Revolution

III Killers of Children

The field at Iasi was fairly long, but the approach was not. Between the nearby mountains and the possibility of handheld antiaircraft missiles, aircraft had to drop precipitously and then veer sharply to the west to land. For all his experience in the Megafortress, Dog broke into a sweat as his copilot, Lieutenant Kevin Sullivan, read off his altitude. But he loved it.

"You're right on beam, Colonel," said Sullivan.

"Hang tight, boys," said Dog, swinging Dreamland EB-52 Bennett onto the airstrip with a crisp turn.

Like all Megafortresses, the Bennett was named for a Medal of Honor winner — Captain Steven L. Bennett, who in 1972 had saved innumerable lives supporting Marines overrun by Viet Cong, then given his own life so his copilot/ observer would live, crash-landing his aircraft rather than ejecting when the other man's gear failed.

Dog was eligible to have a Megafortress named after him as well, but he'd already decided to do without that honor for the time being. He didn't quite feel up to the standards Captain Bennett and the others had set.

"You still have the touch, Colonel!" said Sullivan as they rolled to a stop on the far end of the concrete.

Despite the long flight, Sullivan was his usual overenthu-siastic self, bouncing in his seat as they secured the aircraft. When they were done, the copilot practically danced off the flight deck. Dog followed him down, waiting as Zen lowered himself into his wheelchair using the special lift attached to the EB-52's ladder.

Dog had debated whether to take Zen on the mission, given his recent ordeal off the coast of India. But not having him along on a mission was almost inconceivable, and Dog didn't even bother arguing when Zen volunteered.

Breanna, however, was another matter.

"Your daughter's never going to forgive you for leaving her home," Zen told him as they headed toward a pair of cars near the edge of the runway apron.

"She should blame the doctors, not me," Dog told him. "They say she needs rest."

"Hey, I'm just the messenger," said Zen. "Personally, I agree."

Two Romanian enlisted men and a major were standing in front of a boxy-looking Romanian-built Dacia near the hangar. The men snapped to attention as Dog and Zen approached. Dog gave a quick but sharp salute in return.

"You are Colonel Bastian?" asked the major.

"That's right." Dog extended his hand.

"I am General Petri's aide. I'm to take you to him immediately."

"Sounds good."

The major looked at Zen. Dog knew exactly what he was thinking: What was a man in a wheelchair doing on the mission?

"This is Major Jeff Stockard. Everyone calls him Zen," said Dog. "He's my second in command on the mission. He's in charge of the Flighthawks — the unmanned aircraft that will actually provide support."

Zen stuck out his hand. The Romanian major took it warily.

"This our ride?" Dog asked, pointing to the car.

"Yes," said the major. He glanced again at Zen.

"Don't worry about me," Zen told him. "I can just hold onto the bumper. Tell the driver to try and avoid the potholes, though, all right?"

Dog was not a tall man, buthehad agoodsix or seven inches over Romanian Air Force General Boris Petri, a gray-haired, hollow-cheeked man whose crisp uniform gave a hint of starch to the tiny office where he met the two Dreamland officers. Petri's English was serviceable, but to ensure that there were no mistakes in communication he called in one of his aides, a lieutenant whose brother was a star soccer player on the Romanian national team. The general was so proud of the connection that he mentioned it not once but twice as they waited for him to arrive. In the meantime, he offered Dog tea and brandy, sloshing them together in large cups that, to Dog's palate, held considerably more brandy than tea.

Once the lieutenant arrived, the talk turned serious, with the general briefing them not only about the guerrilla situation, but the air force in general. He seemed somewhat apologetic and defensive at the same time, noting that the Romanian air force was in the process of rebuilding itself and that it would soon be capable of defeating its enemies.

Dog slipped into diplomatic mode, assuring the general that his mission was first of all symbolic, demonstrating not the deficiencies of the Romanians but rather the country's strategic importance to Europe and the United States. Working with the Romanians would be of considerable value to the Dreamland contingent, he explained, since Dreamland's mission had recently been expanded to help in similar situations across the globe.

"It will be some time before our air force is ready to work with yours," said Petri.

"I understood there was a squadron of MiG-21s at Bacau."

"A squadron, yes." The general gave him a sad smile. "All but one of the planes is grounded because of a lack of spare parts. And there is no one there to fly the plane. The pilots have been shipped south to train on our new aircraft. Lamentably, those are not suitable for ground attack."

The new planes were four MiG-29s, front-line interceptors that could, in fact, be used in an attack role if their owner so chose. But for a variety of reasons — most especially the fact that the planes were deemed too precious to be risked in dangerous ground attacks — the MiGs were currently stationed at Borcea-Fetesti, far out of harm's way. The Romanians equipped them solely with air-to-air missiles; they had no ground attack weapons aside from iron bombs, and their pilots weren't even trained for the ground support role.

Officially, the Aviatez Militaire Romane had forty MiG-21s, older but still useful aircraft that would do reasonably well as ground support planes, at least during the day. But as Petri pointed out, only a minuscule number, less than a handful, were in any shape to fly. Romania even lacked attack helicopters; a few of its French-built Pumas had been fitted with .50 caliber machine guns that were fired from the right passenger door, but they were no substitute for actual gunships.

It didn't take a genius to realize that the country would have been much better off using the money it had spent on the MiG-29s for some lesser but more practical aircraft that could have been used in a counterinsurgency role, something like the American OA-10 Bronco, or surplus Russian Su-24s or Su-25s, all older planes that could be used for ground support. The left-over money could have been used for new parts and training for the MiGs they did have. But Dog wasn't there to offer that kind of advice, and General Petri wasn't in a position to implement it.

"You haven't finished your tea," said the translator when the general wound down his briefing.

"I'm a little tea'd out," said Dog, rising. "I'd like to arrange to meet with the commander of the ground forces as soon as possible."

"The general had hoped General Locusta would be here by now," said the translator. "Maybe within the hour. Certainly no later than dinner."

"Then with your permission, I'll get my people straightened out."

"Very good, Colonel."

Petri sprang up from his seat. "It's an honor to be working with a hero like you," he said, not bothering with his translation.

"Well, thank you," said Dog, embarrassed. "I hope I can live up to your expectations."

While Dog and Zen were meeting with the air force general, the Dreamland MC-17 arrived carrying the Whiplash ground team, the Dreamland mobile command trailer, and an Osprey. Danny Freah had already set up security perimeters and launched a pair of low-observable dirigibles as eye-in-the-sky monitors.

A second balloon system would be used to provide protection against rocket and mortar attacks: Four balloons would be lofted above the four corners of the aircraft and used to anchor an explosive net above them. The two layers of the net were meant to catch projectiles as they descended toward the aircraft, and small explosives would detonate the warheads, destroying them before they damaged the plane.

The system had never been used in the field before, and though its chief engineer had come along to oversee its deployment, the Whiplashers were having trouble setting it up. The wind proved stronger and more complicated than the computer model could handle, and even the scientist had taken to cursing at the screen.

"We'll get it, Colonel," he said, without looking up. "Growing pains."

Dog smiled and gave him a pat on the back. Dreamland had gained quite a reputation for coming up with cutting edge technology, but in the colonel's opinion, its real ability was dealing with growing pains. That was what Dreamland was all about — taking things from the laboratory and putting them in the field, where the real tests took place. An old saying held that no battle plan survived first contact with the enemy; the words were doubly true when it came to technology.

A convoy of four Land Rovers and a black Mercedes with flags flying from its bumpers approached the security zone around the Megafortresses. Two Whiplash troopers, dressed in full battle gear, stopped the lead truck; within seconds, Danny's radio was squawking.

"A General Locusta wants to visit," Danny told Dog. "His people are kind of pissed that we won't let them through."

"Let's go make nice," said Dog, heading toward the stopped convoy.

General Tomma Locusta fumed as he sat in the rear of his Mercedes staff car. It was bad enough that he had to accept assistance from the U.S. Air Force, but now the arrogant bastards were preventing him from moving freely on a Romanian base.

An American officer appeared at the window, dressed in a pilot's flight suit.

"Lower the window," Locusta told his driver.

"General Locusta? I'm Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bas-tian," said the man, bending toward him. "A lot of people call me Dog. I'm in charge of the people here."

"No, Colonel," replied Locusta. "You are in charge of the Americans here. Not the Romanians."

Dog smiled, leaning his hands on the car. "Yes, sir. That's true. I understand we're going to be working with you."

"You're going to be working for me," said Locusta. "To provide support."

"We'll do whatever we can. I wonder if you'd like to huddle for a few minutes and start making some arrangements?" "What's the word, 'huddle'?"

"Excuse me, General. Your English is so good I just forgot for a minute that you weren't a native speaker. I meant, should we sit down somewhere and talk about the arrangements for our working together? And if you're available, I'd like to introduce you to some of my people, and show you some of the hardware."

Locusta realized the American was trying to be nice to him, but it was too late as far as he was concerned. To a man, the Americans were arrogant blowhards who acted as if everything they touched turned to gold.

"My headquarters right now is just being set up. It's rather sparse," added Dog, who gestured toward a small trailer next to a hangar. "But it would give us a place to talk out of the cold."

"Let's go," said Locusta.

"Sir, the one thing I'd ask is that your people stay with you if they're inside our protective corridor. A lot of the security is automated and I don't want any accidents."

"Then see that there are no accidents," said Locusta, rapping the seat back to tell his driver to move on.

Dog turned and looked at Danny, rolling his eyes. Zen, sitting behind them, barely suppressed his laughter.

"Guess we got off on the wrong foot, huh, Dog?" said Zen as they started toward the trailer.

"Ah, he's probably not that bad," replied Dog.

"No worse than Samson."

Dog ignored the comment. "We are guests in his country," he said. "If the tables were turned, we'd probably be a little prickly."

"You're bucking for the diplomatic corps," said Zen. Dog laughed. "Maybe I am."

"He's just trying to prove he doesn't have a problem with all generals," said Danny.

"Samson's your boss now, Danny. And yours too, Zen," said Dog. While he didn't like Samson, the hint of disrespect in their voices bothered him. "You better remember that."

"I understand chain of command," said Danny. "I have no problem with that."

"It's generals I don't like," said Zen.

"Then you better not become one," snapped Dog.

He was still irritated when he reached the trailer. General Locusta stood there impatiently, waiting with a dozen aides. The entire contingent started to follow him up the steps.

"The thing is, General, I'm not sure everybody is going to fit inside," said Dog when he realized what was happening. "I'd suggest that maybe you choose—"

"My aides will stay with me."

"Yes, sir."

Not counting the communications specialist in the back compartment, twelve people could fit in the trailer, but it was a squeeze. Sixteen was uncomfortably tight. Locusta had twenty men with him.

Worse, the trailer had only recently been powered up— which meant the environmental system hadn't finished heating it. This wasn't a problem at first, since the body heat from the crowd quickly raised the temperature. But then the system had to switch into cooling mode. It couldn't react fast enough, and the small space overheated.

