Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Voda saw a patch of moonlight between the trees. It was a small clearing, ten or fifteen yards away.

“There should be a diversion here any second,” Danny said. “We have to add to the confusion.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Voda couldn’t quite understand what he was saying. Danny reached to his vest, then held something out to him. “Two grenades,” he explained. “How far can you throw?”

“Throw?”

“A baseball?”

Voda shook his head. He had no idea what Danny was talking about.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Danny whispered.

“In about thirty seconds there are going to be some flares launched above us. We’re going to throw these grenades as far as we can down the hill. They’re flash-bangs—they make a lot of noise and light, but they won’t hurt anybody. As soon as you throw the first grenade, turn around and run with me to that clearing. When we get there, grab my neck. And hang on. I’ll set down as soon as I can and we’ll get you in the harness. We’ll be OK if you hang on. Just grip me tight. Keep your head down—we’ll definitely be hitting branches. All right? Do you think you can hold on?”

No, Voda thought, he didn’t think he could. His fingers were frozen stumps.

“Yes,” he said weakly.

“Careful, these are primed,” hissed Danny, handing him a grenade. “You let go, they’ll explode in a few seconds.”

Flares sparkled above, a fire show of light.

“Throw!” yelled Danny.

He heaved his grenade, then started to run with the American.

There was more gunfire, explosions.

As they reached the clearing, Danny grabbed Voda with one hand. There was a whooshing sound. Voda threw his arm around the American’s neck. As he did, he realized to his horror that he had only thrown one of the grenades. The other one dropped from his raw, numb fingers.

God!

Voda’s head spun. Dizzy—something smacked hard against him, grabbed and scratched him.

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He was airborne, flying over the trees. The ground lit with a boom and a flash.

VODA’S GRIP WAS SO TIGHT, DANNY STARTED TO CHOKE. HE

had intended to put down on the road, but tracers showered all around him, and he knew the best thing was simply to fly.

He pushed forward, zipping over the road toward the next hill.

Their feet smacked into the top of the tree branches as he steered the MESSKIT. He kept his head straight, trying to keep his frigid hands steady on the controls.

As they came up over the crest of the hill, he saw the Osprey off in the distance, already in the air. Fire leaped from it—it was shooting at one of the antiaircraft guns.

“Whiplash Osprey, what’s going on?” he said, but there was no answer.

He backed off his power. The fuel in MESSKIT was limited; he had very little room to improvise.

The Osprey stopped firing and spun to his left, heading away from him. Danny saw trucks moving on the road below.

He veered to the right, back toward the original landing zone.

A tone sounded. He had only a minute of fuel left.

What was the Osprey doing?

Voda groaned.

“We’re gonna land!” Danny shouted to him.

They glided downward, skimming over a rooftop and dipping into a farm field fifty yards from the one where Zen had landed. Danny tried to walk as he came in, but Voda was facing backward and they ended up tumbling awkwardly.

Even after the fall, Voda held his grip; Danny had to pry him off and shout at him to get free.

“Whiplash Osprey! Whiplash Osprey!” he yelled into the helmet’s microphone as he grabbed his submachine gun.

“We’re ready for pickup!”

Again there was no response. Finally, Danny realized what 448

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

had happened. While he was taking off he’d inadvertently pulled the wire connecting the helmet to the radio from its plug.

He punched it in.

“Osprey, I’m down!”

“Roger, Captain. We see you and are en route. Stand by.”

Danny looked toward the house, about 150 feet away.

Someone was watching from a lit window at the top.

He heard gunfire, but it wasn’t aimed at them or nearby, and he couldn’t see who was shooting.

The Osprey whipped toward them, a hawk swooping in for its prey. As it dropped into a hover nearby, two trucks stopped near the house. Figures emerged from the back—soldiers.

“Come on. Here’s our taxi,” Danny said, turning to Voda.

The president was crouched over on one side, a pool of vomit on the ground.

“Come on, come on,” said Danny, pulling him.

