Текст книги "Revolution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

96

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I’m sorry,” Sorina told the soldier near her. “These Americans.”

She turned to Stoner. “Please. Just relax. Please relax.

There’s no sense getting angry. He’s doing his job. Please. He probably has a family.”

“What’s his name? Get his goddamn name. I want to have him on report. I’m going to tell the ambassador this is why I was late. Get his name.”

Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.

“Get his name! ”

“You can go,” said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner’s passport. “I’m sorry for you.”

“Get his name!” demanded Stoner.

Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.

Neither of them spoke for a full minute.

“That checkpoint was not normal,” she said finally. “There was an attack last night, on the pipeline.”

“I see.”

“But there couldn’t have been.”

“Why not?”

“We decided six months ago that we wouldn’t. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians.”

“Right.”

“It’s true,” she said sharply. “And besides, I know.”

“If your friends tried to kill you, what makes you think they’d tell you what they were doing?”

“My friends didn’t try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself—it’s dwindled. Those who remain are misfits.”

“How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?”

asked Stoner.

“Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now—the only ones left are misfits.”

An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.

REVOLUTION

97

College Hospital, Nevada

22 January 1998

1950

“I DON’T KNOW WHY I TOLD THE KID THAT. I DON’T KNOW

why I said anything.”

Breanna watched as Zen wheeled himself backward across the room. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so agitated, so angry with himself.

“God, Bree. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? What if he doesn’t walk?”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that bad, Zen,” she told him.

“I’m sure the doctors will be able to do something.”

Zen shook his head. “I saw the looks on their faces when we brought him into the base. I’ve seen that look. God, I’ve seen that look.”

“Jeff, you can’t get so down on yourself. It’s not up to you whether he walks or not. God, if anyone would understand—”

“He’s not going to understand.”

“I mean, if anyone could understand what he’s going through, it would be you. It is you. Jeff?”

But Zen had already rolled out of her room.

Northeastern Romania

23 January 1998

0900

BY 9:00 A.M., GENERAL LOCUSTA HAD PROVIDED BUCHAREST

with a full report of the bombing of the gas pipeline. Two rebels had been killed, he claimed—not exactly a lie, since he did have two bodies to present, though Locusta knew that the men had been left by the Russian special forces troops that launched the attack.

He downplayed his own losses, though he had already ordered full military honors for both men killed.

98

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

The damage to the pipeline was minimal, Locusta assured Bucharest; it would be repaired within days and there would be minimal disruption of the gas supplies.

Locusta was playing a dangerous game. The attack was part of a payoff for Russian cooperation in the coming coup, cooperation that would include the use of an assassin against the defense minister when the time came. It was also meant to convince the government to send the last units he felt he needed to assure himself victory when he moved against the president.

But it could also backfire and encourage Bucharest to sack him. Even though he’d been warning for weeks that an attack might be imminent, and even though he’d claimed that he didn’t have the necessary troops for the growing threat, there was still a possibility that he could be blamed for failing to stop the attack, and be replaced by someone else.

If that happened, all of his preparations would be lost. At the very best, he’d be back where he was two years before: commander of a single division, not the leader of an army corps three times the size. All of the connections he had carefully cultivated among the old-timers—the hard-liners shut out by the new government—would be lost. Those men valued strength, and the scent of weakness and failure would send them running.

So when the phone didn’t ring at precisely 9:00 a.m.—the time set for Locusta to speak to the president about the incident—the general began to grow nervous. He fidgeted with his feet, a habit he’d had since he was a boy. Pushing them together under the desk, he began jerking his legs up and down, tapping his soles lightly together. At 9:05 he rose from his desk and walked around the office, trying to remain nonchalant and work off his growing anxiety.

By 9:10, he was worried, wondering if he should place the call himself.

He decided not to. President Voda’s office had made the appointment, and made it clear that the president would call REVOLUTION

99

him. To short-circuit the process would be a concession, however subtle, to a man he despised.

The phone finally rang at 9:17. Locusta waited until the third ring before answering.

“General Locusta.”

“Please hold for the president.”

Another three minutes passed before President Voda came on the line.

“Tomma, tell me what is going on,” said Voda abruptly.

“The pipeline is secure—for now. We have shot two guerrillas. With more men, I can prevent future problems.”

“More men—you always ask for more men.”

“Unfortunately, last night proves I am right.”

“I see estimates that the guerrillas are faltering.”

Locusta sighed. He knew that the guerrillas’ movement was in fact growing smaller, partly because of his efforts, but also because the leftists were naturally weaklings. But it did him absolutely no good to admit this.

