Revolution d-10

by Dale Brown

  By the time he was elected president, Voda had been involved in politics long enough to have made many enemies. A whole section of the opposition viewed not only him but democracy itself as suspect; they would gladly bring back a dictator in a heartbeat — so long as he agreed with their positions, of course. But the worst were his old dissident friends. Most felt they, not he, should be the head of state.

  The president's relationship with the military was, at best, difficult. He'd appointed Fane Cazacul as defense minister only in an attempt to placate some of the minor parties whose support was useful in parliament. Cazacul had his own power base, both in the military — with which Voda had problems— and in politics. But Cazacul was in many ways inept when it came to running a department; he had squandered much of the defense budget that Voda had worked so hard to get passed. Still, Cazacul commanded the loyalty of a number of generals, mostly in the western part of the country, and Voda had no choice but to keep him on.

  Voda did not count General Locusta as an enemy, but he did not fully trust him either. Locusta was far more competent than Cazacul, and though nominally the equal of Romania's three other lieutenant generals, was clearly the leading light of the General Staff. He also clearly wanted more power— a natural ailment among military men, Voda believed, and perhaps among all men in general. For that reason, as well as financial concerns and problems with Cazacul, Voda had hesitated to send Locusta the additional troops he wanted to fight the rebels. But the attacks on the pipeline trumped everything else; he knew he needed to protect the line or lose considerable revenue.

  Voda also realized that the gas crisis was having a serious effect on Western Europe and NATO. If he did not preserve the pipeline, his chances of having Romania join the alliance would probably be crushed.

  His hopes of joining NATO led Voda to resist Locusta and others when they suggested sending troops across the border in Moldova to battle the rebel strongholds. But the events of the past week — the attack on the pipeline and the vicious, coldblooded killing of the family near Tutova — demonstrated that he must take decisive action. More important, the Americans were signaling that they not only approved, but would assist, albeit in a very limited way.

  "You are far away," said his wife, Mircea, sitting next to him in the back of the sedan as they drove from Bucharest. "Are you already in the mountains? Or listening to music in your head?"

  Voda smiled at her. He hadn't told her about Locusta's call or the real reason for his spur of the moment vacation weekend, though he thought she might have some suspicions.

  "Music," he replied.

  "Mozart?"

  "A combination of different things."

  He had met Mircea after being released from prison the first time. She'd been a dissident and had an excellent ear for politics, but not for music.

  Mircea gave him a playful tap.

  "When you see Julian, then your attention will be with us," she said, referring to their eight-year-old son, who was to meet them at their mountain home near Stulpicani with his nanny. "Until then, you are a man of the state. Or of music."

  "Both." Voda smiled, then looked out the car window, admiring the countryside.

  Dochia, Romania

  0905

  "You can put the gun away," Danny told the shadow in the hallway behind the open door. "I'm Danny Freah."

  "Let me see your hands," a woman replied.

  Danny held his hands out. "How many black guys you think there are in Romania? Black Americans? Up here? Looking for you?"

  "Keep the hands where I can see them."

  "Usually we say please." Danny raised his arms higher. "We have only a half hour to make the rendezvous. A little less."

  The shadow took a step forward, and the woman's features became more distinct. She was about five-six, not much more than 110 pounds. Dark hair, green eyes, hard expression.

  "Like I said, we have less than a half hour. And we have some driving to do."

  Sorina Viorica took another step forward. The pistol in her hand was aimed squarely at his face.

  "Where's your gun?" she asked.

  "I don't have any."

  "I don't believe you. Unzip your coat."

  Danny slowly complied. He'd left his service pistol in the car, unsure what the local laws were about civilians carrying them.

  "Turn around," she told him.

  Danny sighed but complied again. He held his coat up. She took two steps toward him — he knew he could swing around and grab her, knock the weapon out of her hand. But there was no sense in that.

  She patted him down quickly. A light touch — she had done it before.

  "Why aren't you armed?" she asked, stepping back. "Because I thought it would be unnecessary," he said, turning back around. "All right. Let's go." "Don't you have a bag?" "I have everything I need."

  Danny led her out to the street, crossing quickly. Sorina hung back, checking her surroundings, making sure she wasn't being set up. Inside the car, she pulled her jacket tight around her neck, though the heat was blasting.

  "Do you have a cig?" she asked.

  "Cigarette?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm afraid I don't." She frowned, looked out the window. "I haven't smoked in years," she said. "But today I feel like it."

  "You want to know the itinerary?" "Mark explained it."

  "I'll be with you until I hear from them. Myself and another one of my men."

  She shrugged. Danny watched her stare out of the side of the car, her eyes focused far away.

  She turned suddenly, caught him looking at her.

  "Have you ever left your home?" she asked. She sounded as if she were accusing him of a crime.

  "All the time," said Danny.

  "And known you were not coming back?"

  "No."

  "It's different."

  "I'd guess it would be."

  She frowned, as if that wasn't the answer she wanted, then turned back toward the window.

