“CIA director was trying to set up a phone conference for 1330,” added Jed. “White House chief of staff already knows some of what’s going on.”

“Where’s the President?”

“A reception at the Smithsonian,” said Jed. “Secretary Hartman’s there too. Due to end at three. Are you going to call him?”

“We’ll wait until after the phone conference. I may break away. Alert the chief of staff that we’ll need to talk.”

Iasi Airfield, Romania

2325

WHEN HE HAD DECIDED TO COME TO ROMANIA, GENERAL

Samson had somehow forgotten that the troops were sleeping on cots in a large hangar. Clearly this was not going to be a workable arrangement in his case.

For this one night, however, there was no other choice.

Good for esprit de corps, he reasoned, though his back muscles might never be the same. Worse, he had trouble falling asleep, even though he was dead tired. He’d had one of the bomb handlers rope off a little section for him, stringing 354

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blankets as a temporary barrier for privacy, but they did nothing to shut out the noise. The hangar’s metal walls and ceiling amplified every creak and cough.

Samson lay awake for hours, staring at the bluish black ceiling high above his head, breathing the stale air that smelled vaguely of exhaust, trying to fall asleep.

And now that he had finally drifted off, some jackass was shaking him awake.

Who?

“Who the hell is it?” he grumbled, trying to unstick his eyes.

“It’s Dog.”

Bastian! It figured.

“What the hell, Colonel?”

“General, something’s up,” Dog told him. “Troops are mobilizing. There’s a report of a guerrilla attack on the Romanian president’s house about a hundred miles east of here.”

It took Samson a second to process the words. Then he sprang up.

“An attack on the president? By the guerrillas?”

“It may be.”

“Get a plane in the air.”

“The Johnson just took off.”

DOG TOLD SAMSON ABOUT WHAT HAD HAPPENED ON THE

mission as they walked to the Command trailer. Samson, who didn’t know Stoner, did not seem particularly bothered by the loss of the helicopter.

He also wasn’t impressed by the downing of the MiGs, which Dog assured him had taken place inside Romanian territory.

“As long as you obeyed orders and didn’t go over the border,” he muttered, trotting up the trailer steps ahead of Dog.

Sergeant Liu had just gotten off the phone with the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters. The sergeant con-

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firmed that there was “some action taking place,” but told them there was no need for Dreamland units at the present time.

“The hell with that,” said Samson. “We should have more than the Johnson up. Get the B-1s ready. And your plane, Bastian.”

Dog nodded. “The Bennett should be ready in an hour. I sent someone to wake up the crew.”

“Make it thirty minutes.”

Dog couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” snapped Samson.

“If I said five minutes, you’d say one.”

Samson frowned—but then the corners of his mouth twisted up.

“You expect anything less?” the general asked.

“Jed Barclay on the line,” said Liu.

Out of habit, Dog took a step toward the communications area, then stopped. Talking to Washington was Samson’s job now.

Bacau, Romania

2335

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, YOU CAN’T FIND THE PRESIdent?” thundered General Locusta over the phone line.

“Where is he?”

Major Ozera did not answer.

“Voda’s house is not that big,” continued the general.

“Where the hell is he?”

“There was considerable damage from the mortars,” said the major. “We think he was in the basement somewhere.

Some of the timbers have fallen and there was—”

“Find the body. Find the body,” repeated Locusta. “What about the bodyguards?”

“They’re all accounted for. We think.”

“You think? ”

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Even though Locusta was alone in his office, using his private satellite phone rather than his regular line, he knew he had to restrain himself. As thick as the walls were, there was always the chance that he might be overheard if he raised his voice. And besides, a temper tantrum would not help him in the least.

If Voda had escaped, things would be very complicated indeed. But Locusta was in too far now. He’d already given orders mobilizing his units, had instructed his network to begin spreading rumors that the president was dead, and had called his ally in the capital, telling him to call his men out as well.

“Make sure your men are in charge,” he told Ozera. “You conduct the search personally.”

“Yes, of course. The regular troops have only just gotten here.”

“Keep them in the dark. Order them to shoot at anything that moves.”

“Yes, General.”

“Keep me updated,” Locusta said. He hung up the phone.

It rang immediately. “Locusta.”

“Bucharest,” said a male voice. “Done.”

The line clicked dead. Locusta hung up again, feeling much more confident. The defense minister had been assassinated. An irritant had been removed.

This was a time for action, not doubt. Locusta rose from his desk, grabbed his satellite phone and strode from the office.

“I am going to the president’s house,” he told his staff in the conference room. “I will personally take charge of the situation there. Nothing to the media,” he added, turning to his public relations officer. “Nothing, official or unofficial, without my express approval.”

The man’s face paled. Locusta guessed that he had already started feeding tidbits to favored reporters.

The general savored that look of fear as he walked to his car.

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Dreamland Command trailer,

Iasi, Romania

2345

DOG FROZE THE INFRARED VIDEO FEED FROM THE JOHNSON’S

Flighthawk showing the back of the president’s house.

“Serious munitions hit that house,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Maybe mortar shells, maybe RPG rounds. At least a half dozen.”

“The guerrillas could have either,” said Samson.

“True.” Dog hit the Play button, letting the image proceed.

“Are you seeing this, Mr. Barclay?” asked Samson.

“We see it,” said Jed Barclay, speaking from the White House Situation Room. “Please continue the feed. We want to see the area.”

More Romanian troops were arriving at a command post set up on the road below the house. From the looks of things, the Romanians believed some of the guerrillas had escaped and they were trying to seal off the area.

“That’s what we have, Jed,” said Dog. “Anything else new on your end?”

“We’re sorting through everything. The CIA station chief reported rumors that the president was dead. We’ll be back on with you in a few minutes.”

Dog leaned back from the console and glanced at Samson, who was standing against the partition of the communications area. The general’s stubble and his combat fatigues were almost jarring; for the first time since they’d met, Samson didn’t look like an actor playing the role.

“You think it’s a coup?” Samson asked.

“If I had to bet, that’s where I’d put my money,” said Dog.

“So would I,” said Samson.

Dog pulled off his headphones and rose. “Want some coffee?” he asked Samson.

“Yes,” said the general.

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There was almost always fresh coffee on the sideboard of the trailer’s main room, but tonight was an exception. Dog started hunting through the cabinets, looking for the filters and coffee. He was just filling the pot with water when Samson emerged from the communications shack.

“I thought maybe you went into town for it,” said the general.