by Dale Brown
“There is no problem on my side. Is there on yours?”
Locusta needed Karis—it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to move on the capital if his troops opposed him. He also trusted him; they had been friends for years, and his fellow general hated President Voda even more than he did. Still, Locusta found Karis’s impatient arrogance hard to stomach. He’d always been headstrong, and while it would be unfair to call him impetuous, he showed less caution than Locusta felt he should.
“There are no problems,” Locusta assured him. “But we must be careful.”
“Yes. So?”
“I am almost ready,” said Locusta.
“The Americans?”
“They can be dealt with.”
“Good. We are ready. But you must move quickly.”
The general hung up without adding that he was moving as quickly as he could.
Dreamland
0700
DOG STEPPED BACK AS THE PRESIDENT SETTLED INTO THE big chair next to Zen and began manipulating the control stick. No kid with a computer game on Christmas morning had a broader smile than Martindale’s as he took over control of the plane, pushing it into a climb straight overhead.
Dog asked himself if he truly deserved the Medal of Honor. Only a few dozen members of the Air Force had ever won one. Nearly all, he knew, had given their lives in combat.
He’d been prepared to do that as well—he’d come very close, within a few feet, but survived.
Death wasn’t a criteria for the medal. But he somehow felt he was an imposter, a pretender who didn’t deserve it.
The President rose from his chair, turning the aircraft back over to Zen to land. People began to applaud. Dog’s thoughts continued to drift. Breanna was wheeled up. He smiled at her, then glanced at Zen, who was beaming himself. They were good kids.
Old enough to have kids themselves by now. Though for some reason he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being called Grandpa.
“The country, the world, owe you a great deal,” said the President, beginning his speech. “I can’t tell you how proud, how very proud and honored I am to be here.”
JED FELT THE VIBRATION OF HIS BLACKBERRY JUST AS the crowd began to applaud. He pulled it out and thumbed up the message. It was from Colonel Hash, the NSC’s military liaison.
RMNIA UPDATE URGENT/ALERT FREEMAN ASAP
Jed slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket and immediately began sidling toward the side of the audience area. He tried to appear nonchalant, pasting a bored expression on his face before double-timing up the boarding ladder.
The communications officer aboard Air Force One nodded at him as he went into the small compartment and sat down at the machine reserved for NSC use. Jed punched in his passwords and waited a few seconds while the computer connected him with his secure account.
The CIA had forwarded a report from one of its officers in the field, Mark Stoner, and endorsed by the Romanian station chief. Stoner had made contact with a member of the Romanian “resistance movement.” The source claimed that the attack on the pipeline the night before had not been authorized by the rebels’ governing committee. She believed that it had been either instigated or made directly by Russian special forces units. She also blamed the Russians for the murders of three CIA officers in the country over the past several months.
CREDIBLE WITNESS. SHE APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN PURSUED BY RUSSIAN SPECIAL FORCES IN MOLDOVA. REPORTS A SPLIT IN GUERRILLA LEADERSHIP. CLAIMS DWINDLING GUERRILLA NUMBERS, BOASTED BY RUSSIAN SPETSNAZ TROOPS. I AM IN THE PROCESS OF GATHERING FURTHER INFORMATION.
There was additional information from the ambassador at Bucharest, indicating that the damage to the Romanian pipeline would be fixed within a few days. The Romanian government had tried to keep a lid on information about the attack, but someone claiming to be a spokesman for the guerrillas had posted photos on the Web earlier that day and contacted the Romanian and German media.
And the country’s president, Alin Voda, had called the ambassador on his personal line and requested American air assistance “to hunt the criminals before they make their next attack.”
Jed backed out of his account and went to find his boss.
“I KNOW THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF RUMORS ABOUT A Medal of Honor for Colonel Bastian,” said President Martindale, wrapping up his speech. “Let me just say this—they’re true.”
The audience, which had applauded politely a few times as Martindale spoke, erupted with a loud and unanimous hurrah. He stepped back and gestured to Dog, signaling that he should step forward to the mike.
“I really don’t deserve this honor,” said Dog, taking the microphone and addressing the others at the base. “You do. You all do. You’ve made my time here fantastic. Mr. President, there’s no better command on the face of the earth.”
“We have another update from Romania,” whispered Philip Freeman, stepping up toward the President. “It may interest you.”
“Let’s discuss it on the plane.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, aboard Air Force One, the President listened to Jed review the message from the CIA.
Meanwhile, a quick scan of the networks and news wire services showed that the energy market was already reacting to the news of the attack. Natural gas prices had shot up nearly thirty percent, and petroleum futures were trading ten dollars higher—which would have an impact on America as well as Europe.
“We have to deal with this forcefully,” said Martindale. “If the Russians think they can get away without consequence, they’ll continue to attack.”
“That’s only from one source,” protested Secretary of State Hartmann. “And a prejudiced one.”
“I don’t see what a guerrilla would gain by blaming the Russians,” said Chastain.
“We’re not there—we don’t know what the politics are.”
