by Dale Brown
"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.
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
above northeastern Romania
2235
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."
Near Tutova, northeastern Romania
2237
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.
IV
Burnt Wood and Flesh
U.S. Embassy, Bucharest
26 January 1998
0410
Stoner rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he looked at the photo of the house and the aftermath of the guerrillas' explosion. There was a torso in the foreground. The other photo showed a baby's arm clutched around a doll.
The American ambassador to Romania pushed the rest of the photos toward the far side of his desk, no longer able to look at them. The ambassador, rarely seen in public without a tie, wore a hooded yellow sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans, as if he were going to work on his car when they were done.
"Pretty gruesome, I'd say." The ambassador shook his head. "Bastards."
"Yeah," said Russ Fairchild, the CIA station chief. "This is what they're up against."
"Was it the Russians or the guerrillas?" asked the ambassador.
"Had to be the Russians," said Fairchild. "That much explosives?"
Stoner leaned forward and took the rest of the photos. Fairchild was probably right about the source of the explosives. But the description of the operation he'd heard from the Dreamland people made it sound too amateurish for Spetsnaz.
He flipped through the pictures, which had been taken by the Romanian army on the scene. The guerrillas were in pieces, their bodies shattered when the explosives blew.
Stoner found a severed leg. He slipped the picture onto the ambassador's desk.
"They were guerrillas," he told the others. "See the shoes?"
"God," said the ambassador, reacting to the gruesomeness of the shot.
"An old Puma," said Fairchild.
"The Spetsnaz people who came after me had new boots," explained Stoner. "Besides, the Russians would have tried to shoot their way out."
Fairchild nodded. The ambassador seemed to be in shock.
"Can I have these?" Stoner asked, rising.
"By all means," said the ambassador. "We can print more."
"Mark?" Fairchild called after him as Stoner started down the hall. "Stoner — where are you going?" "I should be back tomorrow," he said.
Dreamland
25 January 1998
1810 (0410 Romania, 26 January 1998)
Samson paced behind the console near the front of the Dreamland Command Center, impatiently waiting for the connection to the White House Situation Room to go through. He'd put the call in ten minutes earlier, and had been standing by ever since.
Dealing with the National Security Council and the White House was still new to him, and try as he might, Samson couldn't help but feel a little excited. And nervous. He'd had Mack Smith prepare a PowerPoint presentation, complete with images from the explosion. The photos were dra matic, illustrating again what the Dreamland people—his people — were up against.
And by extension, what a good job he was doing commanding them.
"Connection with the White Hous
e," said the specialist at the station to his right.
Samson raised his chin and looked at the main screen. Instead of a video feed of NSC head Philip Freeman, however, Jed Barclay's face came up.
"General, sorry I was late. The President called me into a meeting."
"Yes," said Samson, trying to hide his disappointment that he was dealing with a kid barely out of his teens instead of Freeman himself.
"Do you have an update?"
"I have the report from Colonel Bastian regarding the guerrilla attack," said Samson. "The Dreamland units tracked the guerrillas and helped detain them. As a matter of fact, I have a presentation—"
"Yes, sir. I was wondering if there was an update on the Russian aircraft. You'd told me about that earlier."
"There's not much more to tell," said Samson. "They had contacts at a very long distance. Bastian believes there are spies in Iasi that watch them take off."
"OK."
"I have images from the Flighthawk of the guerrillas exploding the house," said Samson. "I had them prepared for the President. If you'd like to see it—"
"We got some photos from the embassy an hour ago," said Jed. "So I think we're good. They came from the army. Pretty gruesome. That's pretty much all we need."
"OK."
"I'm sorry, I'm late," said Jed. "If you want to upload the report, I can check it out when I get back."
Samson fumed. What was the kid late for? A date?
"I'll have my aide do it," said Samson frostily. "Oh, there was something I wanted to mention to you," added Jed. "Kind of on down low." "Down low?"
"Between us. There was a discussion today relating to the B-1 laser project. Apparently some members of Congress were asking the Pentagon what was going on with it."
"What questions?"
"You'll have to sweat the specifics through channels, General. I didn't get the details myself, but the tone was, uh, um, hard-nosed. Like they wanted to kill the plane completely. Seems the B-1 has a bad reputation."
"Unjustly."
"Well, the reason I'm mentioning it is, the President was looking for an update."
"It's right on schedule," said Samson. Then he remembered that in fact it was a few weeks behind. "More or less on schedule. What is the President's concern?"
"I really can't speak for him," said Jed. "But, uh, you know with the way Congress is, um, funding… "
Samson got the message. Well, at least Jed was good for something. And maybe Freeman had purposely had the kid talk to him, so his "fingerprints" weren't on the warning.
"I just thought you'd like the heads-up before someone from the Pentagon calls," added Jed.
"Yes, yes, actually — thank you, Jed. Good information. I owe you one."
"Uh, yes, sir." Jed signed off.
"Where the hell is Mack Smith?" Samson thundered.
* * *
Mack Smith stared at the mountain of folders on his desk for a moment, then picked up the phone. "Mack Smith."
"Is this General Samson's chief of staff?" "Yes, sir."
"I figured you'd be working late. This is Robbie Denton. Colonel Denton."
"Oh yes, Colonel Denton."
The name was vaguely familiar. Mack quickly flipped through the folders. Darby, Denton… ah, Denton was the man General Samson had tapped to take over Combined Air Wing 1, the new designation for the Megafortresses and other aircraft and personnel when on a Whiplash deployment.