“Yes, yes, I suppose the events of last night are proof of what the situation is,” said Voda finally. “I will get you your men. But—no operations over the border. Not at this time.”

Though he had made suggestions in the past, Locusta had no plans to launch any operations now. He would, though, soon. When he was in full command.

“Did you hear me, General?”

“If we have a specific target, Mr. President, I think you might reconsider.”

“When you have a target, you will review it with me. I will decide.”

“Yes, Mr. President. But if we have to stay on defense, the additional men will be critical.”

“You’ll have them. You’ll get whatever you need.”

The president continued to speak. He was concerned about the situation. He didn’t want news of it to get out; he didn’t want Romania to appear weak. Locusta agreed—though he knew that the Russians would already be leaking it.

100

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Then the president surprised him.

“I am considering asking the U.S. to assist us,” said Voda.

“The Americans?” said Locusta, caught off guard.

“Politically, it would have been difficult a few weeks ago, but now that they are riding a wave of popularity, it is something that could be managed. You’ve been asking for more aircraft—they can provide some.”

“I don’t need the Americans to chase down these bandits.”

“Our own air force is useless,” said the president coldly.

Locusta couldn’t argue with that. He suspected, however, that Voda wanted the Americans involved as much for political reasons as military ones. Voda’s grand plan called for Romania to join NATO: another foolish move, borne from weakness, not strength.

“Their aircraft will help you track the guerrillas,” said the president. “I will inform you if they agree.”

The line went dead. Locusta stared at the phone for a second, then slammed it down angrily. The president was an ass.

The Americans would complicate everything if they came.

Approaching Dreamland

0550

PRESIDENT MARTINDALE WATCHED OUT THE WINDOW OF

Air Force One as the hulking black jet drew parallel to the wings. It was a sleek jet—a B-1, Martindale thought, though he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t an expert on aircraft recognition. It had the general shape of a fighter but was much too large to be one—nearly as long, in fact, as the EB-52 Megafortress riding beside it.

He recognized the EB-52 very well, of course. No other aircraft had ever been so closely identified with an adminis-

REVOLUTION

101

tration before. It was ironic, Martindale thought; he certainly considered himself a man of peace—not a dove, exactly, but the last politician who would have chosen a weapon of war as his personal token. Yet he’d called out the military more than anyone since Roosevelt.

And much more effectively, he hoped.

Most of his critics didn’t exactly see it that way. He didn’t much mind the congressmen in the other party criticizing him. It was their job, after all. But when people in his own party questioned his motives in stopping the war between China, India, and Pakistan—that flabbergasted him.

And of course, they loved to claim he used Dreamland as his own secret air force and army.

Dreamland’s reorganization under Major General Samson would stop some of those wagging tongues, integrating the command back into the regular military structure. But Martindale didn’t want the baby thrown out with the bathwater, as the old saying went. Dreamland was the future. Samson’s real task, as far as he was concerned, was to make the future happen now.

“Are those planes an escort?” asked the Secretary of State, Jeffrey Hartmann. “Or are they checking us out?”

“Probably a little bit of both,” laughed Martindale, sitting back in his seat.

“If we can get back to the Romanian issue before we land,”

said Secretary of Defense Chastain. “It’s a very serious situation. Europe is depending on natural gas for winter heating.

If that pipeline is destroyed, we’ll have chaos.”

“No, not chaos,” said Hartmann. “The Russians can provide an adequate supply. They have over the past few years.”

“At prices that have been skyrocketing,” said Chastain.

“Prices that will mean a depression, or worse.”

“You’re exaggerating,” said Hartmann.

“The Russians see the pipeline as a threat,” said Chastain.

“They’re dancing in the Kremlin as we speak.”

102

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I don’t see them involved in this,” said the Secretary of State. “They’ll exploit it, yes. That’s the Russian way. Take any advantage you can get. But they’re not going to back guerrillas.”

“Don’t be naive,” said Chastain. “Of course they are.”

“They have enough trouble with the Chechens.”

“I think the situation is critical,” said Philip Freeman, the National Security Advisor. “Gas prices are just one facet.

If the Russians are involved, their real goal may be to split NATO. They certainly want to keep the other Eastern European countries from joining. Look at how they’re setting the prices: NATO members pay more. We’ve seen the pressure with Poland. The Romanian pipeline makes that harder to do.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” said Hartmann. “There’s no evidence that the Russians are involved. I doubt they are.”

