by Dale Brown
"Very good. Buckle up, gentlemen. We're about to land."
* * *
Despite the fact that he acted as Dreamland's liaison, Jed Barclay had been to the base only a handful of times over the past two years. He'd never been there with the President, however, and so was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the secret base managed: Not only had a pair of Megafortresses and EB-52s escorted them in, but a half-dozen black special operations Osprey MV-22s hovered alongside Air Force One as the 747 taxied toward the hangar area. Six GMC Jimmy SUVs raced along on either side of the big jet, flanking it as it approached the small stage set up just beyond the access apron. The entire area was ringed by security vehicles and weapons. Mobile antiaircraft missiles stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Razor antiaircraft lasers. There were antipersonnel weapons as well — large panels of nonlethal, hard plastic balls were strategically placed on the outskirts of the audience area, along with an array of video cameras and other sensors. Given how difficult it was to get to Dreamland, the gear was obviously intended to impress the President and his party.
Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President's stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access — and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members— would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.
The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they'd seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.
Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.
Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men — the sergeant called Boston, whom he'd met before — then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general's hands moved energetically, visual exclamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who'd been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn't quite hear what Samson was saying, but knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be "I." "Jed!"
Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.
He knew she'd been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who'd made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met — or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.
Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter's after a title bout.
"The chair is just temporary," she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered. "They're really babying me. I only strained my knee. It's embarrassing."
"Hey, Bree," he said.
He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.
Breanna sat back down.
"Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display," she said. "My dad is with him. They're going to let the President take the controls for a spin."
"He'll like that."
Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.
"Look at me, I'm nervous," said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.
"So who is this lovely lady?" President Martindale asked. "Jed, are you going to introduce me?"
"This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard," he said.
"Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots," said Samson, a half step behind the President.
"An honor to meet you, Mr. President," said Breanna.
She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.
"Captain, it's an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you. You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew — the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It's beyond words, frankly. I'm the one who's honored."
Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician— no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catastrophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.
"We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President," said Breanna.
"Some of the best. And you'll be getting more. Right, General?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course."
"Now where the hell is Dog?" said the President, turning around and looking. "He's responsible for all this."
A look flashed across Samson's face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.
"Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot," said Samson, a little stiffly. "We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks."
Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK. Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.
"I'd love it, Terrill. Let's do it."
Bucharest, Romania
1550
Stoner took Sorina Viorica back to the safe house in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal. Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.
Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection — it would be too easy to track communications.
"This is my prison?" said Sorina when they reached the back room.
"It's not a prison."
"Oh, it's a resort. My mistake."
Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he'd been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.
"And what do you expect me to do here?" asked Sorina, still standing.
"Tell me more about the Russians."
She didn't respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head — it was a kind of traitor's regret, trying to pull back from what she'd already decided to do.
He had to reel her in gently.
"We can get something to eat," he suggested.
"I'm not hungry."
"If you dye your hair, you won't be recognized," he told her. "You may not be recognized now."
She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn't be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She'd insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren't being followed.
"You want me to go out and get you some food?"
he asked. "For later."
Sorina shrugged, then added. "So I am a prisoner?" "No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want." She frowned.
"Unless you'd rather go to the embassy." "No. I am not going there at all."
That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.
"And what are you doing?" she asked.
"I'll get this looked at." He gestured toward his side. "And I have to talk to some people. I'll be back tomorrow."
"When?"
"Afternoon, maybe. I don't know." "What if I'm not here?" "I'll be disappointed."
She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn't been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.
"Well, then I'm leaving," she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.
He knew she was testing him, but he wasn't sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair — too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn't get up, he'd fall asleep.
Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.
The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.
If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.
* * *
"So the Russians are definitely involved?"
"She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea."
"Is she going to give you more information?"
Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn't sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.
"But the Russians are definitely involved?" repeated Fairchild.
"That's what she claims."
"If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that'd be quite a feather in your cap."
"Yeah," said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn't need any more feathers in his cap.
"Who are the Russians?"
"From the description, it's Spetsnaz," said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federal-naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB. "She gave me two names on the way down. First names."
"Useless," said Fairchild. "And probably false."
"Yeah."
"Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it," added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. "When are you seeing her again?"
"Soon." Stoner hadn't told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she'd run away, it'd be obvious soon enough.
"The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if they put a priority on the mission," said Fairchild. "If George and Sandra were close to something."
Stoner didn't think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world. But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman's art, but in Stoner's experience it was a vicious business.
"I'll tell the Romanians what happened to their men," said Fairchild, rising. "Don't sweat it."
"OK."
"Their guns weren't fired at all?" Stoner shook his head.
"I may make them… I may make them sound a little braver than they were."
Who knew how brave they'd been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?
"Sure," said Stoner. "Say they saved my life."
Bacau, Romania
1600
General Locusta made sure the door to his office was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.
"Still having trouble with the rebels, I hear," said Karis as soon as he picked up. "Nothing too serious, I hope."
"I can deal with the rebels. At the moment, they're useful."
