Revolution (28 page)

“They launched missiles in our direction. I took evasive action. They blew up the missiles maybe twenty seconds after launch, over the Black Sea. I assume their plan all along was to spook us.”

“These Russian bastards,” said Samson. “We ought to shoot them out of the sky.”

The general glanced at the screen. The video caught Dog's head jerking right as he glanced in the direction of his copilot. Samson felt a twinge of jealousy—he wanted to be in the air himself.

Let those Russian bastards try to spook him. Just let them try.

“I'm sorry, General,” said Dog, turning his face back toward the camera in front of his station. “I missed what you said.”

“Nothing. You have something else?”

“Negative. Very quiet on the ground so far.”

“And you did nothing to provoke the Russians?”

“All we did was take our station. At no time did any of our ships go over the border.”

“You better be giving me the whole story here, Bastian. If I get my head handed to me on this, yours isn't going to be worth a nickel.”

Dog didn't say anything.

“I'll get back to you,” said Samson.

“General, if there's a mission in Moldova, I'd like permission—”

“What part of what I just said don't you understand?”

“It's all crystal clear,” said Dog.

The screen blanked.

That was the problem with Bastian, thought Samson. Even when he was in the right, you had to be suspicious of him. He was a cowboy, always looking for a chance to blow something up.

Still, when he was right, he was right.

“Get me the White House,” the general told the communications specialist. “Tell them it's important.”

White House
1550

J
UST IN TIME FOR HIS COUNTRY'S EVENING NEWS PROGRAMS
, the German chancellor had responded to the latest round of Russian price increases by threatening to cut off gas shipments through its pipelines to France unless the French paid Germany a special transshipping fee. The French had responded angrily, and now all of Europe seemed at each other's throats. The Italians, who had seen unemployment rise to nearly twenty percent of the workforce in the past two months, were even talking about leaving NATO and the European Common Market.

The National Security Council had called an emergency
meeting to discuss the latest developments. Freeman had Jed come along to make it easier for him to keep up-to-date. The meeting was winding down when Sandra Collins, one of the NSC duty officers, appeared at the door and waved her hands frantically to get his attention. Jed waited for the Undersecretary of State to finish what he was saying—though he used a lot of words, his opinion basically was that the Italian threat was an empty bluff—then excused himself and went to the door.

“General Samson at Dreamland,” whispered Collins. “He says it's urgent.”

Jed went across the hall to the secure communications center, nodding at the duty officer as he went to one of the stations. He sat down at the desk, typed in his password, then put his eyes into the retina scanner. A few seconds later, General Samson's face appeared in his screen.

“General, what can I do for you?” asked Jed.

Samson frowned. Jed knew from their past communications that Samson expected to be talking to Philip Freeman every time he called. But the National Security Advisor had given specific orders that
all
Dreamland communications, including those that came through Admiral Balboa at the Pentagon, were to go through Jed, and while Samson surely had been told, he hadn't really gotten the message.

And probably never would.

“Jed, the Russians fired on one of our aircraft,” said Samson.

“The Russians?”

“Those MiGs that were shadowing Bastian. And he did nothing to provoke it. Now I want permission to shoot those bastards down, and I want it now.”

“Um, General—”

“My people have to be able to defend themselves. Even Bastian. The orders have to be changed to allow them to do that.”

“The President was pretty specific about them staying out of any sort of situation—”

“Then you get him on the phone so I can talk to him,” said Samson.

“I'll do what I can, General. But, listen, the situation over there is pretty volatile. It may seem like it's just a dispute over gas prices, but—”

“Don't tell me how volatile it is. My people are on the front line here. I need to protect them.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

 

T
HE
NSC
MEETING HAD ALREADY BROKEN UP AND
J
ED'S
boss was gone. By the time he caught up with him, Freeman was at lunch up at the Capitol, dining in the Members Dining Room as the guest of Larry Segriff, who, besides representing Wisconsin as its senior representative, was head of the Foreign Relations Committee.

Freeman saw Jed walking toward him. “Am I late already?” he said, glancing at his watch. “I just got here.”

“Actually, um, Sally made a mistake on the schedule.” Jed smiled at Segriff, trying to seem genuine as he offered an excuse. “You were supposed to be in a meeting with the President on the gas situation in Europe. She thought lunch was tomorrow.”

“I'm not going to keep you, Phil.” Segriff started to wave him away. “Go ahead. We'll have lunch a different time.”

“Thanks, Congressman. I'm really sorry. It's good to exchange ideas.”

“Yes. I'll have my secretary set something up.”

Jed followed Freeman out of the room. At least a dozen pairs of eyes followed them as they left.

“Good, Jed. I think he half believed you,” said Freeman.

“I thought—”

“You did fine. What's up?”

