Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Her knee was throbbing—running put a great deal of pressure on the joint—but it held. She stepped off the machine, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“Well?” she asked the doctor. “What do you think?”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he motioned her toward the curtained examining area at the back of the room.

“You’re going to check my blood pressure?” Breanna asked as he took the cuff from its little shelf on the wall.

“Of course.”

“Didn’t those machines tell you everything you need to know?”

He shrugged. Clearly he was determined to give her a hard time.

“And?” she said pointedly.

“There’s no doubt that you have a healthy heart, Captain,”

he said. “And that in general you’re fit.”

Breanna started to smile.

“That doesn’t mean I’m clearing you to fly,” he added.

“Your knee doesn’t hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Hold out your arm,” he ordered.

Breanna did so. The cuff felt hard against her bicep. She tried to relax. The doctor took the reading, frowned again, then let the pressure off.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s all right.”

“How all right?”

“Diastolic, seventy. Systolic 115.”

“That’s 115 over seventy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which is normal.”

It was actually the highest Breanna could remember her blood pressure being, but it was in fact well within the normal 214

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

range. The doctor had no alternative but to declare her fit for duty—active duty, active flying, back in the air.

Back! Back! Back!

But not quite.

“You need General Samson’s approval,” he said.

“What?”

“Procedure. The wing commander has to sign off. The wing commander hasn’t arrived, so you have to go to General Samson.”

“You don’t want me to fly, do you?” she said.

“I think you need more rest, yes,” he said. “And I’d urge you to take a couple of weeks off.”

“I don’t want to take time off.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“Where does that fit on your medical chart?”

The doctor shook his head. “The truth is, I can’t hold you back. I know, and you know, that if you’d taken this same test a couple of months back, you wouldn’t have been huffing at the end. I also know you did a lot better on it than probably half of our pilots. Physically, you’ve definitely recovered from your ordeal. I should write a paper on your recovery.” He smiled, trying to soften his sarcasm.

“But … ”

He took out his stethoscope and twirled it around his hand.

“But what?” asked Breanna.

“That coma bothers me.”

“You call it a coma. I was just tired and asleep. My body had to heal.”

“Listen, Breanna. I haven’t known you that long. I know you’re driven. I appreciate that. And you’ve achieved a hell of a lot. I know it must have been twice as hard for you because you’re a woman. But really, you should take it easier. Slower.

If you were Jeff—”

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“What would you tell Zen?”

“I’d tell him to slow down, too,” said the doctor. “Listen, if you do get approval from the general, would you please try to take it easy? Just a little?”

Breanna threw her arms around him joyfully.

“I will,” she said. “Now do you have papers for him or what?”

Dreamland

1103

AS A RULE, GENERAL SAMSON DIDN’T LIKE MARINES. THEY

tended to be too full of themselves for his taste. But Marty

“Sleek Top” Siechert was a retired Marine, and while the Marines had a saying that there was no such thing as an ex-Marine, Samson considered that his separation from the service and the intervening years—Sleek Top was close to fifty—had sanded some of the edges off.

Colonel Denton’s decision not to take the spot as wing commander under him—a career killing move if ever there was one—forced Samson to make some compromises.

Naming a retired Marine pilot head of the B-1B/L program was one of them. But he wanted to move the colonel he’d tapped for the B-1L/B project over to wing commander, and, just as important, he needed the B-1s ready to hit the flight line yesterday.

“Heading the program is a big responsibility, General,”

said Sleek Top as they finished a walk around Boomer. “And I was under the impression that you wanted all active military heading programs.”

“You are military,” said Samson.

“I’m retired, sir.”

“A bit young to be hanging up the saddle.”

“I meant, I’m a civilian, General.”

“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Samson. “I’ve considered it.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

But you’re my man. The B-1s—we need them operational.

The Pentagon is pushing for a demonstration very soon.

Congress is very keen on this, and the President himself likes the aircraft. It will be a good spotlight for your future career.”

“There’s nothing really holding them back,” said Sleek Top. “The basic air frame has been tested and retested.

They’re not that much different than the standard B-1Bs in terms of overall systems. The laser, of course, and the engines are more powerful, but the core of the computer system was adapted from the Megafortress, and we know that works. All that’s necessary is to complete the testing cycle.”

“Then get moving.”

“General, that’s not quite as easy as it sounds. For one thing—”

“How did Bastian get the EB-52s operational?” said Samson.

