by Dale Brown
She’d heard correctly. General Samson’s priorities for the base and its projects emphasized manned programs, with only a few exceptions. He also tended to favor improvements to traditional weapons systems, like the development of smart microbombs, over what he called “gee-whiz toys” like the airborne lasers that had yet to prove themselves.
“Maybe it’ll get cut, maybe not,” said Mack. “Ultimately, it may not be up to the general.”
“He has a lot of say.”
“True.”
“So, when do I fly?” asked Breanna.
“Um—”
“Tomorrow’s not too soon for me.”
“Wait a second, Bree. Yeah, I need pilots, but—”
“What’s the but?”
“You’re supposed to be in the hospital, aren’t you?”
“No. I was released the other day.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re ready to fly.”
“Look. I’m fine.” Breanna got up from her chair and did a little dance in front of his desk.
“I’m tempted. I’m really tempted,” said Mack. “But you came in here with a limp.”
“Did I?”
“And what about that concussion or coma or whatever you had?”
“Doctors didn’t find anything wrong.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you need to say yes?”
“Medical clearance, for one thing.”
“Done.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s see the medical report.”
“I haven’t bothered to schedule it yet. I will.”
“Fine. No problem,” said Mack. “A clean bill of health, and then you’re back in the cockpit.”
“Not a problem.”
“A doctor has to say you can fly.”
“Of course.”
“A flight surgeon, not a veterinarian.”
“Hard-de-har-har.”
“McMichaels,” said Mack, naming the toughest doctor on the base. McMichaels had once threatened to ground him for a sore bicep.
“I like Mickey.”
“Good then. It’s a deal.”
Bucharest, Romania
2005
STONER SLID HIS WATCH CAP LOWER ON HIS HEAD, COVERING his ears and about half of his forehead. Then he turned the corner and walked to the apartment building where he’d left Sorina Viorica. He had his head down but was watching out of the corners of both eyes, making sure he wasn’t being followed or watched.
The building’s front door was ajar. Stoner pushed in, wearing an easy nonchalance to camouflage his wariness. He double-pumped up the stairs to the second floor, then went directly to the apartment door and knocked.
No answer.
Stoner surveyed the hall and nearby stairs, making sure he was alone, then turned back and knocked again.
He’d left the key under the mat, but there was no sense checking for it—she would either open the door for him or he would leave.
Stoner took a deep breath. If she wasn’t here, he’d get to work trying to commandeer information about the Russian Spetsnaz, flesh out that angle. Eventually he’d put together a program either to stop them or expose them. The station chief had already made it clear anything like that would need to get approved back in Washington, but Stoner didn’t think he’d have trouble getting something approved if he linked it to the dead officers.
He’d spent the day rereading the police reports and visiting the places where they’d died. Nothing he’d seen convinced him that the Russians were involved. Or vice versa.
There was a sound at the door. Stoner saw a shadow at the eyeglass. A moment later Sorina Viorica opened the door.
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” she told him.
“I got tied up with some things.”
“Come in.”
He walked inside. Sorina Viorica put her head out the door, checking the hall before coming back in.
“Your lock is better than I expected,” she told him, walking to the kitchen. “But I don’t know if the door would last.”
“It will. Long enough for you to get out.”
“Not even the army would be so stupid to come in the front way without watching the back. And the police are not as stupid as the army,” said Sorina. A small pot of coffee sat on the back burner of the stove. She held it up. “Want some?”
“Sure.”
“The stove is hard to start.”
She ducked down, watching the igniter click futilely. Stoner examined the curves of her body. The austere toughness of her personality was matched by her athletic compactness.
The burner caught with a loud hush, a blue flame extending nearly a foot over the stove before settling down.
“You should get it fixed,” Sorina said, putting the pot on.
“I’ll tell the landlord.”
She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. “While we are waiting,” she said, handing them over, “give me a haircut.”
“A haircut?”
“I need one.” She pulled out one of the chairs and turned it around, then sat so her breasts were squeezed against the chair back.
“I’m not much of a barber.”
“Just cut it straight. Lop it off.”
Stoner took some of her hair. For some reason it felt softer than he’d expected. “How much?” he asked, moving the scissors along its length.
“Above my ears. Short. That’s easy.”
“Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Yes.”
He worked on it for more than an hour, each cut as tentative as the first. They stopped twice, to check his progress and to drink their coffee. About halfway through, Sorina reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She had to light it from the stove; Stoner thought the flame would singe her face when it caught.
When he was done, she took the scissors and went to the bathroom. After about five minutes she came out with her hair neatly trimmed.
“How does it look?” she asked.
“I liked it better long.”
Sorina Viorica smiled for the first time since they’d met.
“I am going to take a shower. When I am done, we can go for a walk.”
THEY WALKED UP TOWARD THE BOULEVARD CAROL I, around the Piata C.A. Rosetti circle. Stoner watched the expressions of the people they passed, carefully looking for some sign that Sorina Viorica was recognized.