Dog tried to ignore the rising temperature. He concentrated on the paper map the general's aides had spread on the table. It showed the mountains and valley farm area to the south where the guerrillas had been operating. Filled with small agricultural communities, the area had been mostly peaceful since the end of World War II.

"Here is the pipeline," said General Locusta, taking over the briefing. "The network runs through here, along this valley, then to the west. It must be protected at all costs. We have forward camps here, here, and here."

Locusta jabbed his finger at a succession of small red squares.

"These mountains here, 130 kilometers from the border— south of Bacau, where our main base is — that is where we have had the most trouble."

"Where was the pipeline attacked the other day?" asked Danny.

"Here, west of Braila, south of Route 25."

"That's pretty far from where you say the guerillas have been operating."

"I considered complaining to them," said the general sarcastically.

The general's brusque manner softened, but only slightly, as Danny explained how his ground team would train soldiers to act as forward air controllers, working with the Megafor-tress and Flighthawk crews. The Romanians, he said, would be in charge; the Dreamland people would work alongside them, taking the same risks.

When the general's aides began making suggestions about how and where the training should be conducted, Dog noticed the corners of Locusta's mouth sagging into a bored frown.

"General, why don't you and I inspect some of the aircraft that will be available to support you?" he suggested. "We can let these men sort out the other issues and arrangements."

"All right," said Locusta, even though his frown deepened.

Locusta's apprehension grew as the American colonel showed off the Megafortress and its robot planes, the Flighthawks. He'd known the technology would be impressive, of course, but when he was shown a computer demonstration tape from an earlier mission, he was amazed by the ability of the radar to find ground forces and by the robot planes that would attack them. A Megafortress and two Flighthawks could do the work of an entire squadron of fighters.

They were potent weapons, and could certainly help him fight the guerrillas. But they could also upset his plans to take over the country if he wasn't careful.

"General, I'm looking forward to a strong working relationship," Dog told him as they walked back to his car. Lo-custa's aides were already waiting.

"Yes," said Locusta. "Just remember, Colonel — you are here to assist us. Not take over."

"I only want to help you."

Locusta nodded, then got into the car.

Breanna practically leaped to the phone. "Hello, hello," she said. "Hello, hello yourself," said Zen.

His voice sounded tired and distant, but it was good to hear it anyway.

"Lover, how are you?" she asked. "Missing you."

"Mmmm. And I miss you." She fell into the chair, closed her eyes and listened as her husband told her about his first day in Romania.

"We're sleeping in a hangar, dormitory-style," said Zen. "Sully has the bunk next to me. And he snores."

"Wish I could tuck you in."

"Me too. The mayor came around a little while ago. He offered us a hotel, but Danny vetoed it. Security. He's like a Mother Hen."

"Danny's only watching out for you."

"He's just being paranoid. The people have been pretty good. The commanding general is a hard case, but your father handled him perfectly. Aside from that, Romania is beautiful. It's real peaceful. Mountains nearby, a lot of farms."

"You sound like a travelogue."

"Beats the hell out of where we've been lately."

"Thank God for that."

Zen admitted that he might change his opinion as time went on, though only because she wasn't there. He wouldn't say anything directly about the mission because they were on an open line, but when he mentioned off-handedly that he'd be flying in the morning, she felt her heart jump a little.

"So what did you do today?" he asked finally.

"Zen, it's barely past nine here. There's a what, ten hour time difference?"

"Yeah. It's 1912 here. But let me just guess," he added. "You've done your workout, vacuumed, straightened out the kitchen, and had about four cups of coffee."

"Five. I also did the laundry."

Zen laughed. "How's your knee?"

"Pretty solid. I'm up to the third bar of resistance on the machine."

"I'm glad the doctor told you to take it easy." "I don't remember her saying that." "You liar."

"No, really. And I am taking it easy. I am."

"You are taking it easy for you," he conceded.

"I wish I were with you."

"You can't be on every deployment."

"And you can?"

"Don't get mad."

"I'm not — well, maybe a little."

Neither one of them spoke. She knew Zen was right — she wasn't taking it easy, and she wasn't going to take it easy. It wasn't in her nature. But it wasn't in his, either.

"Hey, I love you, you know," he said finally. "A lot."

"And I love you too, baby."

"Maybe when this whole thing is done, we'll take a real vacation."

"OK."

"Maybe here," he said, laughing. "Place does look beautiful, at least from the air."

Be careful what you wish for…

Mack Smith had heard his mother say that a million times growing up. And damned if it wasn't one of the few things she'd said that turned out to be true.

Working as General Terrill Samson's chief of staff meant working… and working… and working, 24/7. Samson believed in delegating — and with much of his staff and subordinate officers still en route to Dreamland from previous posts, he was the delegate de jour.

There was another saying his mother had used all the time: Stuff rolls downhill.

Except she didn't say "stuff."

Mack was contemplating just how far downhill he was when his office phone rang. The light signaled that the call was an internal one — from the general's office.

"General wants to talk to you," said Chartelle Bedell, the general's civilian secretary.

The first time Chartelle had said that to him, Mack called him back on the intercom. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again.

"I'll be in before you can put down the phone," he told her, jumping up from his desk and double-timing his way down the hall.

Chartelle gave him a big smile as he walked in. Mack smiled back. She wasn't much to look at, but she had been with the general for several years and knew how to read his moods. Mack knew it was essential to have a good spy in the bullpen — the office outside the general's — and while he hadn't completely won her over yet, he figured he would soon.

"There you are, Smith," said Samson after he knocked and was buzzed inside. "Every day down here it's something else."

"Yes, sir. That's the way it is here," replied Mack. "Not under my command, it's not." "No sir, of course. You're really on your way to turning it around."

Samson frowned. Mack felt his stomach go a little sour. The vaunted Mack Smith charm never seemed to work with the old man.

"The B-1 laser program," said the general, as if the mere mention explained what he had on his mind. "Yes, sir. Good plane."

"It has its plusses and minuses, Smith," said Samson. "You were a fighter jock. I flew them. Don't forget."

"Yes, sir," said Mack. The general's use of the past tense when referring to his profession irked him, but it wasn't the sort of thing he could mention.

"What the hell happened to the test schedule of these planes?" demanded Samson. "They're two months behind. Two months."

Two months wasn't much in the scheme of things, especially on a complicated project like the laser B-1. And in fact, depending on how you looked at the program, it was actually ahead of schedule; most of the delays had to do with the ground-attack module, which was being improved from a baseline simply because the engineers had realized late in the day that they could do so without adding additional cost. The rest of the delay was mainly due to the shortage of pilots — the plane had to be flown for a certain number of hours before its different systems were officially certified.

Mack tried explaining all of this, but Samson was hardly in a receptive mood.

"The laser is the problem, isn't it, Mack?"

"The laser segment is ahead of schedule, sir. As I was saying, the plane is actually ready—"

"Because if it is, we should just shelve it. Some of this new age crap — it just adds unnecessary complication. If the force is going to be lean and mean, we need weapons that are lean and mean. Low maintenance. Sometimes cutting edge toys are just that — toys."

"Well yes sir, but I think you'll find that the laser segment is, um, moving along nicely."

"Then what the hell is the holdup?"

"There's a problem with pilots," he said. "A shortage."

"Fix it, Mack."

Finding qualified pilots — and they had to be military pilots, preferably Air Force, with the requisite security clearances, to say nothing of their abilities — wasn't exactly easy. But he knew of one pilot, albeit a fighter jock, who was available.

Himself.

"You know, I wouldn't mind taking the stick now and again myself," said Mack. "In the interim. This way—"

"Major, if my chief of staff has enough time to get into the seat of a test aircraft, then I'm not giving him enough work to do."

"Yes, sir, that's what I was thinking." Mack was back in his office a half hour later when he was surprised by a knock on the door. "It's open."

"Hey Mack, how goes things for the new chief of staff?" said Breanna. She entered with a noticeable limp, but that was a vast improvement over the wheelchair he'd seen her in the other day.

"Bree! How are you?" He got up, intending to give her a light peck on the cheek in greeting. Then he remembered General Samson's order against "unmilitary shows of affec tion" and stopped cold. Thrusting his hand out awkwardly, he asked how she was.

"I feel great," said Breanna. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Sure. Sit. Sit."

Mack had once had the hots for Breanna, but that was long over. She was a bit too bossy and conceited for his taste, so he'd passed her along to Zen.

Her body made it easy to overlook those shortcomings, however. Her face — it was like looking at a model.

"How do you like being chief of staff?" Breanna asked.

"It's great. I have my thumb on the pulse of the base," he said. "I've solved several problems already. We're turning this place around, the general and I."

A frown flickered across Breanna's face. "I heard that you need more test pilots on the B-1 laser program," she said.

"Uh, yeah."

"I'm here to volunteer."

"Uh—"

"You need pilots. I've flown Boomer a couple of times."

"You were heading the unmanned bomber project."

"So? You still need a pilot. And UMB isn't scheduled for more test flights for another three months. If that," Breanna added, "because I hear that General Samson wants to cut it."

She'd heard correctly. General Samson's priorities for the base and its projects emphasized manned programs, with only a few exceptions. He also tended to favor improvements to traditional weapons systems, like the development of smart microbombs, over what he called "gee-whiz toys" like the airborne lasers that had yet to prove themselves.

"Maybe it'll get cut, maybe not," said Mack. "Ultimately, it may not be up to the general."

"He has a lot of say."

"True."

"So, when do I fly?" asked Breanna.

"Um—"

"Tomorrow's not too soon for me."

"Wait a second, Bree. Yeah, I need pilots, but—"

"What's the but?"

"You're supposed to be in the hospital, aren't you?"

"No. I was released the other day."

"That doesn't mean you're ready to fly."

"Look. I'm fine." Breanna got up from her chair and did a little dance in front of his desk.

"I'm tempted. I'm really tempted," said Mack. "But you came in here with a limp."

"Did I?"

"And what about that concussion or coma or whatever you had?"

"Doctors didn't find anything wrong." "I don't know."

"What do you need to say yes?" "Medical clearance, for one thing." "Done."

"Oh yeah? Let's see the medical report." "I haven't bothered to schedule it yet. I will." "Fine. No problem," said Mack. "A clean bill of health, and then you're back in the cockpit." "Not a problem." "A doctor has to say you can fly." "Of course."

"A flight surgeon, not a veterinarian." "Hard-de-har-har."

"McMichaels," said Mack, naming the toughest doctor on the base. McMichaels had once threatened to ground him for a sore bicep.

"I like Mickey."

"Good then. It's a deal."

Stoner slid his watch cap lower on his head, covering his ears and about half of his forehead. Then he turned the corner and walked to the apartment building where he'd left Sorina Viorica. He had his head down but was watching out of the corners of both eyes, making sure he wasn't being followed or watched.

The building's front door was ajar. Stoner pushed in, wearing an easy nonchalance to camouflage his wariness. He double-pumped up the stairs to the second floor, then went directly to the apartment door and knocked.

No answer.

