Revolution

by Dale Brown

  “Yes, General.”

  “Keep me updated,” Locusta said. He hung up the phone. It rang immediately. “Locusta.”

  “Bucharest,” said a male voice. “Done.”

  The line clicked dead. Locusta hung up again, feeling much more confident. The defense minister had been assassinated. An irritant had been removed.

  This was a time for action, not doubt. Locusta rose from his desk, grabbed his satellite phone and strode from the office.

  “I am going to the president’s house,” he told his staff in the conference room. “I will personally take charge of the situation there. Nothing to the media,” he added, turning to his public relations officer. “Nothing, official or unofficial, without my express approval.”

  The man’s face paled. Locusta guessed that he had already started feeding tidbits to favored reporters.

  The general savored that look of fear as he walked to his car.

  Dreamland Command trailer,

  Iasi, Romania

  2345

  DOG FROZE THE INFRARED VIDEO FEED FROM THE JOHNSON’S Flighthawk showing the back of the president’s house.

  “Serious munitions hit that house,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Maybe mortar shells, maybe RPG rounds. At least a half dozen.”

  “The guerrillas could have either,” said Samson.

  “True.” Dog hit the Play button, letting the image proceed.

  “Are you seeing this, Mr. Barclay?” asked Samson.

  “We see it,” said Jed Barclay, speaking from the White House Situation Room. “Please continue the feed. We want to see the area.”

  More Romanian troops were arriving at a command post set up on the road below the house. From the looks of things, the Romanians believed some of the guerrillas had escaped and they were trying to seal off the area.

  “That’s what we have, Jed,” said Dog. “Anything else new on your end?”

  “We’re sorting through everything. The CIA station chief reported rumors that the president was dead. We’ll be back on with you in a few minutes.”

  Dog leaned back from the console and glanced at Samson, who was standing against the partition of the communications area. The general’s stubble and his combat fatigues were almost jarring; for the first time since they’d met, Samson didn’t look like an actor playing the role.

  “You think it’s a coup?” Samson asked.

  “If I had to bet, that’s where I’d put my money,” said Dog.

  “So would I,” said Samson.

  Dog pulled off his headphones and rose. “Want some coffee?” he asked Samson.

  “Yes,” said the general.

  There was almost always fresh coffee on the sideboard of the trailer’s main room, but tonight was an exception. Dog started hunting through the cabinets, looking for the filters and coffee. He was just filling the pot with water when Samson emerged from the communications shack.

  “I thought maybe you went into town for it,” said the general.

  From anyone else, the comment would have seemed a good-natured rib. Samson, however, looked serious.

  “Coffee is not my specialty,” said Dog.

  “Relax, Bastian. That was a joke.”

  Dog held the pot up, squinting at the numbers to make sure he had the right level of water.

  “I hope your eye exam isn’t due soon,” said Samson.

  This time Dog laughed.

  Samson, though, had apparently meant the comment in earnest, and gave him a puzzled stare. “Sometimes I don’t know how to take you, Bastian,” he said.

  “Well, General, pretty much what you see is what you get.” Dog poured the water into the machine. “If it is a coup, we have to stay out of it.”

  “I don’t know that we have any choice.” Samson came over as the coffee dripped through and took a cup down from the cupboard. Then he got one for Dog. “Damn cot wrenched my back.”

  “I think the beds in Diego Garcia permanently twisted one of my vertebrae,” said Dog.

  “Good coffee, Bastian,” said Samson, taking a cup. “Now let’s get those planes in the air.”

  White House

  1345 (2345 Romania)

  PRESIDENT MARTINDALE SWIVELED HIS CHAIR TO THE LEFT to get a better view of the video screen. The flat panel screen, some eighty-four inches diagonally, was a technical marvel, thin and yet capable of supplying a picture several times sharper than a cathode ray tube.

  Martindale’s main technology advisor predicted it would be standard fare in American homes within a decade, but for now, the secure conference room in the White House basement had the only one in existence.

  A feed from Romanian television played on the screen, reporting that the defense minister had been gunned down in Bucharest. The body of his assassin—the newscaster called him “a criminal,” implying that he was a guerrilla—had been found nearby, apparently shot by the defense minister’s bodyguards.

  “It’s a military coup,” said Secretary of State Hartman as the broadcast continued. “There’s no other explanation.”

  He and Martindale had come directly from the reception, and were both still wearing their tuxedos. They were alone in the room with Jed Barclay, who was briefing them on the situation. Defense Secretary Chastain and Admiral Balboa, representing the Joint Chiefs of Staff, were at the Pentagon, linked via a secure video conference line. National Security Advisor Freeman was across the hall in the Situation Room, trying to reach the Kremlin to get an explanation for the interference in Moldova.

  “Are you sure the phone call the embassy received is legitimate?” said Chastain. “Anyone could have pretended to be Voda.”

  “It came on the ambassador’s personal line,” said Hartman. “And I trust his judgment implicitly. One hundred percent.”

  “I didn’t mean he was lying, just mistaken.”

