Fifty miles from the border. Much farther than the information their own spies had obtained, and at least a partial answer to the question of why his men had failed to find out themselves.
Though another part of the answer was that the rebels had been useful to Locusta, an excuse to build up his force. Now he no longer needed them.
Or the Russians.
Or the Americans, for that matter.
This was his opportunity: the perfect diversion. It supplied a ready-made excuse for mobilizing his units and commandeering the few helicopters available outside the capital.
And he couldn’t wait much longer.
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There was a knock at the door. The major he had sent after Stoner, Anton Ozera, appeared in the threshold.
“In,” said Locusta, gesturing.
Ozera closed the door behind him.
“What did he say?” asked Locusta.
“His source is one of the criminals. There will be no help across the border.”
“But the information is good,” said Locusta. “He’s convinced of that or he wouldn’t want to go along.”
“The problem is, the Americans do not know the criminals as we do.”
Locusta smirked. “I think they know them well enough.”
The fact that a turncoat was willing to give the Americans information showed the terrible state the movement was in.
They had failed to win the support of the people, and would now wither and die.
With a little help, of course. And as long as the Russians were removed.
“We could use the attack as a diversion,” said Ozera. “It would explain the mobilization of forces.”
“Always, Ozera, we think alike,” said Locusta.
“Thank you, General.”
“Your men?”
“We could strike in an hour. If the target was the president’s northern home. The capital, as I said—”
Locusta raised his finger, and Ozera stopped talking. They had discussed the difficulties of striking Voda in the capital many times; the assassination itself would be easy, but the contingencies that would necessarily follow would be difficult to manage.
The general picked up his phone. “Connect me to the president’s personal residence. It is a matter of great urgency.”
He leaned back in his seat, waiting. He knew Voda’s personal habits from experience; the president would be up even though the hour was late.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Sure enough, Voda came on the line within a few minutes.
“Mr. President, I have very important news,” said Locusta.
He explained what Stoner had told him. As always, the president listened without comment or interruption. Only when Locusta fell silent did he speak.
“If there is a definitive location, I will review the plans and make my decision,” he said.
“I will bring the plans personally to you,” said Locusta.
“Only … ”
“Finish your sentence.”
“I have two thoughts. One is that I would like the assault to proceed rapidly, so that word of this turncoat does not leak out.
And two, if I were to come to the capital, it is possible spies would alert the guerrillas. The Russians have been very busy.”
“Yes.” Voda paused a moment, thinking. “You suggest I come to your headquarters?”
“That too might generate some unwanted rumors.” Locusta pretended to be thinking. “If you were at your estate in the mountains … ”
“It’s hardly an estate, Tomma. Merely an old farm.”
And one that you love to visit, Locusta thought. He had met the president there many times, and had his own unit of troops nearby to provide additional protection.
“When would we meet?”
“If you were there tomorrow afternoon?”
“My aide will call you with the arrangements in the morning,” said Voda.
Locusta gave Major Ozera a broad smile as he hung up, then rose and went to the door. In the hallway, he bellowed for his chief of staff.
“I want plans for an assault inside Moldova,” he told him when he appeared. “Two sites to be hit as hard as we can.”
“Where, General?”
“We won’t know the precise locations until a few minutes before the assaults themselves. Plan for a large action against several buildings. Expect several hundred guerrillas.”
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“But the president—”
“I’ll deal with the president. You prepare the plans. We will make the attack tomorrow night.”
Aboard EB-52 Bennett,
over northern Romania
2330
THE MEGAFORTRESS HIT A STACK OF TURBULENT AIR, shuddering as she turned through the darkening sky over northern Romania. Dog tightened his grip on the stick, easing her through the rough patch of sky.
“Russians are back, Colonel,” said Rager, watching the airborne radar behind him on the Bennett’s flight deck. “Right on schedule.”
“Has to be the most boring assignment in the world, shadowing us,” said Sullivan. “Watching as we go around and around and around.”
“Nah. They should try working the ground radar here,”
said Spiff, referring of course to his own job.
“I thought I heard snoring back there,” said Sullivan.
“I have to get my z’s in while Colonel Bastian’s flying,”
replied the radar operator. “Life’s too exciting when you’re at the stick.”
“Ha-ha-ha.”
DOWNSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHTHAWK DECK, ZEN PUT HAWK
One into a bank south, waiting as the Megafortress got into position to launch Hawk Two. Tonight they were scheduled to work with two platoons, one near where the guerrillas had attacked the other night, the other over the gas pipeline.
The two areas overlapped, and the Megafortress’s patrol circuits had been plotted so the mother ship would be roughly equidistant to the two smaller planes throughout the night.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
The computer would help fly the planes, of course, and the Flighthawks could operate on their own if necessary. But as an old school combat pilot, one who had come to the program from fighter jets, Zen mentally projected himself into each cockpit. It was a bit of a challenge to cover such a disparate area—a good challenge.
The first platoon was scheduled to call in at 2400—midnight in civilian time. The second would make contact a half hour later. In the meantime, Zen put the robot planes through their paces, surveying the ground with their onboard infrared cameras. The farm fields, fallow because of the winter, looked like calm patches of the ocean, their furrows of light waves barely breaking the surface. Houses glowed in the darkness, their chimneys bright with heat.
“Bennett to Flighthawk leader. What’s your status?”
“Both aircraft are completing their orienting runs, Colonel,” said Zen. “I have nothing but green on my boards. Systems are looking good.”
“Bennett,” acknowledged Dog.
Zen hit the preset button on his joystick control, and the visual in front of him changed from Hawk One’s forward camera to Hawk Two’s. He thought of it as “jumping” from one plane to another.
Hawk Two’s views had more mountainous terrain, but the overall impression—of a quiet, peaceful night—was the same. For the sake of the Romanians below, Zen hoped it stayed that way.
UP ON THE FLIGHT DECK, COLONEL BASTIAN LET SULLIVAN
continue to fly the aircraft while he reviewed the mission’s flight plan. There were a few sharp cuts involved to stay close to the Flighthawks as they patrolled, but otherwise the route looked like an elongated racetrack that had been squeezed in the middle.
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Lieutenant Englehardt and the Johnson to help out. The plane had arrived a few hours before, and while the crew could use some rest, it was already prepped for an emergency takeoff.
Dog still wasn’t sure what additional aircraft, if any, would join them. It was a decision he was frankly glad he didn’t have to make himself. Many people thought a force as large and powerful as the U.S. Air Force had nearly un-limited resources, but the truth was that there was always a heavy demand, not just on the planes, but on the men and women who flew them. Dog couldn’t fault Samson for taking his time sending more planes—because of the recent action in India and the demands of the test programs, there were in fact only four other EB-52s currently in full flight condition at Dreamland, and none were radar ships. Dreamland’s planes were supposed to be on call to air defense units in the U.S.; the bottom line was that there weren’t enough ships to go around.