Stoner surveyed the hall and nearby stairs, making sure he was alone, then turned back and knocked again.

He'd left the key under the mat, but there was no sense checking for it — she would either open the door for him or he would leave.

Stoner took a deep breath. If she wasn't here, he'd get to work trying to commandeer information about the Russian Spetsnaz, flesh out that angle. Eventually he'd put together a program either to stop them or expose them. The station chief had already made it clear anything like that would need to get approved back in Washington, but Stoner didn't think he'd have trouble getting something approved if he linked it to the dead officers.

He'd spent the day rereading the police reports and visiting the places where they'd died. Nothing he'd seen convinced him that the Russians were involved. Or vice versa.

There was a sound at the door. Stoner saw a shadow at the eyeglass. A moment later Sorina Viorica opened the door. "I didn't think you were coming back," she told him. "I got tied up with some things." "Come in."

He walked inside. Sorina Viorica put her head out the door, checking the hall before coming back in.

"Your lock is better than I expected," she told him, walking to the kitchen. "But I don't know if the door would last."

"It will. Long enough for you to get out."

"Not even the army would be so stupid to come in the front way without watching the back. And the police are not as stupid as the army," said Sorina. A small pot of coffee sat on the back burner of the stove. She held it up. "Want some?"

"Sure."

"The stove is hard to start."

She ducked down, watching the igniter click futilely. Stoner examined the curves of her body. The austere toughness of her personality was matched by her athletic compactness.

The burner caught with a loud hush, a blue flame extending nearly a foot over the stove before settling down.

"You should get it fixed," Sorina said, putting the pot on.

"I'll tell the landlord."

She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. "While we are waiting," she said, handing them over, "give me a haircut."

"A haircut?"

"I need one." She pulled out one of the chairs and turned it around, then sat so her breasts were squeezed against the chair back.

"I'm not much of a barber."

"Just cut it straight. Lop it off."

Stoner took some of her hair. For some reason it felt softer than he'd expected. "How much?" he asked, moving the scissors along its length.

"Above my ears. Short. That's easy."

"Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"Yes."

He worked on it for more than an hour, each cut as tentative as the first. They stopped twice, to check his progress and to drink their coffee. About halfway through, Sorina reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She had to light it from the stove; Stoner thought the flame would singe her face when it caught.

When he was done, she took the scissors and went to the bathroom. After about five minutes she came out with her hair neatly trimmed.

"How does it look?" she asked.

"I liked it better long."

Sorina Viorica smiled for the first time since they'd met. "I am going to take a shower. When I am done, we can go for a walk."

They walked up toward the Boulevard Carol I, around the Piata C.A. Rosetti circle. Stoner watched the expressions of the people they passed, carefully looking for some sign that Sorina Viorica was recognized.

"I'm invisible here," she told him. "To the citizens — they don't know who I am."

"What about the police?"

She shrugged. "That I won't test."

They ate in a coffeehouse that served small sandwiches. Sorina ate hers in only a few minutes.

"Want another?" asked Stoner.

She shook her head, though he could tell she was still hungry.

"That is why we struggle," she said, pointing with her gaze across the room.

An old woman sat over a cup of tea. Her shoes were held together by string; her coat had a series of small rips on the sleeve and back.

"Before this government, people were helped," said Sorina Viorica. "But I don't expect you to understand. Your streets are filled with homeless."

Stoner called over the waiter. "I would like to buy the woman there a sandwich."

The waiter frowned, acting as if he didn't understand English — though he'd understood when Stoner ordered earlier.

"Here," said Stoner, pressing several bills into his hand. "Get her something good."

"Should I be impressed?" Sorina Viorica asked after the waiter left.

"Impressed?"

"By your generosity. Or was it part of an act?" "It is what it is."

"Even the people who should understand, don't," said Sorina, changing her tact. "You saw the waiter's expression. Yet he is not that much different than her."

"Nor are we."

She smirked. "When the revolution comes, then we will see who's different."

"I'd keep my voice down if I were you."

"This is the student quarter. If I can't talk of revolution here, where can I?"

Sorina Viorica spent the next half hour doing just that, explaining to Stoner that all her movement wanted— originally — was equity and peace for everyone.

"That wasn't the case under Ceausescu," Stoner said.

"No. He was a dictator. A devil."

"So you want to return to that?"

She shook her head.

"There are elections now," said Stoner.

"They are a front for the old line. The hard-liners, the military — they are the ones really in control."

"Then change it by voting. Not by violence."

"Will your country let us?"

"It's not up to us. It's up to you. To Romanians."

Sorina Viorica's face grew sad. "Our movement is dead. It has been hijacked. And if by some miracle we were to win, we would be a vassal again, a slave to Russia. They are all my enemies."

Stoner waited for her to continue, but she didn't. Whatever her personal story was — and he suspected there was a great deal to it — she didn't share. The CIA files had a single reference to her, because she'd been on a Romanian government watch list. She had relatives in Arad, a city near Hungary, but apparently her parents both died when she was young.

After they ate, they walked for a while through University Square. Sorina said no more about the movement. Instead, she told Stoner some of the history of the city— the old history, each building evoking a different period— nineteenth century, eighteenth century, seventeenth, sixteenth.

"You want me to betray them," she said as they walked up the steps to the apartment.

"You said they were your enemies. And that the only ones left were misfits, and criminals."

She took the key out of her pocket.

"They want to kill you," he said. "You could get revenge."

"You don't know me very well, do you, Mr. Stoner?" she said, and closed the door behind her.

Mickey McMichaels tucked the bell end of his stethoscope into his jacket pocket.

"I can't say you're in bad health, Breanna," said the flight surgeon. "You're in great health. But… Your knee doesn't hurt you?"

Breanna shook her head.

"Not even a twinge?"

She shrugged.

"No broken bones. Contusions are fading," he admitted. "Ribs, not even tender." "So what's the hang-up?"

"You were very dehydrated, you had a concussion, twisted knee, bruised ribs—"

"You're going to ground me for a few bruises?"

Dr. McMichaels pursed his lips. "Your knee is not back to normal. And as for that coma or whatever it was—"

"I've had two CAT scans that say I'm fine. Give me another."

"I may."

"X-ray my whole body. Do any test you want. Just give me my ticket to fly."

"You have to take it slow, Breanna. You have to give your body time to heal."

"It's healed. It's so healed it's starting to atrophy."

"I appreciate that you're bored. But you have to heal. And I have to do my job."

"Do it. Tell me what I have to do to get back in the air."

McMichaels sighed. For a second, Breanna thought she had worn him down. Then he shook his head.

"I'm not ready to say you can fly. You need more of a recovery period."

Breanna suddenly felt very angry. "I'm going to come back to you every day until you clear me."

"That's up to you."

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned and walked out of the office as quickly as she could, arms swinging, her cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. She was sure that if she were a man, they'd let her back in the air. Mack, Zen, her father — they'd all gotten in the cockpit with injuries more severe than hers. Hell, Zen was paralyzed and he was allowed to fly.

The thing that frosted her most of all — the doctors were taking out their own ignorance, their own mistakes, on her. They all wanted to believe she'd been in a coma or had major brain trauma. Well fine, except there was zero evidence— zero — of any brain damage. Of any abnormality whatsoever.

So, because they were wrong, they were taking it out on her.

Breanna stalked down the hall and up the ramp to the entrance to the med building, trying to contain her anger. She fixed her eyes on the ground as she passed the security station, too furious even to say hello. The cold outside air bit at her face as soon as she cleared the doorway; the tears she'd been holding back let loose.

She wiped them as best she could as she started in the direction of her on-base apartment. She was almost there when she spotted a knot of people coming out of the entrance, laughing and talking; she turned abruptly, not wanting to be seen crying. Quickening her pace, she found herself walking toward the hangar area. She pushed her fingers around her eyes, rubbing out the moisture.

But she didn't want to go into the hangars or the offices beneath them either. The only thing left seemed to be to go back home to their condo in Allegro.

Once again she turned, this time in the direction of the helicopter landing pad and the parking lot at Edwards.

"Hey, Bree, how's it going?" yelled Marty Siechert as she changed direction.

Breanna briefly debated with herself whether to stop, but it was difficult for her to be impolite with anyone, and Sleek Top had been a friend for a while.

"Hi, Sleek, how are you?"

"What's up?" The former Marine-turned-civilian test pilot bent his head to the side, as if the change in angle would give him a better view of her face. "Your face looks raw."

"I've been out in the cold."

"Where you headed?"

"Probably home."

"You talk to Mack about flying the B-1s or what?"

"Yes, I did." Her lower lip started to tremble. She stopped abruptly. "You all right?"

Her emotions felt like the lava in a volcano, surging toward the top. She nodded, and bit her teeth against her lips.

"Hey, how about we go get some lunch?" suggested Sleek Top.

"I don't know."

"Off base. I know a quiet lunch place. Kind of a dump, but the food's good. Italian." "All right," she said. "Sure."

As Sleek Top had said, Mama's was a bit of a dump, but the portions were large and the marinara sauce couldn't be beat. Breanna stayed away from the wine, as did Sleek Top, who was going to fly later that night.

"I don't know why I was so upset. I acted — I was like a little girl who had her toys taken away," said Breanna.

She'd calmed considerably. While she was still deeply disappointed about not being allowed to fly, she was also disappointed in herself. Showing emotion had been unprofessional. It wasn't like her.

"You've been through a lot," said Sleek Top. "Everything that's happened to you in the last few weeks? God, Bree, we all thought you and Zen were… dead."

"But we weren't."

"Maybe you should slow down a bit," he told her. "You know. Take a couple of weeks… "

His voice trailed off as he saw her frown.

"I don't mean permanently," he said quickly. "I mean, do a few things that you like to do. Hit some shows in Vegas. Play the slots or something."

"I don't play the slots. And I don't like shows."

"You don't like shows?"

She shrugged.

"It'll take your mind off things. You have to relax. What do you and Zen do to unwind?"

"Not much," she said honestly. "I mean, we'll watch some basketball or maybe baseball."

"Then go to a Lakers game."

"Oh, watching is such a—"

"No, no, go."

"To L.A.? I don't want to go all the way there by myself." "I'll go with you. I have a season package." "Thanks, Sleek, but—"

"Up to you. But really, you have to cut loose a bit. Relax. Slow down. I remember when I first left active duty. I was like a jackrabbit, practically bouncing off the walls. And the ceiling. I didn't know what to do with myself. Finally, I gave myself an order. Relax."

"And that did it, huh?"

"Sure. One thing Marines are good at — following orders." He smiled, then reached for the check. "Whereas you Air Force zippersuits never heard an order you didn't think was an optional request, right?"

