Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Missile two, tracking and true,” said Sullivan. There was a tremor in his voice. “Missile four, tracking and true.”

“Self-destruct missile two,” said Dog as the missile neared the border.

“Colonel?”

Dog ignored him, reaching for the panel and killing both missiles himself.

“Missile launch,” said Rager, his voice solemn.

A launch warning lit on his dashboard. One of the MiGs had just fired a pair of heat seekers at the helicopter.

Moldova

2256

STONER GRABBED ONTO THE SPAR AS THE HELICOPTER

whirled hard into the turn. The pilot had spotted a small clearing on the hillside ahead. He launched flares in hopes of decoying the Russian missiles, then pushed the nose of the helicopter down, aiming for the hill.

The helicopter blades, buffeted by the force of the turn, 328

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

made a loud whomp-whomp-whomp, as if they were going to tear themselves off.

Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.

“When we get out, run!” Brasov yelled. “Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours’ walk.”

The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.

The helicopter pitched hard to the left.

“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.

“You too,” said Stoner.

“Until we meet.”

Brasov held out his hand.

As Stoner reached for it, he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.

There was a flash above him and a loud clap like thunder.

And then there was nothing, not even pain or regret.

VI

Fear of the Dead

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

28 January 1998

2258

ZEN STARED IN DISBELIEF AS THE HELICOPTER DISAPPEARED

from the screen.

“Helicopter Baker One is off the scope,” said Rager. “It’s been hit.”

“Confirmed,” said Spiff. “Ground radar saw it breaking up.”

Zen tightened his grip on the yoke, trying to concentrate on the MiGs. The two that had fired at the helicopter and shot it down were now flying toward the border. If they didn’t turn in about thirty seconds, they’d cross over.

He pushed Hawk One toward an interception—then got a warning from the computer that the aircraft was nearing the end of its control range.

“Bennett, I need you to come south,” said Zen. Even with recently implemented improvements to the control communications network, the robot had to be within fifty miles of the mother ship.

“Flighthawk leader, we have to stay near the northernmost helicopter group,” said Dog.

“Damn it—the MiGs are here,” said Zen. “Come south.”

Dog answered by turning the aircraft back south, staying near the Flighthawk.

The MiGs started a turn meant to take them back east. But 332

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it was more of a gradual arc than a sharp cut, and it was clear to Zen even before he asked the computer to project their course that they would still cross over the border.

The Russians had fired on the helicopter at relatively low altitude, about 5,000 feet. They’d climbed through 8,000

feet and were still rising. The Flighthawk, by contrast, was at 25,000 feet. The altitude difference represented a serious advantage in speed and flight energy—and Zen intended to use every ounce of that advantage.

He tipped his nose down, studying the sitrep for a second as he lined Hawk One up for a double attack. With Hawk One touching Mach 1, the MiGs climbed up over the border. Zen twisted his wings, then pulled sharply on his stick, picking the nose of the plane up before slapping over and plunging straight downward. The loop slowed the Flighthawk’s forward progress just enough to put it directly above the MiG’s path. The Russian’s nose appeared in the right corner of the view screen, a bright green wedge slicing through the night’s fabric. The targeting piper flashed yellow, indicating that he didn’t have a shot yet, but he fired anyway, trusting that the MiG’s momentum would bring it into the hail of bullets. He slammed his controls, trying to hold the Flighthawk in position to continue firing as the MiG passed, but he had too much speed for that, and had to back off as the small plane threatened to flip backward into a tumble.

Losing track of his target, Zen dropped his right wing and came around, pulling his nose toward the path of the second fighter. The Flighthawk took ten g’s in the turn—more than enough to knock a pilot unconscious had he been in the plane. But aboard the Megafortress, Zen was pulling quiet turns more than forty miles away; he flicked his wrist and put his nose on the rear quarter of the MiG.

This one was a turkey shoot.

The MiG driver had an edge—ironically, his much slower speed would have sent the Flighthawk past him if he’d turned abruptly. But the MiG jock, perhaps because he didn’t know REVOLUTION

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exactly where the Flighthawk was, or maybe because he pan-icked, didn’t turn at all. Instead he tried putting the pedal to the metal and speeding away, lighting his afterburner in a desperate attempt to pick up speed.

