by Dale Brown
“Would you like some coffee?”
“That’d be great.”
Breanna pushed her seat back upright. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five. Her early-rising husband and daughter were probably already up and on their way to breakfast.
Should she call them?
She’d love to talk to Teri.
Given all the travel, Teri would probably still be sleeping. Zen, though—he’d be on the prowl for coffee and the latest news.
No, she decided. Let it be a real surprise.
67
Old State Castle, Czech Republic
Zen never slept well when he was traveling. It wasn’t so much the time differences or jet lag as the fact that Breanna wasn’t with him. Feeling her body next to him at night relaxed him in a way he had never been able to explain in words, not even to her.
He pushed upright in bed and reached for the light, getting his bearings. Teri was sleeping with Caroline in the adjoining room. His wheelchair was just to his left. He leaned over and grabbed it, pulling it into position so he could ease into it. He rolled to the bathroom, shifting his weight subtly to cross the piece of marble at the threshold.
It was funny. The bathroom and its fixtures were arranged to make it easier for someone with a handicap—once inside, there was more than enough room for his chair, and the toilet was at an almost perfect height. Whoever had designed the room had given it a great deal of thought. But the plank of marble at the threshold was a full two inches high—a ridiculous barrier for a wheelchair.
When he’d first lost the use of his legs, annoyances like that bothered him greatly. Now he just shook his head.
There was a small coffeemaker on the counter. He set it up, started the water through, then ran the water to shave.
The coffee was coffee in only the most theoretical sense—it was black and liquid. He took two sips and decided he would do without the benefits of caffeine until he could get downstairs to the café.
He dressed casually, pulling on his favorite gray sweatshirt—a Nike shirt with a pancaked microfiber fabric that was thin yet very warm. The sleeves were a little frayed, and one of the elbows showed signs that his arm would soon poke through, but it was the most comfortable thing he owned.
Breanna would be scandalized if she knew he was wearing it in public. But she wasn’t here to give him the hairy eyeball of wifely disapproval. He’d told the girls they’d get up around seven—plenty of time, he figured, for them to recover from the trip. He didn’t want to wake them, but he also didn’t want to go without coffee for two hours. So he tucked his laptop next to his legs and went down to see if the cafeteria was open.
There was an attendant at the elevator, an older man dressed in an army uniform. He stood at full attention as Zen approached, stepping to the side though there was ample room for Zen to get in.
“Is the cafeteria open?” Zen asked as he wheeled toward him.
“Staff is on duty at all times, sir,” said the man.
“Is that year-round, or just for the show?”
“For the show. But often, we have special guests.”
“Your English is very good,” said Zen.
“Thank you. When I was young, I studied. Now, with the Internet and travel, everyone speaks English. It is a common language.”
“Lucky for me.”
The elevator operator pushed the button for the lower floor. The doors closed slowly.
“I don’t mean to take you out of a job,” said Zen as they started to descend, “but does this elevator need an operator?”
The man smiled. “Everyone needs a job.”
“True enough,” said Zen. He extended his hand. “Zen Stockard.”
“Yes, Senator,” said the attendant. Zen’s friendliness seemed to worry him a little. He took the hand hesitantly, then shook. “I am Sergeant Greis.”
“You’re in the air force?”
“Forty-two years.”
“That’s a lot of time.”
Greis nodded.
“I’ll bet you did other things besides running an elevator,” said Zen.
“I was a weapons specialist,” said Greis. He straightened a little, almost as if he’d been picked out of a review line by a commanding general and asked to present himself. “I worked with many different aircraft.”
“I was a fighter pilot,” said Zen.
“Yes, Senator. You have won many medals.”
“My fame precedes me, huh?”
Greis didn’t understand the phrase.
“We couldn’t have done our jobs without men like you,” said Zen. “Ordies, maintainers—heart of the air force around the world. But you guys don’t get the credit.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, you should.”
The elevator doors opened. Zen rolled out into a foyer whose stone walls looked as if they were part of the dungeon in the keep across the way. A red carpet ran down the center of the space.
He followed the carpet to a sharp left, then past a pair of thick wooden doors lined with black wrought iron. He found himself in a vestibule just before the cafeteria, which he could see through a set of glass doors. There were lights on inside, and a waiter was working at a buffet table not far from the entrance, laying out a platter of breakfast meats.
There was only one problem—the three narrow steps between the foyer and the doors.
One step too many to risk, Zen calculated. As much as he hated to ask for assistance, there was simply no alternative.
Well, he could get out of the chair, push it ahead of him, then crawl down after it. But that was a bit extreme.
Maybe if no one here knew he was a senator.
The waiter disappeared into the back without looking in his direction. Zen decided to go back to the elevator and see if the operator might be able to help him. He was just turning around when a tall, thin gray-haired man came around the corner.