  The embedded encryption mechanism made Chastain’s voice sound slightly tinny.

  “But Art’s point is well taken,” said Martindale. “We have to keep it in mind as we proceed.”

  The President rose and took a short stroll behind the large table at the center of the conference room, trying to focus his thoughts and work off his excess energy. His shoulder grazed the wall as he walked. At the beginning of his term, a set of photographs showing his predecessor at work had adorned the paneled walls. Martindale had had them removed, not because they were a distraction or even because of professional jealousy, but because the space was so narrow behind the chair that he often bumped into the photographs when taking walks like this.

  “We have to help Voda,” said Hartman. “We simply have to.”

  “Anything we do will be seen as interfering in Romania’s internal politics,” said Chastain. “And as a practical matter, there’s probably nothing we can do.”

  “We can share the information that he’s alive,” said Hartman.

  “If it’s him.”

  Under other circumstances, the President might have been amused by the role reversal that his two cabinet ministers had undergone: Ordinarily, Chastain was in favor of intervening no matter how complicated the situation, and Hartman was for sitting on the sidelines no matter how clear the case for action. But over the last few days, Romania and the gas line had become so critical to Europe’s future that Martindale was hardly in a mood to be anything other than worried.

  While he believed that all countries were best governed by democracies, he knew foreign democracies would not always act in America’s best interest. It could be argued that a stable Romania was much more important to the United States, and to Europe, than one with a weak and divided government. In the long run a takeover by the military might not be bad; for one thing, it would probably bring a change in spending priorities that would fund better defense to protect the pipeline.

  Still, a military coup in Romania would kill any hope for NATO and EU membership, and add greatly to the sense of instability currently sweeping the continent. The new regime might also veto Martindale’s ten
tative arrangements with Voda to utilize bases in the south of the country, where Martindale hoped to shift some forces from Germany to bring them closer to the Middle East and Iran.

  “If we say Voda is alive and he turns up dead, we’ll be crucified,” said Chastain.

  “But if he is alive and he needs our help,” countered Freeman, “we should give it.”

  “How?” said Chastain.

  “Dreamland.”

  “Even Dreamland can’t take on the entire Romanian army.”

  “Maybe not,” said Martindale, rejoining the conversation. “But they could rescue Voda. If he’s alive. If they found him.”

  Philip Freeman came into the room. He shook his head—the Russians had refused to communicate with him so far. Martindale explained what he was thinking.

  “Very dangerous, Mr. President,” said Freeman.

  “Worth the risk,” said Hartman immediately. “We take him out of harm’s way, then let the Romanians sort it all out. We’ll be the heroes.”

  “Or the people caught in the middle, catching hell from both sides,” said the President. “But let’s see if we can do it. Jed. Put us through to Dog.”

  “General Samson is in charge of the detachment now,” said Admiral Balboa, speaking for the first time since joining the conference.

  “Yes, my mistake,” said Martindale. “Jed, get me the general. But make sure Bastian is there too.”

  The Russian Embassy,

  Bucharest

  2345

  “LOCUSTA HAS FINALLY MADE HIS MOVE,” SVORANSKY SAID into the phone. “Now is the time to strike.”

  The Russian military attaché put his elbow on the desk and reached for the vodka he had poured earlier. The only light in his office was coming from the flickering LEDs on his computer’s network interface, and from the machine that scrambled his telephone communications to Moscow.

  “We have lost two planes already to the Americans tonight,” replied Antov Dosteveski. “Your entire program was too provocative.”

  “The program came from the president, not me,” said Svoransky. “I am telling you—if we are ever to strike a lasting blow against the pipeline, the time is now. The country is in confusion. General Locusta has launched his coup and will not be in a position to stop your attack.”

  “And the Americans?”

  “Shoot them down! I cannot fly the planes for you!”

  Svoransky slammed the phone down angrily. Dosteveski was a general in the Russian army, detailed by the Kremlin specifically to work with him on the project to disrupt the gas line. Like all too many generals these days, he seemed particularly risk adverse.

  Svoransky took a strong swig of his vodka. In the old days, generals gave brave orders: shoot down American planes when they violated Soviet air space, sink a submarine in revenge for sinking one of theirs, crush piddling governments when they stood in the way. Now the men leading the Russian army were afraid of their own shadows.

  Dreamland Whiplash Osprey

  2347

  THE OSPREY FERRYING DANNY FREAH AND SERGEANT Boston back to Iasi was about twenty minutes from touchdown when the call came through from General Samson. Danny took a headset from the crew chief and sat in one of the jump seats next to the cabin bulkhead.

  “This is Freah,” said Danny, suppressing a yawn.

  “Captain, we have a particular tactical situation you may be able to assist with,” said Samson. “We’re going to need your input on it.”

  “Sure,” said Danny. “We’re about twenty minutes shy of landing.”

  “We want your ideas right now,” said Dog, coming onto the line. “Can you talk?”

  “Um, sure. Why not?”

  Danny listened as Dog described the situation. The president of Romania had apparently been attacked by troops posing as guerrillas and was believed to be hiding somewhere on his mountain property.

