Revolution

by Dale Brown

  Locusta seemed to have been marked for greater things from the time he joined the army as a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant, fresh out of university. He’d received training in Russia as a young man and had been posted there for about a year in the early 1980s. He’d also toured Great Britain, Spain, and Italy as part of Romania’s initiative to join NATO.

  His family had connections to Ceausescu, the former dictator. That had hurt them in the years following Ceausescu’s fall, but not so severely that the family wasn’t well off now. Locusta himself had some property, though not great wealth.

  Nothing in the report told Stoner what he wanted to know: the odds that Locusta would put a knife in his back just for the fun of it.

  They were about fifty-fifty, Stoner guessed, after he finished telling the general about the guerrilla camps in Moldova. Average.

  Locusta sat silently for nearly a minute after Stoner finished. Most of his aides had left for home hours ago; it was so quiet in the corps HQ that Stoner could hear the clock ticking on Locusta’s desk.

  “How did you find this information out?” said the general finally.

  “I can’t get into the exact methods we use,” replied Stoner. He pulled over one of the seats—a metal folding chair—and sat down.

  “Then how can I judge how accurate the information is?”

  Stoner shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to find out together.”

  “Together?”

  “I want to go on the raid.”

  “Why?”

  “I think the Russians are helping the guerrillas. I think they may have been responsible for killing some of our people, and this will help me find out.”

  Another man might have asked if Stoner didn’t trust him, but the general accepted the explanation without comment. That told Stoner that the general understood the value of seeing things for yourself, that he was a man who liked to act, rather than have others act for him.

  Interesting pieces of information, though not immediately helpful.

  “So you have a spy?” asked Locusta.

  “I can’t get into specifics.”

  “Where are the camps?”

  “I don’t have that information yet. There are two, and they’re within fifty miles of the border.”

  “Practically half of the country is within fifty miles of the border.”

  The two men locked gazes. Stoner held it for half a second, then blinked and looked down, wanting the general to feel that he was his superior. He glanced back, then away, underlining his submission.

  “I cannot commit troops to move across the border on vague hints,” said the general.

  “I’ll have the information when the operation starts, not before.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Stoner smiled in spite of himself. Locusta was right; Stoner could get the information from Sorina as soon as she was safely out of the country. But Stoner wanted to verify that it was correct before letting her go, and she wouldn’t agree to any delay.

  Not that he didn’t trust her.

  “This is of no use to me,” said Locusta. “Get out of my office.”

  Stoner rose silently and walked out, turning down the hall. He went out to his motorcycle. He had his helmet on when one of the general’s aides ran from the building, flagging his arms.

  “Perhaps the general was, acted, hastily,” said the man, a major. “Not hastily but in anger. The criminals have caused us, have killed many people. Sometimes it is difficult to act rationally when dealing with them.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your information comes from a criminal?”

  “I believe my information is good information,” said Stoner. “But the only way to actually find out is to test it.”

  “You cannot use your planes to verify it?”

  “The planes are not allowed over the border.”

  “Satellites?”

  “If we knew where it was, we could get pictures,” said Stoner. “But we’ve looked at sat photos before without finding anything. I imagine that’s happened to you.”

  “If an attack were to be launched, would the aircraft assist then?”

  Stoner shook his head. “The Dreamland aircraft cannot violate Moldovan airspace.”

  “Give me a phone number.” the man said, “and I will call you in a few hours.”

  Bacau, Romania

  2234

  GENERAL LOCUSTA WATCHED FROM HIS WINDOW AS THE American started his motorbike and drove away.

  Locusta had no doubt the American’s information would prove to be correct. Two of his soldiers had smuggled an American spy over the border a few days ago; this was obviously the fruits of his labor.

  And their blood.

  Fifty miles from the border. Much farther than the information their own spies had obtained, and at least a partial answer to the question of why his men had failed to find out themselves.

  Though another part of the answer was that the rebels had been useful to Locusta, an excuse to build up his force. Now he no longer needed them.

  Or the Russians.

  Or the Americans, for that matter.

  This was his opportunity: the perfect diversion. It supplied a ready-made excuse for mobilizing his units and commandeering the few helicopters available outside the capital.

  And he couldn’t wait much longer.

  There was a knock at the door. The major he had sent after Stoner, Anton Ozera, appeared in the threshold.

  “In,” said Locusta, gesturing.

  Ozera closed the door behind him.

  “What did he say?” asked Locusta.

  “His source is one of the criminals. There will be no help across the border.”

  “But the information is good,” said Locusta. “He’s convinced of that or he wouldn’t want to go along.”

  “The problem is, the Americans do not know the criminals as we do.”

  Locusta smirked. “I think they know them well enough.”

  The fact that a turncoat was willing to give the Americans information showed the terrible state the movement was in. They had failed to win the support of the people, and would now wither and die.

  With a little help, of course. And as long as the Russians were removed.

  “We could use the attack as a diversion,” said Ozera. “It would explain the mobilization of forces.”

  “Always, Ozera, we think alike,” said Locusta.