That only made it easier for Zen. The red flare of the engine moved into the sweet spot of the targeting queue, and he sent a long stream of bullets directly into the MiG’s tailpipe. The thick slugs tore through the titanium innards, unwinding the turbine spool with a flash of fire. There was no time for the pilot to eject; the plane disintegrated into a black mass of hurtling metal.

The other MiG, meanwhile, had tacked to the north, still in Romanian territory, damaged by Zen’s first pass. Checking the position on the sitrep, Zen brought the Flighthawk back in its direction. He slammed the throttle slide to full military power, plotting an angle that would cut off the MiG’s escape.

The small aircraft’s original advantages in speed and flight energy had now been used. If the dogfight devolved into a straight-out foot race, the Flighthawk would be at a disadvantage because of the MiG’s more powerful engines.

Though the smaller plane could accelerate from a dead stop a bit faster because of its weight, once the MiG’s two Klimov engines spooled up, their combined 36,000 pounds of thrust at military power would simply overwhelm the Flighthawk.

The MiG pilot apparently realized this, because he had the lead out. But Zen knew that he couldn’t stay on his present course, since it was taking him northwest, the exact opposite of where he wanted to go. So he backed off and waited.

He wanted the enemy plane. The desire boiled inside him, pushing everything else away.

It took precisely forty-five seconds for the MiG pilot to decide he was clear and begin his turn to the east. He was ten miles deep in Romanian territory; Hawk One was about six miles south of the point where the computer calculated it would cross.

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Doable, but tight.

Zen leaned on the throttle, pushing Hawk One straight up the border toward the MiG. Then he jumped into the cockpit of Hawk Two, which had been patrolling along the route the helicopters were taking. He slid it farther north, positioning it to catch the MiG if it suddenly doubled back.

Back in Hawk One, Zen saw the approaching Russian plane as a black smudge near the top of the screen. He jabbed his finger against the slide at the back of his stick, trying to will more speed out of the little jet.

He wanted him. Revenge, anger—he felt something desperate rise inside him, something reckless and voracious. He was going to kill this son of a bitch, and nothing was going to stop him.

The targeting piper turned yellow.

UPSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHT DECK, DOG WATCHED THE MIG

and Flighthawks maneuvering on the radar screen. He was stewing, angry at the way Zen had cursed at him, and even angrier that his orders had led to the loss of the Romanian helicopter. Back at Dreamland, he’d wondered what happened to “heroes” at their next battle. Now he knew.

“Colonel, the trucks are nearing the border,” said Spiff.

“There’s a Moldovan patrol about a mile north of them.”

“Make sure our guys know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rager, where are those other two MiGs?” Dog asked the airborne radar specialist.

“Halfway home by now, sir. Probably on their way to get their laundry cleaned.”

“How close to the ground troops is that MiG going to be if he gets over the border?”

“A couple of miles. If the ground troops call for support, he’ll be close enough to give it.”

* * *

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THE MIG KEPT SLIDING TOWARD THE RIGHT OF THE SCREEN, edging closer to Moldovan territory as it approached Hawk One. Zen leaned with it, willing the plane into the triangular piper at the center of his screen.

The gunsight began blinking red. He pushed the trigger, sending a stream of 20mm bullets over the MiG’s left wing.

The MiG immediately nosed down and then cut back hard in the direction he’d come from. Surprised and out of position because he’d been worried about the border, Zen had trouble staying with the Russian.

The MiG turned south, breaking clean from the Flighthawk’s pursuit. Zen knew he’d hit it earlier, but it showed no sign of damage.

I’m nailing that son of a bitch, he thought, throwing the Flighthawk into a hard turn.

The MiG’s tail came up in his screen, too far to shoot—but Zen’s adrenaline and anger took over, and he pressed the trigger anyway. The slugs trailed down harmlessly toward the earth.

The MiG driver once more leaned on his throttle and slowly began pulling away. He was still going south; Zen started to tack in that direction, thinking he might be able to cut him off a second time.

The Flighthawk computer warned him that he was running low on fuel, but Zen didn’t care. He was going to get the son of a bitch.

Then the computer gave him another warning: His path south was taking him out of control range.

“Bennett, this is Flighthawk leader. I need you to come south.”

“What’s your status, Flighthawk?” asked Dog.

“I’m on the MiG’s tail. I almost have him. Come south.”

“Negative. We have the trucks approaching the border. We need you to provide cover.”

“I’m on his tail.”