The Osprey’s wings were tilted upward. It flew like a helicopter, gliding in between them and the house as Danny and Voda ran out of the way to give it more space. The aircraft spun, keeping the gun under its chin pointed at the troops that had come out of the truck, but they didn’t fire.

“In, let’s go, let’s go!” yelled Danny, pulling Voda with him.

Sergeant Liu sprang from the ramp at the rear. He grabbed Voda from the other side and together he and Danny held the president suspended between them. When they reached the ramp, they threw themselves head first into the aircraft as it began to move.

Boston was standing in front of the side door, manning a

.50 caliber machine gun. He sighted at the men below but didn’t fire; neither did they.

“Button up! Button up!” yelled the crew chief. “We’re outta here.”

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Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0125

BREANNA STUDIED THE TARGETING SCREEN, WATCHING AS THE

MiGs scattered under the pressure of the Bennett’s long-range missile attack. The airborne radar operator in the Johnson was playing traffic cop, divvying up the remaining targets as the Russian aggressors found new courses toward their target.

Bennett and its Flighthawks were to tackle three planes, Bandits Three, Eight, and Nine. That left ten for the B-1s.

“Boomer, you have Bandits Five and Six, ” said the operator.

“Roger that,” Breanna said.

“Boomer, you also have Bandits Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen. Do you copy?”

“You’re adding those,” she said, glancing at the sitrep. “We have Five, we have Six, we have Ten, we have Twelve, Thirteen, we have Fifteen. Boomer copies.”

All of their targets were currently headed south, though they would have to cut back north soon to strike the pipeline.

The closest, Bandit Twelve, was seventy-five seconds from firing range. They were dead-on to its nose.

The trick, though, wasn’t taking out just one plane, or even two. Breanna knew she had to make like a pool player intent on running the table. If she took too long between shots, one or more of the MiGs would be by them and dropping their bombs before they had a chance to shoot them down.

“Earthmover, I need you to come back north,” said Breanna, giving Samson not only a heading but a speed.

“Hmmmph,” said Samson.

“Did you get it?”

“I got it.”

“I need a good, strong, acknowledgment,” she said, moving the cursor toward the shot. “I can’t guess.”

“Affirmative. I have it.”

“It’s just that you mumble sometimes.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I’ll work on it, Captain.”

“Good. Laser cycling,” Breanna added, pressing the button to arm the weapon. “Preparing to fire.”

“Right—acknowledged,” said Samson. “Fire at will.”

“Engaging. Stand by for laser shot.”

“Hrmmph.”

Breanna smiled but said nothing.

A massive bolt of energy flew at the MiG, striking a spot just behind the canopy where a thick set of wires ran back from the cockpit. The burst lasted three and a half seconds; when it was finished, the wires had been severed and the MiG rendered uncontrollable.

“Bandit Ten disabled,” said Breanna. “Targeting Twelve. ”

“Roger that,” said Samson.

“Indicated airspeed dropping—increase speed thirty knots—come on, General, let’s move it!”

“You better hit every goddamn plane, Stockard,” said Samson, goosing the throttle. “I don’t take this abuse from just anyone.”

Aboard EB-52 Bennett,

over northeastern Romania

0130

DOG WATCHED AS HAWK ONE CLOSED ON ITS TARGET. THE

aircraft was still out of control range, but from the looks of the synthesized sitrep view on the radar display, it didn’t need his help. It came toward the MiG at a thirty degree angle, pivoting seconds before the MiG came abreast. The turn—many degrees sharper than would have been possible in a larger, manned aircraft—put the Flighthawk on the Russian’s tail. If the MiG driver knew he was in the computer’s bull’s-eye, there was never a sign of it. The plane simply disappeared, disintegrating under the force of the Flighthawk’s gun.

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Hawk Two had a slightly more difficult time: Its target re-linquished its missiles and tried to maneuver its way free. The Flighthawk hung on, following the MiG through a climbing scissors pattern as the Russian pilot swirled back and forth, attempting to flick off his opponent.

