by Dale Brown
"Just go," he said. "Come on Julian."
"Alin—"
"Go," he said.
He took Julian with him, carrying the boy about thirty more yards up the slope, picking his way through the dense trees. Below them more troops had arrived. There were shouted orders.
It wouldn't be long before they saw the door at the cave, or followed the cistern and discovered where they had been. Then they'd use the dogs to track them in the woods.
Voda felt an odd vibration in his pocket, then heard a soft buzzing noise. It was the cell phone, ringing.
He pulled it out quickly, hitting the Talk button to take the call. But it wasn't a call — the device had come back to life, alerting him to a missed call that had gone to voice mail.
The phone was working now.
He fumbled with it for a moment, then dialed Sergi's number.
There was no answer.
He hit End Transmit button.
Who else could he call?
The defense minister — but he didn't know his number. Those sorts of details were things he left to Sergi and his other aides.
Voda hit the device's phone book. Most of the people on the list were friends of Oana Mitca, but she also had Sergi's number, and that of his deputy schedule keeper, Petra Ozera. He tried Sergi again, hoping he had misdialed, but there was still no answer, not even a forward to voice mail. Then he tried Petra.
She answered on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Petra, this is Alin."
"Mr. President! You're alive!"
"Yes, I'm alive."
"We've just heard from the army there was a guerrilla attack."
"Yes. There has been. What else did you hear?" "The soldier said they were dealing with a large-scale attack. I rushed to the office. I'm just opening the door." "Who called you?" "The name was not familiar." "From which command?"
"General Locusta's. They had just received word from their battalion."
Voda wondered more than ever which side the army was on.
"I want you to speak to the defense secretary," said Voda. "Call Fane Cazacul and tell him I must speak to him immediately. Tell him I will call him. Get a number where he can be reached."
"Yes, sir."
If the defense secretary was involved, he'd be able to track down the phone number. But the dogs would be able to find him soon anyway. Voda told Petra to call several of his allies in the parliament and tell them he was alive. He tried to make himself think of a strategy, but his mind wasn't clear; the thoughts wouldn't jell.
"The phone is ringing," said Petra.
"Answer it."
Voda waited. He heard rustling in the bush to his right — it was Mircea. Julian looked in her direction but didn't leave his father's side.
"It's the American ambassador," said Petra. "He's just heard a report that one of helicopters was shot down over the border and—"
"Get me his phone number. I want to talk to him as well," said Voda.
White House Situation Room
1320 (Romania 2320)
Jed Barclay rubbed his knuckle against his forehead, trying to concentrate as the call from the American ambassador to Romanian came through. "This is Jed Barclay."
"Jed, I need to speak to the President immediately. They tell me that Secretary Hartman can't be disturbed."
"The Secretary and the President are on their way back to the White House," said Jed. "We don't have new information but we do have an idea of where the helicopter crashed and—"
"This is something different. I've just spoken with President Voda."
"You have?" Jed turned to the monitor on his right. "Yes. He's under attack. Possibly by his own army."
lasi Airfield, Romania
2320
The Romanians scrambled two helicopters in an attempt to mount a recovery option on the one that had gone down over the border in Moldova, but as soon as the radar aboard the Bennett showed that the Moldovans had trucks at the site, they aborted it. From the Romanian point of view, the loss of the colonel and the soldiers who'd been with him were a regrettable but acceptable trade-off for smashing the rebel strongholds and carrying away important data about the guerrilla operations.
With the mission scratched, fatigue mixed with an unspoken malaise aboard the Megafortress. Dog's crew did their jobs dutifully, but they were clearly disappointed in the outcome of the mission.
And with the decision not to attack over the border to support the Romanians.
"Romanians are shutting down," said Sullivan. "All troops are back over the border. Except for those in the helicopter."
"Thanks," said Dog. "Set a course for Iasi."
Sullivan worked quickly and without his usual wisecracks. They landed a short time later, and after securing the plane, headed to the Dreamland Command trailer for a postflight debriefing.
Though he'd already informed Jed Barclay at the NSC about the MiGs and helicopter, Dog retreated to the com room to give a written brief. He knocked out a few sentences, inserted the location of the helicopter as well as the MiGs, then joined the others to review what had happened.
Ordinarily, the debrief would devolve into a bit of a bull session after fifteen or twenty minutes, with Sullivan making jokes and cracking everyone up. But tonight no one joked at all. Each of the men typed quietly on laptops, recapping the mission from their perspective.
Sullivan was usually the last to leave — he was a notoriously poor speller and could puzzle for hours over his punctuation — but he was done in five minutes, his report the barest of bare prose. As soon as he was finished typing his summary into the laptop computer, he rose and asked to be excused.
"You can go, Sully, if you're done," Dog told him. "You don't have to ask for permission."
The normally cheerful Sullivan nodded, rubbed his eyes, and left Dog and Zen alone in the front of the trailer.
As Zen hunt-and-pecked his report on the laptop's flat keyboard, Dog cracked open the small refrigerator.
"Beer?" he asked.
