by Dale Brown
At first, he didn't think either method did very much. Then he realized that the compass in his visor was moving madly. He eased up, leveling into straight flight.
The view was spectacular, many times more impressive than anything he'd seen from the cockpit of an F-15, let alone the video the Flighthawks fed him. All of Dreamland spread before him; beyond it, all of Nevada, all the way to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Las Vegas was to his left; to his right… well, from this vantage point, it looked like Canada. The sun hung low over the desert, casting a pinkish light against the mountains, a beautiful shade that any painter would trade his soul to recreate.
The normal rate of fall in a modern parachute was in the vicinity of eighteen feet per second. But because it was more glider than parachute, the MESSKIT could descend very slowly — he was currently gliding downward at a rate of just over nine feet per second. Of course, that meant trading descent for linear progress, as Annie had put it — or flying. He soon found that by shifting his weight forward slightly, the pressure from his arms directed the MESSKIT's airfoil to slow his descent even further.
"Hey, Zen, you're headed toward the end of the range," said Danny over the radio. Both he and Boston were using traditional parachute rigs. They'd waited to deploy them until after Zen's wings had expanded and it was clear he was under control. Now they were falling off to his right, well below him.
"I forgot you guys were here," said Zen.
"Don't forget to come down," said Danny. "And somewhere in Nevada, all right? I have some things to do tonight, and I don't want to fish you out of the Pacific."
"Oh, I'll come down," said Zen, starting a turn to stay inside the test area. "I know one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm going again. And again after that. I can't wait to see a full sunset from up here."
Northeastern Romania
23 January 1998
0550
Among the items Stoner had stockpiled in the trunk of his rented Nexia was a medical kit. He pulled out a bottle of hydrocodone and chased five pills with his bottled water. Then, to counteract the effects of the synthetic codeine — the dose was two and half times a full-strength prescription — he took two capsules of Adderall, an amphetamine.
He pulled on a spare shirt and jacket, holding his breath against the pain. It was going to take a while for the codeine to kick in. Even then, all it would do was take the edge off.
"Can you drive?" he asked Sorina Viorica. "I can if I have to, but probably we'd be better if you did."
"I can drive," she said.
"We have to go south. To Bucharest."
She frowned. "I'm not going to your embassy."
"I wasn't going to take you there. I have an apartment. You'll be safe. The GPS unit—"
"I know the way," she said.
Stoner slipped the seat to the rear, adjusting it so he could lean his head back and get a more comfortable. The seat belt sat right over his wound, but he managed to bunch his jacket to the side and relieve most of the pressure on it. The drugs didn't seem to have much of an effect at first, but after twenty minutes or so he realized his mouth was hanging open and his upper body was starting to feel numb. He pushed back up in the seat, wincing at the pain yet grateful that it helped wake him up.
A few minutes later, Sorina braked hard to avoid rear-ending a car stopped around a curve. There was a checkpoint ahead, soldiers checking IDs.
She started to put the car into reverse. "Don't," said Stoner, putting his hand on the shifter. He fought against the shock of pain. "They already see us." "I don't have identification." "I'll deal with it."
"No."
"You're going to have to trust me," he told her. "This isn't a question of trust."
Stoner reached beneath his belt to the small pouch where he kept his ID and took out his diplomatic passport, along with a folded letter. He considered taking out money as well, but decided against it — better to play the arrogant American with nothing to hide, impatient at the delay.
"You're my interpreter. You work for the embassy."
"My name?"
"Pick something you'll remember. And I can pronounce." "Jon. It was my father's name." "That's a last name?" "Yes. Call me Ms. Jon."
Stoner undid his seat belt and brought his seat back up to horizontal. The line moved slowly. They were three cars from the front.
"You are sure of this?" said Sorina Viorica.
"We have no choice. If you get out, they'll probably start shooting. They'll hunt you down."
She frowned, probably thinking it wouldn't be that hard to get away.
Stoner noticed a bloodstain on his pants as they pulled near the soldiers, but it was too late to do anything. He folded his hands down against it and put an annoyed look on his face as the two soldiers peered into the car.
The sun was just rising, and it was dark inside the vehicle; the man on Stoner's side shone a flashlight around, hitting Stoner's eyes. He had to fight the reflex to cover his eyes with his hands.
The man on the driver's side rapped on the window. When
Sorina Viorica opened it, he told her in Romanian that they must hand over their IDs.
Stoner didn't wait for the translation.
"Here," he told Sorina, giving her the passport with his left hand. "Tell him we're in a hurry. If I'm late, you're going to be fired."
Something flickered in the man's face. Stoner realized he spoke English.
So did Sorina Viorica, though she pretended she didn't.
"You have to be patient," she said to Stoner. "They are just doing their job. Things are different in our country. You cannot be an arrogant American. It is an insult."
