Revolution

by Dale Brown

  “You can pass the information on in a way that it can’t be traced to her,” Stoner said. “And, there is a condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Asylum in America.”

  “You’d know more about that than I would,” said Dog. “I’m just a pilot.”

  “You are very famous,” said the woman. “I recognize your face from the television. You are the head of Dreamland.”

  Dog nodded. This wasn’t the time or place to explain the current chain of command.

  “I can take care of the technicalities, once she’s out of the country,” Stoner said. “Getting her out of the country—that’s where we’ll need your help.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I were to go into an airport,” said the woman, “I would most likely be recognized. If you don’t trust Mark—”

  “I trust him.”

  “Can you do it?” Stoner asked.

  If the woman weren’t in the back of the car, Dog would have explained his hesitation. Transporting a guerrilla well known enough to be on a watch list wasn’t exactly part of his mission brief. He could just imagine what General Samson’s reaction would be.

  On the other hand, knowing the location of the guerrilla strongholds would be very valuable information.

  “I can probably come up with something,” he said finally. “Assuming she keeps her end of the bargain.”

  “There will be no problem with that,” said Sorina.

  “Why are you betraying your friends?” asked Dog.

  He saw her face in the mirror. There was pain, and then a mask.

  Was it all an act? Or had she debated that very same question?

  “The Russians have taken over the movement. There are some devoted revolutionaries, but most of the operations now are being directed by Moscow. The things they are doing turn my stomach.”

  Dog glanced in Stoner’s direction. The CIA man’s expression made it clear that he didn’t want him to keep asking questions. To the spy, reasons or motivations weren’t important; results were.

  But to Dog, the question was everything. People didn’t give up their friends easily, even if the rest of the world thought it was the right thing to do.

  “The Russians know that I am against them,” Sorina went on. “They would kill me as gladly as the Romanian army or police.”

  “And in America you can have a fresh start?” said Dog.

  “I don’t want to go to America. Get me to Turkey.”

  “I don’t know if I can get you to Turkey.”

  “Across the border, then, to any European country. I can move on from there.”

  “Where are the hideouts?” asked Dog.

  “Not until I am safe,” said Sorina Viorica. “When I am safe, then I will say. Only to Mark.”

  Iasi Airfield, Romania

  1830

  DOG’S MESSAGE TO DANNY WAS VAGUE TO THE POINT OF being cryptic, though only if you knew the way Colonel Bastian normally did things. It had been passed along by one of the aides at the small unit where Danny was working with the Romanian soldiers.

  OFFICERS MEETING 1830, HERE. PLEASE BE PROMPT.

  Danny’s curiosity was piqued further when he saw Colonel Bastian waiting for him on the tarmac when the Osprey touched down.

  “Hey, Colonel, what’s up?”

  “You eat dinner yet, Danny?”

  “Didn’t have a chance.”

  “One of the Romanian officers told me about a restaurant in the city. Let’s go.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I do.”

  Dog didn’t give any further explanation, and in fact remained silent on the drive. Danny, who hadn’t seen much of Iasi, found himself staring at the buildings. Like much of Eastern Europe, the city at first glance seemed drab, still hungover from the days of Soviet bloc domination. But if you looked long enough, the gray and brown tones gave way to color in unexpected places. There were signs for Coca-Cola, along with billboards advertising Sony televisions and Italian fashions. White facades on new houses, blue stones, an office building with a dramatic, sweeping rise—the city was shaking off the gloom of the old era like a spring daffodil poking through rotted leaves.

  The restaurant was another surprise. Large and modern, it could have been located in any American city. The food was Italian, and not bad—Danny ordered spaghetti and meatballs for the first time in months, and cleaned the plate.

  “So, eventually you’re going to tell me what’s going on,” Danny said to Dog as he finished.

  The colonel pushed away his plate. He had only picked at his food.

  “I talked to Mark Stoner today. And a friend of his.”

  Danny listened as Dog told him about the meeting. His first reaction was anger: He felt the colonel should have told him what was going on beforehand, and not taken the risk himself. But it was hard for Danny to be mad at Dog, and he knew how welcome the information about the location of the guerrilla training camps would be. He also knew from talking with Colonel Oz that Locusta had authorized at least two spy missions over the past few months, without results. The Romanians didn’t have access to spy satellites; even if they did, Danny knew that small groups of rebels could prove frustratingly difficult to observe or even detect.

  “You think that’s a good trade?” he asked. “Sneak her out of the country in exchange for the information? She may be a murderer herself.”

  “I don’t know,” said Dog. “The truth is, it’s probably not up to me.”

  “‘Probably’?”

  Dog smiled. “Definitely not up to me. Hard letting go, I guess.”

  IT WAS A LOT HARDER LETTING GO THAN DOG WANTED TO admit, certainly to himself. Was it just the power? Or had he grown so used to cutting through red tape and bureaucracy that the necessity of working through channels and responding to the proper chain of command tired him out?

  He would have preferred to think it was the latter. But faced with the need not just to report to Samson, but to ask permission to proceed, he realized it was mostly the former.