The Megafortress shot forward, rolling down the concrete expanse toward a sky so perfectly blue it looked like a painting. The wind threw a gust of air under the plane's long wings, pushing her skyward with an enthusiastic rush. Flying might be a simple matter of aerodynamics, a calculation of variables and constants, but to a pilot it was always something more than just math. Imagination preceded the fact — you had to long for flight before you achieved it, and no matter how many times you gripped the stick and pulled back, gently or with a hard jerk, bracing yourself for the shock of g's against your face or simply rolling up your shirtsleeves for an afternoon's spin, there was always that moment of elation, the triumph of human spirit that set man apart from every other being. Flying was a triumph of the soul, and a pilot, however taciturn he might seem, however careful he was in planning and replanning his mission, savored that victory every time the plane's wheels left the ground.

Dog and his copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan, remained silent as they took the plane skyward. They hadn't flown together for very long, but the missions they'd been on had forged a strong bond between them. They had one thing above all others in common — both knew the Bennett as they knew their own hands and legs. The trio of men and machine worked together flawlessly, striding nose up in the sky, spi-raling toward 20,000 feet.

With all systems in the green, they set a course to the southwest, flying in the direction of Bacau.

"Flighthawk commander, are you ready for launch?" asked

Dog.

"Roger that, Bennett," replied Zen, sitting below in the Flighthawk bay. "I'm showing we have just over ten minutes to the planned release point."

"Affirmative."

"Beautiful day."

"Yes, it is," said Dog, surprised that Zen would notice, or at least take the time to mention it. Generally he was all business.

They turned the aircraft over to the computer for the separation maneuvers. Dog watched his instruments carefully as the Flighthawks dropped off the wings one at a time. The Megafortress continued to operate perfectly.

"Hawk One is at 10,000 feet, going to 5,000," said Zen. "Preparing to contact Groundhog."

Dog acknowledged. Groundhog was Danny Freah, who was introducing one of the Romanian units to the procedures required to interface with the planes. They planned on splitting their time this afternoon between two different units, going over the rudiments of working with the aircraft.

The Megafortress had two large air-to-ground missiles on its rotating bomb rack, but it was unlikely these would be used; even though they were very precise, there was too much chance of collateral damage. The Flighthawks, however, could provide close air support with their cannons if called in by the ground soldiers.

The focus of the mission was to provide intelligence: The Megafortress would use its J-STAR-like ground radar to follow troop movements or even vehicles, while the Flighthawks would provide real-time video of the area where the troops were operating. Though the Whiplash people could use their smart helmets to receive the video instantly, security concerns and numbers meant the Romanian troops would have to use special laptop units instead. Dog worried about their ability to receive the streaming video under battlefield conditions, but that was just one of the many things they'd have to work out as the deployment progressed.

With the Flighthawks away, he checked with his radar operators to see how they were doing. The men sat behind him on the flight deck, each facing a console arranged against the hull of the plane. On the right side, Technical Sergeant Thomas Rager manned the airborne radar, which was tracking flights within 250 miles. On the left, Technical Sergeant Jerry "Spiff" Spilani worked the ground radar. Rager had flown with Dog before; Spiff was new to the crew, though not to the job.

"Not too much traffic down there for rush hour, Colonel," said Spiff. "We have six cars in a five mile stretch."

"You sound disappointed," said Dog.

"Colonel, where I come from, we can get six cars in ten feet," answered the sergeant.

"And they're all stolen," said Sullivan.

"Generally." Spiff was a New Yorker. From da Bronx.

"Groundhog's on the line," said Sullivan, his voice suddenly all business. "Right on time."

Danny Freah adjusted the volume on the smart helmet's radio, listening as the Romanian lieutenant completed the exchange of recognition codes with the Bennett. In person, the lieutenant's pronunciation was nearly perfect, but the radio equipment made it sound garbled. The lieutenant repeated himself twice before Dreamland Bennett acknowledged.

"OK," said Danny. "Let's get some data from the Flight-hawk."

The unmanned aircraft streaked a thousand feet overhead, riding parallel to the nearby highway. Danny listened to the Romanian and Zen trade information. The Romanian lieutenant had trouble understanding Zen's light midwestern drawl, but he was able to see the video from the small plane on his laptop without any problem.

As planned, the lieutenant asked Zen to check out a road a mile south of them; they did that without a problem. Then the Romanians called in a mock air attack on a telephone substation about a hundred meters from the field they were standing in. This too went off without a hitch. The Flighthawk dipped down above the Romanian position, straightened its wings, then zoomed on the cement building, which had been abandoned some years before.

Rather than firing his cannon, Zen pickled off a flare. It flashed red in the fading twilight directly over the building.

The Romanian soldiers cheered.

I must be getting old, Danny thought. They all look like kids.

Zen pushed the Flighthawk through another turn, then dipped its wing to fall into another mock attack. The hardest part of the whole exercise was understanding the Romanians' English.

They weren't very good yet at estimating distances, but since he could use the actual GPS coordinates from the laptops as well as the Flighthawks' sensor to orient himself, finding the target wasn't particularly difficult.

After what he'd had to go through on his last mission, though, what was?

What do you do for an encore after saving the world? he mused.

It was an arrogant, self-aggrandizing thought — and yet it was true, or at least more true than false. Their last mission had stopped a nuclear war; you couldn't top that.

But life went on. There were still enemies to fight, conflicts to solve. Whether they seemed mundane or not.

There were also problems to solve and annoyances to overcome. Zen had decided to wear the MESSKIT instead of the "old" chute. It felt bulkier around his shoulders — not enough to interfere with flying the Flighthawks, but enough that he would have to get used to it.

The Romanian ground controller called for a reconnaissance flight over a nearby village. Zen located it on the Megafortress's ground radar plot. A cluster of suburban-type houses sat south of the main road, the center of town marked by a fire station and a small park. He wheeled the Flighthawk overhead, low and slow. The houses, built of prefab concrete panels, looked like the condo development he lived in back home.

They made him think of Breanna. He shut down that part of his mind and became a machine, focused on his job.

Switching on his mike, Zen described what he saw, four-sided roofs atop sugar-cube houses aligned in eight L's around the crest of a hill. He described two cars he saw moving into the complex, the row of parked compacts at the far end of the lot. He saw two people moving on the lawn below the easternmost house: kids kicking a soccer ball around.

"Very much detail," replied the ground controller. "Thanks," he said. "Next."

Up on the Megafortress's flight deck, Dog turned the controls over to his copilot and got up to stretch. In remaking the plane so that it had a sleek nose rather than the blunt chin the B-52 had been born with, the flight deck had been extended nearly twenty feet. Calling it spacious would have been an exaggeration, but the crews had considerably more elbow room than in the original.

Dog walked to the small galley behind the two radar operators, poured himself a coffee from the zero-gravity coffeemaker — one of the Dreamland engineers' most cherished and appreciated inventions — then took a seat next to the ground radar operator to see what things looked like from his perspective.

"Place looks pretty peaceful," Spiff told him. "You sure they have a revolution going on here?"

"Don't let that fool you," replied Dog.

"No, I won't, Colonel. But we could be looking at the Vegas suburbs here. Minus the traffic. Kind of makes you wonder why these people want to fight."

Dog went across the aisle to check on Rager, who was monitoring airborne traffic around them. The rebels weren't known to have aircraft; Dog's main concern was that a civilian plane might blunder into their path inadvertently. The commercial flight paths to and from Iasi lay to the north and east of where they were operating.

"Here's something interesting on the long-range scan," said Rager, flipping his screen display to show Dog. "These two bad boys just came into the edge of our coverage area."

Two yellow triangles appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Rager hit another switch, and the ghost of a ground map appeared under the display, showing that the planes were south of Odessa over the Black Sea, 273 miles away.

"Just sitting there," said Rager. "Doing a racetrack pattern."

"Ukrainian?"

"No. Russian. Computer, ID contacts Alpha Gamma six-eight and Alpha Gamma six-nine."

Small boxes appeared next to the yellow triangles; they looked like dialogue balloons in a comic strip.

The computer's tags identified the aircraft as Russian MiGs carrying four heat-seeking AA-11 Archer or R-27R missiles and two radar-guided AA-10 Alamo or R-27R missiles.

"Russian air defense," said Rager. "I think they're shadowing us."

"Long way from home."

"Yeah."

"You sure they're watching for us? They're pretty far away."

"True. But if I wanted to sit in a spot where I thought I couldn't be seen, that's where I'd be, just at the edge of our coverage. They may not think we can see them," Rager added. "Two hundred and fifty miles is the limit of their AWACS ships."

"Do they have one out there?"

"Can't tell, but I suspect it. Maybe another hundred miles back. This way, if we come in their direction, it sees us and vectors them toward us."

"Keep track of them."

"Not a problem, Colonel."

Dog went back to his seat. If Rager's theory was correct, the Russians must have been alerted to the Megafortress's flight by a spy at Iasi.

"Ground team's done, Colonel," said Sullivan as he strapped himself back into his seat.

"All right, folks. We're going to knock off," said Colonel Bastian. "Danny, job well done. We'll talk to you in the morning."

"Thanks, Colonel. Groundhog out."

"Set a course for Iasi, Colonel?" asked Sullivan.

"No. Let's do a couple more circuits here. Then I want to break the pattern with a dash east."

"The MiGs?"

"Let's see how they react," said Dog.

Dog told Zen what was going on, then prepared to make his move. He waited until they were coming south, then jammed the thrusters to full military power and turned the plane's nose hard to the east, heading toward the Black Sea. Given their position and the circumstances, it was far from an aggressive move — but the MiGs reacted as soon as they were within 250 miles.

"Turning east," said Rager. "One other contact — Tupolev Tu-135—I see what's going on now, Colonel."

"Where are the planes?" asked Dog. Rager's theories could wait.

"They're all turning."

Dog flicked the long-range radar feed onto his display. The Russian planes were definitely reacting to him; all three contacts had headed east.

"The Tupolev is tracking our radar transmissions," said Rager. "That's how they know where we are."

The Tu-135—a Russian aircraft similar in some ways to a 727—was outfitted with antennae that detected radar waves at long range. It could detect the Megafortress a few miles beyond the EB-52's radar track because of the way the waves scattered at the extreme edge of their range. There wasn't much that could be done about it, aside from turning off the radar.

"All right," said Dog. He put the plane into a casual turn back toward Iasi, as if they hadn't seen the Russians at all. "Now that we know the neighbors are Peeping Toms, there's no sense calling them on it. Let's get back to the barn for the night."

General Locusta opened the folder and began running his finger down the list of regimental and battalion commanders and subcommanders, mentally checking off each man he thought he could count on once he made his move. His division commanders had already been taken care of, with promises and bribes. But in some ways these men were even more crucial — they were closer to the troops, and would be directly responsible for acting when he gave the word. All but a few owed their present positions to him, but he knew that was no guarantee they would fall into line. It was important that the groundwork be properly laid.

Tonight he would make three calls, all to men whom he didn't know very well. In each case he would have another reason for calling — something he hoped would cement the commander's loyalty.

Locusta picked up the phone and dialed the commander of his Second Armored Regiment, Colonel Tarus Arcos. He caught the colonel eating dinner.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," Locusta said.

"Not at all, General," lied the colonel. "How can I help?"

