by Dale Brown
"One thing I'm concerned about are these Russian aircraft," said the President. He leaned forward on his desktop to look at Jed, who was sitting at the end of the row in front of him. "Recap that for us, Jed."
"Very briefly, Russian planes have shadowed the Dreamland Megafortresses on every flight," said Jed. "They've stayed roughly 250 miles away, as if they don't want to be detected. That's the published range of the radar, although depending on the circumstances, it can see a bit farther."
"We'd do the same if they were operating in our area," suggested Hartman.
"I think what they'd like us to do is go over the border," said Secretary of Defense Chastain. "The Russians have a defense treaty with Moldova. They could contend they were coming to their aid."
"I don't see what that gets them," said Hartman.
"Another twenty point bump in the price of natural gas," said Martindale.
"I agree," said Plank. "That's why we have to move on this. The agent would accompany the Romanians on the raid. This way he would gain information relating to the deaths of our people in Romania."
"Assuming the information is to be had," noted the President.
Plank gave Martindale a little smile, acknowledging that he'd been caught exaggerating, or at least polishing the apple.
"The price of natural gas in Europe is now double what it was last winter," said Freeman. "If the attacks on the pipeline continue and the supply is cut down completely, it will triple. And there'll probably be shortages."
"Urging the Romanians to go into Moldova is going to send alarms throughout Europe," said Hartman. "We cannot let them use our forces there."
"If we simply give the information, but keep our aircraft on the Romanian side of the border, what's the problem?" asked Chastain. "You see what beasts these guerrillas are. Killing children."
"That incident gives the Romanians some cover," said Freeman. "But I wouldn't send our people over. Not even the spy."
"If he doesn't go, he can't get the information," said
Plank.
"All right," said Martindale. "Give the information to the Romanians. Our people stay out of Moldovan territory. They don't engage in the fight. That is an absolute order. No one crosses the border, or fires over the border."
"My man?" asked Plank.
Martindale looked at Freeman, but the National Security Advisor said nothing.
"Let him go," said Martindale. "But… "
The pause that followed was significant. If anything happened to the officer, he would not be acknowledged. Plank nodded.
"And the request for additional support," continued Mar-tindale. "Can we do that?"
"I would leave that up to General Samson, sir," said Secretary Chastain. They'd discussed the request briefly at the beginning of the meeting. "His plan was always to beef up the force."
The President nodded. "Make it very clear that we are not to go over the border into Moldova."
"What if our people need to defend themselves?" Chastain asked.
"I wouldn't give Colonel Bastian that big a loophole," said Secretary of State Hartman. "We've seen what he's done with that in the past."
Martindale folded his arms and sat back in his chair.
"Colonel Bastian is not in charge of Dreamland anymore," said Chastain.
"No, but he's their point man. He's the one on the scene," said Secretary Hartman. "And he has an itchy trigger finger."
"No more than any of us do," said Chastain. "They have to have the right to defend themselves."
"They can defend themselves only if attacked in Romanian territory," said the President. "They cannot fire or attack over the border. They can't even fly over it. Understood?"
Chastain hesitated. "I can see circumstances where that might put them in grave danger."
"Which would you rather have?" asked Hartman. "A dead Megafortress crew, or world war?"
"It wouldn't come to that," said Chastain.
"No," Hartman agreed, "but Russia could go ahead and bomb the pipeline directly. Then we'll have a worldwide depression and the end of NATO."
"I hope that's not our choice," said the President.
Bacau, Romania
2320
With the details worked out,Stoner stayed north, waiting for word from Washington on whether his plan would be approved.
A small part of him — an insignificant, tiny slice — hoped it wouldn't be, at least not immediately. He wanted a few more days with Sorina Viorica.
He wanted more than that.
As soon as Fairchild relayed the OK — and the conditions— Stoner shut that part of himself away and called General Locusta at his corps headquarters. Locusta's aide was reluctant to even bother getting the general — until Stoner said he had definitive information on the location of the guerrilla camps in Moldova.
"Where are they?" Locusta snapped when he came on the line.
"I'll be at your headquarters in an hour. We'll talk," said Stoner. He killed the transmission, giving Locusta no time to respond.
Stoner had read everything the Agency had on General Locusta, but like most CIA briefs on military officers in Eastern Europe, it offered little beyond his resume, lacking insight into the man. Locusta was an infantryman by training; among his military honors was a marksmanship badge, earned as a lieutenant. He was well-regarded as a general officer, though considered abrasive by the defense minister and the president.
Locusta seemed to have been marked for greater things from the time he joined the army as a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant, fresh out of university. He'd received training in Russia as a young man and had been posted there for about a year in the early 1980s. He'd also toured Great Britain, Spain, and Italy as part of Romania's initiative to join NATO.
His family had connections to Ceausescu, the former dictator. That had hurt them in the years following Ceau-sescu's fall, but not so severely that the family wasn't well off now. Locusta himself had some property, though not great wealth.