Had the MiG pilot satisfied himself with simply getting away, he probably would have made it; he succeeded in opening a good lead as he reached 35,000 feet. But pilots are an aggressive breed, whether they’re Russian or American, and the MiG driver saw his chance to turn the tables on his nem-esis as he came out of his climb. He pushed back toward the Flighthawk and lit his cannon, dishing 30mm slugs toward the Flighthawk’s fuselage and nearly catching the plane as it turned.

But the U/MF, small and radar resistant, made for a very poor target. It jinked hard left, escaping the MiG’s path. Only two bullets struck its fuselage, and neither was a fatal blow.

The MiG started to throttle away, its pilot figuring that the Flighthawk was committed to its escape turn.

A human pilot would have done that. But not the computer.

It jerked the Flighthawk back, shrugging off close to eleven g’s to put its nose in the direction of the MiG’s canopy. Then it fired a long burst.

That was the end of the Russian plane.

UPSTAIRS, SULLIVAN WAS POSITIONING THE BENNETT TO

take down Bandit Three, which had escaped its earlier AMRAAM-plus.

The MiG had its head down and was running toward northern Romania at well over the speed of sound, not even thinking about defending itself. Sullivan banked as the MiG

approached, jamming his throttles to set up a shot toward the fighter’s tailpipe.

“Fire Fox Two,” he said as the Sidewinder missile clunked off the dispenser. He fired a second heat-seeker, then buttoned up the plane.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Had the Megafortress been an F-15, or if its target had been a less capable aircraft, Sullivan would have nailed it. But even with its uprated engines spooling to the max, the Megafortress simply couldn’t accelerate out of its turn quickly enough to get the proper initial momentum for the missile. The Sidewinders tried valiantly to catch up to their prey but they soon lost its scent and self-destructed.

“Son of a bitch,” said Sullivan, dejected. “He’s by me, Colonel. I’m sorry. Shit.”

DOG HAD SEEN EVERYTHING ON THE SITREP. SULLIVAN HAD

done a hell of a job, but he sounded as if he was ready to bang his head into the bulkhead because the Megafortress couldn’t do the impossible. He was holding the plane—and more important, himself—to an impossible standard.

Same thing I would have done to myself, he thought.

And it would have been just as unfair.

Sullivan had done an incredible job, no matter what scale he was measured against.

It was difficult to be objective when you were used to pushing yourself. High standards were important when so many lives were at stake, but you couldn’t let that blind you to your actual achievements.

And that was true of the medal, he realized. He deserved it, not just because it symbolized the efforts of the people around him, but because he had earned it.

“You did fine, Sully,” Dog told the pilot. “You did fine.

One of the other planes will take him.”

White House Situation Room

1530 (0130 Romania)

“TH– TH– THERE’S NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, MR. PRESIDENT,”

said Jed. “Those are Russian planes, on a deliberate mission REVOLUTION

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to attack the gas pipelines. It—It’s the third wave of attacks against Romania.”

“Enough is enough,” said Martindale. He walked over to the desk manned by the duty officer, but rather than addressing him, picked up the red phone at the side.

It was the so-called hotline to the Kremlin.

“Sir, I have to punch in an authorization code for the call to work,” said the duty officer.

“Do it,” said Martindale. “Either these attacks stop here or I’m going to launch an immediate counterattack on every Russian air base east of the Urals.”

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0145

“LASER CYCLING!” SAID BREANNA.

“Roger!” said Samson.

“Engaging.”

The beam of energy from Boomer’s belly drilled a small hole in the right wing of the MiG; as the metal disintegrated, fumes in the tank ignited and the wing imploded. The rest of the MiG crumpled into very expensive scrap metal.

“Splash Bandit Fifteen, ” said Breanna. “Double trifecta.”

“Perfecta, Captain. Damn good show.”

“You weren’t too bad yourself, Earthmover.” Breanna leaned back from the targeting console. Her neck was so stiff the joints in her vertebrae cracked as she twisted toward the pilot. “That’s got to be some sort of record.”