  It started to snow a few minutes before they got to the field Danny had picked for the rendezvous. The flakes were big disks, circles of white that flipped over like falling bingo chips scattering across the road. Though sparse, they were thick and heavy, slow to melt; as they landed on the windshield of the car they made large ovals, giving way slowly to the heat of the glass.

  "An aircraft called an Osprey is coming for us," Danny told her as he pulled to the side of the road. "It can land like a helicopter but flies like a plane. It has some heavy cannon under the nose."

  Sorina said nothing.

  "I'm just telling you because it can look pretty fierce when you first see it. It's black."

  "I've seen things much fiercer than helicopters, Captain." "You can call me Danny." She didn't answer.

  Danny got out of the car and walked around to the trunk, where he'd left a rucksack with some gear. None of the lights in the houses across the street were on, but there was a glow farther down, near the church and the center of the city. Behind them to the east the thick layer of clouds were preventing the sun from opening the day with a grand display, tinting its rays dark gray and obscuring the horizon.

  "The weather is my future," said Sorina. And then she continued speaking to herself in Romanian.

  Danny felt no pity — the memory of her friends' massacre remained vivid — but he was curious about her. He wondered why she had decided to help; Stoner hadn't said.

  Most likely, he thought, it had to do with money. Yet her austere air and simple clothes seemed to indicate a person not moved by material possessions.

  Revenge? Perhaps. Or maybe she'd traded her life. But she moved like a person already dead, a wary ghost waiting for her ride to oblivion.

  He heard the heavy whomp of the aircraft's rotors in the distance.

  "They're coming," he said.

  Sorina stared toward the glow of the church, opposite the direction of the Osprey as the plane came in. Just as he turned to start for the rear ramp, Danny saw her reach her f
inger toward her eye. But he couldn't tell in the dim light if she was brushing away grit or a tear.

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  1300

  General Locusta studied the lawn and surrounding property of President Voda's mountain retreat. It had been quite some time since it was farmed, and Locusta guessed it had never been very profitable. The property rose sharply behind the house and fell off across the road in front of it; there were large rock formations, and tilling the fields had to be difficult. With the exception of the front lawn, trees had long ago taken over whatever had been cultivated.

  The driver stopped in front of the house. Locusta got out, taking his briefcase with him. A man in a heavy overcoat watched him from the front steps. He was a bodyguard, though his weapon was concealed under his coat. In accordance with Voda's wishes, only the president's personal security team was stationed at the house. Locusta had a company of men a half mile down the road, ready to respond in an emergency.

  Or not, as the case might be.

  "The president is waiting in the den," said Paul Sergi, meeting the general outside the door of the house.

  "Very good," said Locusta, ignoring the aide's arrogant tone. Sergi, Voda's chief assistant and secretary, had never gotten along with anyone in the military.

  Inside the house, Locusta turned to the left instead of the right. As he corrected his mistake, he caught a glimpse of

  Voda's son, Julian, constructing some sort of contraption out of a set of Lego blocks. The boy whipped it upward — obviously it was meant to be some sort of airplane or spaceship, for he made whooshing noises as he moved it through the air.

  Locusta smiled at the boy, then felt his conscience twinge. He hadn't realized the child would be here.

  It was a brief twinge. These were the fortunes of war.

  Sergi knocked on the study door, then pushed it open. The president was working at his desk, his wife standing next to him. Locusta gave her a feigned smile — he would have no qualms about her death; her record as an antipatriot was very clear.

  "General, thank you for coming," said Voda, rising. He glanced at his wife as he extended his hand to shake.

  "I'll leave you men to talk," said Mircea. She gave Locusta a patently phony smile as she left.

  Voda sat in one of the chairs at the side, gesturing for Lo-custa to take the other. The seat was old, its leather well worn, but it was very comfortable.

  "What do we have?" said Voda.

  "As I said last night, the American agent has given us a general area, and promises precise locations once we are ready to strike," said Locusta. He opened his briefcase and took out a map. "I believe the information will be good, but of course it is a matter of trust. If we trust the Americans."

  "Do you?"

  "The agent seems knowledgeable. So far the Americans have been helpful. In these matters, there is always the possibility of error. We do have to accept that."

  "Yes," said Voda.

  He looked at the map. Locusta's staff had highlighted about a dozen possible areas, all about fifty miles from the border. The plans to attack were general, and had they not fit so well with Locusta's real goal, he would have demanded wholesale revisions.

  "We will compensate for the uncertainty by adding force," said Locusta. "I have commandeered every available helicopter."

  That did not amount to much — there was a total of thirty-two at last count. A good portion of the force would have to sneak in by truck.

  Voda put down the map. "I have been speaking to the American ambassador this morning," he said. "He indicated they would have no problem with our going over the border against these targets. He also warned again of secret Russian involvement, and mentioned the incident with the plane."

  "Will they send their aircraft over the border?"

  Voda shook his head.

  "They are not afraid to risk our lives," said Locusta, "but not their own. Very brave of them."

  "Why would the Russians fire at the Americans, then blow up their missiles?" asked Voda.