"I don't care. If I'm not in Bucharest by seven, the ambassador will have a fit."
"I told you, we're not going to make it."
"Then you'll be finding another way to feed your kid, whether your husband was killed by the guerrillas or not. I didn't hire you for charity."
Sorina Viorica began explaining to the soldier that her boss was an American on official business and due in the capital.
The soldier grabbed his passport and the letter from the defense ministry saying that Stoner was to be given free passage and professional courtesies. The letterhead impressed the soldier, though he tried not to show it.
"You work for a jerk," the soldier told Sorina.
"My boy is only three. I work where I can," she said. "What's going on?"
"The rebels attacked the pipeline last night."
"No!"
"They did some damage. Not much." He flipped through the passport. "And your identity—"
"Get the damn flashlight out of my face," Stoner snarled, rolling down the window and leaning out. "I'll have you busted down to private!" he shouted. "And if you are a private, I'll get you into a latrine!"
"I'm sorry," Sorina told the soldier near her. "These Americans."
She turned to Stoner. "Please. Just relax. Please relax. There's no sense getting angry. He's doing his job. Please. He probably has a family."
"What's his name? Get his goddamn name. I want to have him on report. I'm going to tell the ambassador this is why I was late. Get his name."
Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.
"Get his name!"
"You can go," said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner's passport. "I'm sorry for you."
"Get his name!" demanded Stoner.
Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.
Neither of them spoke for a full minute.
"That checkpoint was not normal," she said finally. "There was an attack last night, on the pipeline."
"I see."
"But there couldn't have been."
"Why not?"
"We decided six months ago that we wouldn't. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians."
"Right."
"It's true," she said sharply. "And besides, I know."
"If your fr
iends tried to kill you, what makes you think they'd tell you what they were doing?"
"My friends didn't try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself — it's dwindled. Those who remain are misfits."
"How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?" asked Stoner.
"Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now — the only ones left are misfits."
An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.
College Hospital, Nevada
22 January 1998
1950
"I don't know why I told the kid that. I don't know why I said anything."
Breanna watched as Zen wheeled himself backward across the room. It had been a long time since she'd seen him so agitated, so angry with himself.
"God, Bree. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? What if he doesn't walk?"
"I don't think it's going to be that bad, Zen," she told him. "I'm sure the doctors will be able to do something."
Zen shook his head. "I saw the looks on their faces when we brought him into the base. I've seen that look. God, I've seen that look."
"Jeff, you can't get so down on yourself. It's not up to you whether he walks or not. God, if anyone would understand—"
"He's not going to understand."
"I mean, if anyone could understand what he's going through, it would be you. It is you. Jeff?" But Zen had already rolled out of her room.
Northeastern Romania
23 January 1998
0900
By 9:00 a.m., General Locusta had provided Bucharest with a full report of the bombing of the gas pipeline. Two rebels had been killed, he claimed — not exactly a lie, since he did have two bodies to present, though Locusta knew that the men had been left by the Russian special forces troops that launched the attack.
He downplayed his own losses, though he had already ordered full military honors for both men killed.
The damage to the pipeline was minimal, Locusta assured Bucharest; it would be repaired within days and there would be minimal disruption of the gas supplies.
Locusta was playing a dangerous game. The attack was part of a payoff for Russian cooperation in the coming coup, cooperation that would include the use of an assassin against the defense minister when the time came. It was also meant to convince the government to send the last units he felt he needed to assure himself victory when he moved against the president.
But it could also backfire and encourage Bucharest to sack him. Even though he'd been warning for weeks that an attack might be imminent, and even though he'd claimed that he didn't have the necessary troops for the growing threat, there was still a possibility that he could be blamed for failing to stop the attack, and be replaced by someone else.
If that happened, all of his preparations would be lost. At the very best, he'd be back where he was two years before: commander of a single division, not the leader of an army corps three times the size. All of the connections he had carefully cultivated among the old-timers — the hard-liners shut out by the new government — would be lost. Those men valued strength, and the scent of weakness and failure would send them running.
So when the phone didn't ring at precisely 9:00 a.m. — the time set for Locusta to speak to the president about the incident — the general began to grow nervous. He fidgeted with his feet, a habit he'd had since he was a boy. Pushing them together under the desk, he began jerking his legs up and down, tapping his soles lightly together. At 9:05 he rose from his desk and walked around the office, trying to remain nonchalant and work off his growing anxiety.
By 9:10, he was worried, wondering if he should place the call himself.
He decided not to. President Voda's office had made the appointment, and made it clear that the president would call him. To short-circuit the process would be a concession, however subtle, to a man he despised.
The phone finally rang at 9:17. Locusta waited until the third ring before answering.
"General Locusta."
"Please hold for the president."
Another three minutes passed before President Voda came on the line.
"Tomma, tell me what is going on," said Voda abruptly.
