The second target was a church and related buildings in the middle of a small town. A single main street zigged through the hamlet, ducking and weaving around a quartet of gentle hills. An orchard of small trees and an open field sat to one side of the church; a row of houses were on the other. A cemetery spread out behind the church. The easiest landing here would be in the field near the orchard; the geography would make it difficult to surround the building before beginning an attack. The trucks would take another twenty minutes to reach the church; they’d be reinforcements only.
The fact that the target was a church bothered Colonel Brasov a great deal.
“This will be a propaganda coup if you are wrong,” he told Stoner.
“Yes.”
“And if you are right, it is a great sacrilege.”
Stoner nodded.
“You will be with me in this group,” the colonel told him.
“Our helicopter will be the first down.”
“Right.”
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Again Stoner wondered if it was a setup, if he’d been fooled. Perhaps the charges had been set weeks before and were waiting now for the troops—waiting for him.
Doubt gripped him. He thought about the Dreamland pilots, watching from across the border. He envied them.
Their jobs were entirely physical. They could push their bodies to perform, rely on their trained reactions, their instincts. They trained and retrained for different situations, dogfights and bombing runs, missile attacks and low level escapes. But Stoner had no such luxury. There was no way to train for what he did. Knowing how to fire a gun into a skull at close range, to fake a language—these were important and helpful tools, but not the substance of his success. His test had come days before in Bucharest, when he’d stared into Sorina’s eyes, when he’d stroked her side, when he’d gauged her intent.
That moment was dark to him, lost somewhere down the gap between the ledges he was jumping between.
“We are ten minutes away,” the colonel told him.
“I’m ready,” said Stoner.
Aboard EB-52 Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
2152
ZEN NUDGED THE THROTTLE, PUSHING HAWK ONE CLOSER
to the last of the helicopters carrying the Romanian troops.
The chopper was flying just above treetop level, tail up, moving fast for a helo but slow compared to the Flighthawk.
“Border in zero-five seconds,” warned the computer.
“Thanks,” mumbled Zen. He pulled hard on the stick, banking away just before crossing the line.
“They have two targets,” Dog told Zen, relaying the information passed along by Stoner. “Sullivan is entering the coordinates. Both are a little more than fifty miles into 298
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Moldova. We won’t be able to go there, but we can see what’s going on.”
Dog meant that the radars on the Megafortress would give them a good idea of where the helicopters and the trucks were, and would also allow them to warn the Romanians if a large force of guerrillas or Moldovan soldiers suddenly appeared. But as far as Zen was concerned, they were voyeurs at the edge of battle, watching helplessly.
Bacau, Romania
2155
GENERAL LOCUSTA PUT DOWN THE SATELLITE PHONE AND
raised his head, scanning his command center at the Second Army Corps headquarters. He needed to keep his head clear, needed to be as calm as possible. It was coming together beautifully, everything going exactly as he had hoped, as he had planned.
“Colonel Brasov has touched down,” announced the captain coordinating communications from the assault teams.
“No resistance yet.”
“Yea!” yelled one of other officers.
“Who said that?” shouted Locusta.
The room fell silent. The general turned his gaze around the room.
“General, it was me,” said one of his lieutenants, rising.
The young man’s face was red.
“This is not a time for youthful exuberance,” said Locusta. The man’s forthrightness impressed him and he tried to soften his tone. “We will each of us do our duty. We have jobs to do.”
“Yes, General. I apologize.”
“Accepted. Get back to work. All of you, work now. We will capture the criminals and make them pay.”
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Moldova
2155
STONER TIGHTENED THE STRAP ON THE AK-47 AND WAITED
as the helicopter closed in on the target in the dark. The pilots had night goggles, but even without them he could see the outlines of the spire in the distance.
Someone began shouting in the back. The helicopter bucked to the side. There was a rush of air.
Now!
Go!
The dim red of the interior lights gave the men just enough light to see as they jumped into the field, the helicopter just touching down.
There was an orange flash near the dark hull of the church, then small polka dots of yellow, tiny bursts of color that glowed into red curlicues.
They’re shooting at us, he thought.
She wasn’t lying. Thank God.
Behind him, the helicopter moved backward, escaping as a flurry of slugs began sailing through the air. Stoner ran forward, then threw himself down behind the last row of headstones in the large churchyard. Bullets exploded above his head.
The Romanian soldiers began moving up along the graves, yelling directions to each other. Stoner pushed himself to his knees, still struggling to get his breath. The stone to his right exploded into shards, raked by the heavy gun. He threw himself back down, working on his elbows and belly to his right.
The machine gun was in a stairwell next to the church. A low thud shook the ground. The machine gun fire stopped.
One of the Romanians had fired a mortar point-blank into the stairwell, killing the gunner.
Someone shouted. Another person, to Stoner’s left, shouted back. A flare went off, turning the night white and black.
300
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Six, seven dark shadows ran to the building, jumped down the stairwell. Others came toward them from the road. The mortar fired again; this time it landed short, scattering the guerrillas but not stopping them as they flowed out of the church.
A squad of soldiers had fast-roped down onto the street.
They came up now, guns blazing, catching the guerrillas from the rear unawares. Their attack had been coordinated with the mortarman; no shells fell as they worked they way toward the basement stairs.
A loud series of booms followed as the soldiers forced their way inside. A second group, this one from the cemetery, ran up to reinforce them.
Stoner waited, watching. If it was a setup, the place would explode now, booby-trapped.
It didn’t. He started in motion again, picking his way through the headstones toward the houses on the other side of the church, guessing that the rebels would be housed there.
The graves were laid out in a haphazard pattern, some very close together, others wide apart, and it took Stoner time to weave his way forward. As he turned to go through a tight cluster, he spotted four or five shadows to the east of the church. His first thought was that he was seeing clothes fluttering in the wind. Then he saw sticks waving with the clothes.
He brought the AK-47 up and fired, screaming as he did.
“The guerrillas! They’re coming from the other side of the church!”
He shot the magazine so quickly he was surprised when the bolt clicked open. The guerrillas quickly got down and fired back.
Stoner reloaded, then began moving again, sure he would be killed if he stayed where was. He caught part of his arm on a crumpled rosebush. The thorns ripped his flesh.
He kept going, moving to the left. There was more gunfire now, not only in front of him but behind.
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Pulling himself along the ground, Stoner felt his hand scrape on cement. He’d come to the path that ran along the east side of the church and went up toward the back of the houses.