane's ramp and see what happened.

Zen didn't think the joke was particularly funny, but the actual jump was nearly that informal: He put one arm around Danny and the other around Boston, and the next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, propelled with the others as they leaped off the ramp.

Within seconds he was free. It didn't feel as if he was fall ing, exactly, nor with the MESSKIT not yet deployed could he say that he was flying. He was skydiving, something he'd never really done, even before he lost the use of his legs. His head seemed to be moving through a wind tunnel, with his arms and the rest of his body playing catch-up.

His heart was bringing up the rear, pumping furiously to keep pace.

A small light blinked at the left-hand side of his helmet's visor. Activated by the abrupt change in altitude, the MESSKIT's system monitor was sensing the external conditions. Zen had ten seconds to take control either by voice or manually, or the system would assume that its pilot had been knocked unconscious by the force of the ejection and would then automatically fly him to the ground.

"Zen zero one, MESSKIT override to manual," he said.

The light stopped blinking. In its place, a ghosted grid appeared in front of his eyes. Numbers floated at the left, a compass and GPS coordinate points appeared on the right.

He was at 21,135 feet, and falling.

"Deploy wing kit at two-zero angels," Zen said.

The computer had to calculate whether this was practical before answering. It was another safety measure to prevent the MESSKIT from opening in unsafe conditions. Zen was also wearing a reserve parachute with an automated activation device set to open if his rate of fall exceeded eighty-three feet per second. deployment in 17.39 seconds flashed on the screen.

Zen pushed forward, doing his best to get into the traditional frog posture used by a skydiver. He spread his arms, as if trying to fly.

Unlike a parachute, the MESSKIT's wing deployment did not jerk him up by the shoulders or torso. Instead of a tug, he felt as if the wind had suddenly filled in below him, holding him up. He reached his hands up, the handlelike holders springing open below his wrists.

And now he was a bird — a very, very high flying one, but a bird nonetheless. He could steer by shifting his weight, or by pushing hard against the tabs at the ends of each handle.

At first, he didn't think either method did very much. Then he realized that the compass in his visor was moving madly. He eased up, leveling into straight flight.

The view was spectacular, many times more impressive than anything he'd seen from the cockpit of an F-15, let alone the video the Flighthawks fed him. All of Dreamland spread before him; beyond it, all of Nevada, all the way to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Las Vegas was to his left; to his right… well, from this vantage point, it looked like Canada. The sun hung low over the desert, casting a pinkish light against the mountains, a beautiful shade that any painter would trade his soul to recreate.

The normal rate of fall in a modern parachute was in the vicinity of eighteen feet per second. But because it was more glider than parachute, the MESSKIT could descend very slowly — he was currently gliding downward at a rate of just over nine feet per second. Of course, that meant trading descent for linear progress, as Annie had put it — or flying. He soon found that by shifting his weight forward slightly, the pressure from his arms directed the MESSKIT's airfoil to slow his descent even further.

"Hey, Zen, you're headed toward the end of the range," said Danny over the radio. Both he and Boston were using traditional parachute rigs. They'd waited to deploy them until after Zen's wings had expanded and it was clear he was under control. Now they were falling off to his right, well below him.

"I forgot you guys were here," said Zen.

"Don't forget to come down," said Danny. "And somewhere in Nevada, all right? I have some things to do tonight, and I don't want to fish you out of the Pacific."

"Oh, I'll come down," said Zen, starting a turn to stay inside the test area. "I know one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm going again. And again after that. I can't wait to see a full sunset from up here."

Among the items Stoner had stockpiled in the trunk of his rented Nexia was a medical kit. He pulled out a bottle of hydrocodone and chased five pills with his bottled water. Then, to counteract the effects of the synthetic codeine — the dose was two and half times a full-strength prescription — he took two capsules of Adderall, an amphetamine.

He pulled on a spare shirt and jacket, holding his breath against the pain. It was going to take a while for the codeine to kick in. Even then, all it would do was take the edge off.

"Can you drive?" he asked Sorina Viorica. "I can if I have to, but probably we'd be better if you did."

"I can drive," she said.

"We have to go south. To Bucharest."

She frowned. "I'm not going to your embassy."

"I wasn't going to take you there. I have an apartment. You'll be safe. The GPS unit—"

"I know the way," she said.

