Revolution

by Dale Brown

  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 administration 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 stop some of those wagging tongues, integrating the command back into the regular military structure. But Martindale 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.”

  “Very good. Buckle up, gentlemen. We’re about to land.”

  DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE ACTED AS DREAMLAND’S LIAISON, Jed Barclay had been to the base only a handful of times over the past two years. He’d never been there with the President, however, and so was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the secret base managed: Not only had a pair of Megafortresses and EB-52s escorted them in, but a half-dozen black special operations Osprey MV-22s hovered alongside Air Force One as the 747 taxied toward the hangar area. Six GMC Jimmy SUVs raced along on either side of the big jet, flanking it as it approached the small stage set up just beyond the access apron. The entire area was ringed by security vehicles and weapons. Mobile antiaircraft missiles stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Razor antiaircraft lasers. There were antipersonnel weapons as well—large panels of nonlethal, hard plastic balls were strategically placed on the outskirts of the audience area, along with an array of video cameras and other sensors. Given how difficult it was to get to Dreamland, the gear was obviously intended to impress the President and his party.

  Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President’s stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access—and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members—would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.

  The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they’d seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.

  Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.

  Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men—the sergeant called Boston, whom he’d met before—then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general’s hands moved energetically, visual exclamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who’d been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn’t quite hear what Samson was saying, but knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be “I.”

  “Jed!”

  Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.

  He knew she’d been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who’d made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met—or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.

  Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter’s after a title bout.

  “The
chair is just temporary,” she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered. “They’re really babying me. I only strained my knee. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Hey, Bree,” he said.

  He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.

  Breanna sat back down.

  “Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display,” she said. “My dad is with him. They’re going to let the President take the controls for a spin.”

  “He’ll like that.”

  Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.

  “Look at me, I’m nervous,” said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.

  “So who is this lovely lady?” President Martindale asked. “Jed, are you going to introduce me?”

  “This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard,” he said.

  “Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots,” said Samson, a half step behind the President.

  “An honor to meet you, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

  She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.

  “Captain, it’s an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you. You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew—the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It’s beyond words, frankly. I’m the one who’s honored.”

  Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician—no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catastrophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.

  “We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

  “Some of the best. And you’ll be getting more. Right, General?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course.”

  “Now where the hell is Dog?” said the President, turning around and looking. “He’s responsible for all this.”

  A look flashed across Samson’s face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot,” said Samson, a little stiffly. “We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks.”

  Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK. Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.

  “I’d love it, Terrill. Let’s do it.”

  Bucharest, Romania

  1550

  STONER TOOK SORINA VIORICA BACK TO THE SAFE HOUSE in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal. Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.

  Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection—it would be too easy to track communications.

  “This is my prison?” said Sorina when they reached the back room.

  “It’s not a prison.”

  “Oh, it’s a resort. My mistake.”

  Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he’d been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.

  “And what do you expect me to do here?” asked Sorina, still standing.

  “Tell me more about the Russians.”

  She didn’t respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head—it was a kind of traitor’s regret, trying to pull back from what she’d already decided to do.

  He had to reel her in gently.

  “We can get something to eat,” he suggested.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you dye your hair, you won’t be recognized,” he told her. “You may not be recognized now.”

  She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn’t be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She’d insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  “You want me to go out and get you some food?” he asked. “For later.”

  Sorina shrugged, then added. “So I am a prisoner?”

  “No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want.”

  She frowned.

  “Unless you’d rather go to the embassy.”

  “No. I am not going there at all.”

  That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.

  “And what are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’ll get this looked at.” He gestured toward his side. “And I have to talk to some people. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “When?”

  “Afternoon, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “What if I’m not here?”

  “I’ll be disappointed.”

  She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn’t been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.

  “Well, then I’m leaving,” she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.

  He knew she was testing him, but he wasn’t sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair—too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn’t get up, he’d fall asleep.

  Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.

  The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.

  If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.

  “SO THE RUSSIANS ARE DEFINITELY INVOLVED?”

  “She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea.”

  “Is she going to give you more information?”

  Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn’t sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.

  “But the Russians are definitely involved?” repeated Fairchild.

  “That’s what she claims.”

  “If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that’d be quite a feather in your cap.”

  “Yeah,” said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn’t need any more feathers in his cap.

  “Who are the Russians?”

  “From the description, it’s Spetsnaz,” said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB. “She gave me two names on the way down. First names.”

  “Useless,” said Fairchild. “And probably false.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it,” added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. “When are you seeing her again?”

  “Soon.” Stoner hadn’t told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she’d run away, it’d be obvious soon enough.

  “The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if
they put a priority on the mission,” said Fairchild. “If George and Sandra were close to something.”

  Stoner didn’t think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world. But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman’s art, but in Stoner’s experience it was a vicious business.

  “I’ll tell the Romanians what happened to their men,” said Fairchild, rising. “Don’t sweat it.”

  “OK.”

  “Their guns weren’t fired at all?”

  Stoner shook his head.

  “I may make them…I may make them sound a little braver than they were.”

  Who knew how brave they’d been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?

  “Sure,” said Stoner. “Say they saved my life.”

  Bacau, Romania

  1600

  GENERAL LOCUSTA MADE SURE THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.

  “Still having trouble with the rebels, I hear,” said Karis as soon as he picked up. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  “I can deal with the rebels. At the moment, they’re useful.”

  “So I would guess. You’re getting even more men?”

  “I’ve been promised.”

  “You have to move soon. There are rumblings.”

  Locusta cleared his throat, but Karis did not take the hint.

  “Some of our backers think an even stronger hand is needed,” said Karis. “By failing to deal the rebels a death blow—”

  “I told you. I am dealing with the rebels.”

  “The gas line will be very valuable once you are in charge. The revenue.”

  “I would not want anyone to overhear you speaking like this,” said Locusta, finally losing his patience.