Revolution d-10

by Dale Brown

  Two yellow triangles appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Rager hit another switch, and the ghost of a ground map appeared under the display, showing that the planes were south of Odessa over the Black Sea, 273 miles away.

  "Just sitting there," said Rager. "Doing a racetrack pattern."

  "Ukrainian?"

  "No. Russian. Computer, ID contacts Alpha Gamma six-eight and Alpha Gamma six-nine."

  Small boxes appeared next to the yellow triangles; they looked like dialogue balloons in a comic strip.

  MIG-29

  RS

  ARM—4AA11, 2AA10

  The computer's tags identified the aircraft as Russian MiGs carrying four heat-seeking AA-11 Archer or R-27R missiles and two radar-guided AA-10 Alamo or R-27R missiles.

  "Russian air defense," said Rager. "I think they're shadowing us."

  "Long way from home."

  "Yeah."

  "You sure they're watching for us? They're pretty far away."

  "True. But if I wanted to sit in a spot where I thought I couldn't be seen, that's where I'd be, just at the edge of our coverage. They may not think we can see them," Rager added. "Two hundred and fifty miles is the limit of their AWACS ships."

  "Do they have one out there?"

  "Can't tell, but I suspect it. Maybe another hundred miles back. This way, if we come in their direction, it sees us and vectors them toward us."

  "Keep track of them."

  "Not a problem, Colonel."

  Dog went back to his seat. If Rager's theory was correct, the Russians must have been alerted to the Megafortress's flight by a spy at Iasi.

  "Ground team's done, Colonel," said Sullivan as he strapped himself back into his seat.

  "All right, folks. We're going to knock off," said Colonel Bastian. "Danny, job well done. We'll talk to you in the morning."

  "Thanks, Colonel. Groundhog out."

  "Set a course for Iasi, Colonel?" asked Sullivan.

  "No. Let's do a couple more circuits here. Then I want to break the pattern with a dash east."

  "The MiGs?"

  "Let's see how they react," said Dog.

  Dog told Zen what was going on, then prepared to make his move. He waited until they were coming south, then jammed the thrusters to full military power and turned the plane's nose hard to the east, heading toward the Black Sea. Given their position and the circumstances, it was far from an aggressive move — but the MiGs reacted as soon as they were within 250 miles.

  "Turning east," said Rager. "One other contact — Tupolev Tu-135—I see what's going on now, Colonel."

  "Where are the planes?" asked Dog. Rager's theories could wait.

  "They're all turning."

  Dog flicked the long-range radar feed onto his display. The Russian planes were definitely reacting to him; all three contacts had headed east.

  "The Tupolev is tracking our radar transmissions," said Rager. "That's how they know where we are."

  The Tu-135—a Russian aircraft similar in some ways to a 727—was outfitted with antennae that detected radar waves at long range. It could detect the Megafortress a few miles beyond the EB-52's radar track because of the way the waves scattered at the extreme edge of their range. There wasn't much that could be done about it, aside from turning off the radar.

  "All right," said Dog. He put the plane into a casual turn back toward Iasi, as if they hadn't seen the Russians at all. "Now that we know the neighbors are Peeping Toms, there's no sense calling them on it. Let's get back to the barn for the night."

  Bacau, Romania

  1825

  General Locusta opened the folder and began running his finger down the list of regimental and battalion commanders and subcommanders, mentally checking off each man he thought he could count on once he made his move. His division commanders had already been taken care of, with promises and bribes. But in some ways these men were even more crucial — they were closer to the troops, and would be directly responsible for acting when he gave the word. All but a few owed their present positions to him, but he knew that was no guarantee they would fall into line. It was important that the groundwork be properly laid.

  Tonight he would make three calls, all to men whom he didn't know very well. In each case he would have another reason for calling — something he hoped would cement the commander's loyalty.

  Locusta picked up the phone and dialed the commander of his Second Armored Regiment, Colonel Tarus Arcos. He caught the colonel eating dinner.

  "I hope I didn't disturb you," Locusta said.

  "Not at all, General," lied the colonel. "How can I help?"

  "I wanted to update you on your request for new vehicles. I have been arguing with Bucharest, and believe we have won, at least the first round."

  "That is good news."

  Locusta continued in this vein for a while, taking the opportunity to badmouth the government. Then he asked about the colonel's mother, a pensioner in Oradea.

  "Still sick, I'm afraid," said the colonel. "The cancer is progressing."

  Locusta knew this; one of his aides had checked on her that very afternoon. Still, he pretended to be surprised— and then acted as if an idea had just popped into his head.

  "I wonder if my own physicians at Bucharest might be able to help her," he said, as innocently as he could manage. "They are among the best in the country."

  The colonel didn't say anything, though it wasn't hard for Locusta to guess that he was thinking it would be difficult to pay for special medical attention; seeing a specialist outside of your home region was not easy to arrange.

  "I think that this would be a special service that could be arranged through the army, through my office," added Lo-custa after just the right pause. "One of my men can handle the paperwork. A man in your position shouldn't have to worry about his mother."

