Revolution d-10

by Dale Brown

  Locusta's anger flared, and for a moment he considered what would happen if he punched the major. The man was shorter than he was, but built like a wrestler, thick around the neck, with large forearms and a chest like a barrel.

  If he decked him, there would be a moment of elation, then consequences.

  "I owe you nothing," said Locusta. "And I will owe you less if there is an attack on the base."

  "General, our relationship has been profitable and surely will be more so in the future. You do not want Romania to be a member of the EU, or NATO. Nor do we. You want to be president — we find that very acceptable."

  "What's your point?" snapped Locusta.

  "The point is, we will do as we please," said Jurg. "You will have to accept it."

  As a young boy, Locusta had struggled to control his emotions. He had gone to great lengths to learn the discipline needed to push away his anger and clear his head for logic. As a twelve-year-old he had stood in his parents' kitchen, his hand over the burning wick of a candle, testing how long he could leave his fingers there despite the pain. His goal had been to recite the times tables backward from twelve times twelve while holding his hand above the candle. It was a game as much as an exercise, but it had served him well. When his anger threatened to careen out of control, he often thought back to the candle and the sensation of heat at his fingertips, and regained control.

  "I will accept no more casualties at your hands," he said coldly as he rose.

  "General, who said anything about casualties?" said Svoransky. He put his hand out and touched Jurg on the shoulder. "A way will be found to embarrass the Americans without involving you. We just want you to be aware of it. My companion and his people won't even be involved."

  "Don't contact me again," said Locusta.

  "Now now," said Svoransky. "Remember, we are friends."

  The words impaled themselves in Locusta's consciousness, playing over and over as he drove himself back to his Second Corps headquarters.

  Near Tutova, northern Romania

  1400

  It took roughly six hours for the train to get from Bucharest to the station near Piatra Neamt. Sorina Viorica spent most of the time sleeping. She lay against Stoner's shoulder, the weight and her scent pleasant despite everything he told himself.

  "We need a cab," he said to her when they got to the platform.

  "A town like this won't have a taxi." "Then we'll hire a driver."

  "Where?"

  "The stationmaster will know," said Stoner, heading toward the ticket office. "He'll have a brother-in-law or a friend in need of work."

  It turned out to be a sister, which was fine with Stoner. He gave her the address he'd written down.

  The woman read it and glanced at him, a worried look on her face. Stoner nodded solemnly, then fanned the ten twenty-dollar bills he'd concealed in his fist.

  The address belonged to the house that had been blown up. It took nearly an hour to get there. When they arrived, the police and a small contingent of soldiers were still guarding it, but they were able to drive up the road and park a short distance away, close enough to see the ruins.

  And smell them. The scent of burnt wood and flesh still hung in the air when they got out of the car.

  Stoner led her toward the house. Rags covered with blood lay on the front lawn.

  "What is this?" Sorina Viorica asked.

  "Your friends did this," he told her. "The ones you don't want to turn in. The dregs who are left. Six children died. This is their blood. Girls, one to ten years old. Or maybe there were seven. The remains were so mangled, it's hard to tell."

  "Look." Stoner pulled the photos from his pocket. "See if you can tell which were the bombers and which were the victims."

  Tears streamed down Sorina Viorica's face. She started to look at the photos, then pushed them away and ran back toward the car.

  Allegro, Nevada

  0508

  Breanna threw off the covers and got out of bed, wincing a little as she walked toward the bathroom.

  "Time to get up, time to get up," she told herself, throwing on the shower.

  She'd had only a few hours sleep, but she was determined to get her rehab session over with, then get over to the base, kick butt on the physical and whatever other bs the doctors threw at her, and get herself back on full duty.

  Full flight duty. Flying.

  She was back. During the entire Lakers game she hadn't thought about being hurt once. Her head felt fine. Her legs, ribs, arms — there were still bruises and a few creaks in her joints, but she was A-okay. There was no reason she couldn't get back in the air.

  Zen was back. Mack was back. Her father was back.

  The only difference between her and them was her gender. And that was absolutely not going to make a difference.

  The cold water hit her like an electric shock. She resisted the urge to pump it up to hot, instead lathering and moving as quickly as possible. She'd do her hair after her workouts.

  Sleek Top had been quite the gentleman after the game. He was such a sweet guy that she hated hurting him. If it weren't for Zen…

  Her teeth chattered as she hopped out of the shower. She pulled a towel around her, more to ward off the cold than to actually dry herself, and walked out to the kitchen to get Mr. Coffee working. Then she went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  She was getting back in action, all the way back. There was no other goal, and no rest until that goal was achieved.

  Bucharest, Romania

  1810

  "I will tell you where they hide in Moldova," Sorina said in a quiet voice on the train back to Bucharest. "But I must do it in my own way."

  "You can do it any way you want," Stoner told her.

  "They were not always so… "

  Her voice trailed off. She couldn't find the right word. He could think of several — ruthless, despicable, gutless — but he said nothing.

  They were sitting opposite each other in a first class car, the space between them divided by a table. Sorina Viorica got up and slid next to him. Then, clutching his chest, she began to sob.