"Colonel, good to hear from you," bellowed Mack. "All right. Glad I happened to be working late tonight. A real fluke. Now, as far as security procedures go, I'm afraid we're a little anal about the process. The first thing you need to do—"
"Listen, Major, I'm going to save you a little time here. I've had second thoughts on the job." "S-Second thoughts, Colonel?"
"Actually, I never really wanted to take it in the first place. I love what I do now. It's the best job in the world. I just had a hard time telling Terrill that the other day."
"Um—"
"He's a force of nature," Denton told Mack. "That's why they call him Earthmover."
"Colonel, you really want to tell him this yourself."
"No, no, that's why I asked for you. I was his chief of staff back when he was in Strategic Air Command," added Denton. "I don't envy you."
"Oh."
Mack dropped the handset on the cradle. Samson wasn't going to be happy; by Mack's count, Denton was the third person he'd offered the job to. Part of the problem was that Samson only wanted proven overachievers, all of whom already had high-profile jobs to begin with. But they were also men he knew personally, which meant they'd served time under him… and therefore knew that working for Samson wasn't exactly a holiday.
As he could testify firsthand.
He got up from his desk. There was no question of going home — he had a week's worth of work that had to be finished by the morning. But he was hungry and could use a break.
The phone rang again. He started to leave anyway, thinking he'd let it roll over to voice mail, then saw that the light indicated it was an internal call.
"Mack Smith," he said, picking it up.
"General wants you down in Dreamland Command ASAP," said Lieutenant Stephens, the com specialist on duty there. "Actually, faster than ASAP."
"Tell him I'm on my way," said Mack.
Maybe he's going to compliment me on my PowerPoint presentation, he thought as he walked briskly down the hall to the elevator.
Perhaps. But "good" and "job" were two words that Samson rarely put together, except as a preface to an order for more work. If Samson did like the report, he would probably tell him to make a hundred copies each with personalized comments and have them sent out by midnight to everyone in the Pentagon.
The ride down to the secure command center was so quick Mack felt a little light-headed; he regretted not grabbing something to eat earlier. He nodded at the security sergeant standing in front of the door, then pressed his palm against the reader. The doors opened.
"Where have you been, Mack?" growled Samson from down near the center screen.
"Going through some reports, General. How'd the White House briefing go?"
"Fine," said Samson in a voice that suggested the opposite. "What's the status of the B-1 program?"
"Pretty much what it was the other day. Program head is due sometime next week and—"
"What are we doing in the meantime to get it back on schedule?"
"It's not really that far off, General. In some respects—"
Mack stopped short. Samson's eyebrows furled and his cheeks puffed out. Had he opened his mouth just then, he would have looked like a grizzly bear.
And not a particularly happy one.
"What I mean, General, is we're moving it right back to schedule, as you directed," said Mack quickly. "We do have the pilot shortage to deal with."
"Why don't we have pilots, Major?"
"Well we do, but in terms of being checked out—"
"That's your solution?"
"I'm working on it, General."
"That's not a good enough answer, Major. You've been working on this for days." Hours at least, thought Mack.
"General, I can't just shanghai pilots from other projects or units. Even once the budget line—" "Why not shanghai them?" Mack blinked.
"I don't care what you do, Major. Find a solution. Get the program back on schedule. I want the B-1s on line. I want to tell the White House tomorrow that they're ready to go operational. I want to tell them to gear up the production line."
"Well, they are ready to fly, General, that's not—" Mack stopped speaking as General Samson walked up toward him. It wasn't just his face that looked like a grizzly bear now.
"There's one thing you have to understand when you work for me, Major," said Samson, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't like excuses. I don't like explanations. Results. That's what I like."
"Yes, sir."
"Get it done, Mack." Samson's voice was almost inaudible. "
Get it done."
"I'm on it right now, General."
Los Angeles Forum, Los Angeles
2132
The Lakers were down by two with eight seconds to go when Kobe Bryant took the ball in bounds. He looked across court, saw that Rick Fox was covered, then turned down toward the key.
Shaquille O'Neal had just drawn double coverage. Kobe hesitated just a second, as if he was going to scoop the ball up for O'Neal anyway. And then in a flash he was running toward the foul line. As he reached the paint, he jumped high in the air. The ball twirled off his fingertips as the buzzer sounded.
Rimming the hoop, the ball fell into the basket with a swish.
A referee ran from the scrum near the backboard, his hand in the air. Kobe had been fouled.
"Oh my God," said Breanna. She'd spent practically the whole fourth period on her feet, as the Lakers had mounted a stop-and-start comeback after trailing by fifteen. And her knee felt fine.
"Great game, huh?" said Sleek Top, next to her.
"Fantastic."
Kobe went to the line for the point that would win the game. He bounced the ball a few times, bent his knees, then bounced it again. Finally, he lifted it, raised it toward the basket, and let it go. The ball spun sharply, hit the glass and slapped in. The crowd shouted at the top of their lungs. Sleek Top grabbed Breanna and hugged her.
"What a game!" he yelled in her ear. "What a game!"
The fans were slow to leave the arena, but once in the hallway there was a mad rush for the exits and the cars. Sleek Top led Breanna around a line of cars to a row of men holding signs for private taxis. Recognizing one of the drivers, he pointed at him and then started to follow, ushering Breanna along.
Breanna was still in the glow of the game when they got into the back of the Lincoln. She was thinking how jealous Zen was going to be that he'd missed it.
"Great seats," she said to Sleek Top.
"Yeah. I don't know what happens next year when they open the Staples Center. I may go to the back of the line. But for now, gotta enjoy it."
The driver eased into the line of cars waiting to get out.
"Want to go and get a drink?" said Sleek Top. "A little nightcap?"