“Not open yet?” said the man. He had a slightly tired British accent.
“It’s open, I just can’t get down the steps,” said Zen.
It took the man a second or two to understand. “Can I help?” he asked.
“If you kind of lean on the back and help balance as I go down, I think it would work,” said Zen.
“Ah, yes. Quite.”
“I’m Zen Stockard,” said Zen as he positioned himself. “From America.”
“Ah, yes, Senator Stockard. A pleasure to meet you. Colonel Lynch.”
Lynch went down to the door and pushed it open. A small latch at the bottom held it in place.
“Alley-oop,” he said, taking the back of the chair.
Zen leaned and pushed gently on the wheels, calibrating his force so he could control his movement down the steps.
As they reached the bottom, the waiter Zen had seen earlier came racing over.
“We are under control,” said the colonel. “We have come through with valor.”
“Can I buy you breakfast?” joked Zen. The breakfasts were complimentary.
“I would rather like that,” said the colonel.
68
Old State Castle, Czech Republic
The sentry at the complex put his hand up as the Mercedes approached the gate. The driver slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window.
“The deputy minister of Poland,” said the driver in Czech.
The guard bent slightly and peered in the back. He paused a moment, examining the face, then straightened and signaled that the gate be lifted.
The Black Wolf eased his pistol down. No need to use it yet.
He glanced around the courtyard as they entered. The field where the helicopter was to land was at the right, beyond the fence. The choice was counterintuitive—another man might have them picked up on the roof, which would be easy to reach from the guest building. But the helicopter would be an easy target, and survival in an operation such as this always required finesse and misdirection.
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the building. It was 0512.
The Black Wolf reached below his seat and pulled out the backpack with his HK MP–5 submachine gun. Then he reached his left hand into his pants pocket and took out a small vial. The red liquid inside looked like blood. It was, in a way.
The package had arrived for him with the money. They were as good as their word—better.
He cracked the seal on the tube and drained it quickly.
“Ready,” he said, dropping the empty vial into his pocket. “Let’s move.”
69
Old State Castle, Czech Republic
“The golden days of manned dogfights are over,” said Lynch. “I think we all have to recognize that.”
“That may be,” said Zen. “But I think we’ll always have people in the loop. And not just on the ground.”
“Your own air force has shown the way,” said Lynch. “Your own experiences—they were the vanguard.”
“Yes, but my experiences are a case in a point,” said Zen. “The Flighthawks were always under someone’s control.”
“Really? I heard differently.”
“Can’t believe everything you read,” said Zen.
“Quite. More coffee?”
“Yes, please,” said Zen.
Lynch took his cup and headed over to the table where the urns stood.
Zen realized he hadn’t turned his phone on. He didn’t think his staff would be trying to get him at this hour, and didn’t care much to start going through e-mails. But Teri or Caroline might try to text him from upstairs to find out where he was.
“I am sorry, I am sorry,” said the waiter, rushing back out as Lynch returned. “I would get that for you.”
“Not a bother at all,” said Lynch. “I just went for the refill. My legs are working, after all.” He blanched, apparently realizing what he had said.
“I’m not offended,” Zen told him. “I used to call myself a cripple, just to see what kind of reaction I got.”
“How did they react?”
“Oh, they were horrified. It was kind of fun to watch.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said the waiter, a pained expression on his face. “I wonder—we, uh, we were asked to set aside a little area for an early breakfast and I neglected to do so before you sat down.”
“Go right ahead,” said Lynch.
“You see, sir—the curtain usually would be placed right here.” The waiter pointed to a track in the ceiling above them. “I can seat you anywhere else you’d like.”
“How about a window seat?” asked Zen.
The waiter was nonplussed. They were in a basement without windows, and he wasn’t sure whether he understood.
“Just a joke,” said Zen. He picked up his coffee. “Where do you want us?”
“If I might suggest that table at the side,” said the waiter.
“Too far to eavesdrop,” joked Lynch.
“Sir?”
“It’s fine,” said Zen.
“Who needs a private room for breakfast?” asked Lynch.
“Some of our businesspeople are meeting with important people from the Ukraine,” said the waiter.
“Sales call,” Lynch told Zen as they took their places at the new table. “The Czechs are trying to sell their version of the Russian Spider rocket.”
“Oh, yes,” said Zen. “Is it really any good?”
“I think your AMRAAM-pluses are still light-years ahead.”
Zen, who’d seen the reports and knew that what the colonel was saying was true, played devil’s advocate, drawing the officer out. It was always instructive to get the unvarnished opinions of other air forces, even when they agreed with you.
The waiter went to the wall and moved one of the stones. Zen watched as the stones near it popped out, revealing a panel that pulled out into a room divider. The stones were actually only a half inch thick, the facade to a conventional plasterboard wall.
“I wonder if they have a screen that comes down from the ceiling,” said Lynch.