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“Come back north, Flighthawk. The MiG is no longer a player.”

“What the hell sense is coming north?” asked Zen. “I can’t go across the border if the trucks get in trouble.”

There was a pause. A warning flashed on Zen’s screen: DISCONNECT IN TEN SECONDS, NINE …

“Come north, Hawk leader,” said Dog.

“Colonel—”

“That is a direct order.”

It was all Zen could do to keep from slapping the control stick as he complied.

“TARGET THE MIG,” DOG TOLD SULLIVAN.

“Targeted. Locked.”

Dog looked at the sitrep. He needed Zen to move off before he fired.

The Flighthawk lurched to the right.

“Take him down.”

“Fire Fox One!” said Sullivan. The radar missile dropped off the rail. It accelerated with a burst of speed.

“MiG is turning back east,” said Sullivan. “Missile is tracking.”

Dog brought the ground radar plot on his control board. He had the same situation on the ground as he had in the air—if the Moldovans attacked, he’d be unable to do anything until they came over the line.

“Splash MiG!” shouted Sullivan.

“Close the bay doors,” said Dog.

“Colonel, looks like the Moldovan ground forces are going to miss our guys,” reported Spiff. “The trucks just got on the highway, heading east. Eight, nine troop trucks. Ten, twelve. Whole force looks like they’ve caught the wrong scent.”

Thank God, thought Dog.

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Bacau, Romania

2300

GENERAL LOCUSTA STARED DOWN AT THE MAP BEING USED

to track the raid’s progress. The appearance of the MiGs had dramatically changed the mood in his headquarters conference room.

“I still can’t get them on the radio,” said the communications specialist.

“Prepare a rescue mission. Ground and air.”

“Standing by, General. The helicopters should be refueled within ten minutes.”

Damn the Russians. They would claim that they were merely honoring their treaty with Moldova, but Locusta knew this was actually aimed at him—a pointed reminder that he could not count on the Americans in the future.

As for the Americans …

“The Dreamland people. What are they doing?”

“Continuing to engage the aircraft at last report.”

“Have them pinpoint the route of the helicopter toward the border.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Losing one helicopter does not mean the mission was a failure, General,” whispered one of his aides as Locusta stalked across the room for coffee.

“Yes,” he muttered. His thoughts were split between the operation, the men he’d lost—and the president.

The call should have come an hour ago.

“General, we have an urgent call for you from Third Battalion.”

About time, thought Locusta, though as he turned he made his face a blank.

“The unit near the president’s house—they’re responding to an attack by the guerrillas.”

“What?”

“Here, sir.”

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Coffee spilled from Locusta’s cup as he practically threw it back down on the table and strode to the phone.

“Locusta.”

“There has been an attack,” said one of the captains at the headquarters of the unit assigned to help guard the president.

“Guerrillas.”

“When? What’s going on?”

Locusta listened impatiently as the man related what he knew. The alarm had come in only a few minutes before.

Guerrillas had struck at the battalion’s radio and the local phone lines around the same time, making it difficult to communicate with the base.

“When did this occur?” demanded Locusta.

The man did not know. The attack had apparently begun sometime before.

“Where is the President?”

“Our troops are only just arriving,” said the captain. “We have not yet made contact with his security team.”

“Didn’t they send the alert?”

“No.”

They hadn’t been able to—as part of his plan, Anton Ozera had directed his team to activate a cell phone disrupter just before the attack. Like everything else that would indicate the assault was more than the work of unsophisticated guerillas, it would have been removed by now.

“Keep me informed,” said Locusta.

He handed the aide back the phone.

“We have another developing situation,” he announced.

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

2315

VODA WATCHED FROM THE SMALL, GLASSLESS WINDOW OF

the cave as two more members of his presidential security REVOLUTION

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team were carried out to the space in front of the barn. They were clearly already dead; their bodies bounced limply when they were dropped.

The men carrying them were soldiers—or at least were dressed in Romanian army uniforms. The fighting seemed to have died down; Voda couldn’t hear any more gunfire.

Julian was trembling, either with the cold or fear, or maybe both. Voda pulled him close.

“We’re going to be OK,” he whispered. “It’s going to take us a little while, but we’ll be OK.”

“What are they doing?” Julian asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Lights arced through the window. Voda froze, then realized they had come from the headlamps of trucks driving up past the garage. He rose and looked out the corner of the window. Two trucks had just arrived. Soldiers ran from the back, shouting as they disappeared.