“The hell with the record,” said Samson. “I’d like to see Congress veto our funding now.”

The situation was looking good. Danny and President Voda had reached the Osprey and would soon be off. The Johnson was swinging south to escort it.

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“Bennett radar is coming on line,” said Breanna. “It will take a second for the computer to coordinate the feeds.”

The images blurred, snapped into focus, then blurred and came back.

“Bandit Three is through,” said Breanna, examining the plots. “It’s flying south. Big Bird won’t be able to get it.”

“Stand by, Stockard. We’re going to catch that son of a bitch. And you better acknowledge that with a strong voice.”

“Kick ass, Earthmover,” she said, bracing herself as Samson torched the afterburners.

Presidential villa,

near Stulpicani, Romania

0150

GENERAL LOCUSTA COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING.

“They’re continuing to search,” said the major. “But they think the flying man may have take President Voda away.”

“A flying man?”

The major shook his head.

It was too much for Locusta. “I’m going to corps headquarters, then to Bucharest.”

“But the President—”

“The hell with him. We’re too deep to pull back down,”

said Locusta. “The coup will proceed as planned.”

“General, I don’t think if he is alive we will succeed.”

“Then call me when you’ve killed him,” Locusta said, stalking to his car.

Near Stulpicani, Romania

0150

VODA HUGGED HIS WIFE AND JULIAN. BOTH WERE SOBBING.

Someone had thrown a blanket over him; someone else REVOLUTION

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handed him a plastic packet that produced heat when he grabbed it. The Osprey circled westward, climbing away from the gunfire.

He knew this was far from over. He had to pull himself up, ignore the smell of vomit on his clothes, ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, and regain control of his country. Now that his family was safe, his duty was clearly to Romania.

“I love you, Julian,” he told his son, kissing his head. “And you, Mircea.”

They grabbed him, but he pushed them away, rising to his feet.

“I need a phone,” he told the Americans. “I need some way of communicating with my people.”

ZEN SAT ON THE FABRIC BENCH ACROSS FROM THE ROMA-nian president, nursing a cup of coffee as Voda got to his feet.

In barely the blink of an eye Voda seemed to have changed.

He no longer had the look of a hunted animal. There was something deeper in his eye, something determined.

“You can talk to anyone you want,” said Danny Freah, handing the president a headset. He showed him how it worked. “You’re on a special line. Mack Smith will make the connections back at Dreamland.”

“Good,” said Voda. “We begin by calling the television stations, to let them know I am alive.”

Voda looked out the window. He could tell from the moon and the highway they passed that they were heading south.

He turned to Danny.

“Is it possible to go over the troops that have surrounded my house?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can you get a loudspeaker?”

“The Osprey is equipped with one but—”

“They have to be told that I’m alive. I want to see what their reaction is. Are they for me? Or against me? Are they for a free Romania, or a captive one?”

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“No way, sir. I just can’t go along with it. They have antiair guns in some spots on the road. Even for us—”

“I believe the soldiers will drop their arms when they hear me. And if not,” added Voda, “then I need to know what I’m up against.”

“Yeah, but we’re not committing suicide.”

“If you’re just looking to test the reactions,” said Zen,

“maybe we can overfly some troop trucks farther along in the valley.”

“Troops on the outskirts of the action will be acceptable,”

said Voda.

Danny shook his head. “No way.”

“Are you here to help me?” Voda asked sharply. “Or am I your prisoner?”

“You’re not my prisoner,” said Danny. “But I’m not going to let you do anything dumb.”

“Who are you to judge me? You’re a captain. I am a president.”

“There’s plenty of troops stopped along the highway, Danny,” said Zen. “We can just pick some away from the antiair guns. It won’t be too much of a risk.”

“I’ll give the order to the pilot myself,” said Voda, starting forward shakily.

“Zen, this is nuts,” said Danny, leaning down toward him.

“Hey, if the army’s not going to back him, he’s screwed anyway. He might as well find out now.”