  * * *

  The night was a slide down a long slope, preordained. He brought her back to the apartment and started to leave; she looked at him and took a step, and from that moment he no longer resisted, no longer had another self, a professional self, to stop him.

  He'd had occasion to use sex as a weapon, or, more accurately, as a means to an end several times in his career. This wasn't like that. It was considerably more dangerous. It was real.

  He slipped into bed with her, moving quietly, softly. Then his hunger grew. Making love, it became insatiable.

  He fell asleep with Sorina in his arms, his last thought that he had crossed a line that should never be crossed.

  Dreamland

  1030

  The last five minutes were sheer hell. Breanna felt as if her legs were going to fall off and her lungs were about to collapse within her chest. But she kept running.

  She kept running because she was coming back, and nothing was going to stop her.

  She leaned forward, pushing the soles of her sneakers against the treadmill surface, pushing and pushing as she struggled to finish the stress test. When she'd started, she thought of it as a race, and pitted herself against the clock. Now it was just survival, a race against the growing ache in her muscles, against pain that surged from her bones.

  She was going to make it. She had to make it.

  The buzzer sounded but she continued to run, comprehending that it was over yet unable to transmit the message to her legs.

  Simply collapsing was not an option — the doctor was right behind her, taking it all in.

  Gradually, she got her legs to slow. Her breathing was still labored, but as she slipped into a walk, her breathing began to ease and the pounding of her heart grew less intense.

  Her knee was throbbing — running put a great deal of pressure on the joint — but it held. She stepped off
the machine, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

  "Well?" she asked the doctor. "What do you think?"

  He didn't say anything. Instead, he motioned her toward the curtained examining area at the back of the room.

  "You're going to check my blood pressure?" Breanna asked as he took the cuff from its little shelf on the wall.

  "Of course."

  "Didn't those machines tell you everything you need to know?"

  He shrugged. Clearly he was determined to give her a hard time.

  "And?" she said pointedly.

  "There's no doubt that you have a healthy heart, Captain," he said. "And that in general you're fit." Breanna started to smile.

  "That doesn't mean I'm clearing you to fly," he added. "Your knee doesn't hurt?"

  She shook her head.

  "Hold out your arm," he ordered.

  Breanna did so. The cuff felt hard against her bicep. She tried to relax. The doctor took the reading, frowned again, then let the pressure off.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "It's all right."

  "How all right?"

  "Diastolic, seventy. Systolic 115." "That's 115 over seventy, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Which is normal."

  It was actually the highest Breanna could remember her blood pressure being, but it was in fact well within the normal range. The doctor had no alternative but to declare her fit for duty — active duty, active flying, back in the air.

  Back! Back! Back!

  But not quite.

  "You need General Samson's approval," he said.

  "What?"

  "Procedure. The wing commander has to sign off. The wing commander hasn't arrived, so you have to go to General Samson."

  "You don't want me to fly, do you?" she said.

  "I think you need more rest, yes," he said. "And I'd urge you to take a couple of weeks off."

  "I don't want to take time off."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because I don't."

  "You're being stubborn."

  "Where does that fit on your medical chart?"

  The doctor shook his head. "The truth is, I can't hold you back. I know, and you know, that if you'd taken this same test a couple of months back, you wouldn't have been huffing at the end. I also know you did a lot better on it than probably half of our pilots. Physically, you've definitely recovered from your ordeal. I should write a paper on your recovery." He smiled, trying to soften his sarcasm.

  "But… "

  He took out his stethoscope and twirled it around his hand.

  "But what?" asked Breanna. "That coma bothers me."

  "You call it a coma. I was just tired and asleep. My body had to heal."

  "Listen, Breanna. I haven't known you that long. I know you're driven. I appreciate that. And you've achieved a hell of a lot. I know it must have been twice as hard for you because you're a woman. But really, you should take it easier. Slower. If you were Jeff—"

  "What would you tell Zen?"

  "I'd tell him to slow down, too," said the doctor. "Listen, if you do get approval from the general, would you please try to take it easy? Just a little?"

  Breanna threw her arms around him joyfully.

  "I will," she said. "Now do you have papers for him or what?"

  Dreamland

  1103

  As a rule, General Samson didn't like Marines. They tended to be too full of themselves for his taste. But Marty "Sleek Top" Siechert was a retired Marine, and while the Marines had a saying that there was no such thing as an ex-Marine, Samson considered that his separation from the service and the intervening years — Sleek Top was close to fifty — had sanded some of the edges off.

  Colonel Denton's decision not to take the spot as wing commander under him — a career killing move if ever there was one — forced Samson to make some compromises. Naming a retired Marine pilot head of the B-1B/L program was one of them. But he wanted to move the colonel he'd tapped for the B-1L/B project over to wing commander, and, just as important, he needed the B-1s ready to hit the flight line yesterday.

  "Heading the program is a big responsibility, General," said Sleek Top as they finished a walk around Boomer. "And I was under the impression that you wanted all active military heading programs."

  "You are military," said Samson.

  "I'm retired, sir."

  "A bit young to be hanging up the saddle."

  "I meant, I'm a civilian, General."