Sleek Top laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

Sleek Top shook his head. He looked as if he had a goldfish in his mouth and it was tickling his tongue.

“Out with it, Marine,” demanded Samson.

“Well, Colonel Bastian—” Sleek Top interrupted himself to chuckle. “Colonel Bastian made a habit of putting the weapons right into the mix, officially approved or not. His whole theory was that the real tests didn’t happen until they were on the battlefield anyway, so he’d send the geek squad out with the planes, get everything in motion. Sometimes it blew up in his face, of course, but mostly it worked. Then when the Pentagon came around asking questions, he’d roll out the results. Had them eating out of his—”

“How close is close?”

“Excuse me?”

“The B-1s. What would happen if they went into combat?”

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“Well, uh—”

“If Colonel Bastian were here and he suggested it, what would you say?”

“I’d say … ” Sleek Top thought about it for a moment. “I’d say that if you had enough pilots, there’d be no problem. But I’m the only pilot regularly assigned and—”

“Get the planes ready. I’ll find the pilots.”

“General, you just found one,” said Breanna Stockard.

Samson turned around and saw Breanna standing behind him, a broad grin on her face. She’d been listening to most of the discussion.

“Captain, good morning.”

“General, I need you to approve my flight fitness report, sir. I’m ready to get back in the air.”

“You think that’s a good idea so soon?” asked Sleek Top.

“You were in some pretty heavy action.”

“I’m ready. I just passed a stress test.”

Breanna handed Samson a folder with her medical report.

The general opened it and took a quick glance. At the top of the page—excellent health.

There were typed comments at the bottom: “Although Breanna Stockard is physically in top shape and appears to have recovered from her ordeal off the Indian coast, I would still recommend that she take a few weeks off … ”

Doctors, thought Samson. Always finding excuses for people not to do things.

He looked up from the folder. Breanna was a good-looking woman—not that he would let himself be influenced by that. But she was definitely in good shape, and her record spoke for itself. The after-action reports, even though they’d been written in terse, matter-of-fact prose, read like war novels.

Of course, she was also Colonel Bastian’s daughter. But you couldn’t hold the sins of the fathers against the offspring.

“You’re in good shape?” he asked.

“Sir, I’m ready to kick butt. Can I fly?”

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“Damn straight you can fly.” Samson shut the folder abruptly. “Get this over to my office, get it signed off by the chief of staff. I’m looking for big things out of you, Captain.”

Tears were brimming in Breanna’s eyes. That was the one thing about women that Samson couldn’t entirely handle—they got emotional at the drop of a hat.

“Carry on,” he told her, and spun away.

Bucharest, Romania

27 January 1998

0900

STONER WOKE TO THE SMELL OF COFFEE. HE JERKED OUT

of bed, grabbed his watch. He’d slept for nearly ten hours. He hadn’t been out that long in ages.

He pulled on his clothes and went to the kitchen. Sorina Viorica was there, cooking something in a frying pan. She’d taken a shower or a bath while he was sleeping; the scent of her soap filled the room.

She’d done something else, as well—dyed her hair jet black.

“Hello there,” she said.

“You did your hair.”

“Black, yes. The color of an outcast.”

He went to her, not knowing what to expect, either of himself or her. She folded her body to his willingly; his complied without hesitation.

“We have a lot to do,” he said.

“Yes, but first we should eat,” she said. “I bought some eggs.”

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Iasi Airfield, Romania

1305

“HEY, COLONEL, ANOTHER MESSAGE INCOMING,” YELLED

Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, who was handling the communications desk at the back end of the Dreamland Command trailer.

Dog sighed and turned back around. He’d been hoping to take a nap before the night’s sortie, but one thing or another had interrupted him since returning from the Romanian command meeting.

“It’s a private phone call, Colonel,” said Liu, rising.

“Phone call? From the States?”

“No, sir. Sat phone. Encrypted too.”

Dog sat down at the terminal and put on a headset while Liu slipped discreetly to the front of the trailer.

“This is Bastian.”

“Colonel Bastian, this is Mark Stoner. Do you remember me?”

“Sure I do, Mark. How are you?”

It wasn’t likely he’d forget. The CIA officer had helped save Breanna after action in the Pacific more than a year before.

“I’m fine, Colonel. As it happens, I’m working on a job in your neck of the woods. I can’t go into detail at the moment, but I’d like to speak to you personally as soon as possible.

This afternoon.”