"I wanted to update you on your request for new vehicles. I have been arguing with Bucharest, and believe we have won, at least the first round."

"That is good news."

Locusta continued in this vein for a while, taking the opportunity to badmouth the government. Then he asked about the colonel's mother, a pensioner in Oradea.

"Still sick, I'm afraid," said the colonel. "The cancer is progressing."

Locusta knew this; one of his aides had checked on her that very afternoon. Still, he pretended to be surprised— and then acted as if an idea had just popped into his head.

"I wonder if my own physicians at Bucharest might be able to help her," he said, as innocently as he could manage. "They are among the best in the country."

The colonel didn't say anything, though it wasn't hard for Locusta to guess that he was thinking it would be difficult to pay for special medical attention; seeing a specialist outside of your home region was not easy to arrange.

"I think that this would be a special service that could be arranged through the army, through my office," added Lo-custa after just the right pause. "One of my men can handle the paperwork. A man in your position shouldn't have to worry about his mother."

"General, if that could be arranged—"

"There are no ifs," said Locusta grandly. "It is done. I will have it taken care of in the morning."

"I–I'm very, very grateful. If I can repay you—" "Repay me by being a good soldier." Locusta smiled as he hung up the phone.

Danny Freah poked his fork into the red lump at the middle of the plate, eyeing it suspiciously. His hosts' intentions were definitely good, but that wasn't going to make the meal taste any better. He pushed the prongs of his fork halfway into the lump — it went in suspiciously easily — then raised it slowly to his lips.

He caught a whiff of strong vinegar just before he put the unidentified lump into his mouth. But it was too late to reverse course — he pushed the food into his mouth and began chewing.

It tasted… not bad. The vinegar was mixed into a sauce that was like…

His taste buds couldn't quite find an appropriate comparison. He guessed the lump was actually a piece of beef, though the strong taste of the sauce made it impossible to identify. In any event, it was not inedible, and much better than some food he'd eaten while on deployment.

"You like?" asked Lieutenant Roma, the leader of the Romanian army platoon Danny was working with. Roma had watched his entire taste testing adventure from across the table.

"Oh yeah," said Danny, swallowing quickly. "Very tasty." Sitting across from him, Boston suppressed a smile. "More?" offered Roma.

"No, no, my plate's still half full," said Danny. "Plenty for me. Sergeant Boston — he probably wants more." "Hey, no, I don't want to be a pig," said Boston. "Pig?" said the lieutenant.

"Oink, oink," said Boston.

"Animal?" Lieutenant Roma's pronunciation made the word sound like anik-ma-mule.

"It's an expression," said Danny. "When you eat more than you should, you're a pig."

The lieutenant nodded, said something in Romanian, then turned to the rest of his men and began explaining what Danny had said. They all nodded earnestly.

The Romanian platoon was housed in a pair of farmhouses south of Route E581, about three miles from Tutova. From the looks of things, Danny guessed that the buildings had been requisitioned from their owner or owners fairly recently. The walls of both were covered with rectangles of lighter-colored paint, presumably the spots where photos or paintings had hung. The furniture, old but sturdy, bore the marks of generations of wear. The uneven surface of the wooden dining room table had scrapes and scuff marks at each place setting, and the sideboard was topped by a trio of yellowed doilies, used by the troops as trivets for the serving plates.

Dinner included a helping of local beer for each man. The tall glass of golden pilsner was not enough to get anyone drunk, but it did add a pleasant glow as the plates were cleared. Danny, Boston, the platoon lieutenant, and the NCOs retreated to a nearby room to talk over plans for the next few days. Danny intended to stay with the unit for another day at least, so he could get a feel for how it operated in the field. At that point, he'd leave Boston to complete the training and move to the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters, where he would set up a temporary school. The most promising men from this unit would accompany him as assistant instructors. He hadn't worked out all the details yet, but he thought he would send Boston to some of the units in the field to judge how the training was actually working.

Some of the younger men spoke very good English, and when their lieutenant excused himself to take a phone call,

Danny asked them to describe where they'd grown up and what their childhoods were like. Most came from small rural villages in the southwest. To them, this part of Romania was almost a different country, more closely associated with neighboring Moldova than Romania.

Before they could explain the reason, Lieutenant Roma returned, his face grim.

"There has been a sighting of a guerrilla force three kilometers from here," he said. "Muster the men."

Stoner realized he had made a mistake speaking of revenge to Sorina as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. All he could do was brood about it, replaying the conversation in his mind as he struggled to find the key to her cooperation.

Sorina Viorica wasn't motivated by revenge, nor by money, the two most likely motivations for a spy. She wanted justice, though her sense of it was distorted. She could rail about a woman starving to death in the streets, but not do anything practical about it, like sharing her sandwich.

She'd railed against her movement, now taken over — in her eyes, at least — by the Russians and fools. But was that enough to make her betray them? Because it was betrayal, as she had said.

Certainly as long as she thought of the movement as a just one, she would not move further against it.

The Russians were a different story. But her knowledge of them was limited. Or at least, what she thought she knew was limited.

Stoner spent the day trying to flesh out the tiny tidbits she had given him, running down information on the Russians and their network in the country. The military attache, like all military attaches, was suspected of being a spymaster. He had worked in Georgia, the former Soviet Republic, possibly encouraging the opposition forces there before coming to Romania eight months before.

Right before the first CIA officer's death.

A coincidence?

Stoner spent the afternoon with a man who claimed to be the only witness to one of the deaths, a town police chief who had just moved to the capital and claimed to fear for his life. The police chief had been down the street when the car bomb that killed the CIA officer exploded. The American was on his way to meet him to learn about the guerrillas, and the chief was filled with guilt, thinking the bomb had been meant for him. According to the chief, there was no doubt that the guerrillas had planted it. Despite gentle probing by Stoner, he never mentioned the Russians, and when Stoner brought them up directly, the chief seemed to think it was a ridiculous idea.

After the interview, Stoner returned to the embassy. He'd asked for access to NSA taps on Russian communications from the country. This was not a routine request, but the nature of Stoner's business here facilitated matters. One of the desk people back at Langley had been assigned to help review the information. She'd forwarded some of the most promising intercepts, starting with a year ago. Paging through them, Stoner realized there was little direct evidence of anything. What was interesting was the fact that the number of communications had increased sharply after the new attache arrived.

Not a smoking gun. Just a point of interest.

There was still considerable information to sort through. Stoner decided to leave it to his assistant in Langley. He emerged from the secure communications room as perplexed as ever, sure that whatever was going on lay just beyond his ability to grasp it.

It was already dark, hours later than he had thought. He caught a ride over to the center of town, then took a cab to his hotel, checking along the way to make sure he hadn't picked up a tail.

Coming into his hotel room, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror opposite the door. His eyelids were stooped over, making his whole face sag. He needed to sleep.

First, a shave and a shower.

Though the room was one of a block that the Agency had under constant surveillance, he checked for bugs. Satisfied that it was clean, he went into the bathroom and started the shower. Hot steam billowing around him, he lathered up and began to shave.

He was about halfway through when his sat phone rang.

"Stoner," he said, answering it.

"What are you doing for dinner?"

It was Sorina Viorica.

"I don't know," he told her. "What do you suggest?" "You could meet me. There's a good restaurant I know. It's near the Bibloteque Antique." "Sure," he said.

"It is not so easy to tell you where they are," Sorina Viorica told him as they waited for their dinners. "You will kill them. Not you, but the army."

There was no sense lying to her. Stoner didn't answer.

"They were once good people. Now… " She shook her head. "War changed everything."

"Maybe you don't need to be at war. Maybe you have more in common with this government than you think. It's a democracy."

"In name only."

"In more than name."

She drank her wine. The short hair sharpened her features. She was pretty — he'd known that from the moment he saw her, but here in the soft light of the small restaurant, he realized it again. She'd gone out and gotten herself some clothes — obviously she had money stashed away, wasn't as poor as he'd thought. She wore a top that gave a peek at her cleavage, showing just a glimpse of her breasts. When they left the restaurant, he noticed how the red skirt she wore emphasized the shape of her hips.

They went near the Sutu Palace, once the home of kings, now a historical museum. It was a cold night and they had the street to themselves. Except for the bright lights that flooded the pavement, they could have been in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, royal visitors come to see the prince.

They walked in silence for a while. He knew she was thinking about what to do, how far to go with it. Eventually, he thought, she'd cooperate. She'd tell him everything she knew about the guerrilla operations.

But maybe none of it would help him fulfill his mission.

"So you come back to Bucharest often?" he asked.

"Not in two years."

"You seem to know your way around." "Do you forget the places you've been?" "I'd like to. Some of them." She laughed.

"Do you go back and forth a lot?" he asked her. "I have been in Moldova for the past year. And on a few missions."

Stoner wanted information about the missions, but didn't press. It had grown colder, and the chill was getting to her. He pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around her.

"Are you married, Stoner?"

"No."

"Would you like to be?"

"I never really thought about it," he lied.

"Are men really that different from women?" "How's that?"

She stopped and looked at him. "I can't believe you never thought about getting married."

Stoner suddenly felt embarrassed to be caught in such a simple lie. He was working here, getting close to her — and yet felt ashamed of himself for not telling the truth.

They walked some more. He asked about the missions, but she turned the questions aside and began talking about being a girl and visiting Bucharest. He tried gently to steer the conversation toward the guerrillas, but she remained personal, talking about herself and occasionally asking him questions about where he'd grown up. He gave vague answers, always aiming to slip the conversation back toward her.

After an hour they stopped in a small club, where a band played Euro-electro pop. Sorina Viorica had half a glass of wine, then abruptly rose and said she wanted to go to bed.

Stoner wasn't sure whether it was an invitation, and he debated what to do as they walked back to the apartment. Sleeping with her might help him get more information. On the other hand, it felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain to himself.

She kissed him on the cheek as they reached the door of the apartment, then slipped inside, alone. He was glad, and disappointed at the same time.

Colonel Bastian sat down at the communications desk in the Dreamland Mobile Command Center and pulled on a headset. He typed his passwords into the console, then leaned back in the seat, preparing to do something he hadn't had to do in quite a while — give an operational status report to his immediate superior.

The fact that he didn't much like General Samson ought to be besides the point, he told himself. In the course of his career, he'd had to work for many men — and one or two women — whom he didn't particularly like. It wasn't just their personality clashes, though. The truth was, he'd had this command, and now he didn't. Even having known that Dreamland would either be closed or taken over by a general, he still resented his successor.

The best thing for him to do — and the best thing for Dreamland — was to move on. As long as he was here, the friction between him and Samson would be detrimental to the unit and its mission.

"Colonel Bastian, good morning," Captain Jake Lewis, on duty in the base control center, said to him through the headset.

"It's pretty late at night here," said Dog. "Twenty-one hundred hours."

"Yes, sir. You're ten hours ahead of us. Soon your today will be our tomorrow."

Dog frowned. Somehow, the captain's joke seemed more like a metaphor of his career situation.

"Would you like to speak to General Samson?" asked the captain.