Zen didn't answer.
"Zen?"
The pilot pretended he was absorbed in his work. Dog popped the top on his beer, closed the refrigerator and sat down in the seat farthest from the one where Zen was working. Though still angry at the way the major had snapped at him during the flight, Dog decided it was a product of fatigue and anger at losing Stoner, and that it wasn't worth making an issue of it, especially given the fact that his stay with Dreamland was coming to an end.
Dog leaned back in the seat, gazing at the trailer ceiling and the wall of cabinets at the side. It was a silly place to grow nostalgic over, yet he felt the pangs growing. He'd spent a lot of time here — difficult time, mostly, but in the end what he and his people had accomplished had been worth the effort.
"How's it coming?" he asked Zen after a while.
"What do you care?" snapped Zen, without looking up.
"What's wrong with you, Zen?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what the hell is wrong with you? You're not like that."
"Like what?" "A jerk."
Zen put his hands on the wheels of his chair and spun to the side to confront Dog. His face was shaded red.
"Maybe I think you did the wrong thing," Zen said. "Maybe I know you did the wrong thing."
"By not disobeying an order from the President?"
"Sometimes… "
"Sometimes what, Jeff? It was a lawful order."
"It was a stupid order. It killed two dozen men, one of them a friend of ours. A guy that saved your daughter, my wife, a year ago. You don't remember that?"
"We have to do our duty," said Dog softly.
"Our duty is saving people, especially our people. You could have. A month ago, you would have."
"I have never disobeyed a direct order," said Dog.
Zen smirked.
"I have never disobeyed a direct, lawful order," repeated Dog. He felt his own anger starting to rise.
"You were always dam
n good at finding a way around them, then," said Zen. He spun back to his computer.
Dog didn't want to let him have the last word. He wanted to say something, anything, in response. But his tongue wouldn't work.
Maybe Zen was right. Maybe, with Samson taking over, he'd lost a bit of his initiative.
Or maybe heroes started to fade the moment they were called heroes.
Dog couldn't think what to say. That the country's needs were greater than the individual's? Honor and duty were important, but there were situations where fulfilling your duty and maintaining your honor were not the same — were, in fact, mutually exclusive.
Zen finished his report, closed the program and the laptop, then backed away from the table.
"Good night," Dog told him as he rolled past.
Zen didn't answer.
When he was gone, Dog sighed heavily, then took a sip of his beer.
It tasted bitter in his mouth.
"Hey, Colonel, something's going on with the Romanian command," yelled Sergeant Liu from the communications shack at the back of the Command trailer. "They're issuing all sorts of orders, and units are moving all over the country."
Dog emptied the beer in the sink and went back to see what was going on.
"Some of Locusta's units are moving toward Stulpicani, way up in the mountains," Liu told him. "They're talking about guerrillas."
Liu brought a map up on the screen. Stulpicani was a quiet town in the Suceava area of Romania, about eighty-five miles northwest of Iasi. There had been no guerrilla attacks that far north or west, as far as Dog knew.
"They're talking about a presidential retreat," said Liu. "A villa or something."
"Call the NSC right away. Tell them something big is going on. I'll go wake up General Samson."
White House Situation Room
1325 (2325 Romania)
Bynow the NSC staff had arranged a live feed from two Romanian news organizations via their satellites. One feed showed a news program in progress, and since it had not yet been translated, wasn't of immediate use. The other was a frequency used by reporters in the field and at stations around the country to upload raw video and reports to their national headquarters in Bucharest. Jed watched as one feed showed at least a dozen troop trucks moving out of the capital.
The NSC's Romanian translator was sitting at a nearby station, scribbling notes from the video. Jed went over and took a peek at them. The reporter was talking about unexplained troop movements near Bacau.
When the transmission ended, Jed tapped the translator on the shoulder. The woman, a Romanian-American in her thirties, pulled her headphones back behind her raven black hair and turned toward him.
"Have they said anything about guerrilla attacks or the president?" Jed asked.
"No."
"They report on the operation in Moldova?" She shook her head.
"Watch some of the live broadcast and see if that comes up," he told her. "As soon as the CIA transcripts come in, give them to me, OK?"
Then he went back to his desk and called the National Reconnaissance Office — the Air Force department that supervised satellite surveillance — to see how long it would be before a satellite was available. He was still on the phone with them when Freeman called in.
"The president of Romania thinks the army is staging a coup," Jed told him. "Our ambassador is in contact with him. The Dreamland people just heard that there was a guerrilla attack near the president's house in the mountains. There are reports that the Romanian army is moving in the capital. Big movements, enough to get the attention of the media."
"Is it the guerrillas or the army that's moving against Voda?"
"We don't know. We haven't monitored any official reports of an attack on the president's house and the Dreamland units were not notified."
"What does the defense minister say?"
"We're still trying to get in touch with him."
"You think it's a coup?" Freeman asked.
"Um, I wouldn't, um," Jed stumbled, his stutter returning. "It's too early to say what I think. But it, uh, has that feel. Like in Libya last year."