“He’s already screwed. They were trying to kill him on the hill. This is going to get us shot down.”

“Not if we pick the right place.”

“No way.” Danny straightened.

“I can pull rank,” said Zen.

“I’m calling Samson.”

“That’s an option.”

Danny pulled on his headset. Zen reached for his.

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Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L Boomer,

over northeastern Romania

0155

TERRILL “EARTHMOVER” SAMSON HAD FLOWN B-1BS FOR

a long time, but he’d never flown one like he flew Boomer. He’d never flown any plane like he flew Boomer— throttle mashed against the last stop on the assembly, wings pinned back so far against the fuselage the plane’s sides were groaning.

The speedo bolted past Mach 2, but Samson wanted more.

He needed more—the MiG was still three miles out of range.

But it was slowing—popping up.

To make its bombing run.

“You ready over there, Stockard?” he barked.

“I need two and half more miles,” she answered. “And, General, we’re too low. We have to be above him.”

“The hell with that, Stockard. You’re firing upside down.

Ready, Stockard?”

“I’m ready.”

Samson held the control stick tightly. Not only did he have to time the invert just right, he had to be careful coming out of it—he was down below 10,000 feet, and using altitude to kick up his momentum.

Eight thousand, going through 7,500, going through 7,000, going—

“In range!” shouted Breanna.

Samson flipped the aircraft onto its back, turning the laser director toward the MiG. The energy beam shot out, striking one of the missiles under the plane’s right wing.

Two seconds later the missile’s fuel ignited. Shrapnel pep-pered the MiG’s belly. A piece of hot flying metal ignited the warhead on the missile sitting on the opposite hardpoint.

Flames consumed the MiG so quickly, the pilot couldn’t hit the silk.

Samson didn’t see any of it. He was too busy righting the B-1 and pulling out of its death dive toward the earth.

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“Where do I need to be?” he shouted.

“Anywhere you want, Earthmover. Scratch Bandit Three. ”

Samson grinned.

“Incoming message from Whiplash Osprey,” added Breanna. “Major Stockard and Captain Freah.”

Samson hit the preset. There was no visual; Danny and Zen were on the line from the Osprey. Zen explained President Voda’s request.

“Captain Freah believes it might be an unnecessary risk,”

added Zen. “Right, Captain?”

“I think it’s unwise, yes,” said Danny.

“You know what, Captain? Just this once I’m going to disagree with you. I’m glad to see that these people have a president with some balls. Let him do what he wants, the way Zen just laid it out. Don’t let him get killed.”

“Um—”

“You have a problem, Captain?”

“Those two orders are in conflict. Sir. I mean—”

“Let the Romanian president do what he wants,” said Samson. “Those are my orders. Boomer out.”

“All MiGs are down, General,” said Breanna. “All our aircraft are good. No casualties. Doesn’t look like the Russians got a shot off.”

Samson grinned. If some of the Dreamland people were a little full of themselves—well, if all of them were a lot full of themselves—now he saw why.

“You did a damn good job there, Captain,” he told Breanna. “You kicked ass.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”

“You got that right,” said Samson.

Breanna started to laugh.

“What’s that?” he asked. Then he started to laugh as well.

So maybe he was a little full of himself too.

So what?

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Aboard Dreamland Osprey

over Romania

0205

DANNY PULLED OFF THE HEADSET.

“He’s only been here a few weeks,” he said to Zen. “And already he’s starting to sound like Colonel Bastian. Screw the risks. Get the job done.”

“Dog has that effect on people,” said Zen.

Reluctantly, Danny went forward and told the pilots what they had to do. The Osprey circled back north, skimming lower. As they came to the main highway leading to the road where Voda’s house was, they spotted a pair of small jeeps guarding the intersection. It was about as safe a place as they were going to find.

“It’s all yours,” Danny told Voda, handing over the headset. “It’s set to loudspeaker.”

“They’ll hear me over the rotors?”

“Yes. We’ve used it for rescues and crowd control. It’s very loud. Wait until the flares get their attention. At the first sign of trouble, we’re out of here. So hold on.”

