by Dale Brown
Dog frowned.
“Let’s get back to work,” was all he said.
Dreamland
1204
ONCE A PILOT LEARNED THE BASICS OF FLYING, HE OR SHE could in theory fly anything. It was a little like learning how to ride a bicycle or drive a car—once the basic physical and intellectual skills were mastered, going from one cockpit to another wasn’t all that difficult.
Of course, when you were a pilot who operated at the very top of the profession, who flew planes at the cutting edge in extreme situations, you did more things with your aircraft than the weekend flier puttering from small town to small town in his Piper. And when you were among the most elite members of the subspecies, your expectations of yourself as well as the plane were extremely high. They didn’t change just because you were in an unfamiliar cockpit. Yes, you could strap just about any plane onto your back and take a nice, nonchalant orientation flight, not push the bird or yourself very hard without a very steep learning curve. But that wasn’t the way a top test pilot operated.
No, an elite pilot pushed a new plane and herself to the max. Which was where the frustration came in.
Breanna tried hard not to curse as Boomer gave her a stall warning coming out of the turn. Supplying more throttle, she powered through the maneuver, holding her position tightly to the ghosted course suggestion on her heads-up display.
“Good. I’m ranging. Locked. Ready to fire,” said Sleek Top.
Sleek Top was sitting in the pilot’s seat. Under normal circumstances, the copilot handled the targeting duties, but both consoles were fully equipped and either pilot could comfortably fly or control the weapons.
“Climbing,” said Breanna, sighing as she turned toward her next mark.
“You’re doing good, Bree.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You don’t think you are?”
“I guess.”
Sleek remained silent as they worked through the rest of the exercise. Breanna didn’t have a lot of time in either “stock” B-1Bs or the B-1B/L, but the plane was easy to adjust to compared to getting used to sitting in the second officer’s seat. The world looked very different from the right-hand seat.
But if that’s what it took to get back in the air, that’s what she would do.
They finished off with a mock refuel. Breanna could have had the computer fly the plane through the rendezvous—and on a combat mission, that might have been the preferred option—but it felt like cheating. She held steady, eased up to the boom, and hooked in almost as easily as if she were flying an EB-52.
“You are a hell of a pilot, Breanna,” said Sleek Top as they turned back toward the runway to land. “Hell of a pilot.”
“For a woman?”
“Nah,” he said quickly. “For anyone. You picked up the fine points really fast.”
“I’m still working on it. I know I have a way to go.”
“Listen. About last night—”
“It was a great basketball game.”
“I meant—”
“It was a great basketball game,” she repeated. “Maybe Zen and I can join you at another. He’s an even bigger fan than I am.”
“I’d like that,” said Sleek Top. “Very much.”
Dreamland Command Center, Dreamland
1229
“THEY FIRED ON YOU?” SAID SAMSON. HE COULD FEEL HIS anger rising as he paced in front of the large screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.
“They launched missiles in our direction. I took evasive action. They blew up the missiles maybe twenty seconds after launch, over the Black Sea. I assume their plan all along was to spook us.”
“These Russian bastards,” said Samson. “We ought to shoot them out of the sky.”
The general glanced at the screen. The video caught Dog’s head jerking right as he glanced in the direction of his copilot. Samson felt a twinge of jealousy—he wanted to be in the air himself.
Let those Russian bastards try to spook him. Just let them try.
“I’m sorry, General,” said Dog, turning his face back toward the camera in front of his station. “I missed what you said.”
“Nothing. You have something else?”
“Negative. Very quiet on the ground so far.”
“And you did nothing to provoke the Russians?”
“All we did was take our station. At no time did any of our ships go over the border.”
“You better be giving me the whole story here, Bastian. If I get my head handed to me on this, yours isn’t going to be worth a nickel.”
Dog didn’t say anything.
“I’ll get back to you,” said Samson.
“General, if there’s a mission in Moldova, I’d like permission—”
“What part of what I just said don’t you understand?”
“It’s all crystal clear,” said Dog.
The screen blanked.
That was the problem with Bastian, thought Samson. Even when he was in the right, you had to be suspicious of him. He was a cowboy, always looking for a chance to blow something up.
Still, when he was right, he was right.
“Get me the White House,” the general told the communications specialist. “Tell them it’s important.”
White House
1550
JUST IN TIME FOR HIS COUNTRY’S EVENING NEWS PROGRAMS, the German chancellor had responded to the latest round of Russian price increases by threatening to cut off gas shipments through its pipelines to France unless the French paid Germany a special transshipping fee. The French had responded angrily, and now all of Europe seemed at each other’s throats. The Italians, who had seen unemployment rise to nearly twenty percent of the workforce in the past two months, were even talking about leaving NATO and the European Common Market.
The National Security Council had called an emergency meeting to discuss the latest developments. Freeman had Jed come along to make it easier for him to keep up-to-date. The meeting was winding down when Sandra Collins, one of the NSC duty officers, appeared at the door and waved her hands frantically to get his attention. Jed waited for the Undersecretary of State to finish what he was saying—though he used a lot of words, his opinion basically was that the Italian threat was an empty bluff—then excused himself and went to the door.