Stoner slipped the seat to the rear, adjusting it so he could lean his head back and get a more comfortable. The seat belt sat right over his wound, but he managed to bunch his jacket to the side and relieve most of the pressure on it. The drugs didn't seem to have much of an effect at first, but after twenty minutes or so he realized his mouth was hanging open and his upper body was starting to feel numb. He pushed back up in the seat, wincing at the pain yet grateful that it helped wake him up.

A few minutes later, Sorina braked hard to avoid rear-ending a car stopped around a curve. There was a checkpoint ahead, soldiers checking IDs.

She started to put the car into reverse. "Don't," said Stoner, putting his hand on the shifter. He fought against the shock of pain. "They already see us." "I don't have identification." "I'll deal with it."

"No."

"You're going to have to trust me," he told her. "This isn't a question of trust."

Stoner reached beneath his belt to the small pouch where he kept his ID and took out his diplomatic passport, along with a folded letter. He considered taking out money as well, but decided against it — better to play the arrogant American with nothing to hide, impatient at the delay.

"You're my interpreter. You work for the embassy."

"My name?"

"Pick something you'll remember. And I can pronounce." "Jon. It was my father's name." "That's a last name?" "Yes. Call me Ms. Jon."

Stoner undid his seat belt and brought his seat back up to horizontal. The line moved slowly. They were three cars from the front.

"You are sure of this?" said Sorina Viorica.

"We have no choice. If you get out, they'll probably start shooting. They'll hunt you down."

She frowned, probably thinking it wouldn't be that hard to get away.

Stoner noticed a bloodstain on his pants as they pulled near the soldiers, but it was too late to do anything. He folded his hands down against it and put an annoyed look on his face as the two soldiers peered into the car.

The sun was just rising, and it was dark inside the vehicle; the man on Stoner's side shone a flashlight around, hitting Stoner's eyes. He had to fight the reflex to cover his eyes with his hands.

The man on the driver's side rapped on the window. When

Sorina Viorica opened it, he told her in Romanian that they must hand over their IDs.

Stoner didn't wait for the translation.

"Here," he told Sorina, giving her the passport with his left hand. "Tell him we're in a hurry. If I'm late, you're going to be fired."

Something flickered in the man's face. Stoner realized he spoke English.

So did Sorina Viorica, though she pretended she didn't.

"You have to be patient," she said to Stoner. "They are just doing their job. Things are different in our country. You cannot be an arrogant American. It is an insult."

"I don't care. If I'm not in Bucharest by seven, the ambassador will have a fit."

"I told you, we're not going to make it."

"Then you'll be finding another way to feed your kid, whether your husband was killed by the guerrillas or not. I didn't hire you for charity."

Sorina Viorica began explaining to the soldier that her boss was an American on official business and due in the capital.

The soldier grabbed his passport and the letter from the defense ministry saying that Stoner was to be given free passage and professional courtesies. The letterhead impressed the soldier, though he tried not to show it.

"You work for a jerk," the soldier told Sorina.

"My boy is only three. I work where I can," she said. "What's going on?"

"The rebels attacked the pipeline last night."

"No!"

"They did some damage. Not much." He flipped through the passport. "And your identity—"

"Get the damn flashlight out of my face," Stoner snarled, rolling down the window and leaning out. "I'll have you busted down to private!" he shouted. "And if you are a private, I'll get you into a latrine!"

"I'm sorry," Sorina told the soldier near her. "These Americans."

She turned to Stoner. "Please. Just relax. Please relax. There's no sense getting angry. He's doing his job. Please. He probably has a family."

"What's his name? Get his goddamn name. I want to have him on report. I'm going to tell the ambassador this is why I was late. Get his name."

Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.

"Get his name!"

"You can go," said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner's passport. "I'm sorry for you."

"Get his name!" demanded Stoner.

Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.

Neither of them spoke for a full minute.

"That checkpoint was not normal," she said finally. "There was an attack last night, on the pipeline."

"I see."

"But there couldn't have been."

"Why not?"

"We decided six months ago that we wouldn't. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians."

"Right."

"It's true," she said sharply. "And besides, I know."

"If your friends tried to kill you, what makes you think they'd tell you what they were doing?"