  "General, if that could be arranged—"

  "There are no ifs," said Locusta grandly. "It is done. I will have it taken care of in the morning."

  "I–I'm very, very grateful. If I can repay you—" "Repay me by being a good soldier." Locusta smiled as he hung up the phone.

  Near Tutova, northeastern Romania

  1830

  Danny Freah poked his fork into the red lump at the middle of the plate, eyeing it suspiciously. His hosts' intentions were definitely good, but that wasn't going to make the meal taste any better. He pushed the prongs of his fork halfway into the lump — it went in suspiciously easily — then raised it slowly to his lips.

  He caught a whiff of strong vinegar just before he put the unidentified lump into his mouth. But it was too late to reverse course — he pushed the food into his mouth and began chewing.

  It tasted… not bad. The vinegar was mixed into a sauce that was like…

  His taste buds couldn't quite find an appropriate comparison. He guessed the lump was actually a piece of beef, though the strong taste of the sauce made it impossible to identify. In any event, it was not inedible, and much better than some food he'd eaten while on deployment.

  "You like?" asked Lieutenant Roma, the leader of the Romanian army platoon Danny was working with. Roma had watched his entire taste testing adventure from across the table.

  "Oh yeah," said Danny, swallowing quickly. "Very tasty." Sitting across from him, Boston suppressed a smile. "More?" offered Roma.

  "No, no, my plate's still half full," said Danny. "Plenty for me. Sergeant Boston — he probably wants more." "Hey, no, I don't want to be a pig," said Boston. "Pig?" said the lieutenant.

  "Oink, oink," said Boston.

  "Animal?" Lieutenant Roma's pronunciation made the word sound like anik-ma-mule.

  "It's an expression," said Danny. "When you eat more than you should, you're a pig."

  The lieutenant nodded, said something in Romanian, then turned to the rest of his men and began explaining what Danny had said. They all nodded earnestly.

  The Romanian platoon was housed in a pair of farmhouses south of Route E581, about thre
e miles from Tutova. From the looks of things, Danny guessed that the buildings had been requisitioned from their owner or owners fairly recently. The walls of both were covered with rectangles of lighter-colored paint, presumably the spots where photos or paintings had hung. The furniture, old but sturdy, bore the marks of generations of wear. The uneven surface of the wooden dining room table had scrapes and scuff marks at each place setting, and the sideboard was topped by a trio of yellowed doilies, used by the troops as trivets for the serving plates.

  Dinner included a helping of local beer for each man. The tall glass of golden pilsner was not enough to get anyone drunk, but it did add a pleasant glow as the plates were cleared. Danny, Boston, the platoon lieutenant, and the NCOs retreated to a nearby room to talk over plans for the next few days. Danny intended to stay with the unit for another day at least, so he could get a feel for how it operated in the field. At that point, he'd leave Boston to complete the training and move to the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters, where he would set up a temporary school. The most promising men from this unit would accompany him as assistant instructors. He hadn't worked out all the details yet, but he thought he would send Boston to some of the units in the field to judge how the training was actually working.

  Some of the younger men spoke very good English, and when their lieutenant excused himself to take a phone call,

  Danny asked them to describe where they'd grown up and what their childhoods were like. Most came from small rural villages in the southwest. To them, this part of Romania was almost a different country, more closely associated with neighboring Moldova than Romania.

  Before they could explain the reason, Lieutenant Roma returned, his face grim.

  "There has been a sighting of a guerrilla force three kilometers from here," he said. "Muster the men."

  Bucharest, Romania

  1900

  Stoner realized he had made a mistake speaking of revenge to Sorina as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. All he could do was brood about it, replaying the conversation in his mind as he struggled to find the key to her cooperation.

  Sorina Viorica wasn't motivated by revenge, nor by money, the two most likely motivations for a spy. She wanted justice, though her sense of it was distorted. She could rail about a woman starving to death in the streets, but not do anything practical about it, like sharing her sandwich.

  She'd railed against her movement, now taken over — in her eyes, at least — by the Russians and fools. But was that enough to make her betray them? Because it was betrayal, as she had said.

  Certainly as long as she thought of the movement as a just one, she would not move further against it.

  The Russians were a different story. But her knowledge of them was limited. Or at least, what she thought she knew was limited.

  Stoner spent the day trying to flesh out the tiny tidbits she had given him, running down information on the Russians and their network in the country. The military attache, like all military attaches, was suspected of being a spymaster. He had worked in Georgia, the former Soviet Republic, possibly encouraging the opposition forces there before coming to Romania eight months before.

  Right before the first CIA officer's death.

  A coincidence?

  Stoner spent the afternoon with a man who claimed to be the only witness to one of the deaths, a town police chief who had just moved to the capital and claimed to fear for his life. The police chief had been down the street when the car bomb that killed the CIA officer exploded. The American was on his way to meet him to learn about the guerrillas, and the chief was filled with guilt, thinking the bomb had been meant for him. According to the chief, there was no doubt that the guerrillas had planted it. Despite gentle probing by Stoner, he never mentioned the Russians, and when Stoner brought them up directly, the chief seemed to think it was a ridiculous idea.

