by Dale Brown
Flames consumed the MiG so quickly, the pilot couldn’t hit the silk.
Samson didn’t see any of it. He was too busy righting the B-1 and pulling out of its death dive toward the earth.
“Where do I need to be?” he shouted.
“Anywhere you want, Earthmover. Scratch Bandit Three.”
Samson grinned.
“Incoming message from Whiplash Osprey,” added Breanna. “Major Stockard and Captain Freah.”
Samson hit the preset. There was no visual; Danny and Zen were on the line from the Osprey. Zen explained President Voda’s request.
“Captain Freah believes it might be an unnecessary risk,” added Zen. “Right, Captain?”
“I think it’s unwise, yes,” said Danny.
“You know what, Captain? Just this once I’m going to disagree with you. I’m glad to see that these people have a president with some balls. Let him do what he wants, the way Zen just laid it out. Don’t let him get killed.”
“Um—”
“You have a problem, Captain?”
“Those two orders are in conflict. Sir. I mean—”
“Let the Romanian president do what he wants,” said Samson. “Those are my orders. Boomer out.”
“All MiGs are down, General,” said Breanna. “All our aircraft are good. No casualties. Doesn’t look like the Russians got a shot off.”
Samson grinned. If some of the Dreamland people were a little full of themselves—well, if all of them were a lot full of themselves—now he saw why.
“You did a damn good job there, Captain,” he told Breanna. “You kicked ass.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”
“You got that right,” said Samson.
Breanna started to laugh.
“What’s that?” he asked. Then he started to laugh as well. So maybe he was a little full of himself too.
So what?
Aboard Dreamland Osprey
over Romania
0205
DANNY PULLED OFF THE HEADSET.
“He’s only been here a few weeks,” he said to Zen. “And already he’s starting to sound like Colonel Bastian. Screw the risks. Get the job done.”
“Dog has that effect on people,” said Zen.
Reluctantly, Danny went forward and told the pilots what they had to do. The Osprey circled back north, skimming lower. As they came to the main highway leading to the road where Voda’s house was, they spotted a pair of small jeeps guarding the intersection. It was about as safe a place as they were going to find.
“It’s all yours,” Danny told Voda, handing over the headset. “It’s set to loudspeaker.”
“They’ll hear me over the rotors?”
“Yes. We’ve used it for rescues and crowd control. It’s very loud. Wait until the flares get their attention. At the first sign of trouble, we’re out of here. So hold on.”
VODA TOOK THE MICROPHONE AS THE OSPREY SPED toward the post.
Maybe Captain Danny Freah was right; maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he should just go on to Bucharest, make his speeches to the TV. It would be the prudent thing to do.
But what good would the speeches be if the people weren’t behind him? And if he couldn’t persuade two dozen soldiers to help him keep Romania free—well then, he had failed as president, hadn’t he?
An illumination flare turned the night white. Two or three of the men pointed their weapons at the black aircraft as it hovered close, but no one fired.
“Open the door,” he told the sergeant standing near it.
“Shit,” said Danny.
But he nodded, and the door was opened. Voda looked down at the men.
“I need to be lower.”
The captain shook his head.
“Lower!” yelled Voda.
The microphone caught his voice, and it echoed through the cabin. The Osprey settled a little closer to the ground, close enough, at least, for Voda to see that the soldiers were kids: eighteen, nineteen. To them, the dictator was just some story their parents told when they were bored. They didn’t know what it was like to be the slaves of a dictator.
Or free men, for that matter.
“Gentlemen of the army,” began Voda, his voice shaky. “This is President Voda. I wish to thank you for your role in helping save me today. Our democracy has passed a great test, thanks to your help. Romania remains free! Romania for the people!”
The soldiers didn’t react. Voda felt a moment of doubt. Then he leaned out the door.
“Thank you, Romania!” he yelled into his microphone. “We remain a free people, with a great future!”
The soldiers began to cheer. Voda waved so hard one of the Americans had to grab him to keep him from falling out.
“To Bucharest,” he told Danny Freah.
“Damn good idea,” said Danny. He waved toward the front. The door was closed and the Osprey wheeled back into full flight.
“Hey, Mr. President,” said Zen Stockard, sitting across from him. “Whose fancy car is that?”
Voda crossed to the other side of the Osprey and looked out. It was a black Mercedes S series sedan with flags—one Romanian and the other…
The other bore the insignia of the Romanian army.
Locusta’s car.
“I want that son of a bitch arrested!” he yelled. “Get him, now! Kill him if you have to.”
“Now there’s an order we can all live with,” said Zen.
Southwest of Stulpicani, Romania
0210
LOCUSTA HEARD THE AIRCRAFT BUT WAS CONFUSED. IT couldn’t be his helicopter—they were still several miles from headquarters.
A black beast swerved in front of the car. His driver hit the breaks.