  "Yes, yes, I know that," said Samson. "I've considered it.

  But you're my man. The B-1s — we need them operational. The Pentagon is pushing for a demonstration very soon. Congress is very keen on this, and the President himself likes the aircraft. It will be a good spotlight for your future career."

  "There's nothing really holding them back," said Sleek Top. "The basic air frame has been tested and retested. They're not that much different than the standard B-1Bs in terms of overall systems. The laser, of course, and the engines are more powerful, but the core of the computer system was adapted from the Megafortress, and we know that works. All that's necessary is to complete the testing cycle."

  "Then get moving."

  "General, that's not quite as easy as it sounds. For one thing—"

  "How did Bastian get the EB-52s operational?" said Samson. Sleek Top laughed. "What's so funny?"

  Sleek Top shook his head. He looked as if he had a goldfish in his mouth and it was tickling his tongue.

  "Out with it, Marine," demanded Samson.

  "Well, Colonel Bastian—" Sleek Top interrupted himself to chuckle. "Colonel Bastian made a habit of putting the weapons right into the mix, officially approved or not. His whole theory was that the real tests didn't happen until they were on the battlefield anyway, so he'd send the geek squad out with the planes, get everything in motion. Sometimes it blew up in his face, of course, but mostly it worked. Then when the Pentagon came around asking questions, he'd roll out the results. Had them eating out of his—"

  "How close is close?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The B-1s. What would happen if they went into combat?"

  "Well, uh—"

  "If Colonel Bastian were here and he suggested it, what would you say?"

  "I'd say… " Sleek Top thought about it for a moment. "I'd say that if you had enough pilots, there'd be no problem. But I'm the only pilot regularly assigned and—"

  "Get the planes ready. I'll find the pilots."

  "General, you just found one," said Breanna Stockard.

  Samson turned around and saw Breanna standing behind him, a broad grin on her face. She'd been listening to most of the discussion.

  "Captain, good morning."

  "General, I need you to approve my flight fitness report, sir. I'm ready to get back in the air."

  "You think that's a good idea so soon?" asked Sleek Top. "You were in some pretty heavy action."

  "I'm ready. I just passed a stress test."

  Breanna handed Samson a folder with her medical report. The general opened it and took a quick glance. At the top of the page — excellent health.

  There were typed comments at the bottom: "Although Bre-anna Stockard is physically in top shape and appears to have recovered from her ordeal off the Indian coast, I would still recommend that she take a few weeks off… "

  Doctors, thought Samson. Always finding excuses for people not to do things.

  He looked up from the folder. Breanna was a good-looking woman — not that he would let himself be influenced by that. But she was definitely in good shape, and her record spoke for itself. The after-action reports, even though they'd been written in terse, matter-of-fact prose, read like war novels.

  Of course, she was also Colonel Bastian's daughter. But you couldn't hold the sins of the fathers against the offspring.

  "You're in good shape?" he asked.

  "Sir, I'm ready to kick butt. Can I fly?"

  "Damn straight you can fly." Samson shut the folder abru
ptly. "Get this over to my office, get it signed off by the chief of staff. I'm looking for big things out of you, Captain."

  Tears were brimming in Breanna's eyes. That was the one thing about women that Samson couldn't entirely handle— they got emotional at the drop of a hat.

  "Carry on," he told her, and spun away.

  Bucharest, Romania

  27 January 1998

  0900

  Stoner woke to the smell of coffee. He jerked out of bed, grabbed his watch. He'd slept for nearly ten hours. He hadn't been out that long in ages.

  He pulled on his clothes and went to the kitchen. Sorina Viorica was there, cooking something in a frying pan. She'd taken a shower or a bath while he was sleeping; the scent of her soap filled the room.

  She'd done something else, as well — dyed her hair jet black.

  "Hello there," she said.

  "You did your hair."

  "Black, yes. The color of an outcast."

  He went to her, not knowing what to expect, either of himself or her. She folded her body to his willingly; his complied without hesitation.

  "We have a lot to do," he said.

  "Yes, but first we should eat," she said. "I bought some eggs."

  Iasi Airfield, Romania

  1305

  "Hey,Colonel, another message incoming," yelled Sergeant Lee "Nurse" Liu, who was handling the communications desk at the back end of the Dreamland Command trailer.

  Dog sighed and turned back around. He'd been hoping to take a nap before the night's sortie, but one thing or another had interrupted him since returning from the Romanian command meeting.

  "It's a private phone call, Colonel," said Liu, rising.

  "Phone call? From the States?"

  "No, sir. Sat phone. Encrypted too."

  Dog sat down at the terminal and put on a headset while Liu slipped discreetly to the front of the trailer.

  "This is Bastian."

  "Colonel Bastian, this is Mark Stoner. Do you remember me?"

  "Sure I do, Mark. How are you?"

  It wasn't likely he'd forget. The CIA officer had helped save Breanna after action in the Pacific more than a year before.

  "I'm fine, Colonel. As it happens, I'm working on a job in your neck of the woods. I can't go into detail at the moment, but I'd like to speak to you personally as soon as possible. This afternoon."