“Why don’t you come here? I’m in Iasi.”

“I’d like to stay out of the city if I could. I have a place picked out that’s not that far from you. Could you be there around three-thirty?”

“I can try.”

“It might be best to wear civilian clothes, if you could,”

said Stoner. “And have a civilian car. You shouldn’t tell the Romanians where you’re going.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Near Dolcina, northeast Romania

1420

STONER KNEW COLONEL BASTIAN WELL ENOUGH TO TRUST

him, but that didn’t mean the Romanians didn’t have him under surveillance. So he was careful about choosing their meeting place.

With as little help from Sorina as possible, he selected a village that was small enough to watch but not so small that doing so would attract attention. Dolcina was about twenty minutes northwest of Bacau, and it had two outstanding assets: first, there was no police department or army detachment in town, and second, there was only one road in and out.

An hour before the colonel was due to arrive, Stoner double-checked the tavern he’d selected for the meeting. There was still only one regular at the bar, an old woman who sat in the corner and mumbled to herself while sipping Pernod, probably from the same glass he’d seen two hours before. Walking around the building, he found a garbage can and used it to boost himself onto the roof, where he surveyed the local street and the dozen or so buildings nearby. If anyone was watching him, they were well hidden.

He stayed on the roof until Colonel Bastian arrived. Then he waited another ten minutes before calling the bar from his sat phone.

“I wish to speak to a man named Tecumseh, if he is there,”

said Stoner in the Romanian Sorina Viorica had carefully re-hearsed with him.

“Tecumseh?”

“Yes.”

The bartender asked him something in Romanian that Stoner didn’t understand; all he could do was repeat what he’d said before.

There was silence. Then just as he thought he’d have to climb down and go inside himself, Dog came on the phone.

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“This is Tecumseh.”

“Sorry for the intrigue, Colonel. I need you to drive down the street, out of the village. Continue for exactly two kilometers, then pull off the road.”

Stoner killed the connection. Then he crawled to the front of the roof, watching as Dog left the bar and got into his car.

No one seemed to be following him. Still, Stoner waited another few minutes before climbing down. When he did, he trotted in the opposite direction, going back toward the highway to the abandoned gas station where he’d left his motorcycle.

Sorina Viorica had already left.

Not exactly the way they had planned it. He hoped she hadn’t had second thoughts. Or worse, that he’d missed a setup.

He had to hit the electric starter twice before the bike would turn over. Once it was humming, however, the single-piston engine sounded as smooth as a V-8. He revved the bike onto the roadway, circled once again to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then headed toward the rendezvous.

DOG WATCHED THE ODOMETER CAREFULLY. AS SOON AS

it reached two kilometers, he pulled the car onto the shoulder, leaving it idling as he looked around. There were empty farm fields to his left and right. No one was in sight.

Undoing his seat belt, he took his service Beretta pistol out of his belt, checked it, then put it down between the seat and the transmission hump next to him. It was months since he’d used it, and then it had been on an indoor range.

He wasn’t a particularly good shot and hoped he didn’t need it.

A cloud of dust appeared in the field to his left. Dog thought about getting out of the car, then decided against it.

The dust swirled, then settled to reveal a motorcycle. Dog rolled down his window, watching as the bike came toward him. Its driver wore a helmet with a dark face shield.

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Dog slumped down, using the dashboard for cover, waiting as the motorcycle came closer. He put his hand on the gun.

The bike suddenly accelerated, passing by in a blur. He watched in his side mirror as it veered off the road behind him, then began circling back from his right. He rolled down his window and waited as it drew near. His hand was still on the pistol, now in his lap.

The motorcycle coasted next to him and stopped. The rider leaned down.

“Who are you?” demanded the driver.

Dog was surprised. The voice, muffled by the helmet, was foreign and belonged to a woman.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he said.

“For who?”

“A friend. Mark Stoner.”

Another bike appeared in his rearview mirror. This one came straight down the road. The woman who’d stopped glanced back but stayed on her motorcycle as the second bike drew near the driver’s side of the car.

He’d had Liu check the voice pattern of the call earlier, so Dog was sure he’d been talking to Stoner. But now his paranoia grew, and his imagination spun out of control.

He could slip the car into gear and accelerate, get the hell out of there.

Shoot the motorcyclist on his right first.

The second bike stopped on his left.

“Colonel, I’m sorry for the precaution,” said its rider, leaning close to the window. He pulled up his face shield, revealing himself. It was Stoner.