  “Thank you, General.”

  “Your men?”

  “We could strike in an hour. If the target was the president’s northern home. The capital, as I said—”

  Locusta raised his finger, and Ozera stopped talking. They had discussed the difficulties of striking Voda in the capital many times; the assassination itself would be easy, but the contingencies that would necessarily follow would be difficult to manage.

  The general picked up his phone. “Connect me to the president’s personal residence. It is a matter of great urgency.”

  He leaned back in his seat, waiting. He knew Voda’s personal habits from experience; the president would be up even though the hour was late.

  Sure enough, Voda came on the line within a few minutes.

  “Mr. President, I have very important news,” said Locusta.

  He explained what Stoner had told him. As always, the president listened without comment or interruption. Only when Locusta fell silent did he speak.

  “If there is a definitive location, I will review the plans and make my decision,” he said.

  “I will bring the plans personally to you,” said Locusta. “Only…”

  “Finish your sentence.”

  “I have two thoughts. One is that I would like the assault to proceed rapidly, so that word of this turncoat does not leak out. And two, if I were to come to the capital, it is possible spies would alert the guerrillas. The Russians have been very busy.”

  “Yes.” Voda paused a moment, thinking. “You suggest I come to your headquarters?”

  “That too migh
t generate some unwanted rumors.” Locusta pretended to be thinking. “If you were at your estate in the mountains…”

  “It’s hardly an estate, Tomma. Merely an old farm.”

  And one that you love to visit, Locusta thought. He had met the president there many times, and had his own unit of troops nearby to provide additional protection.

  “When would we meet?”

  “If you were there tomorrow afternoon?”

  “My aide will call you with the arrangements in the morning,” said Voda.

  Locusta gave Major Ozera a broad smile as he hung up, then rose and went to the door. In the hallway, he bellowed for his chief of staff.

  “I want plans for an assault inside Moldova,” he told him when he appeared. “Two sites to be hit as hard as we can.”

  “Where, General?”

  “We won’t know the precise locations until a few minutes before the assaults themselves. Plan for a large action against several buildings. Expect several hundred guerrillas.”

  “But the president—”

  “I’ll deal with the president. You prepare the plans. We will make the attack tomorrow night.”

  Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

  over northern Romania

  2330

  THE MEGAFORTRESS HIT A STACK OF TURBULENT AIR, shuddering as she turned through the darkening sky over northern Romania. Dog tightened his grip on the stick, easing her through the rough patch of sky.

  “Russians are back, Colonel,” said Rager, watching the airborne radar behind him on the Bennett’s flight deck. “Right on schedule.”

  “Has to be the most boring assignment in the world, shadowing us,” said Sullivan. “Watching as we go around and around and around.”

  “Nah. They should try working the ground radar here,” said Spiff, referring of course to his own job.

  “I thought I heard snoring back there,” said Sullivan.

  “I have to get my z’s in while Colonel Bastian’s flying,” replied the radar operator. “Life’s too exciting when you’re at the stick.”

  “Ha-ha-ha.”

  DOWNSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHTHAWK DECK, ZEN PUT HAWK One into a bank south, waiting as the Megafortress got into position to launch Hawk Two. Tonight they were scheduled to work with two platoons, one near where the guerrillas had attacked the other night, the other over the gas pipeline. The two areas overlapped, and the Megafortress’s patrol circuits had been plotted so the mother ship would be roughly equidistant to the two smaller planes throughout the night.

  The computer would help fly the planes, of course, and the Flighthawks could operate on their own if necessary. But as an old school combat pilot, one who had come to the program from fighter jets, Zen mentally projected himself into each cockpit. It was a bit of a challenge to cover such a disparate area—a good challenge.

  The first platoon was scheduled to call in at 2400—midnight in civilian time. The second would make contact a half hour later. In the meantime, Zen put the robot planes through their paces, surveying the ground with their onboard infrared cameras. The farm fields, fallow because of the winter, looked like calm patches of the ocean, their furrows of light waves barely breaking the surface. Houses glowed in the darkness, their chimneys bright with heat.

  “Bennett to Flighthawk leader. What’s your status?”

  “Both aircraft are completing their orienting runs, Colonel,” said Zen. “I have nothing but green on my boards. Systems are looking good.”

  “Bennett,” acknowledged Dog.

  Zen hit the preset button on his joystick control, and the visual in front of him changed from Hawk One’s forward camera to Hawk Two’s. He thought of it as “jumping” from one plane to another.

  Hawk Two’s views had more mountainous terrain, but the overall impression—of a quiet, peaceful night—was the same. For the sake of the Romanians below, Zen hoped it stayed that way.

  UP ON THE FLIGHT DECK, COLONEL BASTIAN LET SULLIVAN continue to fly the aircraft while he reviewed the mission’s flight plan. There were a few sharp cuts involved to stay close to the Flighthawks as they patrolled, but otherwise the route looked like an elongated racetrack that had been squeezed in the middle.

  If things got hot tonight, Dog would be able to scramble Lieutenant Englehardt and the Johnson to help out. The plane had arrived a few hours before, and while the crew could use some rest, it was already prepped for an emergency takeoff.