“No, but they probably have a knight hidden behind some of the stones,” answered Zen. “They pop it out if you don’t pay your bill.”
Two men in suits came in the door. Broad-shouldered and very tall, they would have looked like security types even without the ill-concealed armored vests under their jackets. Wires curled to earpieces at the back of their necks. One of the men had a small attaché case, the sort used to make an Uzi-sized submachine gun more discreet.
The waiter came out to meet them.
“You’re part of the security detail for the minister?” asked the waiter.
“Where is the meeting to be held?” asked the man with the case.
“This way, gentlemen.”
The two men glanced at each other. The one without the case nodded, then went with the waiter. The other man went up toward the door.
Another entered. Zen looked at the security agent as he walked past. He looked familiar.
Stoner, he thought.
But of course it couldn’t be. This man was taller and broader and younger—not to mention alive. Breanna’s project had put the idea into his head. It was ridiculous.
Once more he remembered his phone.
“I just want to turn my phone on,” he told Lynch. “My daughter might need to reach me.”
“Go right ahead.”
Zen pulled out the phone and powered it up. It beeped at him, then beeped again, telling him he had messages.
“You will hand the phone over to me.”
Zen looked up with a start. The man who’d gone to the door now stood next to the table, holding a submachine gun pointed directly at him.
70
Kbely Airport
Breanna snugged her seat belt and looked out the window as the C–20 dropped toward the runway, catching a glimpse of Prague in the dim blue haze of early dawn. The buildings had a brownish hue that made them look like a set of miniatures rather than part of a real city.
The sound of the plane’s engines increased as the wheels touched down. As the pilot took the plane to the end of the runway and onto a taxiway to the terminal, Breanna gathered her things, her excitement at surprising her husband and daughter rising.
Besides the aircraft on display, a number of VIPs were arriving this morning, and Breanna’s aircraft had been assigned a parking spot just beyond an Antonov transport. Standing on the ladder at the door, she got her bearings, then went down in a semijog, her suitcase with her.
She was surprised to see Turk, waving at her near the other plane.
“Hey, boss!” yelled the pilot, who was standing with several other men. He was still dressed in his flight suit. “About time you got here.”
“Turk!”
“Had to hook with the maintainers,” said the pilot. He gestured toward the hangars. “They just got here ahead of you like five minutes. They’re going over the plane now.” He turned to the men he was with. “I want you to meet some friends of mine—this is Major Andrei Krufts—I met him a while back at a Red Flag. He’s a great Ukrainian fighter pilot. And this is his boss, General Josef. He’s in charge of the Ukrainian air force.”
Breanna suddenly felt underdressed and unprepared—she hadn’t even done her lipstick.
“General, nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand to the Ukrainian official.
“My pleasure, Ms. Stockard. We have always admired the work of Dreamland.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t believe you know our defense minister,” added the general as a tall, elderly gentleman approached from the stairway of the Antonov. “Dr. Gustov.”
“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Breanna.
Despite his age—Gustov was seventy-seven—he moved quickly across the tarmac. Dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, with a full head of jet black hair brushed straight back against
his scalp, he held himself perfectly erect, with an athletic air. His face was smooth and his gestures elegant; Breanna thought he must have been quite a ladies’ man in his youth.
Perhaps even now.
“Dr. Gustav, allow me to introduce Breanna Stockard, a member of the U.S. Pentagon,” said General Josef.
The minister took her hand. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss it in the old-world style, but instead he held it and bowed his head slightly. It was just as charming.
“A pleasure, Ms. Stockard. You are with the Pentagon?”
“I’m the director of the Office of Technology.”
“Stockard—I know the name.”
“She was a member of Dreamland,” said the general.
“Ah, Dreamland,” said the minister. “We heard of your battles.”
“We still study the encounters,” said Major Krufts.
“When you faced the Chinese and flew over their capital, were you scared?” asked Minister Gustov.
“I think you may be talking about my father,” said Breanna. “I don’t think he was scared of anything. Is scared,” she said, realizing she had talked about him in the past tense. “But I did have a few encounters with them,” she said hastily. “Some of their pilots were quite good.”
“Who were the best pilots you encountered?” asked the general.
“Hard to say.” They had all been difficult, and Breanna didn’t like to rank them. She was asked the question a lot, though, so she gave the answer she usually did. “Probably the Indians. Their technology at the time was very underrated. They took a lot of Russian equipment and upgraded it tremendously. And they trained very effectively.”
“And now you are on to other things,” said General Josef. He turned to the defense minister. “We saw the plane while you were on the phone. It’s quite an aircraft.”
“Turk already gave you a tour?” Breanna asked.
“He showed us the plane. But of course we would all like to see it fly.”
“I told them we could probably arrange a private fly-by in a couple of hours,” said Turk. “Have to do a check flight anyway.”