  Before they left the restaurant, Dog and Danny worked out a plan to assure that the woman would tell where the guerrilla hideout was after she was flown out of the country. It wasn’t very complicated—Danny and one of his men would stay with her; she would communicate the information to Stoner, and then they’d wait until Stoner confirmed that the information was correct before letting her go.

  After Sergeant Liu made the connection, Dog sat down in the seat at the com console, leaning back while he waited for the officer on duty at Dreamland Command to get the general. He was surprised when, rather than Samson, Mack Smith’s face appeared on his small screen.

  Mack’s voice boomed in his headset: “Colonel, how are you?”

  “How are you, Mack?”

  “Surviving. Barely. Between you and me, Colonel…”

  “Yes?”

  “Between you and me, I want to get back on the flight line yesterday.”

  “Wish I could help you there, Mack.”

  “So do I. What’s up?”

  “I have something I need to talk to the general about.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I have to talk to him personally.”

  “Might as well talk to me,” said Mack. “Shit rolls downhill.”

  “You sound tired, Mack.”

  “Didn’t get much sleep last night, Colonel. Or the night before. Or any night. So what can I do for you?”

  “You can get the general on the line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “SO WHAT THE HELL IS SO DAMN IMPORTANT THAT YOU GET me out of a meeting with my science department?” said Samson, his snarling voice snapping onto the line. There was no visual; he was using the encrypted phone in his office.

  “The CIA has developed an asset who knows where the guerrillas are hiding in Moldova,” said Dog calmly. “As part of the deal to get the information, they want us to fly the source out of the country.”

&n
bsp; “What?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And they came to you directly?”

  “It happens that I’ve worked with the CIA officer before,” said Dog.

  “You have?” Samson asked, this time without the sharp note of surprise. “Yes, of course you have. But can we trust him? Does he really have the information?”

  “I met the asset. I think we can.”

  “You met the asset? Who authorized you to do that?”

  “I didn’t realize that was going to happen,” said Dog. “In any event, General, I wouldn’t have come to you with this unless I was thoroughly convinced it was both real and a benefit to our mission here. I wouldn’t waste your time, General. I know you have better things to do than hold my hand.”

  “Hmmmph.”

  Dog outlined the plan that he and Danny had worked out, then suggested that the asset be flown to a U.S. base in Turkey, the country she’d requested.

  “How do you want me to proceed?” he asked when he’d concluded.

  “Do nothing until you hear from me.”

  “Not a problem. Also, the Romanians are asking for more support. The defense minister said he would go through the embassy, but I thought I’d give you a—”

  Dog stopped speaking, realizing Samson had already hung up.

  White House Cabinet Room

  1206

  ROBERT PLANK WAS A RICH MAN, BUT HE HAD A CERTAIN air of nervous danger about him.

  Maybe, thought Jed Barclay as he watched him speak in the Oval Office, the millions he’d made had been seeded by some criminal activity that he would do anything to keep from being exposed.

  Plank’s sharply tailored suits showed off his wide shoulders and thick chest, and he looked to be strong enough to take on any two or three men who confronted him. His speech occasionally betrayed the urban landscape he’d grown up in; as a very young boy, he had lived only a few blocks from the White House, in one of the poorest and at the time most dangerous sections of Washington, D.C.

  For most government officials—especially those whose appointment had been so blatantly political—Plank’s occasional and unconscious sprinkle of four-letter words along with his habit of speaking bluntly would be serious defects. But in his case, they were assets, enhancing his reputation as a no-nonsense, seat-of-the-pants CIA director.

  Plank was also a skilled politico, even if he’d never spent a day as an elected official. As he continued to brief the President on the CIA’s successful recruitment of a guerrilla turncoat, Jed was impressed by the director’s ability to subtly insert himself into the story. Jed knew the details as well as Plank—he’d gotten them from Stoner himself. So he knew that the guerrilla had initially offered contact, not the other way around, and that Stoner’s primary interest lay in getting more information on the deaths of his comrades. But Plank packaged up everything as if finding the guerrilla base was his idea in the first place. He all but said that he knew the guerrilla movement was ready to crack, and had therefore handpicked one of his best international agents, plunking him down at just the right time, in just the right circumstance, to achieve a breakthrough.

  It was difficult to judge how much of the act the President actually bought. Certainly Martindale, who had appointed Plank, knew that he’d gotten the job not because he was an excellent spymaster—Plank had worked on the analysis side of the Agency before going into private business. And given that he’d known Plank for many years, Jed assumed that he appreciated the CIA director’s ability to put himself in the spotlight as well as anyone.

  The only hint that Martindale might not be paying complete attention was the pen he twirled in his fingers—a sign, Jed knew from two years of observation, that he was getting bored and wanted the speaker to get on with it.

  “The Russian connection is the most intriguing aspect of the entire affair,” said Plank. “If we can obtain real evidence of it, the countries that have been feuding in NATO and the EU will realize how badly they’re being played.”