“General Samson at Dreamland,” whispered Collins. “He says it’s urgent.”
Jed went across the hall to the secure communications center, nodding at the duty officer as he went to one of the stations. He sat down at the desk, typed in his password, then put his eyes into the retina scanner. A few seconds later, General Samson’s face appeared in his screen.
“General, what can I do for you?” asked Jed.
Samson frowned. Jed knew from their past communications that Samson expected to be talking to Philip Freeman every time he called. But the National Security Advisor had given specific orders that all Dreamland communications, including those that came through Admiral Balboa at the Pentagon, were to go through Jed, and while Samson surely had been told, he hadn’t really gotten the message.
And probably never would.
“Jed, the Russians fired on one of our aircraft,” said Samson.
“The Russians?”
“Those MiGs that were shadowing Bastian. And he did nothing to provoke it. Now I want permission to shoot those bastards down, and I want it now.”
“Um, General—”
“My people have to be able to defend themselves. Even Bastian. The orders have to be changed to allow them to do that.”
“The President was pretty specific about them staying out of any sort of situation—”
“Then you get him on the phone so I can talk to him,” said Samson.
“I’ll do what I can, General. But, listen, the situation over there is pretty volatile. It may seem like it’s just a dispute over gas prices, but—”
“Don’t tell me how volatile it is. My people are on the front line here. I need to protect them.”
>
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
THE NSC MEETING HAD ALREADY BROKEN UP AND JED’S boss was gone. By the time he caught up with him, Freeman was at lunch up at the Capitol, dining in the Members Dining Room as the guest of Larry Segriff, who, besides representing Wisconsin as its senior representative, was head of the Foreign Relations Committee.
Freeman saw Jed walking toward him. “Am I late already?” he said, glancing at his watch. “I just got here.”
“Actually, um, Sally made a mistake on the schedule.” Jed smiled at Segriff, trying to seem genuine as he offered an excuse. “You were supposed to be in a meeting with the President on the gas situation in Europe. She thought lunch was tomorrow.”
“I’m not going to keep you, Phil.” Segriff started to wave him away. “Go ahead. We’ll have lunch a different time.”
“Thanks, Congressman. I’m really sorry. It’s good to exchange ideas.”
“Yes. I’ll have my secretary set something up.”
Jed followed Freeman out of the room. At least a dozen pairs of eyes followed them as they left.
“Good, Jed. I think he half believed you,” said Freeman.
“I thought—”
“You did fine. What’s up?”
“One of the Dreamland aircraft was fired on by the Russians,” Jed told him.
“What?”
“It looks like it was meant to intimidate them. In any event, General Samson wants permission to fight back.”
Freeman set his lips together in a deep frown as they got into the limo for the short ride back to the Executive Office Building.
Within an hour Jed was sitting next to his boss in the Cabinet Room next to the Oval Office, briefing President Martindale on what had happened.
Martindale ordinarily took even the worst news calmly, and it was generally hard to read his emotions.
Not today. He pounded the table, then ran his hand back through his white hair so violently that it flew into a wild tangle.
“What the hell are the goddamned Russians up to?” he thundered. “They want a war? They want a goddamned war?”
The reaction caught both Jed and his boss off guard. They exchanged a glance.
“I don’t know that they want a war, exactly,” said Freeman. “I think they’re pushing, to see how far they can go. How far we’ll go.”
Martindale’s face flushed. He looked at them for a moment, and as Jed stared at his profile he realized how tired the President appeared, and how old he had become. The last few weeks had been a great triumph—but also an enormous strain. Whatever held his temperament together had been stretched to the breaking point.
“Yes, of course that’s what they’re doing. Pushing us. Pushing me.”
Martindale began to relax, becoming more his old self.
“We do have a couple of options, Mr. President,” said Freeman. “We could send the Dreamland people to support the operation in Moldova.”
“No. That’s what they want. That’s what this is about—to try to provoke us.” The President rose. “This isn’t just about the price of the natural gas. Oh yes, that’s part of it. Definitely part of it. But there’s more. They want to break up NATO. Look at the quarreling that’s going on. And what do you think will happen to our bid to expand NATO if we’re seen taking sides like this?”
“We are taking sides,” said Freeman. “We have to take sides.”
“Yes, but with restraint. They want to make us look as aggressive as possible. They know we’re riding high right now.” Martindale shook his head. “Moldova is still off limits.”
“OK,” said Freeman.
“Um…”
Martindale turned to Jed. “What’s that ‘um’ about, young man?”
“Sir, um, the Romanians have been asking for more support. They say two planes, even Megafortresses, aren’t enough.”
“What does Samson say?”
“Uh, I guess I don’t know exactly.”
“Find out what his plans are.”
“Can the planes defend themselves?” insisted Freeman.
“They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs,” said Martindale. “No offensive action. Period.”