“Regardless, we have to take a stand immediately,” said Martindale. “If only to calm the energy markets. I’m not going to suck my thumb like Carter and the others during the oil embargo. We’re protecting that gas line.”
“Sending aircraft could backfire,” said Hartmann. “If the Russians are truly involved, they may use it as an excuse to up their assistance.”
“They don’t need an excuse,” said Chastain.
“We do have to be careful about the border situation,” said Freeman. “Especially Moldova. They’ve asked to join NATO as well.”
“They backed off that six months ago,” noted Chastain. “The Russians have been courting them.”
“If our forces got across the border, that will drive them into Russia’s arms,” said Freeman. “And even if we’re willing to write them off, if other countries think we’re backing Romania in a secret war against Moldova rather than the guerrillas, that will damage our hopes of getting them into NATO. Germany for one will object.”
“Agreed,” said the President. “But if we handle this correctly, we’ll help our cause.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Hartmann.
“We’ll send air support,” said the President. “Moldova is absolutely off-limits, but if we send the right people, that won’t be a problem.”
It was obvious who the President had in mind.
“Jed, get General Samson up here,” added Martindale. “And Dog. I want to talk to them personally.”
GENERAL SAMSON STRODE PURPOSELY INTO THE PRESIDENT’S conference room aboard Air Force One. It wasn’t nearly as big or as elaborate as he thought it would be—fabric-covered walls stood behind two oversized couches on either side of a low conference table. Still, it was the President’s conference room.
Samson nodded at Martindale, who was on the phone, then at Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman—and Lieutenant Colonel Bastian.
Bastian?
What the hell was he doing here?
“Philip, explain what’s going on,” said Martindale, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ll be right with
you.”
Samson listened as the National Security Advisor explained the situation in Romania.
“I’m sure Dreamland can supply planes to track ground movements,” said Samson when he was finished. “And the Whiplash boys can give some close-air support lessons. I’ll have a deployment plan ready no later than the end of the month.”
“You’re not quite understanding,” said Freeman. “This has top priority.”
Samson wasn’t sure what Freeman was implying. Deploying to a place like Romania took a great deal of preparation. Two weeks worth of planning was nothing, especially given the present state of his staff. He was still filling positions.
But he sensed excuses weren’t what Freeman or Chastain, much less the President himself, wanted.
“By the end of next week, certainly,” he said. “I already have a few things in mind.”
“General, we’d like you to be on the ground in a day or two,” said Arthur Chastain.
“A day or two?”
“The Whiplash orders call for immediate deployment,” said Freeman.
“Of course. Once we have a plan in place.”
No one said anything. Samson felt about as comfortable as a skunk in church. Sweat began percolating under his collar.
He shot a sideways glance at Dog. Bastian must be loving this.
Why the hell was he here, anyway?
The President finished his phone call. “Gentlemen, are we set?” he asked.
The others looked at Samson.
“I just wanted to make sure,” started Samson. “The—expediency of the mission. You’re asking for us…well sir, let me put it this way. We can of course deploy immediately. Tomorrow if you wish. But with a little more preparation, we—”
“Yes, tomorrow, of course,” said Martindale. “Dog—Colonel Bastian—you’ll be going?”
Dog cleared his throat. “That would be up to the general, sir. I’m at his disposal.”
Clever, thought Samson, as Martindale turned his gaze back toward him.
But the assignment might be just the thing to get Bastian out from under his hair while he continued reorganizing the base. Yes, it would work very nicely.
“If Colonel Bastian is available, it would be great to have him on the mission,” said Samson. “I’ll need an experienced deputy at the scene, so to speak. I can’t think of anyone better to lead the mission there. Assuming that’s all right with you, Mr. President.”
“General, that’s perfect.” Martindale rose and extended his hand, in effect dismissing him. “I look forward to a long working relationship with you. Carry on.”
III
Killers of Children
Iasi Airfield,
northeastern Romania
24 January 1998
1600
THE FIELD AT IASI WAS FAIRLY LONG, BUT THE APPROACH was not. Between the nearby mountains and the possibility of handheld antiaircraft missiles, aircraft had to drop precipitously and then veer sharply to the west to land. For all his experience in the Megafortress, Dog broke into a sweat as his copilot, Lieutenant Kevin Sullivan, read off his altitude.
But he loved it.
“You’re right on beam, Colonel,” said Sullivan.
“Hang tight, boys,” said Dog, swinging Dreamland EB-52 Bennett onto the airstrip with a crisp turn.
Like all Megafortresses, the Bennett was named for a Medal of Honor winner—Captain Steven L. Bennett, who in 1972 had saved innumerable lives supporting Marines overrun by Viet Cong, then given his own life so his copilot/observer would live, crash-landing his aircraft rather than ejecting when the other man’s gear failed.
Dog was eligible to have a Megafortress named after him as well, but he’d already decided to do without that honor for the time being. He didn’t quite feel up to the standards Captain Bennett and the others had set.
“You still have the touch, Colonel!” said Sullivan as they rolled to a stop on the far end of the concrete.