Jed ran down some of the other developments. Freeman listened without interrupting, then told him to have Dreamland get a plane aloft to monitor the troop movements on the ground and see if they could find out what was going on.
"CIA director was trying to set up a phone conference for 1330," added Jed. "White House chief of staff already knows some of what's going on."
"Where's the President?"
"A reception at the Smithsonian," said Jed. "Secretary Hartman's there too. Due to end at three. Are you going to call him?"
"We'll wait until after the phone conference. I may break away. Alert the chief of staff that we'll need to talk."
Iasi Airfield, Romania
2325
When he had decided to come to Romania,General Samson had somehow forgotten that the troops were sleeping on cots in a large hangar. Clearly this was not going to be a workable arrangement in his case.
For this one night, however, there was no other choice.
Good for esprit de corps, he reasoned, though his back muscles might never be the same. Worse, he had trouble falling asleep, even though he was dead tired. He'd had one of the bomb handlers rope off a little section for him, stringing blankets as a temporary barrier for privacy, but they did nothing to shut out the noise. The hangar's metal walls and ceiling amplified every creak and cough.
Samson lay awake for hours, staring at the bluish black ceiling high above his head, breathing the stale air that smelled vaguely of exhaust, trying to fall asleep.
And now that he had finally drifted off, some jackass was shaking him awake.
Who?
"Who the hell is it?" he grumbled, trying to unstick his eyes. "It's Dog." Bastian! It figured.
"What the hell, Colonel?"
"General, something's up," Dog told him. "Troops are mobilizing. There's a report of a guerrilla attack on the Romanian president's house about a hundred miles east of here."
It took Samson a second to process the words. Then he sprang up.
"An attack on the president? By the guerrillas?"
"It may be."
"Get a plane in the air."
"The Johnson just took off."
* * *
Dog told Samson about what had happened on the mission as they walked to the Command trailer. Samson, who didn't know Stoner, did not seem particularly bothered by the loss of the helicopter.
He also wasn't impressed by the downing of the MiGs, which Dog assured him had taken place inside Romanian territory.
"As long as you obeyed orders and didn't go over the border," he muttered, trotting up the trailer steps ahead of Dog.
Sergeant Liu had just gotten off the phone with the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters. The sergeant con firmed that there was "some action taking place," but told them there was no need for Dreamland units at the present time.
"The hell with that," said Samson. "We should have more than the Johnson up. Get the B-1s ready. And your plane, Bastian."
Dog nodded. "The Bennett should be ready in an hour. I sent someone to wake up the crew."
"Make it thirty minutes."
Dog couldn't help but smile.
"What?" snapped Samson.
"If I said five minutes, you'd say one."
Samson frowned — but then the corners of his mouth twisted up.
"You expect anything less?" the general asked.
"Jed Barclay on the line," said Liu.
Out of habit, Dog took a step toward the communications area, then stopped. Talking to Washington was Samson's job now.
Bacau, Romania
2335
"What the hell do you mean, you can'tfindthe president?" thundered General Locusta over the phone line. "Where is he?" Major Ozera did not answer.
"Voda's house is not that big," continued the general. "Where the hell is he?"
"There was considerable dam
age from the mortars," said the major. "We think he was in the basement somewhere. Some of the timbers have fallen and there was—"
"Find the body. Find the body," repeated Locusta. "What about the bodyguards?"
"They're all accounted for. We think."
"You think?"
Even though Locusta was alone in his office, using his private satellite phone rather than his regular line, he knew he had to restrain himself. As thick as the walls were, there was always the chance that he might be overheard if he raised his voice. And besides, a temper tantrum would not help him in the least.
If Voda had escaped, things would be very complicated indeed. But Locusta was in too far now. He'd already given orders mobilizing his units, had instructed his network to begin spreading rumors that the president was dead, and had called his ally in the capital, telling him to call his men out as well.
"Make sure your men are in charge," he told Ozera. "You conduct the search personally."
"Yes, of course. The regular troops have only just gotten here."
"Keep them in the dark. Order them to shoot at anything that moves." "Yes, General."
"Keep me updated," Locusta said. He hung up the phone. It rang immediately. "Locusta."
"Bucharest," said a male voice. "Done."
The line clicked dead. Locusta hung up again, feeling much more confident. The defense minister had been assassinated. An irritant had been removed.
This was a time for action, not doubt. Locusta rose from his desk, grabbed his satellite phone and strode from the office.
"I am going to the president's house," he told his staff in the conference room. "I will personally take charge of the situation there. Nothing to the media," he added, turning to his public relations officer. "Nothing, official or unofficial, without my express approval."
The man's face paled. Locusta guessed that he had already started feeding tidbits to favored reporters.
The general savored that look of fear as he walked to his car.
Dreamland Command trailer,
Iasi, Romania
2345
Dog froze the infrared video feed from the Johnson's Flighthawk showing the back of the president's house.
"Serious munitions hit that house," he said, pointing at the screen. "Maybe mortar shells, maybe RPG rounds. At least a half dozen."