"The pipeline is secure — for now. We have shot two guerrillas. With more men, I can prevent future problems."
"More men — you always ask for more men."
"Unfortunately, last night proves I am right."
"I see estimates that the guerrillas are faltering."
Locusta sighed. He knew that the guerrillas' movement was in fact growing smaller, partly because of his efforts, but also because the leftists were naturally weaklings. But it did him absolutely no good to admit this.
"Yes, yes, I suppose the events of last night are proof of what the situation is," said Voda finally. "I will get you your men. But — no operations over the border. Not at this time."
Though he had made suggestions in the past, Locusta had no plans to launch any operations now. He would, though, soon. When he was in full command.
"Did you hear me, General?"
"If we have a specific target, Mr. President, I think you might reconsider."
"When you have a target, you will review it with me. I will decide."
"Yes, Mr. President. But if we have to stay on defense, the additional men will be critical."
"You'll have them. You'll get whatever you need."
The president continued to speak. He was concerned about the situation. He didn't want news of it to get out; he didn't want Romania to appear weak. Locusta agreed — though he knew that the Russians would already be leaking it.
Then the president surprised him.
"I am considering asking the U.S. to assist us," said Voda.
"The Americans?" said Locusta, caught off guard.
"Politically, it would have been difficult a few weeks ago, but now that they are riding a wave of popularity, it is something that could be managed. You've been asking for more aircraft — they can provide some."
"I don't need the Americans to chase down these bandits."
"Our own air force is useless," said the president coldly.
Locusta couldn't argue with that. He suspected, however, that Voda wanted the Americans involved as much for political reasons as military ones. Voda's grand plan called for Romania to join NATO: another foolish move, borne from weakness, not strength.
"Their aircraft will help you track the guerrillas," said the president. "I will inform you if they agree."
The line went dead. Locusta stared at the phone for a second, then slammed it down angrily. The president was an ass.
The Americans would complicate everything if they came.
Approaching Dreamland
0550
President Martindale watched out the window of Air Force One as the hulking black jet drew parallel to the wings. It was a sleek jet — a B-1, Martindale thought, though he would be the first to admit that he wasn't an expert on aircraft recognition. It had the general shape of a fighter but was much too large to be one — nearly as long, in fact, as the EB-52 Megafortress riding beside it.
He recognized the EB-52 very well, of course. No other aircraft had ever been so closely identified with an adminis tration before. It was ironic, Martindale thought; he certainly considered himself a man of peace — not a dove, exactly, but the last politician who would have chosen a weapon of war as his personal token. Yet he'd called out the military more than anyone since Roosevelt.
And much more effectively, he hoped.
Most of his critics didn't exactly see it that way. He didn't much mind the congressmen in the other party criticizing him. It was their job, after all. But when people in his own party questioned his motives in stopping the war between China, India, and Pakistan — that flabbergasted him.
And of course, they loved to claim he used Dreamland as his own secret air force and army.
Dreamland's reorganization under Major General Samson would st
op some of those wagging tongues, integrating the command back into the regular military structure. But Mar-tindale didn't want the baby thrown out with the bathwater, as the old saying went. Dreamland was the future. Samson's real task, as far as he was concerned, was to make the future happen now.
"Are those planes an escort?" asked the Secretary of State, Jeffrey Hartmann. "Or are they checking us out?"
"Probably a little bit of both," laughed Martindale, sitting back in his seat.
"If we can get back to the Romanian issue before we land," said Secretary of Defense Chastain. "It's a very serious situation. Europe is depending on natural gas for winter heating. If that pipeline is destroyed, we'll have chaos."
"No, not chaos," said Hartmann. "The Russians can provide an adequate supply. They have over the past few years."
"At prices that have been skyrocketing," said Chastain. "Prices that will mean a depression, or worse."
"You're exaggerating," said Hartmann.
"The Russians see the pipeline as a threat," said Chastain. "They're dancing in the Kremlin as we speak."
"I don't see them involved in this," said the Secretary of State. "They'll exploit it, yes. That's the Russian way. Take any advantage you can get. But they're not going to back guerrillas."
"Don't be naive," said Chastain. "Of course they are."
"They have enough trouble with the Chechens."
"I think the situation is critical," said Philip Freeman, the National Security Advisor. "Gas prices are just one facet. If the Russians are involved, their real goal may be to split NATO. They certainly want to keep the other Eastern European countries from joining. Look at how they're setting the prices: NATO members pay more. We've seen the pressure with Poland. The Romanian pipeline makes that harder to do."
"You're jumping to conclusions," said Hartmann. "There's no evidence that the Russians are involved. I doubt they are."
There was a knock at the door of the President's private cabin. Martindale nodded, and the Secret Service man who was standing nearby unlatched it. A steward appeared.
"Mr. President, the pilot advises that he is on final approach."