by Dale Brown
“So—you have traced the European drug problem to my country,” said the minister. “And now you are going to solve it on the backs of my police?”
“We actually have considerable resources on our own,” said Nuri. “If you don’t want to, uh—”
He saw Gleeb shake his head slightly and stopped in mid-sentence.
“The UN has many resources,” said the station chief, taking over. “But naturally they don’t have the intimate knowledge of Moldova that your forces do. Your people are highly trained, and any assistance that you can render would certainly be useful.”
“Hmmm,” said the minister. “And when would this assistance be needed?”
“Ideally in the next few days,” said Gleeb.
Nuri didn’t say anything. It would be better to have “permission” first. Then he would spring the date on the minister, hoping it would be too soon for any real involvement.
“You’ve already spoken to some of my underlings, Mr. Gleeb?”
Nuri couldn’t tell whether it was a question or a statement. Gleeb handled it smoothly, saying that he had “investigated the circumstances of the situation” before wasting the minister’s time.
Some cooperation might be arranged within the next month or two, said the minister, providing certain contingencies were met.
“I’m afraid the matter is much more imminent than that,” said Gleeb.
“How imminent?” asked the minister, refilling his wine.
Gleeb looked at Nuri.
“Tomorrow night,” said Nuri.
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ve found that any sort of delay, once we have an operation located, can be very detrimental,” Nuri explained. “So we’d like to move very quickly. We’d have to.”
“That might be a problem,” said the minister.
“We’re prepared to proceed.”
“They would naturally move only with aid from the government,” said Gleeb. “But they would not need a great deal of assistance.”
“I don’t know what sort of aid would be available on such short notice,” said the minister. “And it might entail expense—if we are talking about a large operation.”
“Reasonable expenses would have to be compensated,” agreed Gleeb.
A few minutes of negotiation followed. Neither man named a price; they spoke instead of things like manpower and vehicles.
“We really don’t need a lot of policemen,” said Nuri.
Gleeb shot him a glance, then turned back to negotiating. The old guy was good, gently pushing back without losing his good humor or angering the minister.
Nuri wondered if he could use Gleeb when he bought his next car.
They finally settled on three dozen men and two SWAT teams, with a pair of Hummer-style jeeps outfitted with machine guns. The minister agreed that the men would not be notified of the actual raid until the following evening, as a matter of security.
“And where is this adventure taking place?” he asked, once more refilling his glass.
Gleeb looked at Nuri.
“Outside the capital,” he said.
“Where outside the capital?” the minister asked.
“In the northeast. I mean, northwest.”
It was an honest slip, but it annoyed the minister. Gleeb had to step in and calm things, claiming that Nuri did not yet have the exact location himself. “And being a stranger to Moldova, I’m sure the name would mean nothing to him if he did,” he added.
“It is in the north,” said Nuri. “I just don’t know where exactly. As Mr. Gleeb said—”
“You will call me tomorrow morning.” The minister spoke to Gleeb, not Nuri. “You will have an exact location then. You will call me and we will have some men to work with you. An action like this must have some local involvement. They will not be in too much danger, I hope.”
“I will call you, yes,” said Nuri.
“You should have given him the name of a city in the district,” said Gleeb after they left. “You never want to make it obvious that you don’t trust someone. It’s disrespectful. You nearly scuttled the whole deal.”
“I don’t need any of those troops.”
“You’re not getting them,” said Gleeb. “You’ll be lucky to get a few police cars.”
“Not lucky—”
“You’re in a foreign country. You don’t know everything. You need cooperation.”
“Well—”
“Believe me, you do.”
Gleeb took him to dinner in a French restaurant, reputedly one of the best in Eastern Europe. The food was good, but Nuri had no appetite for it. The station chief gave him background about the drug trade in Moldova, outlining its connections to the government. At the moment it was one of the few export businesses thriving in the country.
“The forces he mentioned,” said Nuri after their plates were cleared.
“That was the price only,” said Gleeb. “Their equivalent salaries. You don’t have to worry about any of that. The actual cooperation will be arranged with one of his deputies.”
“The less cooperation the better,” said Nuri.
“Now, Mr. Lupo, you’re starting to sound like you know something,” said Gleeb, smiling and signaling for the check.
38
Dreamland
Turk’s foul mood didn’t lift even after General Wallace and some of his aides met him on the way back to the hangar and congratulated him on a great flight.
“The episode at the end demonstrated just how capable the plane is,” said Wallace. “And the pilot.”
“Thanks,” managed Turk.
“Future of the Air Force—manned flight,” said Wallace, emphasizing the last phrase. “Well done. Carry on.”
“Thank you, sir.” Turk didn’t point out that the phrase “manned flight” was actually a slogan from the space program, which wasn’t faring too well these days.
Three of the engineers responsible for the Sabre control systems, faces ashen, met Turk for the debrief. They looked like a trio of ghosts haunting an air wreck. They had already figured out the problem, they said—an errant line of code had prevented the proper routine from loading.
