Dreamland Whiplash Osprey

2347

THE OSPREY FERRYING DANNY FREAH AND SERGEANT

Boston back to Iasi was about twenty minutes from touchdown when the call came through from General Samson.

Danny took a headset from the crew chief and sat in one of the jump seats next to the cabin bulkhead.

“This is Freah,” said Danny, suppressing a yawn.

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“Captain, we have a particular tactical situation you may be able to assist with,” said Samson. “We’re going to need your input on it.”

“Sure,” said Danny. “We’re about twenty minutes shy of landing.”

“We want your ideas right now,” said Dog, coming onto the line. “Can you talk?”

“Um, sure. Why not?”

Danny listened as Dog described the situation. The president of Romania had apparently been attacked by troops posing as guerrillas and was believed to be hiding somewhere on his mountain property.

“President Martindale wants us to rescue him, as discreetly as possible,” said Dog. “But we don’t know exactly where he is. And the place is ringed by Romanian soldiers.”

“Can you formulate a plan to extricate him?” asked Samson.

“If I knew exactly where he was, maybe.”

“The ambassador is working on that,” said Samson. “In the meantime, prepare a plan.”

“Tell us what you need,” added Dog. “Equipment, other information. We’ll have it waiting for you when you land.”

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

2354

THE PUMP HOUSE WAS MORE OVERGROWN THAN VODA REmembered. Brambles covered about three-quarters of the front and side walls. A tree had grown so close that it appeared to be embedded at the back. Hiding here was out of the question.

“We’ll rest behind the tree,” he told his wife and son.

“We’ll rest, and then we’ll find another place.”

“Where, Papa?” asked Julian.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“On the other side of the hill,” said Voda. He glanced at his wife. Her expression, difficult to make out in the shadows cast by the trees, seemed to border on despair.

“I’m going to scout ahead. Stay here with your mother,”

Voda told his son. Then he pointed to a clump of trees.

“Mircea. Hide there. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t leave us, Papa,” said Julian.

“I’ll be right back,” he told him. “I won’t be far.”

Voda was lying—he wanted to use the phone but didn’t want either of them to hear how desperate he was. He had to stay positive, or at least as confident as he could, to buoy their spirits.

So far, he hadn’t heard the dogs, but that was just a matter of time.

Voda walked in as straight a line as he could manage, stopping when he could no longer make out the large tree that rose from the side of the pump house. He took out the mobile phone and dialed the American ambassador’s number. The phone was answered on the first ring.

“I am still alive,” he said.

“Mr. President, we will help you as much as we are able to.

Where exactly are you?”

Voda hesitated. There were many reasons not to trust the Americans. But there was no other choice.

“There is a pump house behind my property, half hidden in the woods. We cannot stay there very long. There are many soldiers still arriving. I hear many trucks. What is going on?”

“The news is reporting that the defense minister was assassinated by guerrillas,” said the ambassador. “They are also reporting rumors of your death.”

“Prematurely.”

“Our satellites have seen troop movements all across the country. It seems pretty clear that there’s a coup, and that the plotters intend to kill you.”

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“Who is behind it?”

“I don’t know, Mr. President. I would hesitate to make a guess without some sort of evidence, and I have none.”

It had to be Locusta, Voda thought. It was his area of command, and he was the only one powerful enough to even dare.

“I want you to call General Locusta. Tell him that I know that he is behind this, and that he is to stand down,” said Voda. “Tell him … ”

Voda considered what to say. His instincts told him to be strong with the general—fierce. But perhaps it would be wiser to work out a deal.

“Tell him he must stand down,” Voda repeated finally.

“I don’t know if that will do much good coming from me, Mr. President.”

Voda sensed that was a diplomatic answer—probably Washington had told him not to interfere.

“Are you going to help me or not?” asked Voda, struggling to keep himself from bleating.

“Yes. We will try to rescue you if we can. If you want.”

Hope!

“Of course I want,” said Voda, practically shouting.

“I want to connect you directly with the Dreamland people who have been supporting your counterterrorist troops. They will help you.”

The loud bay of a dog echoed up the hillside.

“Are you there, Mr. President?” asked the American ambassador.

“Give me the number.”

“I can connect you, or have them call you.”

“No. Tell me the number now. It’s not safe for them to call me; the phone can be heard, even when just buzzing. I will call them when I can, in a few minutes. Right now I have to move my family to safety.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

29 January 1998

0010

THE HELICOPTER GENERAL LOCUSTA COMMANDEERED TO

get up to the president’s mountain house had been used during the Moldovan operation. There hadn’t been enough time to completely clean the interior, and spots of dried blood covered the floor. Locusta stared at the blood, brooding. The operation had been successful, though if the Americans had deigned to provide better support, he would not have lost the helicopter with Brasov aboard.

The colonel had always been a problematic officer—a fine leader, but headstrong, occasionally impulsive, and unfortunately as committed to democracy as he was to getting ahead.

He would have had to watch Brasov carefully had he lived—so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise after all.

But now that he was dead, Locusta missed him, and mourned the loss of his spirit. He was the sort of man an army needed.

The kind a country needed. Like himself.

A command post had been set up at the intersection of Highway 34 and the road leading up to President Voda’s property. There was a field next to the intersection; a pair of spotlights and some small signal flares marked the area for the helicopter to set down.

Locusta sprang out as soon as the pilot nodded to him.

Head down against the swirling wind, he ran toward the men standing near the road.

“General, we’re glad you’re here,” said Major Ozera. “The situation is under control.”

“You’ve found President Voda?”

“We expect to shortly. There was a tunnel from the house to a small cave at the edge of the property. We have dogs following his scent.”

“Good.”

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Locusta looked around. About two dozen troops were holding defensive positions near the road.

“You’ve given orders that anyone found is to be shot?”

“Of course,” said Ozera. “As you ordered. The troops have been told that the president is dead and that we’re looking for the guerrillas. The special team is with the dogs,” he added.

“They won’t get away.”

“They had best not. They have already failed once.”

Ozera didn’t answer. The “special team” was the handpicked group of assassins who had made the initial assault.

“Pull as many of the troops back as possible,” Locusta told him. “Bring in more weapons, enough to fight a large force.

But keep them a good distance away. Have only your men on the property.”

“I’ve brought up everything we had,” said the major. “Everything except the antiaircraft guns.”