"My friends didn't try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself — it's dwindled. Those who remain are misfits."

"How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?" asked Stoner.

"Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now — the only ones left are misfits."

An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.

"I don't know why I told the kid that. I don't know why I said anything."

Breanna watched as Zen wheeled himself backward across the room. It had been a long time since she'd seen him so agitated, so angry with himself.

"God, Bree. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? What if he doesn't walk?"

"I don't think it's going to be that bad, Zen," she told him. "I'm sure the doctors will be able to do something."

Zen shook his head. "I saw the looks on their faces when we brought him into the base. I've seen that look. God, I've seen that look."

"Jeff, you can't get so down on yourself. It's not up to you whether he walks or not. God, if anyone would understand—"

"He's not going to understand."

"I mean, if anyone could understand what he's going through, it would be you. It is you. Jeff?" But Zen had already rolled out of her room.

By 9:00 a.m., General Locusta had provided Bucharest with a full report of the bombing of the gas pipeline. Two rebels had been killed, he claimed — not exactly a lie, since he did have two bodies to present, though Locusta knew that the men had been left by the Russian special forces troops that launched the attack.

He downplayed his own losses, though he had already ordered full military honors for both men killed.

The damage to the pipeline was minimal, Locusta assured Bucharest; it would be repaired within days and there would be minimal disruption of the gas supplies.

Locusta was playing a dangerous game. The attack was part of a payoff for Russian cooperation in the coming coup, cooperation that would include the use of an assassin against the defense minister when the time came. It was also meant to convince the government to send the last units he felt he needed to assure himself victory when he moved against the president.

But it could also backfire and encourage Bucharest to sack him. Even though he'd been warning for weeks that an attack might be imminent, and even though he'd claimed that he didn't have the necessary troops for the growing threat, there was still a possibility that he could be blamed for failing to stop the attack, and be replaced by someone else.

If that happened, all of his preparations would be lost. At the very best, he'd be back where he was two years before: commander of a single division, not the leader of an army corps three times the size. All of the connections he had carefully cultivated among the old-timers — the hard-liners shut out by the new government — would be lost. Those men valued strength, and the scent of weakness and failure would send them running.

So when the phone didn't ring at precisely 9:00 a.m. — the time set for Locusta to speak to the president about the incident — the general began to grow nervous. He fidgeted with his feet, a habit he'd had since he was a boy. Pushing them together under the desk, he began jerking his legs up and down, tapping his soles lightly together. At 9:05 he rose from his desk and walked around the office, trying to remain nonchalant and work off his growing anxiety.

By 9:10, he was worried, wondering if he should place the call himself.

He decided not to. President Voda's office had made the appointment, and made it clear that the president would call him. To short-circuit the process would be a concession, however subtle, to a man he despised.

The phone finally rang at 9:17. Locusta waited until the third ring before answering.

"General Locusta."

"Please hold for the president."

Another three minutes passed before President Voda came on the line.

"Tomma, tell me what is going on," said Voda abruptly.

"The pipeline is secure — for now. We have shot two guerrillas. With more men, I can prevent future problems."

"More men — you always ask for more men."

"Unfortunately, last night proves I am right."

"I see estimates that the guerrillas are faltering."

Locusta sighed. He knew that the guerrillas' movement was in fact growing smaller, partly because of his efforts, but also because the leftists were naturally weaklings. But it did him absolutely no good to admit this.

"Yes, yes, I suppose the events of last night are proof of what the situation is," said Voda finally. "I will get you your men. But — no operations over the border. Not at this time."

Though he had made suggestions in the past, Locusta had no plans to launch any operations now. He would, though, soon. When he was in full command.

"Did you hear me, General?"

"If we have a specific target, Mr. President, I think you might reconsider."

"When you have a target, you will review it with me. I will decide."

"Yes, Mr. President. But if we have to stay on defense, the additional men will be critical."

"You'll have them. You'll get whatever you need."

The president continued to speak. He was concerned about the situation. He didn't want news of it to get out; he didn't want Romania to appear weak. Locusta agreed — though he knew that the Russians would already be leaking it.

Then the president surprised him.

"I am considering asking the U.S. to assist us," said Voda.

"The Americans?" said Locusta, caught off guard.