There was a knock at the door of the President’s private cabin. Martindale nodded, and the Secret Service man who was standing nearby unlatched it. A steward appeared.

“Mr. President, the pilot advises that he is on final approach.”

“Very good. Buckle up, gentlemen. We’re about to land.”

DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE ACTED AS DREAMLAND’S LIaison, Jed Barclay had been to the base only a handful of times over the past two years. He’d never been there with the President, however, and so was surprised by the pomp and circumstance the secret base managed: Not only had a pair of Megafortresses and EB-52s escorted them in, but a half-dozen black special operations Osprey MV-22s hovered alongside Air Force One as the 747 taxied toward the hangar area. Six GMC Jimmy SUVs raced along on either side of the big jet, flanking it as it approached the small stage set up just beyond the access apron. The entire area was ringed by security vehicles and weapons. Mobile antiaircraft missiles REVOLUTION

103

stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Razor antiaircraft lasers.

There were antipersonnel weapons as well—large panels of nonlethal, hard plastic balls were strategically placed on the outskirts of the audience area, along with an array of video cameras and other sensors. Given how difficult it was to get to Dreamland, the gear was obviously intended to impress the President and his party.

Not that normal security was neglected. As a precaution, the President’s stop at Dreamland was unannounced, and in fact would only be covered by the three pool journalists who were traveling in Air Force One. Their access—and even that of most of the White House staffers and cabinet members—would be limited to the immediate runway area where the ceremony was to take place.

The reporters wore expressions of awe as they walked down the rolling stairway from Air Force One. It was the first time they’d seen most if not all of the aircraft and weaponry in person.

Nearly all of Dreamland had assembled in the hangar area, with video feeding those with essential jobs elsewhere in the complex. The Whiplash security people, dressed in their black battle gear, ringed the crowd, though there was no need for crowd control in the traditional sense: While thrilled by the visit, the Dreamlanders were hardly the types who might start a riot.

Jed slipped down the steps, nodded at one of the men—the sergeant called Boston, whom he’d met before—then moved along the audience tape, catching up to the President and his party, who were met a few yards from the steps by General Samson. The general’s hands moved energetically, visual ex-clamation marks as he told the President how grateful he and his entire command were for the visit. As he spoke, Samson smiled in the direction of the pool reporters, who’d been ushered to the opposite side of the President by the assistant press liaison. Jed couldn’t quite hear what Samson was saying, but 104

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

knew enough from dealing with him that the word the general would be using most often would be “I.”

“Jed!”

Jed heard Breanna above the din of the crowd and the canned Hail to the Chief music being projected from the onstage sound system. It took a few moments to locate her; he was shocked to see her sitting in a wheelchair under a freestanding canopy at the far right of the reception line.

He knew she’d been injured during her ordeal off the Indian coast, but somehow it was impossible to reconcile the image he saw before him. Breanna was athletic and outgoing, a beautiful woman who’d made him jealous of his cousin the first time they met—or would have had he been capable of feeling anything but awe toward his older cousin.

Now she looked gaunt, her face peeling from sunburn, her eyes blackened like a prize fighter’s after a title bout.

“The chair is just temporary,” she said, rising as he drew near. Her smile was the same, though her lips were blistered.

“They’re really babying me. I only strained my knee. It’s embarrassing.”

“Hey, Bree,” he said.

He kissed her on the cheek, folding his arms around her for a hug. Then he pulled back abruptly, remembering that he was out in public.

Breanna sat back down.

“Zen is up on the stage, guiding the Flighthawks for the display,” she said. “My dad is with him. They’re going to let the President take the controls for a spin.”

“He’ll like that.”

Samson had finished his little welcoming speech and was accompanying the President down the line of officers in their direction.

“Look at me, I’m nervous,” said Breanna, holding up her hand to show him it was shaking.

“So who is this lovely lady?” President Martindale asked.

“Jed, are you going to introduce me?”

REVOLUTION

105

“This is, um, see, my sister-in-law, Breanna Stockard,” he said.

“Captain Stockard, one of our best pilots,” said Samson, a half step behind the President.

“An honor to meet you, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.

“Captain, it’s an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you.

You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew—the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It’s beyond words, frankly. I’m the one who’s honored.”

Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician—no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catas-trophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.

“We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

“Some of the best. And you’ll be getting more. Right, General?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course.”

“Now where the hell is Dog?” said the President, turning around and looking. “He’s responsible for all this.”

A look flashed across Samson’s face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot,” said Samson, a little stiffly. “We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks.”

Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK.

Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.

“I’d love it, Terrill. Let’s do it.”

106

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Bucharest, Romania

1550

STONER TOOK SORINA VIORICA BACK TO THE SAFE HOUSE

in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal.

Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.

Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection—it would be too easy to track communications.

“This is my prison?” said Sorina when they reached the back room.

“It’s not a prison.”

“Oh, it’s a resort. My mistake.”

Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he’d been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.

“And what do you expect me to do here?” asked Sorina, still standing.

“Tell me more about the Russians.”

She didn’t respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head—it was a kind of traitor’s regret, trying to pull back from what she’d already decided to do.

He had to reel her in gently.

“We can get something to eat,” he suggested.

“I’m not hungry.”

REVOLUTION

107

“If you dye your hair, you won’t be recognized,” he told her. “You may not be recognized now.”

She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn’t be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She’d insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren’t being followed.

“You want me to go out and get you some food?” he asked.

“For later.”

Sorina shrugged, then added. “So I am a prisoner?”

“No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want.”

She frowned.

“Unless you’d rather go to the embassy.”

“No. I am not going there at all.”

That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.

“And what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’ll get this looked at.” He gestured toward his side. “And I have to talk to some people. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“When?”

“Afternoon, maybe. I don’t know.”

“What if I’m not here?”

“I’ll be disappointed.”

She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn’t been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.

“Well, then I’m leaving,” she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.

He knew she was testing him, but he wasn’t sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair—too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn’t get up, he’d fall asleep.

Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if 108

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.

The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.

If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.

“SO THE RUSSIANS ARE DEFINITELY INVOLVED?”

“She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea.”

“Is she going to give you more information?”

Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn’t sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.

“But the Russians are definitely involved?” repeated Fairchild.

“That’s what she claims.”

“If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that’d be quite a feather in your cap.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn’t need any more feathers in his cap.

“Who are the Russians?”

“From the description, it’s Spetsnaz,” said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federal-naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB.

“She gave me two names on the way down. First names.”

“Useless,” said Fairchild. “And probably false.”

“Yeah.”

“Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it,” added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. “When are you seeing her again?”

“Soon.” Stoner hadn’t told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she’d run away, it’d be obvious soon enough.

REVOLUTION

109

“The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if they put a priority on the mission,” said Fairchild. “If George and Sandra were close to something.”

Stoner didn’t think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world.

But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman’s art, but in Stoner’s experience it was a vicious business.

“I’ll tell the Romanians what happened to their men,” said Fairchild, rising. “Don’t sweat it.”

“OK.”

“Their guns weren’t fired at all?”

Stoner shook his head.

“I may make them … I may make them sound a little braver than they were.”

Who knew how brave they’d been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?

“Sure,” said Stoner. “Say they saved my life.”

Bacau, Romania

1600

GENERAL LOCUSTA MADE SURE THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE

was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.

“Still having trouble with the rebels, I hear,” said Karis as soon as he picked up. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“I can deal with the rebels. At the moment, they’re useful.”

“So I would guess. You’re getting even more men?”

“I’ve been promised.”

“You have to move soon. There are rumblings.”

110

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Locusta cleared his throat, but Karis did not take the hint.

“Some of our backers think an even stronger hand is needed,” said Karis. “By failing to deal the rebels a death blow—”

“I told you. I am dealing with the rebels.”

“The gas line will be very valuable once you are in charge.

The revenue.”

“I would not want anyone to overhear you speaking like this,” said Locusta, finally losing his patience.

“There is no problem on my side. Is there on yours?”

Locusta needed Karis—it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to move on the capital if his troops opposed him. He also trusted him; they had been friends for years, and his fellow general hated President Voda even more than he did. Still, Locusta found Karis’s impatient arrogance hard to stomach. He’d always been headstrong, and while it would be unfair to call him impetuous, he showed less caution than Locusta felt he should.

“There are no problems,” Locusta assured him. “But we must be careful.”

“Yes. So?”

“I am almost ready,” said Locusta.

“The Americans?”

“They can be dealt with.”

“Good. We are ready. But you must move quickly.”

The general hung up without adding that he was moving as quickly as he could.

Dreamland

0700

DOG STEPPED BACK AS THE PRESIDENT SETTLED INTO THE

big chair next to Zen and began manipulating the control stick. No kid with a computer game on Christmas morn-

REVOLUTION

111

ing had a broader smile than Martindale’s as he took over control of the plane, pushing it into a climb straight overhead.