“It’s all right, Mark. What’s going on?”

“Just a second.”

Stoner slipped the bike forward, then parked on the other side. The woman had gotten off her bike, and she joined Stoner as he slipped into the backseat of the car.

“My friend has some information that will be very valuable,” said Stoner after he shut the door. “But if she’s seen REVOLUTION

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meeting you, there are a number of people who could cause problems.”

“OK,” said Dog.

“The location of the guerrilla stronghold is over the border,” said Stoner.

Dog knew this was valuable information, and immediately guessed why the woman didn’t want to be seen—she must be a guerrilla herself.

“I don’t know how I can help,” he said.

In the mirror, Dog saw Stoner put his hand on the woman’s thigh, stopping her from moving toward the door.

“You can pass the information on in a way that it can’t be traced to her,” Stoner said. “And, there is a condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Asylum in America.”

“You’d know more about that than I would,” said Dog.

“I’m just a pilot.”

“You are very famous,” said the woman. “I recognize your face from the television. You are the head of Dreamland.”

Dog nodded. This wasn’t the time or place to explain the current chain of command.

“I can take care of the technicalities, once she’s out of the country,” Stoner said. “Getting her out of the country—that’s where we’ll need your help.”

“Why?”

“Because if I were to go into an airport,” said the woman, “I would most likely be recognized. If you don’t trust Mark—”

“I trust him.”

“Can you do it?” Stoner asked.

If the woman weren’t in the back of the car, Dog would have explained his hesitation. Transporting a guerrilla well known enough to be on a watch list wasn’t exactly part of his mission brief. He could just imagine what General Samson’s reaction would be.

On the other hand, knowing the location of the guerrilla strongholds would be very valuable information.

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“I can probably come up with something,” he said finally.

“Assuming she keeps her end of the bargain.”

“There will be no problem with that,” said Sorina.

“Why are you betraying your friends?” asked Dog.

He saw her face in the mirror. There was pain, and then a mask.

Was it all an act? Or had she debated that very same question?

“The Russians have taken over the movement. There are some devoted revolutionaries, but most of the operations now are being directed by Moscow. The things they are doing turn my stomach.”

Dog glanced in Stoner’s direction. The CIA man’s expression made it clear that he didn’t want him to keep asking questions. To the spy, reasons or motivations weren’t important; results were.

But to Dog, the question was everything. People didn’t give up their friends easily, even if the rest of the world thought it was the right thing to do.

“The Russians know that I am against them,” Sorina went on.

“They would kill me as gladly as the Romanian army or police.”

“And in America you can have a fresh start?” said Dog.

“I don’t want to go to America. Get me to Turkey.”

“I don’t know if I can get you to Turkey.”

“Across the border, then, to any European country. I can move on from there.”

“Where are the hideouts?” asked Dog.

“Not until I am safe,” said Sorina Viorica. “When I am safe, then I will say. Only to Mark.”

Iasi Airfield, Romania

1830

DOG’S MESSAGE TO DANNY WAS VAGUE TO THE POINT OF

being cryptic, though only if you knew the way Colonel Bas-

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tian normally did things. It had been passed along by one of the aides at the small unit where Danny was working with the Romanian soldiers.

OFFICERS MEETING 1830, HERE. PLEASE BE PROMPT.

Danny’s curiosity was piqued further when he saw Colonel Bastian waiting for him on the tarmac when the Osprey touched down.

“Hey, Colonel, what’s up?”

“You eat dinner yet, Danny?”

“Didn’t have a chance.”

“One of the Romanian officers told me about a restaurant in the city. Let’s go.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“I do.”

Dog didn’t give any further explanation, and in fact remained silent on the drive. Danny, who hadn’t seen much of Iasi, found himself staring at the buildings. Like much of Eastern Europe, the city at first glance seemed drab, still hungover from the days of Soviet bloc domination. But if you looked long enough, the gray and brown tones gave way to color in unexpected places. There were signs for Coca-Cola, along with billboards advertising Sony televisions and Italian fashions. White facades on new houses, blue stones, an office building with a dramatic, sweeping rise—the city was shaking off the gloom of the old era like a spring daffodil poking through rotted leaves.

The restaurant was another surprise. Large and modern, it could have been located in any American city. The food was Italian, and not bad—Danny ordered spaghetti and meatballs for the first time in months, and cleaned the plate.