"Absolutely," lied Dog.

"Stand by, Colonel."

Dog expected Samson to be connected via the special phone up in his office. But instead the general's face flashed on the screen. Obviously he'd been in the command center, waiting for Dog to check in.

You couldn't blame him for that, Dog decided. He would have done the same thing. A lot of what Samson did, he would have done.

Differently. But what was bugging him was the fact that it was Samson doing it, not him.

Jealousy. Yes. He had to admit it.

"This is Samson. What's going on over there, Bastian?"

"Good morning, General. We've completed our first day of working with Romanian ground soldiers. There were some language glitches, but all in all it went well."

"What kind of glitches?"

"Nothing critical. A little hard sometimes to understand what they're saying, and I imagine vice versa."

"That's it?"

"No. I wanted to alert you to something that should be passed on to Jed Barclay and the White House."

Samson's scowl made it clear that he'd be the judge of that.

"While we were up, a flight of Russian MiGs flew over the Black Sea and part of the Ukraine. I believe they were shadowing us. They appear to have been working with one of their Elint planes to get an idea of where we were. I took a hard turn toward them and they vamoosed. I'm not positive, of course, but—"

"What do you mean, you took a hard turn toward them? You went into Moldova?"

"No, General, I didn't. I stayed inside the country's boundaries and flew in the direction of the Black Sea. But they were watching me closely, and it seems to me they didn't want to be noticed."

"Don't overanalyze it. What sort of planes?"

"Two MiG-29s, configured for air-to-air intercept. There was a Tu-135 just beyond them. We were too far to get comprehensive details. I didn't want to go out of Romanian airspace."

Dog watched Samson step over to one of the nearby consoles in the command center, consulting with one of the men there. Finally he looked back in the direction of the video camera attop the main screen in the front of the room.

"What else do you have?" asked Samson.

"Nothing else. I was wondering when the Johnson will arrive."

"Englehardt and his crew took off an hour ago," said Samson. "They should be there tonight, our time."

"Once they're here, I expect to start running two sorties a day. We'll stagger them—"

"I don't need the details. Carry on."

The screen blanked. Dog leaned back in his seat. He was sorry now that he'd agreed to take on the mission. He should just have gone on leave — he was more than entitled.

Rising, he took off his headset and pulled back the curtain to call the Whiplash communications specialist. As he did, the console buzzed, indicating an incoming communication.

It was Danny Freah.

"Colonel, we have something up," said Danny as soon as he punched the buttons to make the connection. "Report of a possible attack in a village southeast of us. We could use some Flighthawk coverage."

"We're on our way."

Breanna pulled up against the side of the pool, catching her breath. Her heart was pumping ferociously, the beats so fast she didn't count them. Fearing she was far over her targeted pulse rate, she took a deep, slow breath, savoring the oxygen in her lungs. Then she went to the side and pulled herself out.

"Hell of a workout," said one of the club trainers, a white woman in her mid-thirties with the unfortunate nickname of Dolly, though she didn't seem to mind it. "You were swimming up a storm."

Breanna nodded, still catching her breath.

"You OK, girl?" asked Dolly.

"I'm fine." Breanna forced a smile. She loved to swim, and the water workouts were easy on her knee, but her ribs ached from the vigorous strokes.

"You trying to prove something?" asked Dolly.

"Why?"

Dolly laughed. "I think you just broke the record for the 10K free-style." "Just that I'm in good shape." "No doubts there."

Breanna smiled, then grabbed her water bottle and the small towel she always took with her during a workout.

No doubt there.

All she had to do was convince the doc. Maybe she'd bring him along tomorrow.

She'd just reached the locker room when she heard her cell phone ringing. She opened the lock and took out the phone, opening it without looking at the number.

"This is Breanna."

"I got those tickets. Meet me over at the county airport at four."

"Tickets?"

"To the Lakers, remember?"

"Oh, Sleek. Um, OK. Sure. Where?"

Sleek Top leased part of a small Cessna that was kept at the Las Vegas airport; they'd take it to L.A., where the Lakers were facing Kings later that evening. He told her where to meet him.

"We'll grab something to eat at the game," he said. "I'll have you back home before midnight."

"Great," she said. "I'll see you then."

The Romanian platoon traveled in four 1980s vintage Land Rover III three-quarter-ton light trucks, and a pair of much older UAZ469B jeeplike vehicles. The former were badly dented and the latter were rusted, but their engines were in good order and the troops wasted no time moving out, driving down the highway in the direction of the reported guerrilla sighting. The gas pipeline was about fifteen miles to the northwest, and Danny wondered if the report wasn't the result of a mistake or perhaps hysteria until he saw the glow of a fire in the distance.

"It's the local police station," Lieutenant Roma told him, leaning back from the front seat of the UAZ. "They make these kind of attacks all the time."

The police station was located across from a church in a cluster of six or seven buildings just off the main road. The station was one of three wooden buildings nestled together, and the flames that had been started by an explosion had set the other two buildings on fire.

The Romanian lieutenant split up his force, using about half to secure the road on both sides of the hamlet. The rest came with him as he went to investigate the attack.

The men leaped out of the trucks as they arrived, shouting at the people in front of the burning buildings and telling them to get back. Everything was chaos. There were a dozen civilians, some crying, some screaming, others stoically using pails in a vain attempt to put out the flames.

A man in a soot-covered police uniform materialized from the right of the buildings, his face burned to a bright red by the heat. He had something in his arms — a doll, Danny thought at first. And then as he stared, he realized the doll was a human child who'd been pulled out of the building too late.

Tears streamed from the policeman's eyes, and Danny felt his stomach weaken.

Lieutenant Roma was talking with an older man near the steps to the church. The man spoke in almost a whisper, his head pitched down toward the ground, as if speaking to his shoes.

Roma listened for a while, then nodded. He moved away from the church, toward Danny.

"There were twelve," he told him. "They may have taken a policeman hostage. They blew up the building with no warning."

"Where'd they go?"

Roma shook his head. "They have the police car, the ambulance, and may have taken a truck as well. Someone heard tires screeching on the back road there." He pointed to the side street, which ran to the southeast. "It would make sense that they would go that way. They'll avoid the highway."

"Let's get after them."

The lieutenant frowned. Danny realized he wasn't hesitating out of cowardice — there was no local fire department, and he was debating whether anything could be done to stop the fire.

It was already far too late. Fed by the wood that had dried for more than a hundred years, the flames climbed into the night sky. The back of one of the buildings crumbled to the ground. The fire flared, but without wind to spread it across the street, it would soon run out of fuel, choked by its own ravenous hunger.

Thicker, heavier parts of the buildings — rugs, appliances— began to melt rather than burn. Acrid smoke spread across the road, stinging everyone's nose and eyes.

"Yes, let's go." Roma turned to the man and told him in Romanian that they would be back. Then he looked at Danny. "Are your people ready to help us?"

"They should be in the air any second."

Zen took over the Flighthawk as soon as it was launched, juicing the throttle and heading toward the GPS reading from Danny Freah's radio. The infrared camera in the Flighthawk's nose showed a docile, almost dreamlike landscape of empty fields broken only occasionally by small clusters of houses. It seemed impossible that there was a war here, but Danny's voice when he checked in sounded as grim as if he were in the middle of hell itself.

"We're traveling on local Road 154," said Danny. "They have a police car, an ambulance, and maybe a pickup truck. There may be a hostage."

"Roger that," said Zen. His rules of engagement required him to get permission not just from Dog, but the Romanian Second Army Corps commander before firing — unless the guerrillas were shooting directly at a Whiplash team member.

In that case he'd obliterate whatever he felt was a danger and ask questions later.

"Check the highways nearby, just in case," added Danny. "But we think this is the road they took."

"Yeah, we're on it."

Romanian road maps had been uploaded into the computer's memory. Zen gave a verbal command and the computer projected the map on the screen. After highlighting his position, it flashed an arrow on the highway Danny had mentioned, a long, winding road that ran from the larger highway to the south.

The road was about thirty miles away. Zen adjusted his course, turning so he would bring the road into view just south of Danny's location. Then he pushed the plane lower, his eyes locked on the view in the screen.

The road ran for about three miles, taking a few gentle S-turns past farm fields and ending at a shallow creek and woods. There were no vehicles of any kind along it. The infrared camera didn't show anything warm in the vicinity. Zen rechecked his position, then took another pass, slowing the Flighthawk down to get a better look.

Spiff, operating the ground radar, reported that the high way was clear, except for a fire truck responding from a neighboring town.

"Danny, are you sure this is the road?" Zen asked as he flew the Flighthawk north, passing over the army vehicles.

"It's their best guess."

Zen pulled up, taking a moment to consult the radar image of the ground. The odd thing about this road was that it didn't connect to any other roads; it was essentially a dead end, albeit a very long one, flanked by numerous barns and some isolated farmhouses. If the guerrillas had used it, they were almost certainly hiding somewhere.

Adrenaline was both a curse and a boon.Too much and you started to lose your sense of judgment, rushed into things without taking the wisest approach. Too little and you lost your edge, holding back when you should attack.

Even for Danny Freah it was a difficult balance. The dark night, the unfamiliar territory, and most of all his role as an observer rather than a leader, made it more difficult to walk the tightrope. His heart sped; his head told it to slow down.

Even though Zen had said the road was empty, Lieutenant Roma insisted on driving to the very end. When they reached it, he got his troops out and had them cross the creek, searching the woods and nearby fields. Danny, watching the infrared feed from the Flighthawk on his smart helmet's visor, could tell that the woods were too sparse to hide any of the vehicles. When he told the lieutenant, the Romanian replied that a few months back after a similar attack the troop had chased a small unit of guerrillas across a stream nearby and trapped them in the woods.

A nice story, thought Danny, but one that had no bearing on their present situation.

"They always go back across the border," said Roma. "They are cowards and head in that direction."

"But if they took a police car and the other trucks, shouldn't we look for them? They must be hiding in one of the barns we've passed, waiting for daybreak to launch another attack."

"They will abandon them somewhere," said the lieutenant.

"Why take something so obvious as a police car or an ambulance unless you're going to use it?" asked Danny.

"We have only the mayor's word that they took a police car. Sometimes they say things like that because they hope the government will give them new vehicles. That is what I think is happening here — it's a small village; there may not even have been a police car, let alone an ambulance."

Roma had left two of his men back near the village, and between them and the Flighthawk, it was unlikely that the guerrillas would be able to double back without being seen. But the allocation of resources bothered Danny's sense of priorities. When one of the soldiers thought he saw tire ruts on the other side of a shallow stretch of the stream, Roma ordered most of his men to cross the field and search, a decision that would not only waste time but fatigue the troops unnecessarily, Danny thought. He radioed Zen, who took a low, slow pass overhead.

"The terrain goes up pretty sharply at the end of the field," Zen reported. "I could see maybe a jeep getting in and through there, but not a car, let alone an ambulance."

"How about a pickup truck?"

