“Agreed,” said the President. “But if we handle this correctly, we’ll help our cause.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Hartmann.

“We’ll send air support,” said the President. “Moldova is absolutely off-limits, but if we send the right people, that won’t be a problem.”

It was obvious who the President had in mind.

“Jed, get General Samson up here,” added Martindale.

“And Dog. I want to talk to them personally.”

GENERAL SAMSON STRODE PURPOSELY INTO THE PRESIdent’s conference room aboard Air Force One. It wasn’t nearly as big or as elaborate as he thought it would be—fabric-covered walls stood behind two oversized couches on either side of a low conference table. Still, it was the President’s conference room.

Samson nodded at Martindale, who was on the phone, then at Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman—and Lieutenant Colonel Bastian.

Bastian?

What the hell was he doing here?

“Philip, explain what’s going on,” said Martindale, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ll be right with you.”

REVOLUTION

115

Samson listened as the National Security Advisor explained the situation in Romania.

“I’m sure Dreamland can supply planes to track ground movements,” said Samson when he was finished. “And the Whiplash boys can give some close-air support lessons. I’ll have a deployment plan ready no later than the end of the month.”

“You’re not quite understanding,” said Freeman. “This has top priority.”

Samson wasn’t sure what Freeman was implying.

Deploying to a place like Romania took a great deal of preparation. Two weeks worth of planning was nothing, especially given the present state of his staff. He was still filling positions.

But he sensed excuses weren’t what Freeman or Chastain, much less the President himself, wanted.

“By the end of next week, certainly,” he said. “I already have a few things in mind.”

“General, we’d like you to be on the ground in a day or two,” said Arthur Chastain.

“A day or two?”

“The Whiplash orders call for immediate deployment,”

said Freeman.

“Of course. Once we have a plan in place.”

No one said anything. Samson felt about as comfortable as a skunk in church. Sweat began percolating under his collar.

He shot a sideways glance at Dog. Bastian must be loving this.

Why the hell was he here, anyway?

The President finished his phone call. “Gentlemen, are we set?” he asked.

The others looked at Samson.

“I just wanted to make sure,” started Samson. “The—expediency of the mission. You’re asking for us … well sir, let me put it this way. We can of course deploy immediately.

116

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Tomorrow if you wish. But with a little more preparation, we—”

“Yes, tomorrow, of course,” said Martindale. “Dog—

Colonel Bastian—you’ll be going?”

Dog cleared his throat. “That would be up to the general, sir. I’m at his disposal.”

Clever, thought Samson, as Martindale turned his gaze back toward him.

But the assignment might be just the thing to get Bastian out from under his hair while he continued reorganizing the base. Yes, it would work very nicely.

“If Colonel Bastian is available, it would be great to have him on the mission,” said Samson. “I’ll need an experienced deputy at the scene, so to speak. I can’t think of anyone better to lead the mission there. Assuming that’s all right with you, Mr. President.”

“General, that’s perfect.” Martindale rose and extended his hand, in effect dismissing him. “I look forward to a long working relationship with you. Carry on.”

III

Killers of Children

Iasi Airfield,

northeastern Romania

24 January 1998

1600

THE FIELD AT IASI WAS FAIRLY LONG, BUT THE APPROACH

was not. Between the nearby mountains and the possibility of handheld antiaircraft missiles, aircraft had to drop precipitously and then veer sharply to the west to land.

For all his experience in the Megafortress, Dog broke into a sweat as his copilot, Lieutenant Kevin Sullivan, read off his altitude.

But he loved it.

“You’re right on beam, Colonel,” said Sullivan.

“Hang tight, boys,” said Dog, swinging Dreamland EB-52

Bennett onto the airstrip with a crisp turn.

Like all Megafortresses, the Bennett was named for a Medal of Honor winner—Captain Steven L. Bennett, who in 1972 had saved innumerable lives supporting Marines overrun by Viet Cong, then given his own life so his copilot/

observer would live, crash-landing his aircraft rather than ejecting when the other man’s gear failed.

Dog was eligible to have a Megafortress named after him as well, but he’d already decided to do without that honor for the time being. He didn’t quite feel up to the standards Captain Bennett and the others had set.

“You still have the touch, Colonel!” said Sullivan as they rolled to a stop on the far end of the concrete.

120

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Despite the long flight, Sullivan was his usual overenthu-siastic self, bouncing in his seat as they secured the aircraft.

When they were done, the copilot practically danced off the flight deck. Dog followed him down, waiting as Zen lowered himself into his wheelchair using the special lift attached to the EB-52’s ladder.

Dog had debated whether to take Zen on the mission, given his recent ordeal off the coast of India. But not having him along on a mission was almost inconceivable, and Dog didn’t even bother arguing when Zen volunteered.

Breanna, however, was another matter.

“Your daughter’s never going to forgive you for leaving her home,” Zen told him as they headed toward a pair of cars near the edge of the runway apron.

“She should blame the doctors, not me,” Dog told him.

“They say she needs rest.”

“Hey, I’m just the messenger,” said Zen. “Personally, I agree.”

Two Romanian enlisted men and a major were standing in front of a boxy-looking Romanian-built Dacia near the hangar. The men snapped to attention as Dog and Zen approached. Dog gave a quick but sharp salute in return.

“You are Colonel Bastian?” asked the major.

“That’s right.” Dog extended his hand.

“I am General Petri’s aide. I’m to take you to him immediately.”

“Sounds good.”

The major looked at Zen. Dog knew exactly what he was thinking: What was a man in a wheelchair doing on the mission?

“This is Major Jeff Stockard. Everyone calls him Zen,”

said Dog. “He’s my second in command on the mission. He’s in charge of the Flighthawks—the unmanned aircraft that will actually provide support.”

Zen stuck out his hand. The Romanian major took it warily.

REVOLUTION

121

“This our ride?” Dog asked, pointing to the car.

“Yes,” said the major. He glanced again at Zen.

“Don’t worry about me,” Zen told him. “I can just hold onto the bumper. Tell the driver to try and avoid the potholes, though, all right?”

DOG WAS NOT A TALL MAN, BUT HE HAD A GOOD SIX OR

seven inches over Romanian Air Force General Boris Petri, a gray-haired, hollow-cheeked man whose crisp uniform gave a hint of starch to the tiny office where he met the two Dreamland officers. Petri’s English was serviceable, but to ensure that there were no mistakes in communication he called in one of his aides, a lieutenant whose brother was a star soccer player on the Romanian national team. The general was so proud of the connection that he mentioned it not once but twice as they waited for him to arrive. In the meantime, he offered Dog tea and brandy, sloshing them together in large cups that, to Dog’s palate, held considerably more brandy than tea.

Once the lieutenant arrived, the talk turned serious, with the general briefing them not only about the guerrilla situation, but the air force in general. He seemed somewhat apologetic and defensive at the same time, noting that the Romanian air force was in the process of rebuilding itself and that it would soon be capable of defeating its enemies.