“That would be Zen Stockard,” he said. “Uh … um, M-Major Jeffrey Stockard and Cap-Captain Breanna Stockard.”
Damn, he thought. He was still stuttering.
“I agree they should be recognized. Their efforts,” said Balboa. “But of course, we do have provisions … regulations. A procedure.”
“Follow the procedure,” said Martindale. “But Bastian gets the Medal of Honor. And medals for the rest. Our heroes have to be recognized. Period. Next topic.”
Northeastern Romania
1600
“THE GUARDS CHANGE AT TEN MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT. THE
path to the pipe is wide open,” said General Tomma Locusta.
“You can make the attack without any interference.”
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“And no loss to your men,” said the Russian.
Locusta nodded. The Russian was very good at stating the obvious.
“Sometimes eggs must be broken,” said the Russian.
“Eggs are one thing, men another.”
“As you wish,” said the Russian. His name was Svoransky; he was a military attaché sent from Bucharest, the capital.
He could not speak Romanian; the two men used English to communicate, the only language in common between them.
Locusta raised his binoculars, scanning farther across the valley toward the gas pipeline. Only the very top of its gunmetal-gray frame could be seen from here. Raised on metal stanchions, the huge metal pipe was part of an old network originally laid from Romania’s own gas production wells. The government gas company had plans to bury the line eventually; until then, it was an easy and tempting target.
Which was what the Russian wanted.
“What is the interval between radio checks?” asked Svoransky.
“It is not necessary to worry about that,” said Locusta, fearing he had given away too much information already.
Svoransky was helping him, but it would be a mistake to believe that their interests were precisely the same.
A severe mistake. The Russians could never be trusted.
Even Romania’s fool of a president, Alin Voda, knew that.
Voda. Just thinking of him turned Locusta’s stomach. He was a weakling, a democrat—part of the alleged liberalizing movement that aimed at bringing Romania into the twenty-first century. The movement was nothing but a cover for money grabbing capitalists who aimed at stealing Romania blind.
“Very good, then,” said Svoransky. “I appreciate your showing me this in person.”
Locusta nodded. He had taken the task on himself because he felt he could trust no one with it—not because he was 14
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
afraid they would betray him, but because the soldiers in his command retained a strong dislike for Russians. Few Romanian soldiers, officers or enlisted, would have been able to countenance helping the Russians in this way. Locusta himself barely accepted it, and he was doing it so he could rid the country of its scoundrel democrats and return the strong hand it deserved.
“You are sure you have everything you need?” Svoransky asked. “Very sure? You must see to every detail—you do not want the government realizing who is truly behind the attacks.”
The remark didn’t deserve an answer, and Locusta made no reply. Instead he turned his glasses to the southeast, in the general direction the pipeline took from Bulgaria, through Turkey, and over to the far-off Caspian Sea. It was amazing to think that the gas would travel so many miles—and that it would go even farther still, to Austria, then Czechoslovakia, Germany, France, and Spain.
Of course, that wouldn’t be the case once the attacks were finished. Western Europe would have to freeze—or buy from the Russians, which was what Svoransky wanted.
While stopping the flow of gas served Locusta’s purposes as well, he did not want the pipeline damaged too severely. As soon as he was in charge of the government, the line would be repaired—and better guarded, most especially against the Russians. The revenues would be as handy for him as they were for Voda and his cronies.
“Tomorrow,” said Svoransky. “Depend on it.”
“We will,” said Locusta, starting back toward the car.
Allegro, Nevada
0610
JEFF “ZEN” STOCKARD TAPPED THE SIDE OF THE POOL AND
started back on his last lap, pushing hard enough to feel the strain in his shoulder muscles. The water was warm, and REVOLUTION
15
stank of chlorine. He closed his eyes and dove down, aiming for the bottom. He tapped it, then came up quickly, his thrusts so hard he nearly slammed against the end of the pool.
“You’re looking good,” said the lifeguard, standing nearby with a towel. They were the only two people in the large room that housed the gym’s pool.
“Thanks, Pete.” Zen put his arms on the edge of the pool and lifted himself out slowly, twisting his body around to sit on the side. Even though he’d grown friendly with the lifeguard—or trainer, which was his actual title—over the past six or seven months, Zen still felt self-conscious getting in and out of the pool, and especially getting into his wheelchair.
It wasn’t the chair that bothered him; it was the looks of apprehension and pity from the people who saw him.
Not being able to use his legs did bother him, of course. It bothered him a great deal. But most days he had other things to focus on.
“Hey.” The lifeguard squatted down. “You want to catch some breakfast? Coffee or something?”
“No, sorry. I’m supposed to meet Bree for breakfast before work.”
Pete threw the towel over his shoulders. “I saw those news reports,” he said. “God damn. You are a real hero. I’m really
… it’s amazing.”
Zen laughed.
“No, I mean it. I ain’t buttering you up, Zen. I’m really honored just to know you.”
“Hey, I’m still the same guy,” said Zen. He wasn’t sure why he was laughing—maybe because he was nervous about being called a hero, or about being in the spotlight. “Still the same guy who pulls his pants on one bum leg at a time.”
“You want me to get your chair?”
“If you could.”
“Of course I can. God. Jeez, man, for you I’d do anything.”
16
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Zen began edging away from the pool. The flooring material was textured to provide a good grip for feet, which made it harder for him to move back. The lifeguard positioned the chair and helped him up.
“Hard to believe you could do all that and still be in a wheelchair,” he said. “You guys really did stop a war.”
“I guess we did.”
“Maybe no one will ever go to war again, huh? If they know you guys will step in?”
“Somehow, I think that’s wishful thinking, Pete,” said Zen, starting for the locker room.
College Hospital, Nevada
0700
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?”
“I’m taking a walk,” said Breanna Stockard.
“What are you doing out of bed?” repeated the doctor. Her name was Rene Rosenberg, and she was so short that Breanna—no giant herself—could look down at the top of her head and see speckles of gray in the roots of her hair.
“I seem to be taking a walk,” repeated Breanna.
“You’re dressed.”
“Just about.” Breanna turned slowly, surveying the room.
She’d forgotten where her sweater was.
“Ms. Stockard—really, I insist that you rest. Have you had breakfast?”
“I need to move my legs before breakfast.”
“The bathroom is behind you.”
“I’ve already been.”
“Then please, back in bed.”
Breanna spotted the sweater on the chair under the television.
“I don’t want you putting weight on that right leg,” warned the doctor.
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“You said the X rays were clean.”
“Yes, but the ligaments and tendons in your knee were severely damaged.”
“But not torn. Exercise is good,” added Breanna, remembering the doctor’s own words.
“Supervised exercise as part of a rehabilitation program, not jogging around the halls at seven in the morning.”