"Yeah, I guess if it's four-wheel drive. But I don't see anything up there on the infrared. It'd be pretty easy to spot."

"You see tracks?"

"Those might be a little harder, but no, nothing obvious." "Keep looking, all right?" "I'm on it."

While Roma's men continued searching the area, the Romanian lieutenant checked in with his division headquarters. The border guards had been alerted, and another company sent over to the hamlet that had been attacked. Five people had died in either the explosion or the subsequent fire; two others were missing. It wasn't clear whether they had been taken hostage or were still somewhere in the smoldering ruins of the buildings.

When the search of the field failed to turn up anything, Lieutenant Roma called his men back and began a systematic search of the buildings they'd passed. The soldiers split into groups so they could cover each other as well as prevent an escape.

The first barn was quite a distance from its owner's house, and Roma didn't bother asking permission before inspecting it. After sealing off the driveway and posting lookouts on the other three sides, two men with submachine guns and a third with a grenade launcher took up positions opposite the large door, which was mounted on a track of wheels that allowed it to be pushed to the side to open. On the count of three, a pair of soldiers shot off the locks and hauled it aside, the runners squeaking and the men huffing as they pushed, then dove to the ground for cover.

Except for some old farm equipment and a few bales of hay, the interior was empty. The house didn't have a garage; after a precursory check of the owner's small Fiat parked in back, the troops moved on.

The second barn was right next to a house, and because of the proximity, the lieutenant decided to alert the owner to the search. After his troops surrounded the place, the Romanian and Danny walked up the creaky wooden steps to the front porch.

Danny had a premonition of danger. He edged his finger against the trigger housing of his MP5 as a light came on inside. A plump woman in her early fifties answered the door, wearing a bathrobe. For a moment she seemed confused. Then she turned angry and began scolding the lieutenant. Roma ignored her, signaling for his men to proceed. They shot off a lock in the nearby barn, hauled the door open, and began their search.

The woman shouted angrily. Roma turned his back on her, signaling for a squad to search inside the house. Enraged, she swung her fist at the back of his head.

Danny grabbed her arm before she connected. She screamed even louder, then spun and tried clawing at his face and bulletproof vest. He pushed her as gently as possible back inside the house. She squirmed against him, flailing with her fists, her fury unleashed. Afraid that she was going to grab his pistol, Danny went to push her away with his left arm and inadvertently smacked her across the forehead with the MP5. The woman staggered back, slapping her head against the doorjamb and then slipping to the floor. He reached out to grab her but was too late; she fell in a heap on the floor, stunned.

Two of Roma's men who had run up to assist grabbed the woman and dragged her farther inside. They pushed her into an upholstered chair. One pointed his rifle at her face and barked something in fierce Romanian. The rest of the squad began searching the house.

Danny stayed downstairs, unsure whether he would be needed or not. The woman sat in the chair, her eyes narrow slits and her mouth clamped shut. She looked as if her insides were literally boiling, her forehead reddened from the effort to keep from exploding.

The whole house shook with the heavy footsteps of the men searching above. Danny moved to the side of the room, watching an alcove that led into two rooms in the back. One of the rooms was a kitchen; a small vase of plastic flowers sat in the middle of the table between two candles, almost as if the woman were expecting a romantic evening.

"Nothing," said one of the soldiers to Danny in English as he came down the steps.

He nodded. The soldier began questioning the woman in Romanian, but she clamped her mouth shut. As the other men came downstairs, Danny decided he'd be of more use outside, and went to see what was going on.

He'd stepped off the porch and was just about to contact Zen when he heard a scream and a crash inside the house.

The soldiers filed out quickly. Danny went back and looked into the room. The woman lay on the floor on her back. Slowly, she rolled over and started getting to her feet. He was about to go help her but the expression on her face stopped him. She was afraid he was going to kill her, and he realized the kindest thing he could do was simply back away.

Outside, the barn and nearby grounds had been searched without anything being found. Danny checked in with Zen, then walked back to the troop trucks.

Roma was already there, talking to his commander. More troops were being sent to help with the search.

"I think one of your men hit the old lady in the house," Danny told him, explaining what he'd heard.

"You saw what she was like," said Roma. "Many of these people are like that."

"Still—"

"You had to hit her yourself."

"I grabbed her so she wouldn't hit you."

Roma turned and ordered his men into the trucks.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" Danny demanded.

The lieutenant didn't answer.

Danny grabbed his arm and spun him back toward him. "Listen, Lieutenant. You can't just let your men push around civilians."

Roma looked down at his hand, then back at him. "I'll ask what happened," Lieutenant Roma said.

"Good."

Danny got into the back of the jeep. Sitting there, he started to doubt that Roma would actually ask his men what had happened. Even if he did, it was likely nothing would come of it.

Yes, he had pushed the woman himself — but only to protect the lieutenant, who would have been hurt otherwise. Everything else was an accident.

Maybe it didn't look like that from Roma's perspective. And maybe the lines he was drawing were too fine to be practical.

"Two more contacts over the Black Sea, same as before," Rager told Dog as they circled above the area where the guerrillas had attacked.

"MiGs?"

"MiG-29s. Configuration: two AMRAAMskis, four small missiles, probably infrared AA-11 Archers," said Rager. AMRAAMski was slang for the Russian R-77 radar-guided antiair missile, a weapon somewhat similar to the American AMRAAM. AA-11 Archer was the NATO designation for Russia's R-73 short-range heat-seekers. "They're running a racetrack pattern 263 miles to our east."

"All right. Thanks."

"We going to take another run at them?" asked Sullivan. "We have better things to do," Dog told him. "We'll ignore them as long as they keep their distance." "What if they don't?" "Then that will be their problem."

The next barn they came to looked as if it dated from the medieval ages. One of its stone walls had caved in, and the rear of the roof was gone. The soldiers searched it anyway, using flashlights to sort through the shadows.

A smaller outbuilding sat behind it. This too was made of stone — large, carefully cut rocks the size of suitcases, piled like a complicated jigsaw puzzle beneath a sharply raked wooden roof.

The door, though, was metal. And new. And ajar.

Danny knelt down near the entrance, covering the soldiers as they went inside. The building wasn't big enough to fit a car, yet it reeked so badly of gasoline that his nose stung.

One of the soldiers emerged from the shed holding a small gas can. It was empty, as were the dozen others scattered inside. One had apparently spilled; the dirt floor was still muddy.

"Pretty recent," said Danny, toeing his boot through the residue.

Back outside, the soldiers had finished going through the main building without finding anything and were now fanning out to search the nearby area. The yard was rutted with tire tracks, but there was no way to tell how recent they were.

A stream ran at the edge of the property, thirty feet from the building. Danny walked over to the shallow water, examining the rock-strewn bed. Though only an inch or so deep, the creek was nearly eight feet wide, more than enough for a car or small truck to drive down.

Were there tracks in it? He couldn't be sure.

"Where does this go?" Danny asked Roma when the lieutenant came over to see what he was doing.

Roma shook his head and took out a map. Danny reached to the back of his helmet and clicked his radio on.

"Zen, that streambed behind the buildings where we are— can you check it out?" "Stand by, Groundhog."

Roma located it on his topo map and showed it to Danny. The stream ran about a hundred yards before swinging by another road.

"I'd better send some men around to cut anyone off," said the lieutenant, picking up his radio.

"Groundhog, this is Flighthawk leader. The stream runs down near a road that parallels the road you're on."

"Roger that. We're looking at a map right now."

"There's a culvert farther up and then it goes back to the highway. I've looked up and down, can't see anyone nearby."

"You think a car could drive down it?" Danny asked.

"Hard to tell. It looks relatively level. There are a half-dozen properties along the way that have buildings the size you're looking for."

"Can you get low and slow and give me a feed?" asked Danny. "The stream first. The lieutenant's going to send some men up it."

"Yeah, roger that."

Zen took two passes as Danny watched. It looked clear to him, though there were one or two places where someone might have been able to hide in the thick vegetation. Danny told Roma about them and started up with the men.

His suspicion that the guerrillas had used the creek as a road cooled as they went. While it looked flat from above, it gradually grew rockier and deeper, harder and harder for a car to pass.

The point man halted, then pointed to something on the bank.

Tire tracks veered up along the side. "Flighthawk leader, we think we found the spot where they came off," said Danny.

"Roger that, Groundhog," said Zen.

A second or so later Zen came back on the line, his voice tight.

"Four, five figures coming through the field to your north. They have a heavy machine gun. Twenty yards."

A split second later, the machine gun began chewing up the night.

Zen's momentum took him past the guerrillas before he could fire. As he turned back, he launched an illumination flare to silhouette the attackers for the Romanians. Then he pushed the Flighthawk's nose down, zeroing in on the machine gun. He sent a stream of 20mm rounds into the machine-gun spot. Two or three shadows began moving to his left, apparently running away.

"Bennett, we have contact on the ground," Zen told Dog over the interphone.

"Copy that, Flighthawk leader."

"Spiff, you see any vehicles moving on the roadway or behind that field anywhere?" Zen asked the radar operator. "Negative."

Turning back for another run, Zen realized he had lost track of where the Romanian soldiers were. Danny's GPS unit showed his location just south of the now mangled machine gun, but tracers were flying in every direction around him.

"Groundhog, I can't get a good fix on your team's position," said Zen. "Where do you want me?" "Stand by."

"Roger that," he answered, frustrated that he couldn't do more.

One moment Danny had everything sorted out in his head — where the guerrillas were, where the soldiers were, where he was. Then it was as if the world had spun upside down. Everything around him was jumbled. He couldn't tell who was firing at whom. Both the guerrillas and the Romanian soldiers had AK-47s, and even in harsh light thrown by the Flighthawk's illumination flare, telling the running figures apart was next to impossible.

Someone ran up from the stream and yelled at him in Romanian. Danny yelled back in English, not understanding a word.

The soldier twisted toward the barn and began firing. Danny couldn't see his target, but apparently the soldier hit it, because he jumped up and started running in that direction. Following, Danny got about four or five yards before tracers zipped so close he could practically feel their tailspin.

He threw himself down, then crawled to the soldier he'd been following. The man had been hit in the head four or five times. The bullets had ripped most of his skull apart.

A fresh salvo of gunfire flew from the barn. Danny flattened himself against the ground, using the dead man's body as cover. The bullets were heavy caliber, and they tore up the ground in little clumps as they sprayed across the field.

"Zen, you see that machine gun twenty yards from the barn?" said Danny.

"I'm on it. Keep your guys away."

Inaudible above the din and rendered invisible because of its black skin, the Flighthawk seemed to be a lightning bolt sent by God Himself. The earth reverberated as a tornado of dirt and lead swirled in a frantic vortex where Danny's enemy had been. Gun and gunner disappeared in the swirl, consumed by its fury.

The ricochets and shrapnel missed him, but not by much. A few hit the dead man in front of him, ripping his already torn body still further. Bits of cloth and flesh splattered over Danny, sticking to his uniform.

The gunfire across the battlefield abruptly stopped. Danny turned toward the stream and yelled for the lieutenant, whom he thought would be there by now, but he didn't get an answer.