“What’s going on?” Mircea asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Is the army here?”

“Yes, but there’s something odd about it.”

“What kind of odd?”

Voda couldn’t bring himself to use the word “coup.” He watched as two soldiers came into view, walking from the direction of the house. He moved his head to the very side of the window as they took up their posts guarding the bodies yet not hardly looking at them, save for a few glances—guilty glances, Voda thought, though they faced the street, their backs to him.

It was possible that the soldiers had arrived toward the very end of the firefight, with all of his defenders dead, and were unable to tell who was who. Still, the way that the bodies had been handled alarmed Voda. His guards all had IDs, and were wearing regular clothes besides. It ought to be easy to differentiate between them and the guerrillas.

Was he just being paranoid? The only people in this pile 340

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were security people. Perhaps he was mistaking fear of the dead for disdain.

“If the army is here, shouldn’t we go out?” asked his wife.

“There’s something about it that’s not right, Mircea,” he whispered. “I can’t explain. But I don’t think it’s safe yet.”

“They’ll find the tunnel we came through.”

“I know.”

Voda sat down next to the door, trying to think. Mircea turned on the flashlight. He grabbed it from her and flipped it off.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m looking around. Maybe there’s something here we can use.”

“Don’t use the flashlight. They’ll see outside.”

“I can’t see in the dark.”

“There’s enough light, when you get close.”

This was true, but just barely. Mircea began crawling on her hands and knees, working her way deeper into the cave.

They had been in this cave only once that he could remember, soon after buying the property three years before. There was nothing of use, he thought—no machine guns, no rifles. But at least looking would give his wife something to do rather than stand around and worry that they would be found.

They would be found sooner or later. Most likely very soon—it was only a matter of time before someone figured out that they’d gone into the cistern well.

Could the army have revolted? These men were under Locusta’s control. Would they defy him?

Would he launch the coup?

He was certainly ambitious enough.

If the generals, or a general, revolted, would the men in the ranks follow suit? Would they remember what the country was like under the dictator?

But maybe life for them under the dictator was better. They were privileged then, poor but privileged. Now they were still poor, and without privilege.

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Voda stood back up and looked through the window. The men guarding the bodies were young; they would have been little older than Julian when Ceausescu died, too young to know how things truly were then.

“Two more,” said someone he couldn’t see.

Voda slipped his head closer to the side. Two more bodies, both of his security people, were dumped.

“Have they found the president yet?” asked one of the men who’d been guarding the bodies.

Voda couldn’t hear the answer, but it was some sort of joke—the soldiers all laughed.

He had to find a place to hide his family. Then he could find out what was going on.

One of the men started to turn around. Voda twisted back against the door, getting out of the way. As he did, Oana Mitca’s cell phone pressed against his thigh. He’d completely forgotten it in his scramble to escape.

He took it from his pocket and opened it. The words on the screen said: no service.

Frustrated, he nearly threw it to the ground. But he realized he couldn’t show his despair to his wife or son, and so slipped it back into his pocket instead.

Voda listened carefully, trying to hear the soldiers outside, not daring to look back through the small window. Finally he poked his head up. All of the men had left.

Voda examined the door, using his fingers as well as his eyes. It was made of boards of oak or some other hardwood that ran from top to bottom. It had no doorknob or conventional lock. He had secured it soon after buying the property, screwing a U-hook into the frame and then putting a simple steel clasp on the door. The clasp went over the hook and was held by a padlock. He’d used long screws to make sure it couldn’t be simply pulled aside, and while there was enough play in the clasp for him to feel it move slightly as he put his weight against the door, he doubted he could force it from this side.

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“I found a chisel,” said Mircea, coming toward him in the dark. “Can we use it?”

The chisel was a heavy woodworker’s tool, used seventy or eighty years before to shave notches into wood. It was covered with a layer of rust. The edge was thin but not sharp.

Voda turned it over in his hands, trying to figure out how he might be able to make use it.

The boards were held together by two perpendicular pieces at the top and bottom. Perhaps he could use the chisel as a crowbar, dismantling it.

He slid the tool up, not really thinking the idea had any real hope of succeeding, yet unable to think of an alternative.

“Can you use it?” asked Mircea.

“Maybe.”