"So I would guess. You're getting even more men?" "I've been promised."
"You have to move soon. There are rumblings."
Locusta cleared his throat, but Karis did not take the hint.
"Some of our backers think an even stronger hand is needed," said Karis. "By failing to deal the rebels a death blow—"
"I told you. I am dealing with the rebels." "The gas line will be very valuable once you are in charge. The revenue."
"I would not want anyone to overhear you speaking like this," said Locusta, finally losing his patience.
"There is no problem on my side. Is there on yours?"
Locusta needed Karis — it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to move on the capital if his troops opposed him. He also trusted him; they had been friends for years, and his fellow general hated President Voda even more than he did. Still, Locusta found Karis's impatient arrogance hard to stomach. He'd always been headstrong, and while it would be unfair to call him impetuous, he showed less caution than Locusta felt he should.
"There are no problems," Locusta assured him. "But we must be careful."
"Yes. So?"
"I am almost ready," said Locusta. "The Americans?" "They can be dealt with."
"Good. We are ready. But you must move quickly." The general hung up without adding that he was moving as quickly as he could.
Dreamland
0700
Dog stepped back as the President settled into the big chair next to Zen and began manipulating the control stick. No kid with a computer game on Christmas morn ing had a broader smile than Martindale's as he took over control of the plane, pushing it into a climb straight overhead.
Dog asked himself if he truly deserved the Medal of Honor. Only a few dozen members of the Air Force had ever won one. Nearly all, he knew, had given their lives in combat.
He'd been prepared to do that as well — he'd come very close, within a few feet, but survived.
Death wasn't a criteria for the medal. But he somehow felt he was an imposter, a pretender who didn't deserve it.
The President rose from his chair, turning the aircraft back over to Zen to land. People began to applaud. Dog's thoughts continued to drift. Breanna was wheeled up. He smiled at her, then glanced at Zen, who was beaming himself. They were good kids.
Old enough to have kids themselves by now. Though for some reason he wasn't exactly looking forward to being called Grandpa.
"The country, the world, owe you a great deal," said the President, beginning his speech. "I can't tell you how proud, how very proud and honored I am to be here."
Jed felt the vibration of his BlackBerry just as the crowd began to applaud. He pulled it out and thumbed up the message. It was from Colonel Hash, the NSC's military liaison.
RMNIA UPDATE URGENT/ALERT FREEMAN ASAP
Jed slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket and immediately began sidling toward the side of the audience area. He tried to appear nonchalant, pasting a bored expression on his face before double-timing up the boarding ladder.
The communications officer aboard Air Force One nodded at him as he went into the small compartment and sat down at the machine reserved for NSC use. Jed punched in his passwords and waited a few seconds while the computer connected him with his secure account.
The CIA had forwarded a report from one of its officers in the field, Mark Stoner, and endorsed by the Romanian station chief. Stoner had made contact with a member of the Romanian "resistance movement." The source claimed that the attack on the pipeline the night before had not been authorized by the rebels' governing committee. She believed that it had been either instigated or made di
rectly by Russian special forces units. She also blamed the Russians for the murders of three CIA officers in the country over the past several months.
CREDIBLE WITNESS. SHE APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN PURSUED BY RUSSIAN SPECIAL FORCES IN MOLDOVA. REPORTS A SPLIT IN GUERRILLA LEADERSHIP. CLAIMS DWINDLING GUERRILLA NUMBERS, BOASTED BY RUSSIAN SPETSNAZ TROOPS. I AM IN THE PROCESS OF GATHERING FURTHER INFORMATION.
There was additional information from the ambassador at Bucharest, indicating that the damage to the Romanian pipeline would be fixed within a few days. The Romanian government had tried to keep a lid on information about the attack, but someone claiming to be a spokesman for the guerrillas had posted photos on the Web earlier that day and contacted the Romanian and German media.
And the country's president, Alin Voda, had called the ambassador on his personal line and requested American air assistance "to hunt the criminals before they make their next attack."
Jed backed out of his account and went to find his boss.
* * *
"I know there have been a lot of rumors about a Medal of Honor for Colonel Bastian," said President Martin-dale, wrapping up his speech. "Let me just say this — they're true."
The audience, which had applauded politely a few times as Martindale spoke, erupted with a loud and unanimous hurrah. He stepped back and gestured to Dog, signaling that he should step forward to the mike.
"I really don't deserve this honor," said Dog, taking the microphone and addressing the others at the base. "You do. You all do. You've made my time here fantastic. Mr. President, there's no better command on the face of the earth."
"We have another update from Romania," whispered Philip Freeman, stepping up toward the President. "It may interest you."
"Let's discuss it on the plane."
"Yes, sir."
A few minutes later, aboard Air Force One, the President listened to Jed review the message from the CIA.
Meanwhile, a quick scan of the networks and news wire services showed that the energy market was already reacting to the news of the attack. Natural gas prices had shot up nearly thirty percent, and petroleum futures were trading ten dollars higher — which would have an impact on America as well as Europe.
