Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Let him go,” said Martindale. “But … ”

The pause that followed was significant. If anything happened to the officer, he would not be acknowledged. Plank nodded.

232

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“And the request for additional support,” continued Martindale. “Can we do that?”

“I would leave that up to General Samson, sir,” said Secretary Chastain. They’d discussed the request briefly at the beginning of the meeting. “His plan was always to beef up the force.”

The President nodded. “Make it very clear that we are not to go over the border into Moldova.”

“What if our people need to defend themselves?” Chastain asked.

“I wouldn’t give Colonel Bastian that big a loophole,” said Secretary of State Hartman. “We’ve seen what he’s done with that in the past.”

Martindale folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

“Colonel Bastian is not in charge of Dreamland anymore,”

said Chastain.

“No, but he’s their point man. He’s the one on the scene,”

said Secretary Hartman. “And he has an itchy trigger finger.”

“No more than any of us do,” said Chastain. “They have to have the right to defend themselves.”

“They can defend themselves only if attacked in Romanian territory,” said the President. “They cannot fire or attack over the border. They can’t even fly over it.

Understood?”

Chastain hesitated. “I can see circumstances where that might put them in grave danger.”

“Which would you rather have?” asked Hartman. “A dead Megafortress crew, or world war?”

“It wouldn’t come to that,” said Chastain.

“No,” Hartman agreed, “but Russia could go ahead and bomb the pipeline directly. Then we’ll have a worldwide depression and the end of NATO.”

“I hope that’s not our choice,” said the President.

REVOLUTION

233

Bacau, Romania

2320

WITH THE DETAILS WORKED OUT, STONER STAYED NORTH, waiting for word from Washington on whether his plan would be approved.

A small part of him—an insignificant, tiny slice—hoped it wouldn’t be, at least not immediately. He wanted a few more days with Sorina Viorica.

He wanted more than that.

As soon as Fairchild relayed the OK—and the conditions—

Stoner shut that part of himself away and called General Locusta at his corps headquarters. Locusta’s aide was reluctant to even bother getting the general—until Stoner said he had definitive information on the location of the guerrilla camps in Moldova.

“Where are they?” Locusta snapped when he came on the line.

“I’ll be at your headquarters in an hour. We’ll talk,” said Stoner. He killed the transmission, giving Locusta no time to respond.

Stoner had read everything the Agency had on General Locusta, but like most CIA briefs on military officers in Eastern Europe, it offered little beyond his résumé, lacking insight into the man. Locusta was an infantryman by training; among his military honors was a marksmanship badge, earned as a lieutenant. He was well-regarded as a general officer, though considered abrasive by the defense minister and the president.

Locusta seemed to have been marked for greater things from the time he joined the army as a twenty-one-year-old lieutenant, fresh out of university. He’d received training in Russia as a young man and had been posted there for about a year in the early 1980s. He’d also toured Great Brit-ain, Spain, and Italy as part of Romania’s initiative to join NATO.

234

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

His family had connections to Ceausescu, the former dictator. That had hurt them in the years following Ceausescu’s fall, but not so severely that the family wasn’t well off now. Locusta himself had some property, though not great wealth.

Nothing in the report told Stoner what he wanted to know: the odds that Locusta would put a knife in his back just for the fun of it.

They were about fifty-fifty, Stoner guessed, after he finished telling the general about the guerrilla camps in Moldova. Average.

Locusta sat silently for nearly a minute after Stoner finished. Most of his aides had left for home hours ago; it was so quiet in the corps HQ that Stoner could hear the clock ticking on Locusta’s desk.

“How did you find this information out?” said the general finally.

“I can’t get into the exact methods we use,” replied Stoner.

He pulled over one of the seats—a metal folding chair—and sat down.

“Then how can I judge how accurate the information is?”

Stoner shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to find out together.”

“Together?”

“I want to go on the raid.”

“Why?”

“I think the Russians are helping the guerrillas. I think they may have been responsible for killing some of our people, and this will help me find out.”

Another man might have asked if Stoner didn’t trust him, but the general accepted the explanation without comment.

That told Stoner that the general understood the value of seeing things for yourself, that he was a man who liked to act, rather than have others act for him.