As he began working the chisel into the board, he saw that the door was held in place by a long, triangular-shaped hinge that was screwed into the cross piece. There was one on top and on bottom and they were old, rusted even worse than the chisel.

The chisel tip didn’t quite fit as a screwdriver; the screws were inset into the holes in the metal, making them hard to reach with its wide head. Frustrated, Voda pushed the chisel against the metal arm and wood, working the tip back and forth as he tried to get between the door and the hinge arm.

He managed to get the tip in about a quarter of an inch, then levered it toward him. The hinge moved perhaps a quarter inch from the wood.

It was a start. He knelt down and began working in earnest on the bottom hinge, deciding to leave the top for last. One of the screws popped out as soon as he pulled against it. The other two, however, remained stuck. He pushed the chisel in, tapping with his hand.

Was it making too much noise?

“Mircea,” he whispered to his wife. “Look out and make sure no one is there.”

“What if they see me?”

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“Stay at the corner, at the lower corner. In the shadow.”

She came over. “No one,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

She turned away quickly, covering her mouth. Obviously she had seen the dead bodies lying in the grass.

“Did the soldiers kill them?” she asked.

“No, but they dumped them there.”

Voda continued to work. The door creaked and tilted down as the last screws popped from the door hinge. Voda steadied it, then stood up.

If he popped off the upper hinge, the door would be easy to push aside; it might even fall aside. But of course the chance of being found would increase.

No. Sooner or later someone was coming through the cistern. They might even be working on it now.

“I can open the door,” he told Mircea. “But we must be ready to run.”

“Where will we go?”

Voda realized he had begun to breathe very hard.

“Into the woods. Farther up.”

“They’ll search.”

“They’ll search here in a minute,” he said.

“Someone’s coming,” she hissed, ducking away from the door’s window.

Voda froze, listening. Julian put his arms around his father, hugging him and whimpering. He patted the boy’s back, wanting to tell him that everything would be OK. But that would be a cruel lie, easily exposed—in minutes they could all three be dead, tossed on the pile of bodies like so much dried wood. He didn’t want his last words to his son to be so treacherously false.

“Alin,” said Mircea, tugging him nearer to the window.

“Listen.”

The soldiers outside were saying that the general was on his way and would be angry. One of them asked for a cigarette. A truck started and backed away, its headlights briefly arcing through the hole into the cave.

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One soldier remained, guarding the bodies.

He could shoot him, thought Voda, then pry off the hinge, and make a run for it.

“We could go to the pump house,” whispered Mircea. “It’s a good hiding place.”

The pump house was an old wellhead on the property behind theirs. It was at least two hundred yards into the woods, up fairly steep terrain. It had been abandoned long ago; the house it once served had burned down in the 1970s.

It might not be a bad hiding place, at least temporarily, but reaching it would be difficult. And first they would have to get out of the cave.

A small vehicle drove up and stopped near the other troop truck. He could hear the sound of dogs barking. The guard went in that direction, then returned with two dog handlers and their charges. They walked to the soldier guarding the bodies, then all of them, the guard included, went in the direction of the house.

Quickly, Voda pushed the chisel in against the metal.

“When the door gives way,” he told his wife and son, “run.

I’ll fix it so it looks as if it is OK.”

“Where will we go?” Mircea asked.

“The pump house. We’ll have to move quickly.”

“The dogs—”

“If we can walk along a creek for a while, the dogs will lose us,” he said. “I’ve seen it in movies.”

“So have I,” said Julian brightly.

His son’s remark gave him hope.

The door started to give way at the bottom as he pushed against the hinge. Voda put his leg there, then pried at the top. The screws sprang across the room and the door flopped over, held up only by the locked clasp.

“Come,” he hissed, taking out his revolver. He slipped through the opening, looking, unsure what he would do if someone was actually nearby.

Mircea started out behind him. Voda grabbed her and REVOLUTION

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pulled, then took Julian by the back of his shirt and hauled him out.

“Into the woods,” he told his wife. “I’ll catch up after I fix the door.”

Julian clung to his leg, refusing to go. Voda picked up the door and slid it back against the opening. He couldn’t quite get it perfect; the hinges were gone and the clasp had been partly twisted by the door’s weight. But it would have to do.

He grabbed his son under his arm like a loaf of bread and ran.

He didn’t realize there were a pair of guards at the far end of the driveway near the road until he reached the bushes.