  After the interview, Stoner returned to the embassy. He'd asked for access to NSA taps on Russian communications from the country. This was not a routine request, but the nature of Stoner's business here facilitated matters. One of the desk people back at Langley had been assigned to help review the information. She'd forwarded some of the most promising intercepts, starting with a year ago. Paging through them, Stoner realized there was little direct evidence of anything. What was interesting was the fact that the number of communications had increased sharply after the new attache arrived.

  Not a smoking gun. Just a point of interest.

  There was still considerable information to sort through. Stoner decided to leave it to his assistant in Langley. He emerged from the secure communications room as perplexed as ever, sure that whatever was going on lay just beyond his ability to grasp it.

  * * *

  It was already dark, hours later than he had thought. He caught a ride over to the center of town, then took a cab to his hotel, checking along the way to make sure he hadn't picked up a tail.

  Coming into his hotel room, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror opposite the door. His eyelids were stooped over, making his whole face sag. He needed to sleep.

  First, a shave and a shower.

  Though the room was one of a block that the Agency had under constant surveillance, he checked for bugs. Satisfied that it was clean, he went into the bathroom and started the shower. Hot steam billowing around him, he lathered up and began to shave.

  He was about halfway through when his sat phone rang.

  "Stoner," he said, answering it.

  "What are you doing for dinner?"

  It was Sorina Viorica.

  "I don't know," he told her. "What do you suggest?" "You could meet me. There's a good restaurant I know. It's near the Bibloteque Antique." "Sure," he said.

  * * *

  "It is not so easy to tell you where they are," Sorina Viorica told him as they waited for their dinners. "You will kill them. Not you, but the army."

  There was no sense lying to her. Stoner didn't answer.

  "They were once good people. Now… " She shook her head. "War changed everything."

  "Maybe you don't need to be at war. Maybe you have more in common with this government than you think. It's a democracy."

  "In name only."

  "In more than name."

  She drank her wine. The short hair sharpened her features. She was pretty — he'd known that from the moment he saw her, but here in the soft light of the small restaurant, he realized it again. She'd gone out and gotten herself some clothes — obviously she had money stashed away, wasn't as poor as he'd thought. She wore a top that gave a peek at her cleavage, showing just a glimpse of her breasts. When they left the restaurant, he noticed how the red skirt she wore emphasized the shape of her hips.

  They went near the Sutu Palace, once the home of kings, now a historical museum. It was a cold night and they had the street to themselves. Except for the bright lights that flooded the pavement, they could have been in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, royal visitors come to see the prince.

  They walked in silence for a while. He knew she was thinking about what to do, how far to go with it. Eventually, he thought, she'd cooperate. She'd tell him everything she knew about the guerrilla operations.

  But maybe none of it would help him fulfill his mission.

  "So you come back to Bucharest often?" he asked.

  "Not in two years."

  "You seem to know your way around." "Do you forget the places you've been?" "I'd like to. Some of them." She laughed.

  "Do you go back and forth a lot?" he asked her. "I have been in Moldova for the past year. And on a few missions."

  Stoner wanted information about the missions, but didn't press. It had grown colder, and the chill was getting to her. He pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around her.

  "Are you married, Stoner?"

  "No."

  "Would you like to be?"

  "I never really thought about it," he lied.

  "Are men really th
at different from women?" "How's that?"

  She stopped and looked at him. "I can't believe you never thought about getting married."

  Stoner suddenly felt embarrassed to be caught in such a simple lie. He was working here, getting close to her — and yet felt ashamed of himself for not telling the truth.

  They walked some more. He asked about the missions, but she turned the questions aside and began talking about being a girl and visiting Bucharest. He tried gently to steer the conversation toward the guerrillas, but she remained personal, talking about herself and occasionally asking him questions about where he'd grown up. He gave vague answers, always aiming to slip the conversation back toward her.

  After an hour they stopped in a small club, where a band played Euro-electro pop. Sorina Viorica had half a glass of wine, then abruptly rose and said she wanted to go to bed.

  Stoner wasn't sure whether it was an invitation, and he debated what to do as they walked back to the apartment. Sleeping with her might help him get more information. On the other hand, it felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain to himself.

  She kissed him on the cheek as they reached the door of the apartment, then slipped inside, alone. He was glad, and disappointed at the same time.

  Iasi Airfield, northeastern Romania

  2100

  Colonel Bastian sat down at the communications desk in the Dreamland Mobile Command Center and pulled on a headset. He typed his passwords into the console, then leaned back in the seat, preparing to do something he hadn't had to do in quite a while — give an operational status report to his immediate superior.

  The fact that he didn't much like General Samson ought to be besides the point, he told himself. In the course of his career, he'd had to work for many men — and one or two women — whom he didn't particularly like. It wasn't just their personality clashes, though. The truth was, he'd had this command, and now he didn't. Even having known that Dreamland would either be closed or taken over by a general, he still resented his successor.

  The best thing for him to do — and the best thing for Dreamland — was to move on. As long as he was here, the friction between him and Samson would be detrimental to the unit and its mission.