Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.
“Get his name! ”
“You can go,” said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner’s passport. “I’m sorry for you.”
“Get his name!” demanded Stoner.
Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.
Neither of them spoke for a full minute.
“That checkpoint was not normal,” she said finally. “There was an attack last night, on the pipeline.”
“I see.”
“But there couldn’t have been.”
“Why not?”
“We decided six months ago that we wouldn’t. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians.”
“Right.”
“It’s true,” she said sharply. “And besides, I know.”
“If your friends tried to kill you, what makes you think they’d tell you what they were doing?”
“My friends didn’t try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself—it’s dwindled. Those who remain are misfits.”
“How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?”
asked Stoner.
“Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now—the only ones left are misfits.”
An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.
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College Hospital, Nevada
22 January 1998
1950
“I DON’T KNOW WHY I TOLD THE KID THAT. I DON’T KNOW
why I said anything.”
Breanna watched as Zen wheeled himself backward across the room. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so agitated, so angry with himself.
“God, Bree. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? What if he doesn’t walk?”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that bad, Zen,” she told him.
“I’m sure the doctors will be able to do something.”
Zen shook his head. “I saw the looks on their faces when we brought him into the base. I’ve seen that look. God, I’ve seen that look.”
“Jeff, you can’t get so down on yourself. It’s not up to you whether he walks or not. God, if anyone would understand—”
“He’s not going to understand.”
“I mean, if anyone could understand what he’s going through, it would be you. It is you. Jeff?”
But Zen had already rolled out of her room.
Northeastern Romania
23 January 1998
0900
BY 9:00 A.M., GENERAL LOCUSTA HAD PROVIDED BUCHAREST
with a full report of the bombing of the gas pipeline. Two rebels had been killed, he claimed—not exactly a lie, since he did have two bodies to present, though Locusta knew that the men had been left by the Russian special forces troops that launched the attack.
He downplayed his own losses, though he had already ordered full military honors for both men killed.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
The damage to the pipeline was minimal, Locusta assured Bucharest; it would be repaired within days and there would be minimal disruption of the gas supplies.
Locusta was playing a dangerous game. The attack was part of a payoff for Russian cooperation in the coming coup, cooperation that would include the use of an assassin against the defense minister when the time came. It was also meant to convince the government to send the last units he felt he needed to assure himself victory when he moved against the president.
But it could also backfire and encourage Bucharest to sack him. Even though he’d been warning for weeks that an attack might be imminent, and even though he’d claimed that he didn’t have the necessary troops for the growing threat, there was still a possibility that he could be blamed for failing to stop the attack, and be replaced by someone else.
If that happened, all of his preparations would be lost. At the very best, he’d be back where he was two years before: commander of a single division, not the leader of an army corps three times the size. All of the connections he had carefully cultivated among the old-timers—the hard-liners shut out by the new government—would be lost. Those men valued strength, and the scent of weakness and failure would send them running.
So when the phone didn’t ring at precisely 9:00 a.m.—the time set for Locusta to speak to the president about the incident—the general began to grow nervous. He fidgeted with his feet, a habit he’d had since he was a boy. Pushing them together under the desk, he began jerking his legs up and down, tapping his soles lightly together. At 9:05 he rose from his desk and walked around the office, trying to remain nonchalant and work off his growing anxiety.
By 9:10, he was worried, wondering if he should place the call himself.
He decided not to. President Voda’s office had made the appointment, and made it clear that the president would call REVOLUTION
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him. To short-circuit the process would be a concession, however subtle, to a man he despised.
The phone finally rang at 9:17. Locusta waited until the third ring before answering.
“General Locusta.”
“Please hold for the president.”
Another three minutes passed before President Voda came on the line.
“Tomma, tell me what is going on,” said Voda abruptly.
“The pipeline is secure—for now. We have shot two guerrillas. With more men, I can prevent future problems.”
“More men—you always ask for more men.”
“Unfortunately, last night proves I am right.”
“I see estimates that the guerrillas are faltering.”
Locusta sighed. He knew that the guerrillas’ movement was in fact growing smaller, partly because of his efforts, but also because the leftists were naturally weaklings. But it did him absolutely no good to admit this.
“Yes, yes, I suppose the events of last night are proof of what the situation is,” said Voda finally. “I will get you your men. But—no operations over the border. Not at this time.”
Though he had made suggestions in the past, Locusta had no plans to launch any operations now. He would, though, soon. When he was in full command.
“Did you hear me, General?”
“If we have a specific target, Mr. President, I think you might reconsider.”
“When you have a target, you will review it with me. I will decide.”
“Yes, Mr. President. But if we have to stay on defense, the additional men will be critical.”
“You’ll have them. You’ll get whatever you need.”
The president continued to speak. He was concerned about the situation. He didn’t want news of it to get out; he didn’t want Romania to appear weak. Locusta agreed—though he knew that the Russians would already be leaking it.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Then the president surprised him.
“I am considering asking the U.S. to assist us,” said Voda.
“The Americans?” said Locusta, caught off guard.
“Politically, it would have been difficult a few weeks ago, but now that they are riding a wave of popularity, it is something that could be managed. You’ve been asking for more aircraft—they can provide some.”
“I don’t need the Americans to chase down these bandits.”
“Our own air force is useless,” said the president coldly.
Locusta couldn’t argue with that. He suspected, however, that Voda wanted the Americans involved as much for political reasons as military ones. Voda’s grand plan called for Romania to join NATO: another foolish move, borne from weakness, not strength.
“Their aircraft will help you track the guerrillas,” said the president. “I will inform you if they agree.”
The line went dead. Locusta stared at the phone for a second, then slammed it down angrily. The president was an ass.
The Americans would complicate everything if they came.
Approaching Dreamland
0550
PRESIDENT MARTINDALE WATCHED OUT THE WINDOW OF
Air Force One as the hulking black jet drew parallel to the wings. It was a sleek jet—a B-1, Martindale thought, though he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t an expert on aircraft recognition. It had the general shape of a fighter but was much too large to be one—nearly as long, in fact, as the EB-52 Megafortress riding beside it.