"Politically, it would have been difficult a few weeks ago, but now that they are riding a wave of popularity, it is something that could be managed. You've been asking for more aircraft — they can provide some."

"I don't need the Americans to chase down these bandits."

"Our own air force is useless," said the president coldly.

Locusta couldn't argue with that. He suspected, however, that Voda wanted the Americans involved as much for political reasons as military ones. Voda's grand plan called for Romania to join NATO: another foolish move, borne from weakness, not strength.

"Their aircraft will help you track the guerrillas," said the president. "I will inform you if they agree."

The line went dead. Locusta stared at the phone for a second, then slammed it down angrily. The president was an ass.

The Americans would complicate everything if they came.

President Martindale watched out the window of Air Force One as the hulking black jet drew parallel to the wings. It was a sleek jet — a B-1, Martindale thought, though he would be the first to admit that he wasn't an expert on aircraft recognition. It had the general shape of a fighter but was much too large to be one — nearly as long, in fact, as the EB-52 Megafortress riding beside it.

He recognized the EB-52 very well, of course. No other aircraft had ever been so closely identified with an adminis tration before. It was ironic, Martindale thought; he certainly considered himself a man of peace — not a dove, exactly, but the last politician who would have chosen a weapon of war as his personal token. Yet he'd called out the military more than anyone since Roosevelt.

And much more effectively, he hoped.

Most of his critics didn't exactly see it that way. He didn't much mind the congressmen in the other party criticizing him. It was their job, after all. But when people in his own party questioned his motives in stopping the war between China, India, and Pakistan — that flabbergasted him.

And of course, they loved to claim he used Dreamland as his own secret air force and army.

Dreamland's reorganization under Major General Samson would stop some of those wagging tongues, integrating the command back into the regular military structure. But Mar-tindale didn't want the baby thrown out with the bathwater, as the old saying went. Dreamland was the future. Samson's real task, as far as he was concerned, was to make the future happen now.

"Are those planes an escort?" asked the Secretary of State, Jeffrey Hartmann. "Or are they checking us out?"

"Probably a little bit of both," laughed Martindale, sitting back in his seat.

"If we can get back to the Romanian issue before we land," said Secretary of Defense Chastain. "It's a very serious situation. Europe is depending on natural gas for winter heating. If that pipeline is destroyed, we'll have chaos."

"No, not chaos," said Hartmann. "The Russians can provide an adequate supply. They have over the past few years."

"At prices that have been skyrocketing," said Chastain. "Prices that will mean a depression, or worse."

"You're exaggerating," said Hartmann.

"The Russians see the pipeline as a threat," said Chastain. "They're dancing in the Kremlin as we speak."

"I don't see them involved in this," said the Secretary of State. "They'll exploit it, yes. That's the Russian way. Take any advantage you can get. But they're not going to back guerrillas."

"Don't be naive," said Chastain. "Of course they are."

"They have enough trouble with the Chechens."

"I think the situation is critical," said Philip Freeman, the National Security Advisor. "Gas prices are just one facet. If the Russians are involved, their real goal may be to split NATO. They certainly want to keep the other Eastern European countries from joining. Look at how they're setting the prices: NATO members pay more. We've seen the pressure with Poland. The Romanian pipeline makes that harder to do."

"You're jumping to conclusions," said Hartmann. "There's no evidence that the Russians are involved. I doubt they are."

There was a knock at the door of the President's private cabin. Martindale nodded, and the Secret Service man who was standing nearby unlatched it. A steward appeared.

"Mr. President, the pilot advises that he is on final approach."

"Very good. Buckle up, gentlemen. We're about to land."

Despite the fact that he acted as Dreamland's liaison, Jed Barclay had been to the base only a handful of times over the past two years. He'd never been there with the President, however, and so was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the secret base managed: Not only had a pair of Megafortresses and EB-52s escorted them in, but a half-dozen black special operations Osprey MV-22s hovered alongside Air Force One as the 747 taxied toward the hangar area. Six GMC Jimmy SUVs raced along on either side of the big jet, flanking it as it approached the small stage set up just beyond the access apron. The entire area was ringed by security vehicles and weapons. Mobile antiaircraft missiles stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Razor antiaircraft lasers. There were antipersonnel weapons as well — large panels of nonlethal, hard plastic balls were strategically placed on the outskirts of the audience area, along with an array of video cameras and other sensors. Given how difficult it was to get to Dreamland, the gear was obviously intended to impress the President and his party.

Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President's stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access — and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members— would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.

The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they'd seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.

Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.

Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men — the sergeant called Boston, whom he'd met before — then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general's hands moved energetically, visual exclamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who'd been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn't quite hear what Samson was saying, but knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be "I." "Jed!"

Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.

He knew she'd been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who'd made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met — or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.

Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter's after a title bout.

"The chair is just temporary," she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered. "They're really babying me. I only strained my knee. It's embarrassing."

"Hey, Bree," he said.

He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.

Breanna sat back down.

"Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display," she said. "My dad is with him. They're going to let the President take the controls for a spin."

"He'll like that."

Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.

"Look at me, I'm nervous," said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.

"So who is this lovely lady?" President Martindale asked. "Jed, are you going to introduce me?"

"This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard," he said.

"Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots," said Samson, a half step behind the President.

"An honor to meet you, Mr. President," said Breanna.

She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.

"Captain, it's an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you. You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew — the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It's beyond words, frankly. I'm the one who's honored."

Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician— no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catastrophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.

"We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President," said Breanna.

"Some of the best. And you'll be getting more. Right, General?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course."

"Now where the hell is Dog?" said the President, turning around and looking. "He's responsible for all this."

A look flashed across Samson's face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.

"Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot," said Samson, a little stiffly. "We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks."

Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK. Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.

"I'd love it, Terrill. Let's do it."

Stoner took Sorina Viorica back to the safe house in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal. Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.

Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection — it would be too easy to track communications.

"This is my prison?" said Sorina when they reached the back room.

"It's not a prison."

"Oh, it's a resort. My mistake."

Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he'd been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.

"And what do you expect me to do here?" asked Sorina, still standing.

"Tell me more about the Russians."

She didn't respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head — it was a kind of traitor's regret, trying to pull back from what she'd already decided to do.

He had to reel her in gently.

"We can get something to eat," he suggested.

"I'm not hungry."

"If you dye your hair, you won't be recognized," he told her. "You may not be recognized now."

She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn't be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She'd insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren't being followed.

"You want me to go out and get you some food?" he asked. "For later."

Sorina shrugged, then added. "So I am a prisoner?" "No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want." She frowned.

"Unless you'd rather go to the embassy." "No. I am not going there at all."

That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.

"And what are you doing?" she asked.

"I'll get this looked at." He gestured toward his side. "And I have to talk to some people. I'll be back tomorrow."

"When?"

"Afternoon, maybe. I don't know." "What if I'm not here?" "I'll be disappointed."

She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn't been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.

"Well, then I'm leaving," she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.

He knew she was testing him, but he wasn't sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair — too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn't get up, he'd fall asleep.

Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.

The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.

If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.

"So the Russians are definitely involved?"

"She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea."

"Is she going to give you more information?"

Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn't sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.

"But the Russians are definitely involved?" repeated Fairchild.

"That's what she claims."

"If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that'd be quite a feather in your cap."

"Yeah," said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn't need any more feathers in his cap.

"Who are the Russians?"

"From the description, it's Spetsnaz," said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federal-naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB. "She gave me two names on the way down. First names."

"Useless," said Fairchild. "And probably false."

"Yeah."

"Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it," added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. "When are you seeing her again?"

"Soon." Stoner hadn't told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she'd run away, it'd be obvious soon enough.

"The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if they put a priority on the mission," said Fairchild. "If George and Sandra were close to something."

Stoner didn't think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world. But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman's art, but in Stoner's experience it was a vicious business.

"I'll tell the Romanians what happened to their men," said Fairchild, rising. "Don't sweat it."

"OK."

"Their guns weren't fired at all?" Stoner shook his head.

"I may make them… I may make them sound a little braver than they were."

Who knew how brave they'd been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?

"Sure," said Stoner. "Say they saved my life."

General Locusta made sure the door to his office was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.

"Still having trouble with the rebels, I hear," said Karis as soon as he picked up. "Nothing too serious, I hope."

"I can deal with the rebels. At the moment, they're useful."