Nothing in the report told Stoner what he wanted to know: the odds that Locusta would put a knife in his back just for the fun of it.
They were about fifty-fifty, Stoner guessed, after he finished telling the general about the guerrilla camps in Moldova. Average.
Locusta sat silently for nearly a minute after Stoner finished. Most of his aides had left for home hours ago; it was so quiet in the corps HQ that Stoner could hear the clock ticking on Locusta's desk.
"How did you find this information out?" said the general finally.
"I can't get into the exact methods we use," replied Stoner. He pulled over one of the seats — a metal folding chair — and sat down.
"Then how can I judge how accurate the information is?" Stoner shrugged. "I guess we'll have to find out together." "Together?"
"I want to go on the raid."
"Why?"
"I think the Russians are helping the guerrillas. I think they may have been responsible for killing some of our people, and this will help me find out."
Another man might have asked if Stoner didn't trust him, but the general accepted the explanation without comment. That told Stoner that the general understood the value of seeing things for yourself, that he was a man who liked to act, rather than have others act for him.
Interesting pieces of information, though not immediately helpful.
"So you have a spy?" asked Locusta.
"I can't get into specifics." "Where are the camps?"
"I don't have that information yet. There are two, and they're within fifty miles of the border."
"Practically half of the country is within fifty miles of the border."
The two men locked gazes. Stoner held it for half a second, then blinked and looked down, wanting the general to feel that he was his superior. He glanced back, then away, underlining his submission.
"I cannot commit troops to move across the border on vague hints," said the general.
"I'll have the information when the operation starts, not be
fore."
"Nonsense."
Stoner smiled in spite of himself. Locusta was right; Stoner could get the information from Sorina as soon as she was safely out of the country. But Stoner wanted to verify that it was correct before letting her go, and she wouldn't agree to any delay.
Not that he didn't trust her.
"This is of no use to me," said Locusta. "Get out of my office."
Stoner rose silently and walked out, turning down the hall. He went out to his motorcycle. He had his helmet on when one of the general's aides ran from the building, flagging his arms.
"Perhaps the general was, acted, hastily," said the man, a major. "Not hastily but in anger. The criminals have caused us, have killed many people. Sometimes it is difficult to act rationally when dealing with them."
"Sure."
"Your information comes from a criminal?" "I believe my information is good information," said Stoner. "But the only way to actually find out is to test it." "You cannot use your planes to verify it?"
"The planes are not allowed over the border." "Satellites?"
"If we knew where it was, we could get pictures," said Stoner. "But we've looked at sat photos before without finding anything. I imagine that's happened to you."
"If an attack were to be launched, would the aircraft assist then?"
Stoner shook his head. "The Dreamland aircraft cannot violate Moldovan airspace."
"Give me a phone number." the man said, "and I will call you in a few hours."
Bacau, Romania
2234
General Locusta watched from his window as the American started his motorbike and drove away.
Locusta had no doubt the American's information would prove to be correct. Two of his soldiers had smuggled an American spy over the border a few days ago; this was obviously the fruits of his labor.
And their blood.
Fifty miles from the border. Much farther than the information their own spies had obtained, and at least a partial answer to the question of why his men had failed to find out themselves.
Though another part of the answer was that the rebels had been useful to Locusta, an excuse to build up his force. Now he no longer needed them.
Or the Russians.
Or the Americans, for that matter.
This was his opportunity: the perfect diversion. It supplied a ready-made excuse for mobilizing his units and commandeering the few helicopters available outside the capital.
And he couldn't wait much longer.
There was a knock at the door. The major he had sent after Stoner, Anton Ozera, appeared in the threshold.
"In," said Locusta, gesturing.
Ozera closed the door behind him.
"What did he say?" asked Locusta.
"His source is one of the criminals. There will be no help across the border."
"But the information is good," said Locusta. "He's convinced of that or he wouldn't want to go along."
"The problem is, the Americans do not know the criminals as we do."
Locusta smirked. "I think they know them well enough."
The fact that a turncoat was willing to give the Americans information showed the terrible state the movement was in. They had failed to win the support of the people, and would now wither and die.
With a little help, of course. And as long as the Russians were removed.
"We could use the attack as a diversion," said Ozera. "It would explain the mobilization of forces."
"Always, Ozera, we think alike," said Locusta.
"Thank you, General."
"Your men?"
"We could strike in an hour. If the target was the president's northern home. The capital, as I said—"
Locusta raised his finger, and Ozera stopped talking. They had discussed the difficulties of striking Voda in the capital many times; the assassination itself would be easy, but the contingencies that would necessarily follow would be difficult to manage.
The general picked up his phone. "Connect me to the president's personal residence. It is a matter of great urgency."
He leaned back in his seat, waiting. He knew Voda's personal habits from experience; the president would be up even though the hour was late.
Sure enough, Voda came on the line within a few minutes.