“So, eventually you’re going to tell me what’s going on,”

Danny said to Dog as he finished.

The colonel pushed away his plate. He had only picked at his food.

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“I talked to Mark Stoner today. And a friend of his.”

Danny listened as Dog told him about the meeting. His first reaction was anger: He felt the colonel should have told him what was going on beforehand, and not taken the risk himself. But it was hard for Danny to be mad at Dog, and he knew how welcome the information about the location of the guerrilla training camps would be. He also knew from talking with Colonel Oz that Locusta had authorized at least two spy missions over the past few months, without results.

The Romanians didn’t have access to spy satellites; even if they did, Danny knew that small groups of rebels could prove frustratingly difficult to observe or even detect.

“You think that’s a good trade?” he asked. “Sneak her out of the country in exchange for the information? She may be a murderer herself.”

“I don’t know,” said Dog. “The truth is, it’s probably not up to me.”

“ ‘Probably’?”

Dog smiled. “Definitely not up to me. Hard letting go, I guess.”

IT WAS A LOT HARDER LETTING GO THAN DOG WANTED TO

admit, certainly to himself. Was it just the power? Or had he grown so used to cutting through red tape and bureaucracy that the necessity of working through channels and responding to the proper chain of command tired him out?

He would have preferred to think it was the latter. But faced with the need not just to report to Samson, but to ask permission to proceed, he realized it was mostly the former.

Before they left the restaurant, Dog and Danny worked out a plan to assure that the woman would tell where the guerrilla hideout was after she was flown out of the country. It wasn’t very complicated—Danny and one of his men would stay with her; she would communicate the information to Stoner, and then they’d wait until Stoner confirmed that the information was correct before letting her go.

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After Sergeant Liu made the connection, Dog sat down in the seat at the com console, leaning back while he waited for the officer on duty at Dreamland Command to get the general. He was surprised when, rather than Samson, Mack Smith’s face appeared on his small screen.

Mack’s voice boomed in his headset: “Colonel, how are you?”

“How are you, Mack?”

“Surviving. Barely. Between you and me, Colonel … ”

“Yes?”

“Between you and me, I want to get back on the flight line yesterday.”

“Wish I could help you there, Mack.”

“So do I. What’s up?”

“I have something I need to talk to the general about.”

“Shoot.”

“I have to talk to him personally.”

“Might as well talk to me,” said Mack. “Shit rolls downhill.”

“You sound tired, Mack.”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, Colonel. Or the night before. Or any night. So what can I do for you?”

“You can get the general on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

“SO WHAT THE HELL IS SO DAMN IMPORTANT THAT YOU GET

me out of a meeting with my science department?” said Samson, his snarling voice snapping onto the line. There was no visual; he was using the encrypted phone in his office.

“The CIA has developed an asset who knows where the guerrillas are hiding in Moldova,” said Dog calmly. “As part of the deal to get the information, they want us to fly the source out of the country.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they came to you directly?”

“It happens that I’ve worked with the CIA officer before,”

said Dog.

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“You have?” Samson asked, this time without the sharp note of surprise. “Yes, of course you have. But can we trust him? Does he really have the information?”

“I met the asset. I think we can.”

“You met the asset? Who authorized you to do that?”

“I didn’t realize that was going to happen,” said Dog. “In any event, General, I wouldn’t have come to you with this unless I was thoroughly convinced it was both real and a benefit to our mission here. I wouldn’t waste your time, General.

I know you have better things to do than hold my hand.”

“Hmmmph.”

Dog outlined the plan that he and Danny had worked out, then suggested that the asset be flown to a U.S. base in Turkey, the country she’d requested.

“How do you want me to proceed?” he asked when he’d concluded.

“Do nothing until you hear from me.”

“Not a problem. Also, the Romanians are asking for more support. The defense minister said he would go through the embassy, but I thought I’d give you a—”

Dog stopped speaking, realizing Samson had already hung up.

White House Cabinet Room

1206

ROBERT PLANK WAS A RICH MAN, BUT HE HAD A CERTAIN

air of nervous danger about him.

Maybe, thought Jed Barclay as he watched him speak in the Oval Office, the millions he’d made had been seeded by some criminal activity that he would do anything to keep from being exposed.