The men were sharing a cigarette and arguing loudly over something less than fifty yards away. One of them must have heard him running because he shone his light back in the direction of the cave and woods.

Crouched behind the brush at the edge of the woods, Voda held his son next to him, trying not to breathe, trying not to do anything that would give them away. The flashlight’s beam swung above the trees, then disappeared.

More trucks were coming.

“OK, up, let’s go,” said Voda, pulling Julian with him up the slope. He walked as quickly as he could; after twenty or thirty yards he began whispering for his wife. “Mircea?

Mircea?”

“Here.”

She was only a few yards away, but he couldn’t see her.

“Go up the hill,” he hissed.

“I hurt my toe.”

“Just go,” he said. “Come on Julian.”

“Alin—”

“Go,” he said.

He took Julian with him, carrying the boy about thirty more yards up the slope, picking his way through the dense trees. Below them more troops had arrived. There were shouted orders.

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It wouldn’t be long before they saw the door at the cave, or followed the cistern and discovered where they had been.

Then they’d use the dogs to track them in the woods.

Voda felt an odd vibration in his pocket, then heard a soft buzzing noise. It was the cell phone, ringing.

He pulled it out quickly, hitting the Talk button to take the call. But it wasn’t a call—the device had come back to life, alerting him to a missed call that had gone to voice mail.

The phone was working now.

He fumbled with it for a moment, then dialed Sergi’s number.

There was no answer.

He hit End Transmit button.

Who else could he call?

The defense minister—but he didn’t know his number.

Those sorts of details were things he left to Sergi and his other aides.

Voda hit the device’s phone book. Most of the people on the list were friends of Oana Mitca, but she also had Sergi’s number, and that of his deputy schedule keeper, Petra Ozera.

He tried Sergi again, hoping he had misdialed, but there was still no answer, not even a forward to voice mail. Then he tried Petra.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Petra, this is Alin.”

“Mr. President! You’re alive!”

“Yes, I’m alive.”

“We’ve just heard from the army there was a guerrilla attack.”

“Yes. There has been. What else did you hear?”

“The soldier said they were dealing with a large-scale attack. I rushed to the office. I’m just opening the door.”

“Who called you?”

“The name was not familiar.”

“From which command?”

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“General Locusta’s. They had just received word from their battalion.”

Voda wondered more than ever which side the army was on.

“I want you to speak to the defense secretary,” said Voda.

“Call Fane Cazacul and tell him I must speak to him immediately. Tell him I will call him. Get a number where he can be reached.”

“Yes, sir.”

If the defense secretary was involved, he’d be able to track down the phone number. But the dogs would be able to find him soon anyway. Voda told Petra to call several of his allies in the parliament and tell them he was alive. He tried to make himself think of a strategy, but his mind wasn’t clear; the thoughts wouldn’t jell.

“The phone is ringing,” said Petra.

“Answer it.”

Voda waited. He heard rustling in the bush to his right—it was Mircea. Julian looked in her direction but didn’t leave his father’s side.

“It’s the American ambassador,” said Petra. “He’s just heard a report that one of helicopters was shot down over the border and—”

“Get me his phone number. I want to talk to him as well,”

said Voda.

White House Situation Room

1320 (Romania 2320)

JED BARCLAY RUBBED HIS KNUCKLE AGAINST HIS FOREHEAD, trying to concentrate as the call from the American ambassador to Romanian came through.

“This is Jed Barclay.”

“Jed, I need to speak to the President immediately. They tell me that Secretary Hartman can’t be disturbed.”

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“The Secretary and the President are on their way back to the White House,” said Jed. “We don’t have new information but we do have an idea of where the helicopter crashed and—”

“This is something different. I’ve just spoken with President Voda.”

“You have?” Jed turned to the monitor on his right.

“Yes. He’s under attack. Possibly by his own army.”

Iasi Airfield, Romania

2320

THE ROMANIANS SCRAMBLED TWO HELICOPTERS IN AN ATtempt to mount a recovery option on the one that had gone down over the border in Moldova, but as soon as the radar aboard the Bennett showed that the Moldovans had trucks at the site, they aborted it. From the Romanian point of view, the loss of the colonel and the soldiers who’d been with him were a regrettable but acceptable trade-off for smashing the rebel strongholds and carrying away important data about the guerrilla operations.