“We could go to the pump house,” whispered Mircea. “It’s a good hiding place.”

The pump house was an old wellhead on the property behind theirs. It was at least two hundred yards into the woods, up fairly steep terrain. It had been abandoned long ago; the house it once served had burned down in the 1970s.

It might not be a bad hiding place, at least temporarily, but reaching it would be difficult. And first they would have to get out of the cave.

A small vehicle drove up and stopped near the other troop truck. He could hear the sound of dogs barking. The guard went in that direction, then returned with two dog handlers and their charges. They walked to the soldier guarding the bodies, then all of them, the guard included, went in the direction of the house.

Quickly, Voda pushed the chisel in against the metal.

“When the door gives way,” he told his wife and son, “run.

I’ll fix it so it looks as if it is OK.”

“Where will we go?” Mircea asked.

“The pump house. We’ll have to move quickly.”

“The dogs—”

“If we can walk along a creek for a while, the dogs will lose us,” he said. “I’ve seen it in movies.”

“So have I,” said Julian brightly.

His son’s remark gave him hope.

The door started to give way at the bottom as he pushed against the hinge. Voda put his leg there, then pried at the top. The screws sprang across the room and the door flopped over, held up only by the locked clasp.

“Come,” he hissed, taking out his revolver. He slipped through the opening, looking, unsure what he would do if someone was actually nearby.

Mircea started out behind him. Voda grabbed her and REVOLUTION

345

pulled, then took Julian by the back of his shirt and hauled him out.

“Into the woods,” he told his wife. “I’ll catch up after I fix the door.”

Julian clung to his leg, refusing to go. Voda picked up the door and slid it back against the opening. He couldn’t quite get it perfect; the hinges were gone and the clasp had been partly twisted by the door’s weight. But it would have to do.

He grabbed his son under his arm like a loaf of bread and ran.

He didn’t realize there were a pair of guards at the far end of the driveway near the road until he reached the bushes.

The men were sharing a cigarette and arguing loudly over something less than fifty yards away. One of them must have heard him running because he shone his light back in the direction of the cave and woods.

Crouched behind the brush at the edge of the woods, Voda held his son next to him, trying not to breathe, trying not to do anything that would give them away. The flashlight’s beam swung above the trees, then disappeared.

More trucks were coming.

“OK, up, let’s go,” said Voda, pulling Julian with him up the slope. He walked as quickly as he could; after twenty or thirty yards he began whispering for his wife. “Mircea?

Mircea?”

“Here.”

She was only a few yards away, but he couldn’t see her.

“Go up the hill,” he hissed.

“I hurt my toe.”

“Just go,” he said. “Come on Julian.”

“Alin—”

“Go,” he said.

He took Julian with him, carrying the boy about thirty more yards up the slope, picking his way through the dense trees. Below them more troops had arrived. There were shouted orders.

346

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

It wouldn’t be long before they saw the door at the cave, or followed the cistern and discovered where they had been.

Then they’d use the dogs to track them in the woods.

Voda felt an odd vibration in his pocket, then heard a soft buzzing noise. It was the cell phone, ringing.

He pulled it out quickly, hitting the Talk button to take the call. But it wasn’t a call—the device had come back to life, alerting him to a missed call that had gone to voice mail.

The phone was working now.

He fumbled with it for a moment, then dialed Sergi’s number.

There was no answer.

He hit End Transmit button.

Who else could he call?

The defense minister—but he didn’t know his number.

Those sorts of details were things he left to Sergi and his other aides.

Voda hit the device’s phone book. Most of the people on the list were friends of Oana Mitca, but she also had Sergi’s number, and that of his deputy schedule keeper, Petra Ozera.

He tried Sergi again, hoping he had misdialed, but there was still no answer, not even a forward to voice mail. Then he tried Petra.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Petra, this is Alin.”

“Mr. President! You’re alive!”

“Yes, I’m alive.”

“We’ve just heard from the army there was a guerrilla attack.”

“Yes. There has been. What else did you hear?”

“The soldier said they were dealing with a large-scale attack. I rushed to the office. I’m just opening the door.”

“Who called you?”

“The name was not familiar.”

“From which command?”

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“General Locusta’s. They had just received word from their battalion.”

Voda wondered more than ever which side the army was on.

“I want you to speak to the defense secretary,” said Voda.

“Call Fane Cazacul and tell him I must speak to him immediately. Tell him I will call him. Get a number where he can be reached.”

“Yes, sir.”

If the defense secretary was involved, he’d be able to track down the phone number. But the dogs would be able to find him soon anyway. Voda told Petra to call several of his allies in the parliament and tell them he was alive. He tried to make himself think of a strategy, but his mind wasn’t clear; the thoughts wouldn’t jell.

“The phone is ringing,” said Petra.

“Answer it.”

Voda waited. He heard rustling in the bush to his right—it was Mircea. Julian looked in her direction but didn’t leave his father’s side.

“It’s the American ambassador,” said Petra. “He’s just heard a report that one of helicopters was shot down over the border and—”

“Get me his phone number. I want to talk to him as well,”

said Voda.

White House Situation Room

1320 (Romania 2320)

JED BARCLAY RUBBED HIS KNUCKLE AGAINST HIS FOREHEAD, trying to concentrate as the call from the American ambassador to Romanian came through.

“This is Jed Barclay.”

“Jed, I need to speak to the President immediately. They tell me that Secretary Hartman can’t be disturbed.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“The Secretary and the President are on their way back to the White House,” said Jed. “We don’t have new information but we do have an idea of where the helicopter crashed and—”

“This is something different. I’ve just spoken with President Voda.”

“You have?” Jed turned to the monitor on his right.

“Yes. He’s under attack. Possibly by his own army.”

Iasi Airfield, Romania

2320

THE ROMANIANS SCRAMBLED TWO HELICOPTERS IN AN ATtempt to mount a recovery option on the one that had gone down over the border in Moldova, but as soon as the radar aboard the Bennett showed that the Moldovans had trucks at the site, they aborted it. From the Romanian point of view, the loss of the colonel and the soldiers who’d been with him were a regrettable but acceptable trade-off for smashing the rebel strongholds and carrying away important data about the guerrilla operations.

With the mission scratched, fatigue mixed with an unspoken malaise aboard the Megafortress. Dog’s crew did their jobs dutifully, but they were clearly disappointed in the out-come of the mission.

And with the decision not to attack over the border to support the Romanians.

“Romanians are shutting down,” said Sullivan. “All troops are back over the border. Except for those in the helicopter.”

“Thanks,” said Dog. “Set a course for Iasi.”