Interesting pieces of information, though not immediately helpful.

“So you have a spy?” asked Locusta.

REVOLUTION

235

“I can’t get into specifics.”

“Where are the camps?”

“I don’t have that information yet. There are two, and they’re within fifty miles of the border.”

“Practically half of the country is within fifty miles of the border.”

The two men locked gazes. Stoner held it for half a second, then blinked and looked down, wanting the general to feel that he was his superior. He glanced back, then away, under-lining his submission.

“I cannot commit troops to move across the border on vague hints,” said the general.

“I’ll have the information when the operation starts, not before.”

“Nonsense.”

Stoner smiled in spite of himself. Locusta was right; Stoner could get the information from Sorina as soon as she was safely out of the country. But Stoner wanted to verify that it was correct before letting her go, and she wouldn’t agree to any delay.

Not that he didn’t trust her.

“This is of no use to me,” said Locusta. “Get out of my office.”

Stoner rose silently and walked out, turning down the hall.

He went out to his motorcycle. He had his helmet on when one of the general’s aides ran from the building, flagging his arms.

“Perhaps the general was, acted, hastily,” said the man, a major. “Not hastily but in anger. The criminals have caused us, have killed many people. Sometimes it is difficult to act rationally when dealing with them.”

“Sure.”

“Your information comes from a criminal?”

“I believe my information is good information,” said Stoner. “But the only way to actually find out is to test it.”

“You cannot use your planes to verify it?”

236

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“The planes are not allowed over the border.”

“Satellites?”

“If we knew where it was, we could get pictures,” said Stoner. “But we’ve looked at sat photos before without finding anything. I imagine that’s happened to you.”

“If an attack were to be launched, would the aircraft assist then?”

Stoner shook his head. “The Dreamland aircraft cannot violate Moldovan airspace.”

“Give me a phone number.” the man said, “and I will call you in a few hours.”

Bacau, Romania

2234

GENERAL LOCUSTA WATCHED FROM HIS WINDOW AS THE

American started his motorbike and drove away.

Locusta had no doubt the American’s information would prove to be correct. Two of his soldiers had smuggled an American spy over the border a few days ago; this was obviously the fruits of his labor.

And their blood.

Fifty miles from the border. Much farther than the information their own spies had obtained, and at least a partial answer to the question of why his men had failed to find out themselves.

Though another part of the answer was that the rebels had been useful to Locusta, an excuse to build up his force. Now he no longer needed them.

Or the Russians.

Or the Americans, for that matter.

This was his opportunity: the perfect diversion. It supplied a ready-made excuse for mobilizing his units and commandeering the few helicopters available outside the capital.

And he couldn’t wait much longer.

REVOLUTION

237

There was a knock at the door. The major he had sent after Stoner, Anton Ozera, appeared in the threshold.

“In,” said Locusta, gesturing.

Ozera closed the door behind him.

“What did he say?” asked Locusta.

“His source is one of the criminals. There will be no help across the border.”

“But the information is good,” said Locusta. “He’s convinced of that or he wouldn’t want to go along.”

“The problem is, the Americans do not know the criminals as we do.”

Locusta smirked. “I think they know them well enough.”

The fact that a turncoat was willing to give the Americans information showed the terrible state the movement was in.

They had failed to win the support of the people, and would now wither and die.

With a little help, of course. And as long as the Russians were removed.

“We could use the attack as a diversion,” said Ozera. “It would explain the mobilization of forces.”

“Always, Ozera, we think alike,” said Locusta.

“Thank you, General.”

“Your men?”

“We could strike in an hour. If the target was the president’s northern home. The capital, as I said—”

Locusta raised his finger, and Ozera stopped talking. They had discussed the difficulties of striking Voda in the capital many times; the assassination itself would be easy, but the contingencies that would necessarily follow would be difficult to manage.

The general picked up his phone. “Connect me to the president’s personal residence. It is a matter of great urgency.”

He leaned back in his seat, waiting. He knew Voda’s personal habits from experience; the president would be up even though the hour was late.

238

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Sure enough, Voda came on the line within a few minutes.

“Mr. President, I have very important news,” said Locusta.

He explained what Stoner had told him. As always, the president listened without comment or interruption. Only when Locusta fell silent did he speak.

