Revolution d-10

by Dale Brown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Perhaps," admitted Hartmann.

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

  It was obvious who the President had in mind.

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

  * * *

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

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

  Bastian?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "A day or two?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  III

  Killers of Children

  Iasi Airfield,

  northeastern Romania

  24 January 1998

  1600

  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?" D
og 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 th
ey'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.