Dog slipped into diplomatic mode, assuring the general that his mission was first of all symbolic, demonstrating not the deficiencies of the Romanians but rather the country’s strategic importance to Europe and the United States. Working with the Romanians would be of considerable value to the Dreamland contingent, he explained, since Dreamland’s mission had recently been expanded to help in similar situations across the globe.

“It will be some time before our air force is ready to work with yours,” said Petri.

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“I understood there was a squadron of MiG-21s at Bacau.”

“A squadron, yes.” The general gave him a sad smile. “All but one of the planes is grounded because of a lack of spare parts. And there is no one there to fly the plane. The pilots have been shipped south to train on our new aircraft. Lamen-tably, those are not suitable for ground attack.”

The new planes were four MiG-29s, front-line interceptors that could, in fact, be used in an attack role if their owner so chose. But for a variety of reasons—most especially the fact that the planes were deemed too precious to be risked in dangerous ground attacks—the MiGs were currently stationed at Borcea-Fetesti, far out of harm’s way. The Romanians equipped them solely with air-to-air missiles; they had no ground attack weapons aside from iron bombs, and their pilots weren’t even trained for the ground support role.

Officially, the Aviatez Militaire Romane had forty MiG-21s, older but still useful aircraft that would do reasonably well as ground support planes, at least during the day. But as Petri pointed out, only a minuscule number, less than a handful, were in any shape to fly. Romania even lacked attack helicopters; a few of its French-built Pumas had been fitted with .50 caliber machine guns that were fired from the right passenger door, but they were no substitute for actual gunships.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that the country would have been much better off using the money it had spent on the MiG-29s for some lesser but more practical aircraft that could have been used in a counterinsurgency role, something like the American OA-10 Bronco, or surplus Russian Su-24s or Su-25s, all older planes that could be used for ground support. The left-over money could have been used for new parts and training for the MiGs they did have. But Dog wasn’t there to offer that kind of advice, and General Petri wasn’t in a position to implement it.

“You haven’t finished your tea,” said the translator when the general wound down his briefing.

“I’m a little tea’d out,” said Dog, rising. “I’d like to arrange REVOLUTION

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to meet with the commander of the ground forces as soon as possible.”

“The general had hoped General Locusta would be here by now,” said the translator. “Maybe within the hour. Certainly no later than dinner.”

“Then with your permission, I’ll get my people straightened out.”

“Very good, Colonel.”

Petri sprang up from his seat. “It’s an honor to be working with a hero like you,” he said, not bothering with his translation.

“Well, thank you,” said Dog, embarrassed. “I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

WHILE DOG AND ZEN WERE MEETING WITH THE AIR FORCE

general, the Dreamland MC-17 arrived carrying the Whiplash ground team, the Dreamland mobile command trailer, and an Osprey. Danny Freah had already set up security perimeters and launched a pair of low-observable dirigibles as eye-in-the-sky monitors.

A second balloon system would be used to provide protection against rocket and mortar attacks: Four balloons would be lofted above the four corners of the aircraft and used to anchor an explosive net above them. The two layers of the net were meant to catch projectiles as they descended toward the aircraft, and small explosives would detonate the warheads, destroying them before they damaged the plane.

The system had never been used in the field before, and though its chief engineer had come along to oversee its deployment, the Whiplashers were having trouble setting it up.

The wind proved stronger and more complicated than the computer model could handle, and even the scientist had taken to cursing at the screen.

“We’ll get it, Colonel,” he said, without looking up. “Growing pains.”

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Dog smiled and gave him a pat on the back. Dreamland had gained quite a reputation for coming up with cutting edge technology, but in the colonel’s opinion, its real ability was dealing with growing pains. That was what Dreamland was all about—taking things from the laboratory and putting them in the field, where the real tests took place. An old saying held that no battle plan survived first contact with the enemy; the words were doubly true when it came to technology.

A convoy of four Land Rovers and a black Mercedes with flags flying from its bumpers approached the security zone around the Megafortresses. Two Whiplash troopers, dressed in full battle gear, stopped the lead truck; within seconds, Danny’s radio was squawking.

“A General Locusta wants to visit,” Danny told Dog. “His people are kind of pissed that we won’t let them through.”

“Let’s go make nice,” said Dog, heading toward the stopped convoy.

GENERAL TOMMA LOCUSTA FUMED AS HE SAT IN THE REAR

of his Mercedes staff car. It was bad enough that he had to accept assistance from the U.S. Air Force, but now the arrogant bastards were preventing him from moving freely on a Romanian base.

An American officer appeared at the window, dressed in a pilot’s flight suit.

“Lower the window,” Locusta told his driver.

“General Locusta? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian,” said the man, bending toward him. “A lot of people call me Dog. I’m in charge of the people here.”

“No, Colonel,” replied Locusta. “You are in charge of the Americans here. Not the Romanians.”

Dog smiled, leaning his hands on the car. “Yes, sir. That’s true. I understand we’re going to be working with you.”

“You’re going to be working for me,” said Locusta. “To provide support.”

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“We’ll do whatever we can. I wonder if you’d like to huddle for a few minutes and start making some arrangements?”

“What’s the word, ‘huddle’?”

“Excuse me, General. Your English is so good I just forgot for a minute that you weren’t a native speaker. I meant, should we sit down somewhere and talk about the arrangements for our working together? And if you’re available, I’d like to introduce you to some of my people, and show you some of the hardware.”

Locusta realized the American was trying to be nice to him, but it was too late as far as he was concerned. To a man, the Americans were arrogant blowhards who acted as if everything they touched turned to gold.

“My headquarters right now is just being set up. It’s rather sparse,” added Dog, who gestured toward a small trailer next to a hangar. “But it would give us a place to talk out of the cold.”

“Let’s go,” said Locusta.

“Sir, the one thing I’d ask is that your people stay with you if they’re inside our protective corridor. A lot of the security is automated and I don’t want any accidents.”

“Then see that there are no accidents,” said Locusta, rapping the seat back to tell his driver to move on.

DOG TURNED AND LOOKED AT DANNY, ROLLING HIS EYES.

Zen, sitting behind them, barely suppressed his laughter.

“Guess we got off on the wrong foot, huh, Dog?” said Zen as they started toward the trailer.

“Ah, he’s probably not that bad,” replied Dog.

“No worse than Samson.”

Dog ignored the comment. “We are guests in his country,”

he said. “If the tables were turned, we’d probably be a little prickly.”

“You’re bucking for the diplomatic corps,” said Zen.