“You told me it was already fixed,” Turk said. “Isn’t this the problem from the other day?”
“This kept the right solution from loading,” one of the men explained. “We fixed it and had to fix it again.”
“It should have been tested.”
“It was tested. You were part of the tests.”
I pushed the buttons you told me to push, thought Turk, but it was useless to argue.
Breanna Stockard caught up to him and Tommy Stern a few hours later at Hole 19, one of the all-ranks lounges on the main Dreamland base. Turk, sipping a seltzer, was standing at the bar talking to a nurse whose curly brunette hair hung down over her eyes in what seemed to him the cutest way imaginable. He bought her a drink, then started talking about his Ducati motorcycle, hoping to set up a date to take her for a ride.
Stern, who was married, stood by quietly, occasionally rolling his eyes.
“Captain, there you are,” said Breanna, striding across the room toward the bar. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” said Turk, though in truth he would have preferred the interruption to come a little later.
“I have to be going,” said the brunette.
“Hey, hang out a minute,” said Turk. He reached for her hand but she pulled it away.
“Sorry. Lot of stuff to do.”
Turk watched her walk away. It was definitely his loss.
Stern made his apologies as well, which was clearly fine with Breanna. They took a table in the corner.
“I saw what you did on the landing,” she told him, pulling out her chair. “It was very good piloting.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“And you’re modest,” she said sarcastically.
“Some days.” Turk took a long sip of his seltzer.
“No more Sabre flights un
til the entire low-altitude protocol is rewritten and retested,” said Breanna. “I’ve already given the order.”
“That’s overkill. There’s nothing wrong with the plane.”
“I’m not talking about the Tigershark. I meant the Sabres and Medusa.”
“Well . . .” Turk suddenly felt protective of the UM/Fs, though he couldn’t for the life of him have explained why. And in fact he’d made more or less the same argument to the engineers earlier. But there was something about having a system that he was working with grounded that put him on the defensive. “I guess.”
“When are you leaving for Prague?”
“Couple of hours.” He held up the seltzer.
Sobriety was actually a nonissue in the Tigershark, because the aircraft’s flight computer put the pilot through a series of mental tests before it would unlock its systems. Supposedly, the test could figure out if you were overtired as well as inhibited by drugs or alcohol. Turk, close to a teetotaler anyway, had never tested it.
“Plane’s ready?”
“All ready.”
Turk was taking Tiger Two. The rail gun had been removed for security purposes; unlike the plane, its existence was still top secret. It also did not have a Medusa unit.
“I’m going with you,” said Breanna.
“In the Tigershark?”
She gave him a funny look. “Of course not. I’m going in the C–20.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s in that seltzer?”
She meant it as a joke, clearly, but Turk felt embarrassed.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said.
“My family’s going to be there. And I thought I would take a look at what’s new. Supposedly the Russian PAK-FA will be there. It might be good to take a look.”
“At 1980s technology, sure,” sneered Turk.
“I wouldn’t underestimate what the Russians and Indians can do if they work closely together,” said Breanna. “Anyway, if we can get together before the show, I’d like to get your thoughts on the plane’s potential and where we can go from here.”
“Is Zen going to be there?” Turk asked.
“Yes.”
“You know, I’d love to, uh, go like to dinner or something with you guys. If I could, um, you know, kinda hangout.”
“Sure.” Breanna rose. She hadn’t touched her beer, Turk noticed.
“The Defense secretary has arranged for me to talk to some of the NATO representatives in the morning on the future of manned flight,” she added. “There’ll be a panel discussion afterward. I thought you’d be a good person to sit on it.”
“Me?”
“You don’t think you’re qualified?”
“Well, yeah.”
“A sudden lack of confidence. That’s refreshing.” Breanna smirked. “You want some advice, Captain?”
“Sure.”
“Fancy Italian motorcycles can definitely be a turn on, but talking about how close you can get your knee to the ground going around a curve—not so much.”
39
Northeastern Moldova
The Wolf assault team went through the entire sequence twice more, starting with the mock attack inside the steel building and ending with the SUVs. Danny got the impression that they were still at the walk-through stage; they stopped midway through the second time, rearranging how the teams ran to the cottages where the helos were kept.
The SUVs were interesting. They looked like full-sized trucks, but two people could pick them up with ease. Were the trucks extremely lightweight, like the helicopters? Or were the men ridiculously strong?
The exercise concluded at two in the morning. After the choppers were returned to the cottages, the farm looked exactly as it had before sunset.
“You figure they’re going to sleep?” asked Flash.
“Debrief the session first,” said Danny. “While it’s still fresh. Then sleep.”
“Beers, then sleep,” said Flash. “How long—an hour?”
Danny stared at the screen. He wanted to strike during the dark, minimizing the possibility that his attack force would be seen on the way in. Should he hit the force during the exercise or afterward?
