by Dale Brown
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.
Allegro, Nevada
0908
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."
Dreamland
1006
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, depend
ing 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."
Bucharest,
Romania 2005
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 s
queezed 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.