  Dog still wasn’t sure what additional aircraft, if any, would join them. It was a decision he was frankly glad he didn’t have to make himself. Many people thought a force as large and powerful as the U.S. Air Force had nearly unlimited resources, but the truth was that there was always a heavy demand, not just on the planes, but on the men and women who flew them. Dog couldn’t fault Samson for taking his time sending more planes—because of the recent action in India and the demands of the test programs, there were in fact only four other EB-52s currently in full flight condition at Dreamland, and none were radar ships. Dreamland’s planes were supposed to be on call to air defense units in the U.S.; the bottom line was that there weren’t enough ships to go around.

  If Samson actually got the money he’d been promised, there would be more, but Dog knew that would inevitably mean more missions to fulfill—and the resources would once more be stretched.

  “One of those MiGs just changed direction, Colonel,” said Rager. “Contact one on your screen. Coming toward us.”

  Dog saw it on the radar display. The MiG’s wingman was turning as well.

  “They’re lighting afterburners.”

  “Probably blowing the carbon out of their arses,” said Sullivan. “The Russians are particularly constipated this time of year.”

  The planes were roughly 250 miles away, traveling at about 500 knots or nautical miles per hour. Lighting their afterburners—essentially dumping a lot of fuel into the rear of the engines to make the planes go fast—would quickly increase their speed up over the sound barrier. Still, they were a good distance away; it would take at least ten minutes and probably a little more before they were close enough to pose a threat to the Megafortress.

  Assuming they were interested in doing that.

  “Flighthawk leader, our friends are at it again,” Dog told Zen.

  “Yeah, Colonel, I’m looking at the radar. What are they doing?”

  “Probably testing to see how we’ll respond,” said Dog. “Plot an intercept for Hawk One near the border just in case.”

  “Done, Colonel.”

  Dog checked the radar image. The radar in the Russian fighters—or whatever was guiding them—wouldn’t be able to see the Flighthawk at this range.

  Three minutes later the MiGs were still running hot in their direction. Their speed was up over 1,100 knots. They’d switched their afterburners off—if they left them on too long they’d quickly be out of fuel—but kept their course steady.

  “Contacts one and two looking at the border in a little over five minutes,” said Rager.

  “Let’s show them we know they’re on their way,” said Dog. “Sully, open the bomb bay doors.”

  “On it, Colonel.”

  The plane shook with the vibration of the bomb bay doors swinging open. The Megafortress had six AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles loaded for air defense, along with two smart bombs. Dog wasn’t aligned perfectly to fire them—his track was roughly perpendicular to the MiGs—but he could easily bring them to bear if the situation warranted.

  By now Romania’s ground radars along the seacoast had spotted the MiGs, and the antiaircraft missile batteries along the eastern border of the country were being alerted. The defenses dated from the mid-sixties, however, and would be of little concern to the MiGs if they crossed.

  “Two minutes to the border, Colonel,” said Rager. “They’re—Shit! Weapons radars activated.”

  “Relax,” said Dog. “ECMs, Sully.”

  The copilot activated the Megafortress’s electronic counter measures, jamming the frequencies u
sed by the MiG’s radar missiles to home in on their target.

  “Colonel, I can set up a better intercept over the border,” said Zen.

  Dog’s orders specifically forbade him to send any of his aircraft over the line, and in fact directed him to “actively avoid contact”—which could be interpreted to mean that he should run away if the MiGs got any more aggressive.

  He understood why, of course—the U.S. wanted to avoid giving the Russians even the slightest pretense for coming to the aid of the rebels. But he still bristled.

  “Stay on our side of the line,” said Dog.

  “Roger that.”

  “Colonel, I have a fire indication! Missile in the air! AMRAAMski! Two of them.”

  “What the hell?” shouted Sullivan.

  Dog dipped his wing, turning so he could “beam” the enemy radar and make it harder for the missiles to track him. The planes were a little more than thirty miles from the border, and the Megafortress was another forty from that. They were just at the missile’s effective range, maybe even a little beyond it.

  “Missile one is coming for us,” said Rager.

  “Colonel, you want to take them?” said Zen.

  “Negative,” said Dog tersely. “Button us up, Sullivan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The closed doors made it easier for the Megafortress to maneuver.

  “Zen, put Hawk Two between us. Look for the missile.”

  “Roger that, Colonel.”

  Dog turned the Megafortress again, pushing hard to get away. What the hell were the Russians doing? Trying to start World War III?

  “Missile one—off scope,” said Sullivan. “Missile two—gone.”

  “They self-destructed, Colonel,” added Rager. “MiGs have turned.” He gave a bearing and range—they were under fifty miles away.

  “Stand down,” said Dog. “Excitement is over, gentlemen. Let’s get back to work.”

  “What was it all about, Colonel?” asked Sullivan after they had returned to their patrol route.

  “They’re trying to rattle us. It’s an old Cold War game. First one to blink loses.”

  “Did we blink or did they?”