Afterward was his preference. Not only would they be tired, but he could pump gas into the building first, increasing the odds of getting them without a fight. His orders called for him to “use nonlethal means of apprehension” if at all possible.
Danny had wide discretion on that. No one was going to complain if everyone in the house ended up dead, especially now that they’d seen their rehearsal.
And if Stoner was there?
They watched the group gather in one of the rooms on the first floor, going back over the exercise as Danny had predicted. A half hour later all but two were in rooms upstairs, apparently sleeping.
Danny wanted to get Stoner out alive, if he was there.
“You keep looking at the images, like you might recognize him,” said Flash.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you thought it was bull.”
“I do. Mostly.”
Flash nodded.
“Tomorrow, we wait an hour after they pack it in, when they’re sleeping like now,” said Danny, as if Flash had asked him what the plan was. “Pump the house full of the gas, hit them quick. First sign of resistance, we flatten them.”
“No argument from me,” said Flash.
40
Reagan International Airport
Getting around without the use of your legs was never exactly fun, but being disabled and flying a commercial airline flight could be a special trial. Most of the major carriers had special wheelchairs designed to fit down narrow plane aisles; the chairs could then be folded away in the cabin storage areas. But that still left you beholden to the stewardess when you had to use the john.
The bathrooms were their own special hell, though at least Zen wasn’t claustrophobic. He also had the money to fly first class, and was a U.S. senator.
Having a cute kid and a good-looking coed in tow didn’t hurt either.
“Senator Stockard, nice to have you aboard,” said the steward, who met him in the jetway to the plane. “And is this lovely lady Teri Stockard?”
“Yes, I am,” said Teri.
“Excited about flying?” asked the attendant.
“I like to fly,” she told him. “My mom lets me take the controls.”
Zen smiled. Breanna occasionally rented a twin-engine Cessna.
“You’re Caroline,” said the steward to Zen’s niece.
Caroline nodded. She tended to be a little shy around strangers. Zen thought she had no reason to be—she was smart and attractive, not unlike her aunt Breanna.
“Major Stockard.” The pilot practically jumped out from behind the door, hand out, looking to shake. “You don’t remember me, I’ll bet, but I was driving MC–17s back when you were with Dreamland. We were on a deployment with Whiplash. Great to have you aboard, sir.”
“Long time ago,” said Zen, who didn’t remember the pilot. He’d left Dreamland as a lieutenant colonel, so the rank narrowed down the time frame a bit, just not enough to help. “How have you been?”
“Great, great. How’s the political life treating you?”
“Can’t complain. I have a lot of bosses. Meet one of them.” He held his hand out to his daughter. “Teri, this our captain.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The pilot bent down and shook her hand, then looked at Caroline. “This can’t be your wife.”
Caroline blushed.
“My niece Caroline,” said Zen.
Two of the other flight attendants came out and helped Zen and the girls get squared away. The rest of the passengers flooded in, most looking a bit harried and anxious to get going.
Cockpit door closed, the aircraft pushed back from the gate, then slowly began trundling toward the runway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m glad to have you aboard with us this evening for our flight to Prague,” said the pilot
, introducing himself and the crew. “Bob and Lisa will be reviewing some of our emergency procedures with the help of a short video in just a second. Before we get to that, though, I wanted to let you know that we’re flying today with a former member of the U.S. military who has been decorated for bravery under fire more times than most of us breathe. He’s now a member of the U.S. Senate. I knew him as Major Zen Stockard; you might just call him Senator. I’d like to salute him and thank him for his service to our country.”
The passengers broke into spontaneous applause.
Zen glanced down at his daughter. His eyes were starting to swell with tears.
“Something wrong, Daddy?” asked Teri.
“Nothing wrong, baby. Now make sure your seat belt’s tight, right? Pilot can’t take off without it good and snug.”
41
Northeastern Moldova
Nuri’s suspicions about the minister proved to be correct—within a few minutes of the CIA officer’s visit, the NSA intercepted two calls from the minister to people who lived in the northeastern corner of the country. The phone calls were short and to the point: the minister said he was taking a vacation for a few days, and they should, too.
Nuri guessed that they took his advice. He wasn’t particularly concerned with the details, however, since neither man owned property anywhere near the Wolves’ farm.
He called the minister’s cell phone the next morning at exactly eight o’clock and told him that the farm was near Drochia, the capital of the province of the same name. This was fairly vague as well as incorrect, but it satisfied the minister.
“One of my deputies will call you within the hour,” he told Nuri. “In the meantime, if you need further arrangements, please let me know.”
The minister’s tone suggested that it would be very much all right with him if they never spoke again. Which was fine with Nuri as well.
The deputy, Johann Lacu, called within the hour. He spoke English fairly well and had a clipped, professional style Nuri liked.
The deputy asked how many men he needed; Nuri told him no more than six.
“Six is a very small number,” replied Lacu. “These criminals may be very desperate.”