“If there is a definitive location, I will review the plans and make my decision,” he said.

“I will bring the plans personally to you,” said Locusta.

“Only … ”

“Finish your sentence.”

“I have two thoughts. One is that I would like the assault to proceed rapidly, so that word of this turncoat does not leak out.

And two, if I were to come to the capital, it is possible spies would alert the guerrillas. The Russians have been very busy.”

“Yes.” Voda paused a moment, thinking. “You suggest I come to your headquarters?”

“That too might generate some unwanted rumors.” Locusta pretended to be thinking. “If you were at your estate in the mountains … ”

“It’s hardly an estate, Tomma. Merely an old farm.”

And one that you love to visit, Locusta thought. He had met the president there many times, and had his own unit of troops nearby to provide additional protection.

“When would we meet?”

“If you were there tomorrow afternoon?”

“My aide will call you with the arrangements in the morning,” said Voda.

Locusta gave Major Ozera a broad smile as he hung up, then rose and went to the door. In the hallway, he bellowed for his chief of staff.

“I want plans for an assault inside Moldova,” he told him when he appeared. “Two sites to be hit as hard as we can.”

“Where, General?”

“We won’t know the precise locations until a few minutes before the assaults themselves. Plan for a large action against several buildings. Expect several hundred guerrillas.”

REVOLUTION

239

“But the president—”

“I’ll deal with the president. You prepare the plans. We will make the attack tomorrow night.”

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northern Romania

2330

THE MEGAFORTRESS HIT A STACK OF TURBULENT AIR, shuddering as she turned through the darkening sky over northern Romania. Dog tightened his grip on the stick, easing her through the rough patch of sky.

“Russians are back, Colonel,” said Rager, watching the airborne radar behind him on the Bennett’s flight deck. “Right on schedule.”

“Has to be the most boring assignment in the world, shadowing us,” said Sullivan. “Watching as we go around and around and around.”

“Nah. They should try working the ground radar here,”

said Spiff, referring of course to his own job.

“I thought I heard snoring back there,” said Sullivan.

“I have to get my z’s in while Colonel Bastian’s flying,”

replied the radar operator. “Life’s too exciting when you’re at the stick.”

“Ha-ha-ha.”

DOWNSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHTHAWK DECK, ZEN PUT HAWK

One into a bank south, waiting as the Megafortress got into position to launch Hawk Two. Tonight they were scheduled to work with two platoons, one near where the guerrillas had attacked the other night, the other over the gas pipeline.

The two areas overlapped, and the Megafortress’s patrol circuits had been plotted so the mother ship would be roughly equidistant to the two smaller planes throughout the night.

240

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The computer would help fly the planes, of course, and the Flighthawks could operate on their own if necessary. But as an old school combat pilot, one who had come to the program from fighter jets, Zen mentally projected himself into each cockpit. It was a bit of a challenge to cover such a disparate area—a good challenge.

The first platoon was scheduled to call in at 2400—midnight in civilian time. The second would make contact a half hour later. In the meantime, Zen put the robot planes through their paces, surveying the ground with their onboard infrared cameras. The farm fields, fallow because of the winter, looked like calm patches of the ocean, their furrows of light waves barely breaking the surface. Houses glowed in the darkness, their chimneys bright with heat.

“Bennett to Flighthawk leader. What’s your status?”

“Both aircraft are completing their orienting runs, Colonel,” said Zen. “I have nothing but green on my boards. Systems are looking good.”

“Bennett,” acknowledged Dog.

Zen hit the preset button on his joystick control, and the visual in front of him changed from Hawk One’s forward camera to Hawk Two’s. He thought of it as “jumping” from one plane to another.

Hawk Two’s views had more mountainous terrain, but the overall impression—of a quiet, peaceful night—was the same. For the sake of the Romanians below, Zen hoped it stayed that way.

UP ON THE FLIGHT DECK, COLONEL BASTIAN LET SULLIVAN

continue to fly the aircraft while he reviewed the mission’s flight plan. There were a few sharp cuts involved to stay close to the Flighthawks as they patrolled, but otherwise the route looked like an elongated racetrack that had been squeezed in the middle.