  “President Martindale wants us to rescue him, as discreetly as possible,” said Dog. “But we don’t know exactly where he is. And the place is ringed by Romanian soldiers.”

  “Can you formulate a plan to extricate him?” asked Samson.

  “If I knew exactly where he was, maybe.”

  “The ambassador is working on that,” said Samson. “In the meantime, prepare a plan.”

  “Tell us what you need,” added Dog. “Equipment, other information. We’ll have it waiting for you when you land.”

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  2354

  THE PUMP HOUSE WAS MORE OVERGROWN THAN VODA REMEMBERED.. Brambles covered about three-quarters of the front and side walls. A tree had grown so close that it appeared to be embedded at the back. Hiding here was out of the question.

  “We’ll rest behind the tree,” he told his wife and son. “We’ll rest, and then we’ll find another place.”

  “Where, Papa?” asked Julian.

  “On the other side of the hill,” said Voda. He glanced at his wife. Her expression, difficult to make out in the shadows cast by the trees, seemed to border on despair.

  “I’m going to scout ahead. Stay here with your mother,” Voda told his son. Then he pointed to a clump of trees. “Mircea. Hide there. I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t leave us, Papa,” said Julian.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told him. “I won’t be far.”

  Voda was lying—he wanted to use the phone but didn’t want either of them to hear how desperate he was. He had to stay positive, or at least as confident as he could, to buoy their spirits.

  So far, he hadn’t heard the dogs, but that was just a matter of time.

  Voda walked in as straight a line as he could manage, stopping when he could no longer make out the large tree that rose from the side of the pump house. He took out the mobile phone and dialed the American ambassador’s number. The phone was answered on the first ring.

  “I am still alive,” he said.

  “Mr. President, we will help you as much as we are able to. Where exactly are you?”

  Voda hesitated. There were many reasons not to trust the Americans. But there was no other choice.

  “There is a pump house behind my property, half hidden in the woods. We cannot stay there very long. There are many soldiers still arriving. I hear many trucks. What is going on?”

  “The news is reporting that the defense minister was assassinated by guerrillas,” said the ambassador. “They are also reporting rumors of your death.”

  “Prematurely.”

  “Our satellites have seen troop movements all across the country. It seems pretty clear that there’s a coup, and that the plotters intend to kill you.”

  “Who is behind it?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President. I would hesitate to make a guess without some sort of evidence, and I have none.”

  It had to be Locusta, Voda thought. It was his area of command, and he was the only one powerful enough to even dare.

  “I want you to call General Locusta. Tell him that I know that he is behind this, and that he is to stand down,” said Voda. “Tell him…”

  Voda considered what to say. His instincts told him to be strong with the general—fierce. But perhaps it would be wiser to work out a deal.

  “Tell him he must stand down,” Voda repeated finally.

  “I don’t know if that will do much good coming from me, Mr. President.”

  Voda sensed that was a diplomatic answer—probably Washington had told him not to interfere.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” asked Voda, struggling to keep himself from bleating.

  “Yes. We will try to rescue you if we can. If you want.”

  Hope!

  “Of course I want,” said Voda, practically shouting.

  “I want to connect you directly with the Dreamland people who have been supporting your counterterrorist troops. They will help you.”

  The loud bay of a dog echoed up the hillside.

  “Are you there, Mr. President?” aske
d the American ambassador.

  “Give me the number.”

  “I can connect you, or have them call you.”

  “No. Tell me the number now. It’s not safe for them to call me; the phone can be heard, even when just buzzing. I will call them when I can, in a few minutes. Right now I have to move my family to safety.”

  Presidential villa,

  near Stulpicani, Romania

  29 January 1998

  0010

  THE HELICOPTER GENERAL LOCUSTA COMMANDEERED TO get up to the president’s mountain house had been used during the Moldovan operation. There hadn’t been enough time to completely clean the interior, and spots of dried blood covered the floor. Locusta stared at the blood, brooding. The operation had been successful, though if the Americans had deigned to provide better support, he would not have lost the helicopter with Brasov aboard.

  The colonel had always been a problematic officer—a fine leader, but headstrong, occasionally impulsive, and unfortunately as committed to democracy as he was to getting ahead. He would have had to watch Brasov carefully had he lived—so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise after all.

  But now that he was dead, Locusta missed him, and mourned the loss of his spirit. He was the sort of man an army needed.

  The kind a country needed. Like himself.

  A command post had been set up at the intersection of Highway 34 and the road leading up to President Voda’s property. There was a field next to the intersection; a pair of spotlights and some small signal flares marked the area for the helicopter to set down.

  Locusta sprang out as soon as the pilot nodded to him. Head down against the swirling wind, he ran toward the men standing near the road.

  “General, we’re glad you’re here,” said Major Ozera. “The situation is under control.”

  “You’ve found President Voda?”

  “We expect to shortly. There was a tunnel from the house to a small cave at the edge of the property. We have dogs following his scent.”

  “Good.”

  Locusta looked around. About two dozen troops were holding defensive positions near the road.