VODA TOOK THE MICROPHONE AS THE OSPREY SPED

toward the post.

Maybe Captain Danny Freah was right; maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he should just go on to Bucharest, make his speeches to the TV. It would be the prudent thing to do.

But what good would the speeches be if the people weren’t behind him? And if he couldn’t persuade two dozen soldiers to help him keep Romania free—well then, he had failed as president, hadn’t he?

An illumination flare turned the night white. Two or three of the men pointed their weapons at the black aircraft as it hovered close, but no one fired.

“Open the door,” he told the sergeant standing near it.

“Shit,” said Danny.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

But he nodded, and the door was opened. Voda looked down at the men.

“I need to be lower.”

The captain shook his head.

“Lower!” yelled Voda.

The microphone caught his voice, and it echoed through the cabin. The Osprey settled a little closer to the ground, close enough, at least, for Voda to see that the soldiers were kids: eighteen, nineteen. To them, the dictator was just some story their parents told when they were bored.

They didn’t know what it was like to be the slaves of a dictator.

Or free men, for that matter.

“Gentlemen of the army,” began Voda, his voice shaky.

“This is President Voda. I wish to thank you for your role in helping save me today. Our democracy has passed a great test, thanks to your help. Romania remains free! Romania for the people! ”

The soldiers didn’t react. Voda felt a moment of doubt.

Then he leaned out the door.

“Thank you, Romania!” he yelled into his microphone.

“We remain a free people, with a great future!”

The soldiers began to cheer. Voda waved so hard one of the Americans had to grab him to keep him from falling out.

“To Bucharest,” he told Danny Freah.

“Damn good idea,” said Danny. He waved toward the front. The door was closed and the Osprey wheeled back into full flight.

“Hey, Mr. President,” said Zen Stockard, sitting across from him. “Whose fancy car is that?”

Voda crossed to the other side of the Osprey and looked out. It was a black Mercedes S series sedan with flags—one Romanian and the other …

The other bore the insignia of the Romanian army.

Locusta’s car.

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“I want that son of a bitch arrested!” he yelled. “Get him, now! Kill him if you have to.”

“Now there’s an order we can all live with,” said Zen.

Southwest of Stulpicani, Romania

0210

LOCUSTA HEARD THE AIRCRAFT BUT WAS CONFUSED. IT

couldn’t be his helicopter—they were still several miles from headquarters.

A black beast swerved in front of the car. His driver hit the breaks.

It was the Dreamland Osprey.

What the hell were they doing?

SAMSON HAD ORDERED HIM TO FOLLOW THE ROMANIAN

president’s orders. Still, Danny Freah didn’t feel entirely comfortable shooting up the car.

“Get him to stop,” he told the pilots. “Fly in front of him, train the guns on him. Then we’ll have him surrender.”

The Osprey pitched around, settling in front of the vehicle.

Voda was on the loudspeaker, talking to Locusta.

“General Locusta,” he said in Romanian, “I order you to place yourself under arrest. You are to come with these soldiers. No harm will come to you, unless you try to escape.”

“Tell him to stop the vehicle,” said Danny.

“General, stop the car,” said Voda.

The Osprey was moving backward, its chin guns pointed at the Mercedes. Instead of slowing, the car picked up speed.

“Can he hear me?” Voda asked.

“Yeah, he can hear you. He’s just being stubborn. I’m going to mash up his front end and take out his engine. The car is armored, but that’s not going to be much of a problem.”

“Do it.”

“Yeah.”

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A second after Danny gave the order, the pilot began firing his chin cannon. The Mercedes veered to the side of the road.

INSIDE THE CAR, GENERAL LOCUSTA THREW HIS ARMS FORward, bracing himself as it skidded off the road.

How could this possibly be happening? How had Voda managed to escape—and not only escape, but come for him?

The Americans. Dreamland. The bastards. He’d kill as many of them as he could before they killed him.

He threw open the door and raised his gun.