  "Because they are children." Locusta shrugged. "With airmen, it is a strange thing, Mr. President." He got up, anxious to work off some of his energy. "Fighting, for them is very… theoretical, I guess we would say. They almost see it as a game."

  "It's not a game."

  "Very true. But they must display their feathers, like a prize rooster. They want to convince the Americans they are not afraid."

  "Will they attack us?"

  "No," said Locusta quickly. He had not considered that possibility.

  "If Russian commandos were responsible for the attack on the pipeline, then perhaps they will be at the camps when we attack."

  Ah, so that was where this was going. Voda was looking for a reason to call off the attack.

  "Who said the Russians attacked the pipeline?" asked Lo-custa.

  "The ambassador suggested it was a possibility."

  Locusta made a face. "Absurd. If the Russians had attacked, we would not have been able to repair it so quickly."

  Voda nodded. Everyone believed in the invincibility of the Russian army, notwithstanding evidence to the contrary, like Afghanistan and Chechnya.

  "The Russians — and the Americans as well — act like children. The top commanders cannot keep control of their men. That is the problem with too much democracy," Locusta added. "There is a lack of discipline even where it should be steel."

  Voda looked at the plans. Even if he did not approve them, Locusta would move against him. But the general preferred to strike this blow against the guerrillas now, just before the coup. Not only would it set them back for weeks, if not months, but he could easily disavow it if there were too many diplomatic repercussions.

  "How many civilian casualties will there be?" asked Voda.

  "We can't worry about that."

  "There will be casualties."

  "Every precaution will be taken."

  "Proceed," said Voda.

  "Thank you. I will return when the mission is complete, and deliver my report in person. Assuming you will still be here."

  "Yes. We'll be here for a few days. Mircea loves the mountains. And so do I. The pace is quieter."

  Locusta smiled. He knew that once here, the president would be reluctant to leave.

  "Will you stay for lunch?" asked Voda. "It should be ready by now."

  The invitation took Locusta by surprise, and for a moment he was actually touched. It was a very brief moment.

  "I'm afraid that there are details to be seen to," Locusta said. "With regrets."

  "Another time," said Voda. He extended his hand. "Good luck."

  "We will eliminate the criminals," replied the general. "I will return before dawn."

  Iasi Airfield, Romania

  1521

  The flight from Dreamland to Romania was uneventful, but Samson still felt drained as he came down the B-IB/L's ladder.

  Too bad, he thought. There were a million things to do.

  "Ready for some chow, General?" asked Breanna Stock-ard, coming down the ladder behind him.

  "Microwaved hash wasn't good enough for you?"

  Breanna made a face. Among Boomer's newfangled amenities was a microwave oven and a refrigerator. Samson had liked the hash, though clearly his copilot hadn't.

  "Back in my day, Ms. Stockard, we would have killed for a hot meal in the cockpit."

  Breanna made another face. "This is your day, General."

  Damn, I like that woman, he thought as he headed toward the Dreamland Command trailer.

  Bacau, Romania

  1540

  Dog nodded at Stoner as he walked into the conference room at the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters. The CIA officer stood with his arms folded, watching as two of Locusta's colonels took turns jabbing their fingers at a map spread over the table at the front of the room. They were debating some point or other about the mission.

  "Colonel, would you like some tea?" asked a
lieutenant in English.

  "Coffee, maybe." "Very good."

  Dog edged toward Stoner. Nearly three dozen officers were crowded into the room. Dog remembered a few from the other day, but it was difficult to put names with faces.

  "Danny's all right," Dog told Stoner. He'd spoken to the captain just before leaving to come to the meeting.

  Stoner nodded.

  "You sure you're going to get the truth?" Dog asked. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

  * * *

  General Locusta pushed the door of his staff car open as it pulled in front of the building, springing out before the car stopped. He was ready to do battle — not just against the criminals and murderers, but against the political regime that made it possible for the criminals and thieves to thrive. Everything was in motion.

  He hadn't felt this sort of energy since he was a very young man. The day seemed more vivid, the air crackling. Even the building had a glow to it.

  The guards snapped to attention. Locusta smiled at them— there was no suppressing the grin he felt.

  "Gentlemen, today is an historic day," he said as he entered the meeting room. His officers stepped back to clear his path as he continued toward the front, speaking as he went. "Tonight we will strike the criminals where they live. I expect nothing less than a full victory. We must be bold, we must be swift, and we must be resolute."

  The general turned the meeting over to Colonel Brasov, who would have charge of the mission. Brasov, nodding at the American CIA officer, said the attack area had been narrowed to two ten-mile swatches fifty-seven miles from the border. Each camp was small, housing from one hundred to three hundred guerrillas.

  Brasov's attack plan called for strikes by six companies on each hideout, giving them at worst a two-to-one advantage against the rebels. They would be ferried across the border in helicopters that had come up from southern Romania earlier that day, and in trucks that would cross into Moldava between two border stations to lessen the chance of detection.

  There would be no direct air support, but the Americans would be able to use their sensors to monitor the attack areas from Romanian territory.