It was the Dreamland Osprey.
What the hell were they doing?
SAMSON HAD ORDERED HIM TO FOLLOW THE ROMANIAN president’s orders. Still, Danny Freah didn’t feel entirely comfortable shooting up the car.
“Get him to stop,” he told the pilots. “Fly in front of him, train the guns on him. Then we’ll have him surrender.”
The Osprey pitched around, settling in front of the vehicle. Voda was on the loudspeaker, talking to Locusta.
“General Locusta,” he said in Romanian, “I order you to place yourself under arrest. You are to come with these soldiers. No harm will come to you, unless you try to escape.”
“Tell him to stop the vehicle,” said Danny.
“General, stop the car,” said Voda.
The Osprey was moving backward, its chin guns pointed at the Mercedes. Instead of slowing, the car picked up speed.
“Can he hear me?” Voda asked.
“Yeah, he can hear you. He’s just being stubborn. I’m going to mash up his front end and take out his engine. The car is armored, but that’s not going to be much of a problem.”
“Do it.”
“Yeah.”
A second after Danny gave the order, the pilot began firing his chin cannon. The Mercedes veered to the side of the road.
INSIDE THE CAR, GENERAL LOCUSTA THREW HIS ARMS FORWARD, bracing himself as it skidded off the road.
How could this possibly be happening? How had Voda managed to escape—and not only escape, but come for him?
The Americans. Dreamland. The bastards. He’d kill as many of them as he could before they killed him.
He threw open the door and raised his gun.
DANNY SPRUNG FROM THE SIDE DOOR OF THE OSPREY, Sergeants Liu and Boston right behind him. The rear passenger side door of the car opened and a man leaped to the ground, rolled over, and came up firing a 9mm pistol.
The first two or three bullets flew wildly to the side.
Then one struck Danny in the chest, right above the heart.
His bulletproof vest saved him, deflecting the bullet’s energy.
A second later Danny threw himself in the air. He couldn’t fly without the MESSKIT, but flying wasn’t what he had in mind. He came down on top of Locusta, who dropped the pi
stol under the force of the blow.
Two punches and it was all over. Locusta, stunned, lay limp on the ground, alive, breathing, but undoubtedly a condemned man.
His driver came out of the car with his hands high.
“You’re under arrest by the authority of the president of Romania,” said Danny.
“Under the authority of the people of Romania,” said President Voda, picking up Locusta’s gun from the ground. He hobbled forward, favoring his injured leg. “It’s the people who have sovereignty in a democracy, isn’t it, Captain?”
VIII
For Freedom
Bucharest, Romania
3 February 1998
1730
THE EVENING BEFORE THE DREAMLAND TEAM RETURNED home from their deployment, the president of Romania hosted a special reception for them. When he first heard of the plan, General Samson began to fret—because of the rush, he hadn’t packed his Class A uniform, bringing only his battle fatigues and flight suits.
In another command the mistake might very well have been fatal. But when you headed Dreamland, people expected you to be a little different. Samson, though perhaps still not entirely comfortable, realized he was beginning to adjust.
President Voda didn’t seem to care how the Dreamland people were dressed. He was back in control of his country, with the northern army corps dispersed and the units under all new command. General Locusta was in prison, as were his co-conspirators.
The guerrillas had stopped their attacks, though no one was sure whether they were simply biding their time or if the movement had collapsed, as Sorina Viorica had predicted.
The Russians, while not acknowledging that they had tried to attack the pipeline, had announced that they were appointing a new ambassador to Romania and overhauling the embassy personnel. More significantly, they had lowered the price of the natural gas they supplied to Europe.
President Martindale had personally telephoned Samson to tell him about the Russians.
“I’m surprised you went to Romania yourself, General,” he said. “I thought your priority was at Dreamland.”
“My priority is my people, Mr. President. And my mission.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Martindale. “You need a sense of what’s going on. I like that sort of initiative.”
So did Samson. The mission had shown him exactly how much there was to a Dreamland Whiplash deployment, how much it depended on the proper mix of technology and old-fashioned warrior spirit. It had also convinced him that while he still had trouble stomaching Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian at times, the lieutenant colonel deserved every accolade he’d ever received, and then some.
It happened that Samson and Colonel Bastian were seated next to each other at the reception. When the band stoked up following the speeches of gratitude and friendship, President Voda rose to dance with his wife. While he favored his injured knee—the ligaments had been strained but not torn—he still cut an acceptable figure on the floor, moving with a slow, dignified grace.
Dog and Samson found themselves alone at the table.
“So,” said Samson. “Have you given any thought to your next assignment?”
“Not really,” said Dog. “Maybe I’ll retire.”
“Retire? Quit?”
“I don’t know if it’s quitting.”
“You know, Dog—if I can call you that.”
“Sure.”