“One of the Dreamland aircraft was fired on by the Russians,” Jed told him.

“What?”

“It looks like it was meant to intimidate them. In any event, General Samson wants permission to fight back.”

Freeman set his lips together in a deep frown as they got into the limo for the short ride back to the Executive Office Building.

Within an hour Jed was sitting next to his boss in the Cabinet Room next to the Oval Office, briefing President Martindale on what had happened.

Martindale ordinarily took even the worst news calmly, and it was generally hard to read his emotions.

Not today. He pounded the table, then ran his hand back through his white hair so violently that it flew into a wild tangle.

“What the hell are the goddamned Russians up to?” he thundered. “They want a war? They want a goddamned war?”

The reaction caught both Jed and his boss off guard. They exchanged a glance.

“I don't know that they want a war, exactly,” said Freeman. “I think they're pushing, to see how far they can go. How far we'll go.”

Martindale's face flushed. He looked at them for a moment, and as Jed stared at his profile he realized how tired the President appeared, and how old he had become. The last few weeks had been a great triumph—but also an enormous strain. Whatever held his temperament together had been stretched to the breaking point.

“Yes, of course that's what they're doing. Pushing us. Pushing me.”

Martindale began to relax, becoming more his old self.

“We do have a couple of options, Mr. President,” said Freeman. “We could send the Dreamland people to support the operation in Moldova.”

“No. That's what they want. That's what this is about—to
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

O
NCE MORE
, S
AMSON FOUND HIMSELF BRISTLING AS HE
talked to Jed Barclay, angry that the President wouldn't speak to him directly.

“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—”

“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.”

Dochia, Romania
28 January 1998
0500

I
T 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
, S
TONER 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
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.

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)

B
REANNA FELT HER HEARTBEAT RISE AS
B
OOMER
'
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 knots. It was a jolt compared to a Megafortress's takeoff, but by B-1 standards it was almost lackadaisical. Breanna told herself to stop comparing the planes and just fly.

There was a tickle in her nose. She hoped she wasn't getting a cold.

“
Big Bird
to
Boomer.
I have you in sight,” said Sleek Top from the other B-1B/L. His voice was so loud he drowned out the engines.

“Boomer,”
acknowledged Samson. “How are you looking?”

“Purring like a kitten, General,” responded Sleek. “We have your six.”

“Roger that.”

“First way marker in ten minutes, General,” said Breanna. “Systems are in the green. Fuel burn is a little lighter than originally computed.”

“Hmmmph.”

“We have a bit more of a tailwind,” said Breanna, explaining the difference.

“Good, Captain. Stay on it.”

Not too many pilots would have been miffed that they were getting better mileage than expected, but that was Samson. His tone tended to be a bit gruff, but it wasn't anything Breanna wasn't used to from her father. In many ways the two men were similar—no wonder they couldn't stand each other.

 

G
ENERAL
S
AMSON CHECKED HIS COURSE ON THE COMPUTER
screen. While he'd flown this B-1 during an orientation flight a few weeks before, it still felt a bit odd. In nearly every measurable aspect, the plane was superior to the “stock” B-1Bs he was used to. It was faster, a hair more maneuverable, and could fly farther without refueling if the tanks were managed properly—which was almost a given, since the computer did the managing.

Boomer
's internal bomb bays were taken up by the laser, but the weapon's comparatively lighter weight meant a heavier bomb load could be carried on the wings and fuselage. In this version, the aircraft didn't need the offensive and defensive systems officers; their jobs were completely replaced by
the computer. The computer could even take over most if not all of the piloting tasks—not that Samson was about to give it the opportunity.

Still, there was something about
Boomer
and its sister ship,
Big Bird,
that bothered him. It was almost too slick, too easy to fly. It wasn't going to keep a pilot on his toes the way an older ship would.

But what the hell. It was good to be flying again, and even better to lead a mission. Samson knew there'd be flak from above at some point, but if Colonel Dog Bastian could do it, so could he.

Maybe it would earn him a new nickname: the Flying, Fighting General.

Now
that
was the sort of thing that helped you get confirmed as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Bucharest, Romania
8 January 1998
0900

A
LIN
V
ODA'S POLITICAL CAREER HAD STARTED IN THE MOST
unlikely way when, at age seven, a family friend gave him a trombone. It was a worn instrument, with many scratches and two dents in the playing tube; the bell of the horn had been pushed slightly to one side. Even an accomplished musician would have had trouble coaxing a winning sound from the instrument. But it lit a fire in Voda's brain. He took lessons at his local elementary school, and within a few months had devoured the teacher's small store of sheet music. His notes, strained by the condition of the old horn, did not always have the best tone, but Voda's enthusiasm for the music burned so hot that it infected anyone who heard him.