  “That’s a wonderful theory,” said Freeman, the National Security Advisor and Jed’s boss. “But the only thing that’s going to stop their fighting is a reduction in the price of natural gas. The futures have gone up another twelve percent in the commodities markets over the past day even though the last guerrilla attack wasn’t aimed at the pipeline.”

  “Once we expose the Russians’ involvement, the attacks will stop,” said Plank.

  “Once the Romanians expose it,” said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. “If we do it, no one will believe it.”

  “One thing I’m concerned about are these Russian aircraft,” said the President. He leaned forward on his desktop to look at Jed, who was sitting at the end of the row in front of him. “Recap that for us, Jed.”

  “Very briefly, Russian planes have shadowed the Dreamland Megafortresses on every flight,” said Jed. “They’ve stayed roughly 250 miles away, as if they don’t want to be detected. That’s the published range of the radar, although depending on the circumstances, it can see a bit farther.”

  “We’d do the same if they were operating in our area,” suggested Hartman.

  “I think what they’d like us to do is go over the border,” said Secretary of Defense Chastain. “The Russians have a defense treaty with Moldova. They could contend they were coming to their aid.”

  “I don’t see what that gets them,” said Hartman.

  “Another twenty point bump in the price of natural gas,” said Martindale.

  “I agree,” said Plank. “That’s why we have to move on this. The agent would accompany the Romanians on the raid. This way he would gain information relating to the deaths of our people in Romania.”

  “Assuming the information is to be had,” noted the President.

  Plank gave Martindale a little smile, acknowledging that he’d been caught exaggerating, or at least polishing the apple.

  “The price of natural gas in Europe is now double what it was last winter,” said Freeman. “If the attacks on the pipeline continue and the supply is cut down completely, it will triple. And there’ll probably be shortages.”

  “Urging the Romanians to go into Moldova is going to send alarms throughout Europe,” said Hartman. “We cannot let them use our forces there.”

  “If we simply give the information, but keep our aircraft on the Romanian side of the border, what’s the problem?” asked Chastain. “You see what beasts these guerrillas are. Killing children.”

  “That incident gives the Romanians some cover,” said Freeman. “But I wouldn’t send our people over. Not even the spy.”

  “If he doesn’t go, he can’t get the information,” said Plank.

  “All right,” said Martindale. “Give the information to the Romanians. Our people stay out of Moldovan territory. They don’t engage in the fight. That is an absolute order. No one crosses the border, or fires over the border.”

  “My man?” asked Plank.

  Martindale looked at Freeman, but the National Security Advisor said nothing.

  “Let him go,” said Martindale. “But…”

  The pause that followed was significant. If anything happened to the officer, he would not be acknowledged. Plank nodded.

  “And the request for additional support,” continued Martindale. “Can we do that?”

  “I would leave that up to General Samson, sir,” said Secretary Chastain. They’d discussed the request briefly at the beginning of the meeting. “His plan was always to beef up the force.”

  The President nodded. “Make it very clear that we are not to go over the border into Moldova.”

  “What if our people need to defend themselves?” Chastain asked.

  “I wouldn’t give Colonel Bastian that big a loophole,” said Secretary of State Hartman. “We’ve seen what he’s done with that in the past.”

  Martindale folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

  “Colonel Bastian is not in charge of Dreamland anymore,” said Chastain.
r />   “No, but he’s their point man. He’s the one on the scene,” said Secretary Hartman. “And he has an itchy trigger finger.”

  “No more than any of us do,” said Chastain. “They have to have the right to defend themselves.”

  “They can defend themselves only if attacked in Romanian territory,” said the President. “They cannot fire or attack over the border. They can’t even fly over it. Understood?”

  Chastain hesitated. “I can see circumstances where that might put them in grave danger.”

  “Which would you rather have?” asked Hartman. “A dead Megafortress crew, or world war?”

  “It wouldn’t come to that,” said Chastain.

  “No,” Hartman agreed, “but Russia could go ahead and bomb the pipeline directly. Then we’ll have a worldwide depression and the end of NATO.”

  “I hope that’s not our choice,” said the President.

  Bacau, Romania

  2320

  WITH THE DETAILS WORKED OUT, STONER STAYED NORTH, waiting for word from Washington on whether his plan would be approved. A small part of him—an insignificant, tiny slice—hoped it wouldn’t be, at least not immediately. He wanted a few more days with Sorina Viorica.

  He wanted more than that.

  As soon as Fairchild relayed the OK—and the conditions—Stoner shut that part of himself away and called General Locusta at his corps headquarters. Locusta’s aide was reluctant to even bother getting the general—until Stoner said he had definitive information on the location of the guerrilla camps in Moldova.

  “Where are they?” Locusta snapped when he came on the line.

  “I’ll be at your headquarters in an hour. We’ll talk,” said Stoner. He killed the transmission, giving Locusta no time to respond.

  Stoner had read everything the Agency had on General Locusta, but like most CIA briefs on military officers in Eastern Europe, it offered little beyond his résumé, lacking insight into the man. Locusta was an infantryman by training; among his military honors was a marksmanship badge, earned as a lieutenant. He was well-regarded as a general officer, though considered abrasive by the defense minister and the president.