“You have a hell of a lot of experience. And you’re being promoted to colonel.”
“I can’t be promoted for a few months at least.”
“Way overdue.” Samson waved in the air. “Everyone knows you’re going to be promoted. You’re on the fast track to general. Assuming you don’t quit.”
“I don’t think retiring is the same as quitting. I don’t have anything left to prove,” said Dog.
He leaned back his seat. Samson followed his gaze. He was looking at his daughter, who was kissing Zen at the next table.
“No, true. You have absolutely nothing to prove,” agreed Samson. “But on the other hand, you have a lot to offer. A lot of commands could use you. Mine, for instance.”
Dog turned to him.
“Look, I know we don’t get along. Hell, Tecumseh, when I met you, I thought you were a big jerk. I still think that. To an extent. A lesser extent.”
Dog started to laugh. It was the same laugh, Samson realized, that he’d heard from Breanna in the plane during the mission, after he’d said that some people were conceited.
It must be embedded in the family genes.
“But we don’t have to be friends,” Samson continued. “That’s not what Dreamland is about. Or the Air Force. Hell, I don’t need friends. What I need is someone to run the air wing. Someone with ability. Integrity. Creativity. Balls. A leader.”
“I thought you offered that job to someone else.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve been known to make mistakes. Sometimes…” He broke into a smile. “Sometimes I even admit it.”
“I THOUGHT DANNY WAS GOING TO SHOOT ME WHEN I TOLD him we should go back and let President Voda talk to the soldiers,” Zen told Breanna, finishing the story he’d started before she began kissing him.
“Hey, bullshit on that,” said Danny, returning to the table with their drinks. “I wasn’t going to shoot you. Throw you out of the Osprey, yeah.”
Breanna laughed.
“The president’s son tried teaching me Romanian on the way back to the capital,” added Zen. “I can say hello.”
“Hello?”
“’Ello.”
“That doesn’t sound Romanian.”
“You think he was gaming me? I paid him a buck.”
Breanna laughed, finally realizing that Zen was joking.
“He’s a cute kid,” she said. She’d met Julian earlier that evening.
“Our son’s going to be cuter,” said Zen.
The remark froze Breanna. Their son?
Was Zen finally ready to talk about having children?
“Jeff?”
Zen smiled. Before Breanna could find a way to press him, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and found General Samson standing behind her.
“Captain Stockard, would you care to dance?”
“Um—”
“As long as your husband doesn’t mind, of course. I don’t need unnecessary dissension in the ranks.”
“Dance away,” said Zen. “A little unnecessary dissension never hurt anyone.”
“I’M GOING TO HIT THE WC,” ZEN TOLD DANNY. “WANT anything on the way back?”
Danny shook his head and held up his beer.
“I’ll be back.”
Danny took a long pull from the beer as Zen disappeared. He leaned back in his seat, thinking about the past few days, thinking especially about Istanbul, and Stoner.
The Moldovans claimed they’d only found three bodies in the wreckage. Stoner’s wasn’t among them.
Did it mean he was alive?
Undoubtedly not. The photos showed a horrific scene. The helo had crashed at the edge of a swamp; most likely Stoner had been thrown from the wreck and his body was lying somewhere in the mud, submerged.
No one would hold a reception for him; there’d be no fistful of medals. He wouldn’t even get a wake. The government would never acknowledge that he’d been on the mission, or even been in Romania, let alone Moldova.
Yet, he’d done as much as they had. More really. He’d given his life.
Danny put down the beer and got up. He’d seen a cute Romanian woman who worked in the defense ministry at one of the tables near the door. Maybe she’d like to dance…
DOG WATCHED GENERAL SAMSON LEAD HIS DAUGHTER TO the dance floor. Samson wasn’t a bad dancer at all.
Nor was he a bad commander. In fact, he might even be a pretty good one. He’d seemed a lot less controlling over the past few days, more willing to improvise and go beyond the book.
Was it just that he hadn’t given Samson a chance at first?
Or had Samson started to grow into the role? Was flying Boomer responsible? Was the battle? Or was Dreamland?
Maybe all Earthmover needed was time to forget the political bs he’d had to learn once he made general. Maybe the mission had given him a chance to remember what it was he liked about the Air Force in the first place.
Dog picked up his drink. He remembered his own first days at Dreamland. He’d changed as well.
For the better.
And he’d change again, and again, and again.
Because that was what heroes did.
About the Author
DALE BROWN, a former U.S. Air Force captain, was born in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Nevada. He graduated from Penn State University with a degree in Western European history and received a U.S. Air Force commission in 1978. He was still serving in the Air Force when he wrote his highly acclaimed first novel, Flight of the Old Dog. Since then he has written a string of New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Edge of Battle, Air Battle Force, Plan of Attack, and Act of War.
www.dalebrown.info
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