"So I would guess. You're getting even more men?" "I've been promised."

"You have to move soon. There are rumblings."

Locusta cleared his throat, but Karis did not take the hint.

"Some of our backers think an even stronger hand is needed," said Karis. "By failing to deal the rebels a death blow—"

"I told you. I am dealing with the rebels." "The gas line will be very valuable once you are in charge. The revenue."

"I would not want anyone to overhear you speaking like this," said Locusta, finally losing his patience.

"There is no problem on my side. Is there on yours?"

Locusta needed Karis — it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to move on the capital if his troops opposed him. He also trusted him; they had been friends for years, and his fellow general hated President Voda even more than he did. Still, Locusta found Karis's impatient arrogance hard to stomach. He'd always been headstrong, and while it would be unfair to call him impetuous, he showed less caution than Locusta felt he should.

"There are no problems," Locusta assured him. "But we must be careful."

"Yes. So?"

"I am almost ready," said Locusta. "The Americans?" "They can be dealt with."

"Good. We are ready. But you must move quickly." The general hung up without adding that he was moving as quickly as he could.

Dog stepped back as the President settled into the big chair next to Zen and began manipulating the control stick. No kid with a computer game on Christmas morn ing had a broader smile than Martindale's as he took over control of the plane, pushing it into a climb straight overhead.

Dog asked himself if he truly deserved the Medal of Honor. Only a few dozen members of the Air Force had ever won one. Nearly all, he knew, had given their lives in combat.

He'd been prepared to do that as well — he'd come very close, within a few feet, but survived.

Death wasn't a criteria for the medal. But he somehow felt he was an imposter, a pretender who didn't deserve it.

The President rose from his chair, turning the aircraft back over to Zen to land. People began to applaud. Dog's thoughts continued to drift. Breanna was wheeled up. He smiled at her, then glanced at Zen, who was beaming himself. They were good kids.

Old enough to have kids themselves by now. Though for some reason he wasn't exactly looking forward to being called Grandpa.

"The country, the world, owe you a great deal," said the President, beginning his speech. "I can't tell you how proud, how very proud and honored I am to be here."

Jed felt the vibration of his BlackBerry just as the crowd began to applaud. He pulled it out and thumbed up the message. It was from Colonel Hash, the NSC's military liaison.

Jed slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket and immediately began sidling toward the side of the audience area. He tried to appear nonchalant, pasting a bored expression on his face before double-timing up the boarding ladder.

The communications officer aboard Air Force One nodded at him as he went into the small compartment and sat down at the machine reserved for NSC use. Jed punched in his passwords and waited a few seconds while the computer connected him with his secure account.

The CIA had forwarded a report from one of its officers in the field, Mark Stoner, and endorsed by the Romanian station chief. Stoner had made contact with a member of the Romanian "resistance movement." The source claimed that the attack on the pipeline the night before had not been authorized by the rebels' governing committee. She believed that it had been either instigated or made directly by Russian special forces units. She also blamed the Russians for the murders of three CIA officers in the country over the past several months.

There was additional information from the ambassador at Bucharest, indicating that the damage to the Romanian pipeline would be fixed within a few days. The Romanian government had tried to keep a lid on information about the attack, but someone claiming to be a spokesman for the guerrillas had posted photos on the Web earlier that day and contacted the Romanian and German media.

And the country's president, Alin Voda, had called the ambassador on his personal line and requested American air assistance "to hunt the criminals before they make their next attack."

Jed backed out of his account and went to find his boss.

"I know there have been a lot of rumors about a Medal of Honor for Colonel Bastian," said President Martin-dale, wrapping up his speech. "Let me just say this — they're true."

The audience, which had applauded politely a few times as Martindale spoke, erupted with a loud and unanimous hurrah. He stepped back and gestured to Dog, signaling that he should step forward to the mike.

"I really don't deserve this honor," said Dog, taking the microphone and addressing the others at the base. "You do. You all do. You've made my time here fantastic. Mr. President, there's no better command on the face of the earth."

"We have another update from Romania," whispered Philip Freeman, stepping up toward the President. "It may interest you."

"Let's discuss it on the plane."

"Yes, sir."

A few minutes later, aboard Air Force One, the President listened to Jed review the message from the CIA.