Plank’s sharply tailored suits showed off his wide shoulders and thick chest, and he looked to be strong enough to take on REVOLUTION

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any two or three men who confronted him. His speech occasionally betrayed the urban landscape he’d grown up in; as a very young boy, he had lived only a few blocks from the White House, in one of the poorest and at the time most dangerous sections of Washington, D.C.

For most government officials—especially those whose appointment had been so blatantly political—Plank’s occasional and unconscious sprinkle of four-letter words along with his habit of speaking bluntly would be serious defects.

But in his case, they were assets, enhancing his reputation as a no-nonsense, seat-of-the-pants CIA director.

Plank was also a skilled politico, even if he’d never spent a day as an elected official. As he continued to brief the President on the CIA’s successful recruitment of a guerrilla turncoat, Jed was impressed by the director’s ability to subtly insert himself into the story. Jed knew the details as well as Plank—he’d gotten them from Stoner himself. So he knew that the guerrilla had initially offered contact, not the other way around, and that Stoner’s primary interest lay in getting more information on the deaths of his comrades. But Plank packaged up everything as if finding the guerrilla base was his idea in the first place. He all but said that he knew the guerrilla movement was ready to crack, and had therefore handpicked one of his best international agents, plunking him down at just the right time, in just the right circumstance, to achieve a breakthrough.

It was difficult to judge how much of the act the President actually bought. Certainly Martindale, who had appointed Plank, knew that he’d gotten the job not because he was an excellent spymaster—Plank had worked on the analysis side of the Agency before going into private business. And given that he’d known Plank for many years, Jed assumed that he appreciated the CIA director’s ability to put himself in the spotlight as well as anyone.

The only hint that Martindale might not be paying com-

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plete attention was the pen he twirled in his fingers—a sign, Jed knew from two years of observation, that he was getting bored and wanted the speaker to get on with it.

“The Russian connection is the most intriguing aspect of the entire affair,” said Plank. “If we can obtain real evidence of it, the countries that have been feuding in NATO and the EU will realize how badly they’re being played.”

“That’s a wonderful theory,” said Freeman, the National Security Advisor and Jed’s boss. “But the only thing that’s going to stop their fighting is a reduction in the price of natural gas. The futures have gone up another twelve percent in the commodities markets over the past day even though the last guerrilla attack wasn’t aimed at the pipeline.”

“Once we expose the Russians’ involvement, the attacks will stop,” said Plank.

“Once the Romanians expose it,” said Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman. “If we do it, no one will believe it.”

“One thing I’m concerned about are these Russian aircraft,” said the President. He leaned forward on his desktop to look at Jed, who was sitting at the end of the row in front of him. “Recap that for us, Jed.”

“Very briefly, Russian planes have shadowed the Dreamland Megafortresses on every flight,” said Jed. “They’ve stayed roughly 250 miles away, as if they don’t want to be detected. That’s the published range of the radar, although depending on the circumstances, it can see a bit farther.”

“We’d do the same if they were operating in our area,”

suggested Hartman.

“I think what they’d like us to do is go over the border,”

said Secretary of Defense Chastain. “The Russians have a defense treaty with Moldova. They could contend they were coming to their aid.”

“I don’t see what that gets them,” said Hartman.

“Another twenty point bump in the price of natural gas,”

said Martindale.

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“I agree,” said Plank. “That’s why we have to move on this.

The agent would accompany the Romanians on the raid. This way he would gain information relating to the deaths of our people in Romania.”

“Assuming the information is to be had,” noted the President.

Plank gave Martindale a little smile, acknowledging that he’d been caught exaggerating, or at least polishing the apple.

“The price of natural gas in Europe is now double what it was last winter,” said Freeman. “If the attacks on the pipeline continue and the supply is cut down completely, it will triple.

And there’ll probably be shortages.”

“Urging the Romanians to go into Moldova is going to send alarms throughout Europe,” said Hartman. “We cannot let them use our forces there.”

“If we simply give the information, but keep our aircraft on the Romanian side of the border, what’s the problem?”

asked Chastain. “You see what beasts these guerrillas are.

Killing children.”

“That incident gives the Romanians some cover,” said Freeman. “But I wouldn’t send our people over. Not even the spy.”

“If he doesn’t go, he can’t get the information,” said Plank.

“All right,” said Martindale. “Give the information to the Romanians. Our people stay out of Moldovan territory. They don’t engage in the fight. That is an absolute order. No one crosses the border, or fires over the border.”

“My man?” asked Plank.

Martindale looked at Freeman, but the National Security Advisor said nothing.