He began making his way toward the barn, moving cautiously. He came upon another soldier, facedown in the field. As he checked to see if the man was alive, a shadow moved to his right. Danny raised his submachine gun to fire, stopping only at the last second when he saw what he thought was a helmet, the sign of a soldier.

"I'm Captain Freah!" Danny shouted. "The American observer. The American!"

The figure answered with gunfire.

Two bullets hit Danny's side. He spun to his right, sprawling on the ground. Though the carbon-boron cells in his body armor gave him considerably more protection than a standard bulletproof vest would have, he could practically feel the welts rising at the side of his chest.

Danny pulled himself around, catching his breath and trying to think of something he could say to get the man to stop firing.

He couldn't return fire — he'd lost his MP5 when he fell. Finally, the bursts stopped.

Danny watched as the shooter rose and began moving across the field, apparently thinking he'd killed him. As the man passed close by, Danny realized it wasn't a helmet he'd seen; the man was wearing a watch cap.

Danny waited, not daring to move until the man was behind him. Then he leaped up, twisting around and throwing himself on the guerrilla's back. He rode the man to the ground, then grabbed the man's rifle and began battering his head with the stock. The man tried to roll and fend off the blows, but Danny swung harder. He battered away, anger and adrenaline fueling a bloody revenge.

By the time he got control of himself, the guerrilla was dead, his face a bloody pulp.

Danny knelt next to him, watching as someone ran up from the direction of the stream. It was Lieutenant Roma.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah." Danny got up. "If you pull the men back, I can have the Flighthawk hit the barn."

"There may be hostages," said the lieutenant. "I don't want to strike blindly."

As if on cue, another machine gun began to rake the field from the second story of the barn. Danny put a fresh box of ammo in the gun he'd taken from the guerrilla and began moving to his right.

"Where are you going?" yelled Roma.

"I'll flank it, get an angle. You draw his fire from here."

"No. You stay. My men will take care of it."

"Draw his fire," insisted Danny. "I only need a few seconds."

Danny leapt up, charged to his right a few yards, then dove back to the ground before the machine gunner could bring his weapon to bear. In the meantime, Lieutenant Roma had begun firing. As the bullets swung back toward Roma, Danny lurched up on all fours and scrambled along the ground until he came to a slight rise. He crawled behind it and crept up along a narrow rift formed by a tiny stream that ran only after very heavy rains. He could see the machine gun's tracers, but not the gunner inside the building, hidden by the angle.

Before he could decide whether to go back a little and try from another spot, Danny heard a loud hiss in the field. He threw himself back down into a ball, rolling into a fetal position as a rocket-propelled grenade exploded in the machine-gun post.

He stayed like that for a full minute before he unfolded himself. The Romanian soldiers began moving forward in the dark.

"American!" yelled one.

"I'm over here!" answered Danny. A sergeant ran toward him. Danny saw three or four figures running past the barn; by the time he realized they were guerrillas, it was too late to shoot.

Lieutenant Roma joined him as his men worked their way toward the barn. There was still sporadic gunfire, but nothing as intense as it had been just a few minutes before.

"We have reinforcements on the way," Roma said, his voice tight with anxiety. "We're cutting off the road near the highway. Then we'll tighten the noose."

"How many troops are coming?" Danny asked.

"A company. Two. Whatever can respond. I don't think there are many more guerrillas," he added. "And those who are left may not have the stomach to keep fighting."

"They have plenty of stomach from what I've seen."

Zen spotted two figures running from the rear of the barn toward a building across a dirt road a hundred yards away. As he circled around, he saw someone else near the building. Suddenly, one of the walls seemed to give way. A small pickup truck emerged — it had broken through a garage-style door — and headed toward the road. The man nearby threw himself into the back. The two others ran and did the same. Another vehicle, this one a car, followed.

"Danny, I have a pickup truck and a sedan, mid-size, coming out of one of the buildings across the road, about a hundred and fifty yards north of your position," said Zen.

"Roger, we heard it."

"I can nail them."

"Negative. They may have hostages. Follow it for now."

Zen slipped the Flighthawk farther along the road. The Romanians had forces on the highway about three-fourths of a mile away, though there were several places the guerrillas could turn off. He tucked back, then decided to try and spook them by flying toward them low and fast, pickling a few flares into their windshields as he pulled up.

As he came out of the turn and started in, he spotted a small bridge over a stream ahead of the vehicles and got a better idea.

The bridge was little more than a few wooden planks over a culvert pipe. He climbed a few hundred feet, then pushed in, twisting the Flighthawk so its nose pointed almost straight down at the road surface. He mashed the trigger of his cannon, then waggled his plane left and right, chewing the wood up with his bullets.

The pickup appeared as Zen cleared. His attack had damaged the bridge so severely that it slid sideways as soon as the truck started across. The vehicle skidded but managed to get to the other side as the bridge collapsed behind it.

The car that was following, however, was stranded. Seven men hopped out and ran across the culvert to the truck. From the air, it looked like a circus routine, though without the humor.

"Truck got across the little bridge," Zen told Danny. "Six, seven guys getting out of the car, crossing. They're in the back of the pickup."

"Stand by."

The pickup drove about ten yards and then stopped. Everyone spilled out and began running toward a nearby house.

"Danny, they're going toward a building. I see no one that looks like he might be a hostage."

There was a pause as Danny conferred with Roma.

"See if you can stop them," Danny said finally.

Zen laid down a spray of cannon fire across the lawn of the house. Three or four men fell, but the others were too spread out for him to target in a single run. He circled back quickly, but by the time he brought his guns to bear, all but two had made it into the house.

Whether they had hostages before, Zen thought bitterly, they had them now.

The police car and an ambulance were in the barn.

So were two policemen. Both had been shot through the head.

Lieutenant Roma quickly regrouped his men, organizing them so he could surround the house where the guerrillas had gone. He seemed to realize that his fears about hostages had probably led to others being taken. Or maybe his somber mood came from the fact that the guerrillas had killed two and wounded four of his men in the field outside the barn.

Danny remained silent as they drove to the house. Half a dozen soldiers had already set up positions near it without drawing fire, but when the guerrillas saw the truck, they began shooting ferociously.

"Time is on our side," said Roma after they took cover. "We will have them surrounded as soon as our reinforcements arrive."

Had the guerrillas mounted a concentrated attack on one of the flanks, they might have been able to break through. But within ten minutes another platoon of soldiers arrived; a few minutes later, another.

The house sat in the middle of well-cleared plot of land, with good lines of fire for the army soldiers as they clustered behind vehicles and other cover. There would be no way for the guerrillas to escape this time. Their only hope would be some sort of negotiated surrender.

Along with the reinforcements, senior officers began to arrive: first a company captain, then a major; before an hour passed, a colonel arrived and took charge.

Roma introduced him to Danny as Oz, without reference to his rank. He had a brush mustache and eyes that sat far back in his skull.

"This is something new," Oz told Danny. "Ordinarily they don't take prisoners. But then we usually don't catch them like this. We are grateful for your help."

"That's why we're here."

"There are five girls in the house," said Oz. "The neighbors say they have a grandmother and an uncle living with them as well. From five to fifteen. Girls." The colonel shook his head. "Innocent people."

"Maybe you can get them to release them."

Oz frowned. "One of my men has already tried calling the house. No answer."

"Can we wait them out?"

"What other choice do we have?"

About a half hour later two armored personnel carriers arrived. Oz climbed into the rear of one, then the two trucks slowly advanced onto the front lawn, stopping about twenty yards from the house. The guerrillas made no effort to stop them, and, as far as Danny could tell, didn't appear at the windows.

The rear ramp of the vehicle Oz had gotten into slammed open. The colonel emerged, a microphone in his hand.

"What's he saying?" Danny asked Roma as Oz began to broadcast a message.

"Telling them they have to surrender," said the lieutenant. "He's giving them a phone number they can call to talk to us."

The colonel paused, evidently waiting for an answer. When none came, he repeated his warning and plea.

This time there was an answer — an explosion so violent it knocked Danny to the ground.

Even though Zen knew better, the explosion that rocked the house was so intense that for a second he thought the Bennett had unleashed a missile on the building. The fireball rose over the Flighthawk.

"Colonel, you see that?" Zen asked.

"I have it on screen," said Dog dryly.

"They blew themselves up. Shit."

"All right, Zen. Tell Danny we're standing by."

Bythetime Danny recovered, the fireball had fallen back into the ruins. Smoke and dust filled the air. All he could hear was the low rumble of the motor from one of the personnel carriers; the other had been choked and stalled by the air surge of the explosion.

Then the screaming began. A loud wail went up, as if all the world had begun to cry at once. A dozen men had been hit by shrapnel and were seriously wounded. Another two or three had been killed outright.

What remained of the house was on fire. The glow turned the night orange, casting long shadows around the yard. The Romanian soldiers began to move toward their comrades who had been wounded.

"Groundhog, are you all right?" asked Zen.

"Groundhog. Affirmative."

"What the hell happened? It looked like a piece of hell opened up."

The only thing Danny could think of was that the guerrillas had been carrying plastique explosives with them, and augmented their power with something they found in the house, natural gas, maybe.

"I heard there were kids in the house," Danny told Zen, still in disbelief.

"God."

"I'll get back to you."

Though he didn't have a med kit, Danny was a trained paramedic and realized he could be of more use helping the wounded than lamenting what had happened. He threw off his helmet and ran toward the bodies scattered along the lawn. Most were near the armored personnel carriers, lulled by the bulk of the big trucks into thinking they were safe behind them.

The first man he reached had been hit in the leg by a large piece of metal. The wound wasn't deep. Danny checked for little shards or metal splinters up and down his thigh; when he didn't find any, he made a bandage from the man's handkerchief and had him press down on it to stop the bleeding.

The next man was dead, killed by a large piece of wood that had slit his neck and its arteries wide open.

Oz was sitting on the ground behind the APC, dazed. The shock had thrown him off the open ramp of the carrier and he'd struck his head. His pupils seemed to react to the flashlight Danny shone in his eyes, but that didn't necessarily rule out a concussion, and Danny told him he'd have to be checked by a doctor. Oz nodded, but still seemed dazed.

Lieutenant Roma walked up as Danny rose.

"You see what kind of people we're up against, the criminals," said Roma. He had tears in his eyes. "Devils. Worse. Killers of children."

"It's horrible."

"They're slime," said Roma. "Cowards." "Yes," said Danny. Roma crumpled.

Danny knelt and saw that he'd been struck by something hard, a brick maybe, that had caved in the right side of his head. Blood trickled from his ear.

"Roma? Roma?" he said.

The lieutenant didn't answer. He wasn't breathing. He had no pulse.

Danny started CPR. A Romanian medic ran up; they worked together for a minute, two minutes, then five.

When ten minutes had passed and both men could no longer pretend there was still hope, they looked at each other for a moment. Then slowly Danny rose and went to see if there was someone else he might help.