Meanwhile, a quick scan of the networks and news wire services showed that the energy market was already reacting to the news of the attack. Natural gas prices had shot up nearly thirty percent, and petroleum futures were trading ten dollars higher — which would have an impact on America as well as Europe.

"We have to deal with this forcefully," said Martindale. "If the Russians think they can get away without consequence, they'll continue to attack."

"That's only from one source," protested Secretary of State Hartmann. "And a prejudiced one."

"I don't see what a guerrilla would gain by blaming the Russians," said Chastain.

"We're not there — we don't know what the politics are."

"Regardless, we have to take a stand immediately," said Martindale. "If only to calm the energy markets. I'm not going to suck my thumb like Carter and the others during the oil embargo. We're protecting that gas line."

"Sending aircraft could backfire," said Hartmann. "If the Russians are truly involved, they may use it as an excuse to up their assistance."

"They don't need an excuse," said Chastain.

"We do have to be careful about the border situation," said Freeman. "Especially Moldova. They've asked to join NATO as well."

"They backed off that six months ago," noted Chastain. "The Russians have been courting them."

"If our forces got across the border, that will drive them into Russia's arms," said Freeman. "And even if we're willing to write them off, if other countries think we're backing Romania in a secret war against Moldova rather than the guerrillas, that will damage our hopes of getting them into NATO. Germany for one will object."

"Agreed," said the President. "But if we handle this correctly, we'll help our cause."

"Perhaps," admitted Hartmann.

"We'll send air support," said the President. "Moldova is absolutely off-limits, but if we send the right people, that won't be a problem."

It was obvious who the President had in mind.

"Jed, get General Samson up here," added Martindale. "And Dog. I want to talk to them personally."

General Samson strode purposely into the President's conference room aboard Air Force One. It wasn't nearly as big or as elaborate as he thought it would be— fabric-covered walls stood behind two oversized couches on either side of a low conference table. Still, it was the President's conference room.

Samson nodded at Martindale, who was on the phone, then at Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman — and Lieutenant Colonel Bastian.

Bastian?

What the hell was he doing here? "Philip, explain what's going on," said Martindale, covering the phone's mouthpiece. "I'll be right with you."

Samson listened as the National Security Advisor explained the situation in Romania.

"I'm sure Dreamland can supply planes to track ground movements," said Samson when he was finished. "And the Whiplash boys can give some close-air support lessons. I'll have a deployment plan ready no later than the end of the month."

"You're not quite understanding," said Freeman. "This has top priority."

Samson wasn't sure what Freeman was implying. Deploying to a place like Romania took a great deal of preparation. Two weeks worth of planning was nothing, especially given the present state of his staff. He was still filling positions.

But he sensed excuses weren't what Freeman or Chastain, much less the President himself, wanted.

"By the end of next week, certainly," he said. "I already have a few things in mind."

"General, we'd like you to be on the ground in a day or two," said Arthur Chastain.

"A day or two?"

"The Whiplash orders call for immediate deployment," said Freeman.

"Of course. Once we have a plan in place."

No one said anything. Samson felt about as comfortable as a skunk in church. Sweat began percolating under his collar.

He shot a sideways glance at Dog. Bastian must be loving this.

Why the hell was he here, anyway? The President finished his phone call. "Gentlemen, are we set?" he asked. The others looked at Samson.

"I just wanted to make sure," started Samson. "The— expediency of the mission. You're asking for us… well sir, let me put it this way. We can of course deploy immediately.

Tomorrow if you wish. But with a little more preparation, we—"

"Yes, tomorrow, of course," said Martindale. "Dog— Colonel Bastian — you'll be going?"

Dog cleared his throat. "That would be up to the general, sir. I'm at his disposal."

Clever, thought Samson, as Martindale turned his gaze back toward him.

But the assignment might be just the thing to get Bastian out from under his hair while he continued reorganizing the base. Yes, it would work very nicely.

"If Colonel Bastian is available, it would be great to have him on the mission," said Samson. "I'll need an experienced deputy at the scene, so to speak. I can't think of anyone better to lead the mission there. Assuming that's all right with you, Mr. President."

"General, that's perfect." Martindale rose and extended his hand, in effect dismissing him. "I look forward to a long working relationship with you. Carry on."