DANNY SPRUNG FROM THE SIDE DOOR OF THE OSPREY, Sergeants Liu and Boston right behind him. The rear passenger side door of the car opened and a man leaped to the ground, rolled over, and came up firing a 9mm pistol.

The first two or three bullets flew wildly to the side.

Then one struck Danny in the chest, right above the heart.

His bulletproof vest saved him, deflecting the bullet’s energy.

A second later Danny threw himself in the air. He couldn’t fly without the MESSKIT, but flying wasn’t what he had in mind. He came down on top of Locusta, who dropped the pistol under the force of the blow.

Two punches and it was all over. Locusta, stunned, lay limp on the ground, alive, breathing, but undoubtedly a con-demned man.

His driver came out of the car with his hands high.

“You’re under arrest by the authority of the president of Romania,” said Danny.

“Under the authority of the people of Romania,” said President Voda, picking up Locusta’s gun from the ground.

He hobbled forward, favoring his injured leg. “It’s the people who have sovereignty in a democracy, isn’t it, Captain?”

VIII

For Freedom

Bucharest, Romania

3 February 1998

1730

THE EVENING BEFORE THE DREAMLAND TEAM RETURNED

home from their deployment, the president of Romania hosted a special reception for them. When he first heard of the plan, General Samson began to fret—because of the rush, he hadn’t packed his Class A uniform, bringing only his battle fatigues and flight suits.

In another command the mistake might very well have been fatal. But when you headed Dreamland, people expected you to be a little different. Samson, though perhaps still not entirely comfortable, realized he was beginning to adjust.

President Voda didn’t seem to care how the Dreamland people were dressed. He was back in control of his country, with the northern army corps dispersed and the units under all new command. General Locusta was in prison, as were his co-conspirators.

The guerrillas had stopped their attacks, though no one was sure whether they were simply biding their time or if the movement had collapsed, as Sorina Viorica had predicted.

The Russians, while not acknowledging that they had tried to attack the pipeline, had announced that they were appointing a new ambassador to Romania and overhauling the embassy personnel. More significantly, they had lowered the price of the natural gas they supplied to Europe.

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President Martindale had personally telephoned Samson to tell him about the Russians.

“I’m surprised you went to Romania yourself, General,” he said. “I thought your priority was at Dreamland.”

“My priority is my people, Mr. President. And my mission.”

“I’m glad you did,” said Martindale. “You need a sense of what’s going on. I like that sort of initiative.”

So did Samson. The mission had shown him exactly how much there was to a Dreamland Whiplash deployment, how much it depended on the proper mix of technology and old-fashioned warrior spirit. It had also convinced him that while he still had trouble stomaching Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian at times, the lieutenant colonel deserved every accolade he’d ever received, and then some.

It happened that Samson and Colonel Bastian were seated next to each other at the reception. When the band stoked up following the speeches of gratitude and friendship, President Voda rose to dance with his wife. While he favored his injured knee—the ligaments had been strained but not torn—he still cut an acceptable figure on the floor, moving with a slow, dignified grace.

Dog and Samson found themselves alone at the table.

“So,” said Samson. “Have you given any thought to your next assignment?”

“Not really,” said Dog. “Maybe I’ll retire.”

“Retire? Quit?”

“I don’t know if it’s quitting.”

“You know, Dog—if I can call you that.”

“Sure.”

“You have a hell of a lot of experience. And you’re being promoted to colonel.”

“I can’t be promoted for a few months at least.”

“Way overdue.” Samson waved in the air. “Everyone knows you’re going to be promoted. You’re on the fast track to general. Assuming you don’t quit.”

REVOLUTION

467

“I don’t think retiring is the same as quitting. I don’t have anything left to prove,” said Dog.

He leaned back his seat. Samson followed his gaze. He was looking at his daughter, who was kissing Zen at the next table.

“No, true. You have absolutely nothing to prove,” agreed Samson. “But on the other hand, you have a lot to offer. A lot of commands could use you. Mine, for instance.”