by Dale Brown
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 Breanna 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 abruptly. “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.”
“Why don’t you come here? I’m in Iasi.”
“I’d like to stay out of the city if I could. I have a place picked out that’s not that far from you. Could you be there around three-thirty?”
“I can try.”
“It might be best to wear civilian clothes, if you could,” said Stoner. “And have a civilian car. You shouldn’t tell the Romanians where you’re going.”
Near Dolcina, northeast Romania
1420
STONER KNEW COLONEL BASTIAN WELL ENOUGH TO TRUST him, but that didn’t mean the Romanians didn’t have him under surveillance. So he was careful about choosing their meeting place.
With as little help from Sorina as possible, he selected a village that was small enough to watch but not so small that doing so would attract attention. Dolcina was about twenty minutes northwest of Bacau, and it had two outstanding assets: first, there was no police department or army detachment in town, and second, there was only one road in and out.
An hour before the colonel was due to arrive, Stoner double-checked the tavern he’d selected for the meeting. There was still only one regular at the bar, an old woman who sat in the corner and mumbled to herself while sipping Pernod, probably from the same glass he’d seen two hours before. Walking around the building, he found a garbage can and used it to boost himself onto the roof, where he surveyed the local street and the dozen or so buildings nearby. If anyone was watching him, they were well hidden.
He stayed on the roof until Colonel Bastian arrived. Then he waited another ten minutes before calling the bar from his sat phone.
“I wish to speak to a man named Tecumseh, if he is there,” said Stoner in the Romanian Sorina Viorica had carefully rehearsed with him.
“Tecumseh?”
“Yes.”
The bartender asked him something in Romanian that Stoner didn’t understand; all he could do was repeat what he’d said before.
There was silence. Then just as he thought he’d have to climb down and go inside himself, Dog came on the phone.
“This is Tecumseh.”
“Sorry for the intrigue, Colonel. I need you to drive down the street, out of the village. Continue for exactly two kilometers, then pull off the road.”
Stoner killed the connection. Then he crawled to the front of the roof, watching as Dog left the bar and got into his car.
No one seemed to be following him. Still, Stoner waited another few minutes before climbing down. When he did, he trotted in the opposite direction, going back toward the highway to the abandoned gas station where he’d left his motorcycle.
Sorina Viorica had already left.
Not exactly the way they had planned it. He hoped she hadn’t had second thoughts. Or worse, that he’d missed a setup.
He had to hit the electric starter twice before the bike would turn over. Once it was humming, however, the single-piston engine sounded as smooth as a V-8. He revved the bike onto the roadway, circled once again to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then headed toward the rendezvous.
DOG WATCHED THE ODOMETER CAREFULLY. AS SOON AS it reached two kilometers, he pulled the car onto the shoulder, leaving it idling as he looked around. There were empty farm fields to his left and right. No one was in sight.
Undoing his seat belt, he took his service Beretta pistol out of his belt, checked it, then put it down between the seat and the transmission hump next to him. It was months since he’d used it, and then it had been on an indoor range. He wasn’t a particularly good shot and hoped he didn’t need it.
A cloud of dust appeared in the field to his left. Dog thought about getting out of the car, then decided against it.
The dust swirled, then settled to reveal a motorcycle. Dog rolled down his window, watching as the bike came toward him. Its driver wore a helmet with a dark face shield.
Dog slumped down, using the dashboard for cover, waiting as the motor
cycle came closer. He put his hand on the gun.
The bike suddenly accelerated, passing by in a blur. He watched in his side mirror as it veered off the road behind him, then began circling back from his right. He rolled down his window and waited as it drew near. His hand was still on the pistol, now in his lap.
The motorcycle coasted next to him and stopped. The rider leaned down.
“Who are you?” demanded the driver.
Dog was surprised. The voice, muffled by the helmet, was foreign and belonged to a woman.
“I’m waiting for someone,” he said.
“For who?”
“A friend. Mark Stoner.”
Another bike appeared in his rearview mirror. This one came straight down the road. The woman who’d stopped glanced back but stayed on her motorcycle as the second bike drew near the driver’s side of the car.
He’d had Liu check the voice pattern of the call earlier, so Dog was sure he’d been talking to Stoner. But now his paranoia grew, and his imagination spun out of control.
He could slip the car into gear and accelerate, get the hell out of there.
Shoot the motorcyclist on his right first.
The second bike stopped on his left.
“Colonel, I’m sorry for the precaution,” said its rider, leaning close to the window. He pulled up his face shield, revealing himself. It was Stoner.
“It’s all right, Mark. What’s going on?”
“Just a second.”
Stoner slipped the bike forward, then parked on the other side. The woman had gotten off her bike, and she joined Stoner as he slipped into the backseat of the car.
“My friend has some information that will be very valuable,” said Stoner after he shut the door. “But if she’s seen meeting you, there are a number of people who could cause problems.”
“OK,” said Dog.
“The location of the guerrilla stronghold is over the border,” said Stoner.
Dog knew this was valuable information, and immediately guessed why the woman didn’t want to be seen—she must be a guerrilla herself.
“I don’t know how I can help,” he said.
In the mirror, Dog saw Stoner put his hand on the woman’s thigh, stopping her from moving toward the door.