If things got hot tonight, Dog would be able to scramble REVOLUTION

241

Lieutenant Englehardt and the Johnson to help out. The plane had arrived a few hours before, and while the crew could use some rest, it was already prepped for an emergency takeoff.

Dog still wasn’t sure what additional aircraft, if any, would join them. It was a decision he was frankly glad he didn’t have to make himself. Many people thought a force as large and powerful as the U.S. Air Force had nearly un-limited resources, but the truth was that there was always a heavy demand, not just on the planes, but on the men and women who flew them. Dog couldn’t fault Samson for taking his time sending more planes—because of the recent action in India and the demands of the test programs, there were in fact only four other EB-52s currently in full flight condition at Dreamland, and none were radar ships. Dreamland’s planes were supposed to be on call to air defense units in the U.S.; the bottom line was that there weren’t enough ships to go around.

If Samson actually got the money he’d been promised, there would be more, but Dog knew that would inevitably mean more missions to fulfill—and the resources would once more be stretched.

“One of those MiGs just changed direction, Colonel,” said Rager. “Contact one on your screen. Coming toward us.”

Dog saw it on the radar display. The MiG’s wingman was turning as well.

“They’re lighting afterburners.”

“Probably blowing the carbon out of their arses,” said Sullivan. “The Russians are particularly constipated this time of year.”

The planes were roughly 250 miles away, traveling at about 500 knots or nautical miles per hour. Lighting their afterburners—essentially dumping a lot of fuel into the rear of the engines to make the planes go fast—would quickly increase their speed up over the sound barrier. Still, they were 242

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

a good distance away; it would take at least ten minutes and probably a little more before they were close enough to pose a threat to the Megafortress.

Assuming they were interested in doing that.

“Flighthawk leader, our friends are at it again,” Dog told Zen.

“Yeah, Colonel, I’m looking at the radar. What are they doing?”

“Probably testing to see how we’ll respond,” said Dog. “Plot an intercept for Hawk One near the border just in case.”

“Done, Colonel.”

Dog checked the radar image. The radar in the Russian fighters—or whatever was guiding them—wouldn’t be able to see the Flighthawk at this range.

Three minutes later the MiGs were still running hot in their direction. Their speed was up over 1,100 knots. They’d switched their afterburners off—if they left them on too long they’d quickly be out of fuel—but kept their course steady.

“Contacts one and two looking at the border in a little over five minutes,” said Rager.

“Let’s show them we know they’re on their way,” said Dog.

“Sully, open the bomb bay doors.”

“On it, Colonel.”

The plane shook with the vibration of the bomb bay doors swinging open. The Megafortress had six AMRAAM-plus Scorpion missiles loaded for air defense, along with two smart bombs. Dog wasn’t aligned perfectly to fire them—his track was roughly perpendicular to the MiGs—but he could easily bring them to bear if the situation warranted.

By now Romania’s ground radars along the seacoast had spotted the MiGs, and the antiaircraft missile batteries along the eastern border of the country were being alerted. The defenses dated from the mid-sixties, however, and would be of little concern to the MiGs if they crossed.

REVOLUTION

243

“Two minutes to the border, Colonel,” said Rager.

“They’re– Shit! Weapons radars activated.”

“Relax,” said Dog. “ECMs, Sully.”

The copilot activated the Megafortress’s electronic counter measures, jamming the frequencies used by the MiG’s radar missiles to home in on their target.

“Colonel, I can set up a better intercept over the border,”

said Zen.

Dog’s orders specifically forbade him to send any of his aircraft over the line, and in fact directed him to “actively avoid contact”—which could be interpreted to mean that he should run away if the MiGs got any more aggressive.

He understood why, of course—the U.S. wanted to avoid giving the Russians even the slightest pretense for coming to the aid of the rebels. But he still bristled.

“Stay on our side of the line,” said Dog.

“Roger that.”

“Colonel, I have a fire indication! Missile in the air!

AMRAAMski! Two of them.”

“What the hell?” shouted Sullivan.

Dog dipped his wing, turning so he could “beam” the enemy radar and make it harder for the missiles to track him. The planes were a little more than thirty miles from the border, and the Megafortress was another forty from that.