“But—”
“Colonel Bastian will know how to interpret that order. Make sure it’s relayed to him.”
Dreamland
1300
ONCE MORE, SAMSON FOUND HIMSELF BRISTLING AS HE talked to Jed Barclay, angry that the President wouldn’t speak to him directly.
“Um, just that the President wants to know if you have an adequate force in Romania,” explained Jed.
“Tell him we have more planes getting ready to fly as we speak,” Samson said. “They’ll be taking off this evening.”
“Very good.”
“Can we hit the Russians?” asked Samson.
“Actually, the President does not want American aircraft in Moldovan airspace. He thinks the Russians are trying to provoke us.”
Samson folded his arms.
“His orders were, this is a direct quote: ‘They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs. No offensive action. Period.’ He wanted that relayed to Colonel Bastian.”
“Very well. Dreamland out.”
Samson dropped the phone on its hook.
“Chartelle!” he said loud enough to be heard in the outer office. “Get Mack Smith in here. Now!”
“Yes, General,” said the secretary.
Mack appeared a few minutes later. The major had apparently been eating lunch, because a small bit of ketchup clung to his chin.
“Mack, I want our B-1B/Ls en route to Romania by tonight.”
“The B-1s, General?”
“Is there an echo in this room?”
“General, the B-1 project—”
“Spit it out, Major. Let’s have your objections in plain language.”
“Yes, sir. It’s not an objection, it’s just—even with Breanna—I mean, Captain Stockard—I’m still one pilot short. We have Sleek Top, Jack Kittle, and Breanna. That’s one short—and to be honest, I don’t know if you can push Sleek into combat.”
“If he volunteers, he can go.”
“Well, I don’t know that—”
“Have you ever heard of a Marine who didn’t volunteer for combat?”
“Um, no sir. But even so, you’re still one short.”
“No, we’re full up. I’ll fly Boomer.” Samson rose. “Get the others into my office right away. I don’t care where they are. Get them. Now. We have a job to do.”
V
Voyeurs at the Edge of Battle
Dochia, Romania
28 January 1998
0500
IT WAS THE LAST TIME HE’D SEE HER. They’d lain in bed all night, not talking, only their sides touching. Stoner slid away from her now, unsure of himself.
Had there been real emotion from the very beginning, lust, or gratitude because of her help? Something vulnerable and simple, frail, unworthy of a spy?
No matter how you steeled yourself—how you stole yourself away, hid the vulnerable part of the soul that everyone had behind a wall, in order to do your job—there was some small slither of humanity left, some piece of flesh vulnerable at the edge.
Stoner pulled on his pants, slipping in the button at the waist. They were loose. He always lost weight on a mission. Another week and he would need a belt.
Shirt on, he unrolled a fresh pair of socks and sat on the bed, his back to her.
Temptation lingered, her perfume and his sweat mixing in the stuffy room.
He took his shoes, ignored his chance for one last glance, and left.
A HALF HOUR LATER, STONER TURNED HIS MOTORCYCLE off the main road just north of Bacau, riding down a narrow dirt trail that formed a horseshoe between a farm field and the road. Danny Freah was already waiting, sitting in a borrowed Romanian jeep. Stoner drove past quickly, checking the area, then spun back, kicking up dirt and rocks as he skidded to a stop next to Danny’s window.
&nb
sp; “How goes it?” asked Freah. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a heavy jacket.
“I’m OK. You?”
“This Romanian coffee could wake the dead,” said Freah, holding up a plastic travel mug.
“One of Locusta’s aides called me last night,” Stoner told him. “They’re going ahead with the raid tonight. Assuming they get approval.”
“Yeah, I heard. Locusta’s chief of staff called Colonel Bastian.” Danny took a sip of the coffee, wincing as he swallowed. “You think their president’s going to approve?”
Stoner shrugged. He had no idea. If he had to, he’d sneak into Moldova himself and check on the sites. It’d be far more dangerous, but in some ways much easier: He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone but himself.
Danny took another pull from the coffee and once again made a face.
“If it’s so bad, why are you drinking it?” Stoner asked.
“I guess I like the pain,” said Danny. He laughed softly.
Stoner pulled a blank piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “You got a pen?” he asked.
Danny handed him one and he wrote out the directions to the house where Sorina was holed up.
“She’s expecting you in an hour,” Stoner said. “Be careful. She’s pretty tough.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
Stoner tensed, expecting that Danny would ask if he’d been sleeping with her.
Would he lie?
No. Tell the truth. No sense not to.
“Aren’t you freezing your buns off on that motorcycle?” asked Danny.
Stoner tried not to show his relief that the question wasn’t the one he expected.
“It’s handy. And it’s what I have.”
“If there were time, I’d ask to take it for a spin.”
“Next time I see you,” said Stoner.
“Deal.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
“Same to you. I don’t trust Locusta much.”
Stoner smirked, but instead of answering, he revved the bike and started in the direction of the Romanian army camp.
Dreamland
27 January 1998