"Mr. President, I have very important news," said Locusta.
He explained what Stoner had told him. As always, the president listened without comment or interruption. Only when Locusta fell silent did he speak.
"If there is a definitive location, I will review the plans and make my decision," he said.
"I will bring the plans personally to you," said Locusta.
"Only… "
"Finish your sentence."
"I have two thoughts. One is that I would like the assault to proceed rapidly, so that word of this turncoat does not leak out. And two, if I were to come to the capital, it is possible spies would alert the guerrillas. The Russians have been very busy."
"Yes." Voda paused a moment, thinking. "You suggest I come to your headquarters?"
"That too might generate some unwanted rumors." Lo-custa pretended to be thinking. "If you were at your estate in the mountains… "
"It's hardly an estate, Tomma. Merely an old farm."
And one that you love to visit, Locusta thought. He had met the president there many times, and had his own unit of troops nearby to provide additional protection.
"When would we meet?"
"If you were there tomorrow afternoon?"
"My aide will call you with the arrangements in the morning," said Voda.
Locusta gave Major Ozera a broad smile as he hung up, then rose and went to the door. In the hallway, he bellowed for his chief of staff.
"I want plans for an assault inside Moldova," he told him when he appeared. "Two sites to be hit as hard as we can."
"Where, General?"
"We won't know the precise locations until a few minutes before the assaults themselves. Plan for a large action against several buildings. Expect several hundred guerrillas."
"But the president—"
"I'll deal with the president. You prepare the plans. We will make the attack tomorrow night."
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
over northern Romania
2330
The Megafortress hit a stack of turbulent air, shuddering as she turned through the darkening sky over northern Romania. Dog tightened his grip on the stick, easing her through the rough patch of sky.
"Russians are back, Colonel," said Rager, watching the airborne radar behind him on the Bennett's flight deck. "Right on schedule."
"Has to be the most boring assignment in the world, shadowing us," said Sullivan. "Watching as we go around and around and around."
"Nah. They should try working the ground radar here," said Spiff, referring of course to his own job.
"I thought I heard snoring back there," said Sullivan.
"I have to get my z's in while Colonel Bastian's flying," replied the radar operator. "Life's too exciting when you're at the stick."
"Ha-ha-ha."
* * *
Downstairs on the Flighthawk deck, Zen put Hawk One into a bank south, waiting as the Megafortress got into position to launch Hawk Two. Tonight they were scheduled to work with two platoons, one near where the guerrillas had attacked the other night, the other over the gas pipeline. The two areas overlapped, and the Megafortress's patrol circuits had been plotted so the mother ship would be roughly equidistant to the two smaller planes throughout the night.
The computer would help fly the planes, of course, and the Flighthawks could operate on their own if necessary. But as an old school combat pilot, one who had come to the program from fighter jets, Zen mentally projected himself into each cockpit. It was a bit of a challenge to cover such a disparate area — a good challenge.
The first platoon was scheduled to call in at 2400— midnight in civilian time. The second would make contact a half hour later. In the meant
ime, Zen put the robot planes through their paces, surveying the ground with their onboard infrared cameras. The farm fields, fallow because of the winter, looked like calm patches of the ocean, their furrows of light waves barely breaking the surface. Houses glowed in the darkness, their chimneys bright with heat.
"Bennett to Flighthawk leader. What's your status?"
"Both aircraft are completing their orienting runs, Colonel," said Zen. "I have nothing but green on my boards. Systems are looking good."
"Bennett," acknowledged Dog.
Zen hit the preset button on his joystick control, and the visual in front of him changed from Hawk One's forward camera to Hawk Two's. He thought of it as "jumping" from one plane to another.
Hawk Two's views had more mountainous terrain, but the overall impression — of a quiet, peaceful night — was the same. For the sake of the Romanians below, Zen hoped it stayed that way.
* * *
Up on the flight deck, Colonel Bastian let Sullivan continue to fly the aircraft while he reviewed the mission's flight plan. There were a few sharp cuts involved to stay close to the Flighthawks as they patrolled, but otherwise the route looked like an elongated racetrack that had been squeezed in the middle.
If things got hot tonight, Dog would be able to scramble Lieutenant Englehardt and the Johnson to help out. The plane had arrived a few hours before, and while the crew could use some rest, it was already prepped for an emergency takeoff.
Dog still wasn't sure what additional aircraft, if any, would join them. It was a decision he was frankly glad he didn't have to make himself. Many people thought a force as large and powerful as the U.S. Air Force had nearly unlimited resources, but the truth was that there was always a heavy demand, not just on the planes, but on the men and women who flew them. Dog couldn't fault Samson for taking his time sending more planes — because of the recent action in India and the demands of the test programs, there were in fact only four other EB-52s currently in full flight condition at Dreamland, and none were radar ships. Dreamland's planes were supposed to be on call to air defense units in the U.S.; the bottom line was that there weren't enough ships to go around.