Despite the long flight, Sullivan was his usual overenthusiastic self, bouncing in his seat as they secured the aircraft. When they were done, the copilot practically danced off the flight deck. Dog followed him down, waiting as Zen lowered himself into his wheelchair using the special lift attached to the EB-52’s ladder.
Dog had debated whether to take Zen on the mission, given his recent ordeal off the coast of India. But not having him along on a mission was almost inconceivable, and Dog didn’t even bother arguing when Zen volunteered.
Breanna, however, was another matter.
“Your daughter’s never going to forgive you for leaving her home,” Zen told him as they headed toward a pair of cars near the edge of the runway apron.
“She should blame the doctors, not me,” Dog told him. “They say she needs rest.”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger,” said Zen. “Personally, I agree.”
Two Romanian enlisted men and a major were standing in front of a boxy-looking Romanian-built Dacia near the hangar. The men snapped to attention as Dog and Zen approached. Dog gave a quick but sharp salute in return.
“You are Colonel Bastian?” asked the major.
“That’s right.” Dog extended his hand.
“I am General Petri’s aide. I’m to take you to him immediately.”
“Sounds good.”
The major looked at Zen. Dog knew exactly what he was thinking: What was a man in a wheelchair doing on the mission?
“This is Major Jeff Stockard. Everyone calls him Zen,” said Dog. “He’s my second in command on the mission. He’s in charge of the Flighthawks—the unmanned aircraft that will actually provide support.”
Zen stuck out his hand. The Romanian major took it warily.
“This our ride?” Dog asked, pointing to the car.
“Yes,” said the major. He glanced again at Zen.
“Don’t worry about me,” Zen told him. “I can just hold onto the bumper. Tell the driver to try and avoid the potholes, though, all right?”
DOG WAS NOT A TALL MAN, BUT HE HAD A GOOD SIX OR seven inches over Romanian Air Force General Boris Petri, a gray-haired, hollow-cheeked man whose crisp uniform gave a hint of starch to the tiny office where he met the two Dreamland officers. Petri’s English was serviceable, but to ensure that there were no mistakes in communication he called in one of his aides, a lieutenant whose brother was a star soccer player on the Romanian national team. The general was so proud of the connection that he mentioned it not once but twice as they waited for him to arrive. In the meantime, he offered Dog tea and brandy, sloshing them together in large cups that, to Dog’s palate, held considerably more brandy than tea.
Once the lieutenant arrived, the talk turned serious, with the general briefing them not only about the guerrilla situation, but the air force in general. He seemed somewhat apologetic and defensive at the same time, noting that the Romanian air force was in the process of rebuilding itself and that it would soon be capable of defeating its enemies.
Dog slipped into diplomatic mode, assuring the general that his mission was first of all symbolic, demonstrating not the deficiencies of the Romanians but rather the country’s strategic importance to Europe and the United States. Working with the Romanians would be of considerable value to the Dreamland contingent, he explained, since Dreamland’s mission had recently been expanded to help in similar situations across the globe.
“It will be some time before our air force is ready to work with yours,” said Petri.
“I understood there was a squadron of MiG-21s at Bacau.”
“A squadron, yes.” The general gave him a sad smile. “All but one of the planes is grounded because of a lack of spare parts. And there is no one there to fly the plane. The pilots have been shipped south to train on our new aircraft. Lamentably, those are not suitable for ground attack.”
The new planes were four MiG-29s, front-line interceptors that could, in fact, be used in an attack role if their owner so chose. But for a variety of reasons—most especially t
he fact that the planes were deemed too precious to be risked in dangerous ground attacks—the MiGs were currently stationed at Borcea-Fetesti, far out of harm’s way. The Romanians equipped them solely with air-to-air missiles; they had no ground attack weapons aside from iron bombs, and their pilots weren’t even trained for the ground support role.
Officially, the Aviatez Militaire Romane had forty MiG-21s, older but still useful aircraft that would do reasonably well as ground support planes, at least during the day. But as Petri pointed out, only a minuscule number, less than a handful, were in any shape to fly. Romania even lacked attack helicopters; a few of its French-built Pumas had been fitted with .50 caliber machine guns that were fired from the right passenger door, but they were no substitute for actual gunships.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that the country would have been much better off using the money it had spent on the MiG-29s for some lesser but more practical aircraft that could have been used in a counterinsurgency role, something like the American OA-10 Bronco, or surplus Russian Su-24s or Su-25s, all older planes that could be used for ground support. The left-over money could have been used for new parts and training for the MiGs they did have. But Dog wasn’t there to offer that kind of advice, and General Petri wasn’t in a position to implement it.
“You haven’t finished your tea,” said the translator when the general wound down his briefing.
“I’m a little tea’d out,” said Dog, rising. “I’d like to arrange to meet with the commander of the ground forces as soon as possible.”
“The general had hoped General Locusta would be here by now,” said the translator. “Maybe within the hour. Certainly no later than dinner.”
“Then with your permission, I’ll get my people straightened out.”
“Very good, Colonel.”
Petri sprang up from his seat. “It’s an honor to be working with a hero like you,” he said, not bothering with his translation.