His teacher happened to have a better trombone in storage, and one day decided to loan it to Voda, letting the boy play it first at school, and then, within a week or two, at home. The
sound of the instrument was a revelation, and Voda's passion, already great, doubled. By the end of the school year he could play at the level of a competent teenager, and certainly practiced as much.

During the summer vacation, Voda returned to his own instrument, and immediately felt its limitations. It was not just the sound of the battered horn; trombones played in a relatively limited range, and while there was much to be mastered, it already seemed to the eight-year-old that the range would be too limited for his imagination. He was thinking and dreaming in notes.

Wild riffs played through his head. If a painter might be said to see the world in colors, Voda had come to hear the world in music. He pestered his parents—poorly paid workers for the state—to find him a piano. Even a used instrument was out of the question, but the same friend who had given him the trombone had a brother who was a janitor at a local school. Thanks to his job, he had the keys to the basement where the music room was, and one day the friend arranged for the brother to meet Voda and his mother so the boy could plunk on the piano.

Within a few minutes, Voda had figured out how to transpose the notes he played on the trombone to the keyboard. His playing was not good by any means; the piano itself was old and some of the keys fidgety, so none of the songs were recognizable except to Voda. But again, it fired his imagination.

He pestered his parents and the friend to allow him to return. A week later, he was able to coax a melodious version of a Romanian folk song from the instrument; after about fifteen minutes of playing it back and forth, his mistakes morphed into a pleasant improvisation, his mind hearing the notes as they might be, not necessarily as they had been originally intended.

The music attracted the attention of the school's principal, who happened to be working upstairs in his office. When
he came down to investigate, he was surprised to see a thin, somewhat undersized eight-year-old at the keyboard. While the janitor and Voda's mother froze in fear that they were about to get into trouble for sneaking into the building, the principal strode to Voda. When the boy finished, the older man—a modest amateur pianist himself—began asking questions about the song and, eventually, about Voda's training, or rather, lack of it.

From that point on, coincidence no longer played a part in Voda's musical career. Admission was arranged to a special school in Bucharest, where he had access to some of the best teachers in the country. While the routine of becoming a true artist—the endless hours of practice and study—often bored Voda, it did not dull his love of music. He continued to throw himself into the work, making his fingers produce the notes he imagined in his head.

The teachers were divided over whether the boy should be considered a true “prodigy” or simply an extremely talented and gifted young man. Initially, his public concerts were limited to small performances at the school. He did not particularly stand out at these, not only because of the talent surrounding him on the program, but because the pieces he played tended toward the obscure and difficult. But those who knew what he did in the practice rooms never undervalued his talent, and pushed him to improve.

At fifteen, Voda discovered Mozart. Naturally, he'd played many Mozart pieces over the years and had a general understanding of the great composer's work, but until then he never understood the music the way an artist must understand it. Ironically, the moment came while playing the overture for
Don Giovanni,
not generally considered a pianist's showpiece when compared to the rest of Mozart's oeuvre. As he began the third measure, the notes suddenly felt different. For Voda, it was as if he had pushed open the door of a fabulous mansion and strolled in, suddenly at home.

His first performance of a Mozart piece at the school—

Sonata K 310—was a sensation. The small audience leaped to its feet when he concluded, and applauded so long that he had to do an encore. Within weeks he had his first concert outside the school's auspices; by the time he was eighteen, he was touring the country, playing on his own. He visited Russia and Warsaw. With classical music much more popular behind what was then the Iron Curtain than it was in the West, Voda became an emerging superstar and a national hero.

And then, when he was twenty years old, he made a mistake that changed his life. He played the folk song that the principal had overheard him play at the very beginning of his studies.

It was a second encore after a performance in Bucharest that mostly consisted of Mozart sonatas. It did not fit the program in any way. He hadn't thought of the tune in years, and certainly hadn't played it, or even planned to play it, since his education began.

There was a good reason not to. The Romanian government, in one of its periodic fits of paranoia, had banned all nationalistic movements and displays. The move was really a crackdown on dissidents, whom the government believed were using nationalistic sentiments to stir resentment against the regime. For whatever reason—some critics of the government believed it was looking for more backing from the Soviet Union—the ban extended to all the arts, and extended so far that a musical play based on a folk tale cycle was canceled two days before its opening in Bucharest: the day before Voda's performance.

It was never completely clear, even to Voda, why the song came into his head that evening, or why he allowed it to flow from his brain to his fingers. Perhaps he intended it as a protest against the state, though he had never harbored such political feelings before then. Maybe it was just misplaced nostalgia. In any event, the crowd heard it as a political statement, and their response was beyond anything he could ever have imagined. Had he stood up and declared himself king at
the end of the concert, they would have gladly taken him on their back and carried him to the castle.