“No. That’s what they want. That’s what this is about—to REVOLUTION
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try to provoke us.” The President rose. “This isn’t just about the price of the natural gas. Oh yes, that’s part of it. Definitely part of it. But there’s more. They want to break up NATO.
Look at the quarreling that’s going on. And what do you think will happen to our bid to expand NATO if we’re seen taking sides like this?”
“We are taking sides,” said Freeman. “We have to take sides.”
“Yes, but with restraint. They want to make us look as aggressive as possible. They know we’re riding high right now.”
Martindale shook his head. “Moldova is still off limits.”
“OK,” said Freeman.
“Um … ”
Martindale turned to Jed. “What’s that ‘um’ about, young man?”
“Sir, um, the Romanians have been asking for more support. They say two planes, even Megafortresses, aren’t enough.”
“What does Samson say?”
“Uh, I guess I don’t know exactly.”
“Find out what his plans are.”
“Can the planes defend themselves?” insisted Freeman.
“They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs,”
said Martindale. “No offensive action. Period.”
“But—”
“Colonel Bastian will know how to interpret that order.
Make sure it’s relayed to him.”
Dreamland
1300
ONCE MORE, SAMSON FOUND HIMSELF BRISTLING AS HE
talked to Jed Barclay, angry that the President wouldn’t speak to him directly.
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“Um, just that the President wants to know if you have an adequate force in Romania,” explained Jed.
“Tell him we have more planes getting ready to fly as we speak,” Samson said. “They’ll be taking off this evening.”
“Very good.”
“Can we hit the Russians?” asked Samson.
“Actually, the President does not want American aircraft in Moldovan airspace. He thinks the Russians are trying to provoke us.”
Samson folded his arms.
“His orders were, this is a direct quote: ‘They are to avoid provoking the Russians at all costs. No offensive action.
Period.’ He wanted that relayed to Colonel Bastian.”
“Very well. Dreamland out.”
Samson dropped the phone on its hook.
“Chartelle!” he said loud enough to be heard in the outer office. “Get Mack Smith in here. Now!”
“Yes, General,” said the secretary.
Mack appeared a few minutes later. The major had apparently been eating lunch, because a small bit of ketchup clung to his chin.
“Mack, I want our B-1B/Ls en route to Romania by tonight.”
“The B-1s, General?”
“Is there an echo in this room?”
“General, the B-1 project—”
“Spit it out, Major. Let’s have your objections in plain language.”
“Yes, sir. It’s not an objection, it’s just—even with Breanna—
I mean, Captain Stockard—I’m still one pilot short. We have Sleek Top, Jack Kittle, and Breanna. That’s one short—and to be honest, I don’t know if you can push Sleek into combat.”
“If he volunteers, he can go.”
“Well, I don’t know that—”
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“Have you ever heard of a Marine who didn’t volunteer for combat?”
“Um, no sir. But even so, you’re still one short.”
“No, we’re full up. I’ll fly Boomer. ” Samson rose. “Get the others into my office right away. I don’t care where they are.
Get them. Now. We have a job to do.”
V
Voyeurs at the
Edge of Battle
Dochia, Romania
28 January 1998
0500
IT WAS THE LAST TIME HE’D SEE HER.
They’d lain in bed all night, not talking, only their sides touching. Stoner slid away from her now, unsure of himself.
Had there been real emotion from the very beginning, lust, or gratitude because of her help? Something vulnerable and simple, frail, unworthy of a spy?
No matter how you steeled yourself—how you stole yourself away, hid the vulnerable part of the soul that everyone had behind a wall, in order to do your job—there was some small slither of humanity left, some piece of flesh vulnerable at the edge.
Stoner pulled on his pants, slipping in the button at the waist. They were loose. He always lost weight on a mission.
Another week and he would need a belt.
Shirt on, he unrolled a fresh pair of socks and sat on the bed, his back to her.
Temptation lingered, her perfume and his sweat mixing in the stuffy room.
He took his shoes, ignored his chance for one last glance, and left.
A HALF HOUR LATER, STONER TURNED HIS MOTORCYCLE
off the main road just north of Bacau, riding down a narrow dirt trail that formed a horseshoe between a farm field and the 258
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
road. Danny Freah was already waiting, sitting in a borrowed Romanian jeep. Stoner drove past quickly, checking the area, then spun back, kicking up dirt and rocks as he skidded to a stop next to Danny’s window.
“How goes it?” asked Freah. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a heavy jacket.
“I’m OK. You?”
“This Romanian coffee could wake the dead,” said Freah, holding up a plastic travel mug.
“One of Locusta’s aides called me last night,” Stoner told him. “They’re going ahead with the raid tonight. Assuming they get approval.”
“Yeah, I heard. Locusta’s chief of staff called Colonel Bastian.” Danny took a sip of the coffee, wincing as he swallowed. “You think their president’s going to approve?”
Stoner shrugged. He had no idea. If he had to, he’d sneak into Moldova himself and check on the sites. It’d be far more dangerous, but in some ways much easier: He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone but himself.
Danny took another pull from the coffee and once again made a face.
“If it’s so bad, why are you drinking it?” Stoner asked.
“I guess I like the pain,” said Danny. He laughed softly.
Stoner pulled a blank piece of paper from his shirt pocket.
“You got a pen?” he asked.
Danny handed him one and he wrote out the directions to the house where Sorina was holed up.
“She’s expecting you in an hour,” Stoner said. “Be careful.
She’s pretty tough.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
Stoner tensed, expecting that Danny would ask if he’d been sleeping with her.
Would he lie?
No. Tell the truth. No sense not to.
“Aren’t you freezing your buns off on that motorcycle?”
asked Danny.
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Stoner tried not to show his relief that the question wasn’t the one he expected.
“It’s handy. And it’s what I have.”
“If there were time, I’d ask to take it for a spin.”
“Next time I see you,” said Stoner.
“Deal.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
“Same to you. I don’t trust Locusta much.”
Stoner smirked, but instead of answering, he revved the bike and started in the direction of the Romanian army camp.
Dreamland
27 January 1998
1900 (0500 Romania, 28 January 1998)
BREANNA FELT HER HEARTBEAT RISE AS BOOMER’S BIG
engines cycled up, their massive thrust sending a rhythmic shudder through her spine as the afterburners lit. Despite the immense thrust, the big plane seemed to hesitate ever so slightly, her wheels sticking for a brief instant to the concrete pavement.
And then everything let go and she felt herself pushed back in the seat as the B-1 rocketed forward, quickly gathering momentum. Wind swept beneath the aircraft’s wings and Boomer lifted off the ground, her nose pushing upward like the proud head of an eagle taking flight.
“Retract landing gear,” said General Samson, sitting next to her in the pilot’s seat.
“Cleaning gear,” said Breanna as she did just that.
The big plane continued to climb, moving through 2,000
feet, through 3,000, through 4,000. Airspeed shot past 360