They were just at the missile’s effective range, maybe even a little beyond it.

“Missile one is coming for us,” said Rager.

“Colonel, you want to take them?” said Zen.

“Negative,” said Dog tersely. “Button us up, Sullivan.”

“Yes, sir.”

The closed doors made it easier for the Megafortress to maneuver.

“Zen, put Hawk Two between us. Look for the missile.”

“Roger that, Colonel.”

Dog turned the Megafortress again, pushing hard to get 244

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

away. What the hell were the Russians doing? Trying to start World War III?

“Missile one—off scope,” said Sullivan. “Missile two—gone.”

“They self-destructed, Colonel,” added Rager. “MiGs have turned.” He gave a bearing and range—they were under fifty miles away.

“Stand down,” said Dog. “Excitement is over, gentlemen.

Let’s get back to work.”

“What was it all about, Colonel?” asked Sullivan after they had returned to their patrol route.

“They’re trying to rattle us. It’s an old Cold War game.

First one to blink loses.”

“Did we blink or did they?”

Dog frowned.

“Let’s get back to work,” was all he said.

Dreamland

1204

ONCE A PILOT LEARNED THE BASICS OF FLYING, HE OR SHE

could in theory fly anything. It was a little like learning how to ride a bicycle or drive a car—once the basic physical and intellectual skills were mastered, going from one cockpit to another wasn’t all that difficult.

Of course, when you were a pilot who operated at the very top of the profession, who flew planes at the cutting edge in extreme situations, you did more things with your aircraft than the weekend flier puttering from small town to small town in his Piper. And when you were among the most elite members of the subspecies, your expectations of yourself as well as the plane were extremely high. They didn’t change just because you were in an unfamiliar cockpit. Yes, you could strap just about any plane onto your back and take a nice, nonchalant orientation flight, not push the bird or your-

REVOLUTION

245

self very hard without a very steep learning curve. But that wasn’t the way a top test pilot operated.

No, an elite pilot pushed a new plane and herself to the max. Which was where the frustration came in.

Breanna tried hard not to curse as Boomer gave her a stall warning coming out of the turn. Supplying more throttle, she powered through the maneuver, holding her position tightly to the ghosted course suggestion on her heads-up display.

“Good. I’m ranging. Locked. Ready to fire,” said Sleek Top.

Sleek Top was sitting in the pilot’s seat. Under normal circumstances, the copilot handled the targeting duties, but both consoles were fully equipped and either pilot could comfortably fly or control the weapons.

“Climbing,” said Breanna, sighing as she turned toward her next mark.

“You’re doing good, Bree.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t think you are?”

“I guess.”

Sleek remained silent as they worked through the rest of the exercise. Breanna didn’t have a lot of time in either “stock”

B-1Bs or the B-1B/L, but the plane was easy to adjust to compared to getting used to sitting in the second officer’s seat.

The world looked very different from the right-hand seat.

But if that’s what it took to get back in the air, that’s what she would do.

They finished off with a mock refuel. Breanna could have had the computer fly the plane through the rendezvous—and on a combat mission, that might have been the preferred option—but it felt like cheating. She held steady, eased up to the boom, and hooked in almost as easily as if she were flying an EB-52.

“You are a hell of a pilot, Breanna,” said Sleek Top as they turned back toward the runway to land. “Hell of a pilot.”

246

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“For a woman?”

“Nah,” he said quickly. “For anyone. You picked up the fine points really fast.”

“I’m still working on it. I know I have a way to go.”

“Listen. About last night—”

“It was a great basketball game.”

“I meant—”

“It was a great basketball game,” she repeated. “Maybe Zen and I can join you at another. He’s an even bigger fan than I am.”

“I’d like that,” said Sleek Top. “Very much.”

Dreamland Command Center, Dreamland

1229

“THEY FIRED ON YOU?” SAID SAMSON. HE COULD FEEL HIS

anger rising as he paced in front of the large screen at the front of the Dreamland Command Center.

“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.”

REVOLUTION

247

“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

JUST 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 248

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

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 Undersecre-tary 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.”

REVOLUTION

249

“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.”

THE NSC MEETING HAD ALREADY BROKEN UP AND JED’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.

250

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“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.