“I’m invisible here,” she told him. “To the citizens—they don’t know who I am.”
“What about the police?”
She shrugged. “That I won’t test.”
They ate in a coffeehouse that served small sandwiches. Sorina ate hers in only a few minutes.
“Want another?” asked Stoner.
She shook her head, though he could tell she was still hungry.
“That is why we struggle,” she said, pointing with her gaze across the room.
An old woman sat over a cup of tea. Her shoes were held together by string; her coat had a series of small rips on the sleeve and back.
“Before this government, people were helped,” said Sorina Viorica. “But I don’t expect you to understand. Your streets are filled with homeless.”
Stoner called over the waiter. “I would like to buy the woman there a sandwich.”
The waiter frowned, acting as if he didn’t understand English—though he’d understood when Stoner ordered earlier.
“Here,” said Stoner, pressing several bills into his hand. “Get her something good.”
“Should I be impressed?” Sorina Viorica asked after the waiter left.
“Impressed?”
“By your generosity. Or was it part of an act?”
“It is what it is.”
“Even the people who should understand, don’t,” said Sorina, changing her tact. “You saw the waiter’s expression. Yet he is not that much different than her.”
“Nor are we.”
She smirked. “When the revolution comes,
then we will see who’s different.”
“I’d keep my voice down if I were you.”
“This is the student quarter. If I can’t talk of revolution here, where can I?”
Sorina Viorica spent the next half hour doing just that, explaining to Stoner that all her movement wanted—originally—was equity and peace for everyone.
“That wasn’t the case under Ceausescu,” Stoner said.
“No. He was a dictator. A devil.”
“So you want to return to that?”
She shook her head.
“There are elections now,” said Stoner.
“They are a front for the old line. The hard-liners, the military—they are the ones really in control.”
“Then change it by voting. Not by violence.”
“Will your country let us?”
“It’s not up to us. It’s up to you. To Romanians.”
Sorina Viorica’s face grew sad. “Our movement is dead. It has been hijacked. And if by some miracle we were to win, we would be a vassal again, a slave to Russia. They are all my enemies.”
Stoner waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Whatever her personal story was—and he suspected there was a great deal to it—she didn’t share. The CIA files had a single reference to her, because she’d been on a Romanian government watch list. She had relatives in Arad, a city near Hungary, but apparently her parents both died when she was young.
After they ate, they walked for a while through University Square. Sorina said no more about the movement. Instead, she told Stoner some of the history of the city—the old history, each building evoking a different period—nineteenth century, eighteenth century, seventeenth, sixteenth.
“You want me to betray them,” she said as they walked up the steps to the apartment.
“You said they were your enemies. And that the only ones left were misfits, and criminals.”
She took the key out of her pocket.
“They want to kill you,” he said. “You could get revenge.”
“You don’t know me very well, do you, Mr. Stoner?” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Dreamland
1156
MICKEY MCMICHAELS TUCKED THE BELL END OF HIS stethoscope into his jacket pocket.
“I can’t say you’re in bad health, Breanna,” said the flight surgeon. “You’re in great health. But…Your knee doesn’t hurt you?”
Breanna shook her head.
“Not even a twinge?”
She shrugged.
“No broken bones. Contusions are fading,” he admitted. “Ribs, not even tender.”
“So what’s the hang-up?”
“You were very dehydrated, you had a concussion, twisted knee, bruised ribs—”
“You’re going to ground me for a few bruises?”
Dr. McMichaels pursed his lips. “Your knee is not back to normal. And as for that coma or whatever it was—”
“I’ve had two CAT scans that say I’m fine. Give me another.”
“I may.”
“X-ray my whole body. Do any test you want. Just give me my ticket to fly.”
“You have to take it slow, Breanna. You have to give your body time to heal.”
“It’s healed. It’s so healed it’s starting to atrophy.”
“I appreciate that you’re bored. But you have to heal. And I have to do my job.”
“Do it. Tell me what I have to do to get back in the air.”
McMichaels sighed. For a second, Breanna thought she had worn him down. Then he shook his head.
“I’m not ready to say you can fly. You need more of a recovery period.”
Breanna suddenly felt very angry. “I’m going to come back to you every day until you clear me.”
“That’s up to you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She turned and walked out of the office as quickly as she could, arms swinging, her cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. She was sure that if she were a man, they’d let her back in the air. Mack, Zen, her father—they’d all gotten in the cockpit with injuries more severe than hers. Hell, Zen was paralyzed and he was allowed to fly.
The thing that frosted her most of all—the doctors were taking out their own ignorance, their own mistakes, on her. They all wanted to believe she’d been in a coma or had major brain trauma. Well fine, except there was zero evidence—zero—of any brain damage. Of any abnormality whatsoever.
So, because they were wrong, they were taking it out on her.