Dog asked himself if he truly deserved the Medal of Honor.

Only a few dozen members of the Air Force had ever won one. Nearly all, he knew, had given their lives in combat.

He’d been prepared to do that as well—he’d come very close, within a few feet, but survived.

Death wasn’t a criteria for the medal. But he somehow felt he was an imposter, a pretender who didn’t deserve it.

The President rose from his chair, turning the aircraft back over to Zen to land. People began to applaud. Dog’s thoughts continued to drift. Breanna was wheeled up. He smiled at her, then glanced at Zen, who was beaming himself. They were good kids.

Old enough to have kids themselves by now. Though for some reason he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being called Grandpa.

“The country, the world, owe you a great deal,” said the President, beginning his speech. “I can’t tell you how proud, how very proud and honored I am to be here.”

JED FELT THE VIBRATION OF HIS BLACKBERRY JUST AS

the crowd began to applaud. He pulled it out and thumbed up the message. It was from Colonel Hash, the NSC’s military liaison.

RMNIA UPDATE URGENT/ALERT FREEMAN ASAP

Jed slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket and immediately began sidling toward the side of the audience area.

He tried to appear nonchalant, pasting a bored expression on his face before double-timing up the boarding ladder.

The communications officer aboard Air Force One nodded at him as he went into the small compartment and sat down at the machine reserved for NSC use. Jed punched in his 112

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

passwords and waited a few seconds while the computer connected him with his secure account.

The CIA had forwarded a report from one of its officers in the field, Mark Stoner, and endorsed by the Romanian station chief. Stoner had made contact with a member of the Romanian “resistance movement.” The source claimed that the attack on the pipeline the night before had not been authorized by the rebels’ governing committee. She believed that it had been either instigated or made directly by Russian special forces units. She also blamed the Russians for the murders of three CIA officers in the country over the past several months.

CREDIBLE WITNESS. SHE APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN PURSUED

BY RUSSIAN SPECIAL FORCES IN MOLDOVA. REPORTS A SPLIT

IN GUERRILLA LEADERSHIP. CLAIMS DWINDLING GUERRILLA NUMBERS, BOASTED BY RUSSIAN SPETSNAZ TROOPS. I AM IN

THE PROCESS OF GATHERING FURTHER INFORMATION.

There was additional information from the ambassador at Bucharest, indicating that the damage to the Romanian pipeline would be fixed within a few days. The Romanian government had tried to keep a lid on information about the attack, but someone claiming to be a spokesman for the guerrillas had posted photos on the Web earlier that day and contacted the Romanian and German media.

And the country’s president, Alin Voda, had called the ambassador on his personal line and requested American air assistance “to hunt the criminals before they make their next attack.”

Jed backed out of his account and went to find his boss.

“I KNOW THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF RUMORS ABOUT A Medal of Honor for Colonel Bastian,” said President Martindale, wrapping up his speech. “Let me just say this—they’re true.”

REVOLUTION

113

The audience, which had applauded politely a few times as Martindale spoke, erupted with a loud and unanimous hurrah. He stepped back and gestured to Dog, signaling that he should step forward to the mike.

“I really don’t deserve this honor,” said Dog, taking the microphone and addressing the others at the base. “You do.

You all do. You’ve made my time here fantastic. Mr. President, there’s no better command on the face of the earth.”

“We have another update from Romania,” whispered Philip Freeman, stepping up toward the President. “It may interest you.”

“Let’s discuss it on the plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few minutes later, aboard Air Force One, the President listened to Jed review the message from the CIA.

Meanwhile, a quick scan of the networks and news wire services showed that the energy market was already reacting to the news of the attack. Natural gas prices had shot up nearly thirty percent, and petroleum futures were trading ten dollars higher—which would have an impact on America as well as Europe.

“We have to deal with this forcefully,” said Martindale. “If the Russians think they can get away without consequence, they’ll continue to attack.”

“That’s only from one source,” protested Secretary of State Hartmann. “And a prejudiced one.”

“I don’t see what a guerrilla would gain by blaming the Russians,” said Chastain.

“We’re not there—we don’t know what the politics are.”

“Regardless, we have to take a stand immediately,” said Martindale. “If only to calm the energy markets. I’m not going to suck my thumb like Carter and the others during the oil embargo. We’re protecting that gas line.”

“Sending aircraft could backfire,” said Hartmann. “If the Russians are truly involved, they may use it as an excuse to up their assistance.”

114

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“They don’t need an excuse,” said Chastain.