Breanna stalked down the hall and up the ramp to the entrance to the med building, trying to contain her anger. She fixed her eyes on the ground as she passed the security station, too furious even to say hello. The cold outside air bit at her face as soon as she cleared the doorway; the tears she’d been holding back let loose.
She wiped them as best she could as she started in the direction of her on-base apartment. She was almost there when she spotted a knot of people coming out of the entrance, laughing and talking; she turned abruptly, not wanting to be seen crying. Quickening her pace, she found herself walking toward the hangar area. She pushed her fingers around her eyes, rubbing out the moisture.
But she didn’t want to go into the hangars or the offices beneath them either. The only thing left seemed to be to go back home to their condo in Allegro.
Once again she turned, this time in the direction of the helicopter landing pad and the parking lot at Edwards.
“Hey, Bree, how’s it going?” yelled Marty Siechert as she changed direction.
Breanna briefly debated with herself whether to stop, but it was difficult for her to be impolite with anyone, and Sleek Top had been a friend for a while.
“Hi, Sleek, how are you?”
“What’s up?” The former Marine-turned-civilian test pilot bent his head to the side, as if the change in angle would give him a better view of her face. “Your face looks raw.”
“I’ve been out in the cold.”
“Where you headed?”
“Probably home.”
“You talk to Mack about flying the B-1s or what?”
“Yes, I did.” Her lower lip started to tremble. She stopped abruptly.
“You all right?”
Her emotions felt like the lava in a volcano, surging toward the top. She nodded, and bit her teeth against her lips.
“Hey, how about we go get some lunch?” suggested Sleek Top.
“I don’t know.”
“Off base. I know a quiet lunch place. Kind of a dump, but the food’s good. Italian.”
“All right,” she said. “Sure.”
AS SLEEK TOP HAD SAID, MAMA’S WAS A BIT OF A DUMP, but the portions were large and the marinara sauce couldn’t be beat. Breanna stayed away from the wine, as did Sleek Top, who was going to fly later that night.
“I don’t know why I was so upset. I acted—I was like a little girl who had her toys taken away,” said Breanna.
She’d calmed considerably. While she was still deeply disappointed about not being allowed to fly, she was also disappointed in herself. Showing emotion had been unprofessional. It wasn’t like her.
“You’ve been through a lot,” said Sleek Top. “Everything that’s happened to you in the last few weeks? God, Bree, we all thought you and Zen were…dead.”
“But we weren’t.”
“Maybe you should slow down a bit,” he told her. “You know. Take a couple of weeks…”
His voice trailed off as he saw her frown.
“I don’t mean permanently,” he said quickly. “I mean, do a few things that you like to do. Hit some shows in Vegas. Play the slots or something.”
“I don’t play the slots. And I don’t like shows.”
“You don’t like shows?”
She shrugged.
“It’ll take your mind off things. You have to relax. What do you and Zen do to unwind?”
“Not much,” she said honestly. “I mean, we’ll watch some basketball or maybe baseball.”
&nbs
p; “Then go to a Lakers game.”
“Oh, watching is such a—”
“No, no, go.”
“To L.A.? I don’t want to go all the way there by myself.”
“I’ll go with you. I have a season package.”
“Thanks, Sleek, but—”
“Up to you. But really, you have to cut loose a bit. Relax. Slow down. I remember when I first left active duty. I was like a jackrabbit, practically bouncing off the walls. And the ceiling. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Finally, I gave myself an order. Relax.”
“And that did it, huh?”
“Sure. One thing Marines are good at—following orders.” He smiled, then reached for the check. “Whereas you Air Force zippersuits never heard an order you didn’t think was an optional request, right?”
Iasi Airfield,
northeastern Romania
25 January 1998
1600
THE MEGAFORTRESS SHOT FORWARD, ROLLING DOWN THE concrete expanse toward a sky so perfectly blue it looked like a painting. The wind threw a gust of air under the plane’s long wings, pushing her skyward with an enthusiastic rush. Flying might be a simple matter of aerodynamics, a calculation of variables and constants, but to a pilot it was always something more than just math. Imagination preceded the fact—you had to long for flight before you achieved it, and no matter how many times you gripped the stick and pulled back, gently or with a hard jerk, bracing yourself for the shock of g’s against your face or simply rolling up your shirtsleeves for an afternoon’s spin, there was always that moment of elation, the triumph of human spirit that set man apart from every other being. Flying was a triumph of the soul, and a pilot, however taciturn he might seem, however careful he was in planning and replanning his mission, savored that victory every time the plane’s wheels left the ground.
Dog and his copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan, remained silent as they took the plane skyward. They hadn’t flown together for very long, but the missions they’d been on had forged a strong bond between them. They had one thing above all others in common—both knew the Bennett as they knew their own hands and legs. The trio of men and machine worked together flawlessly, striding nose up in the sky, spiraling toward 20,000 feet.
With all systems in the green, they set a course to the southwest, flying in the direction of Bacau.