Revolution (50 page)

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)

“T
H
-T
H
-T
HERE'S NO QUESTION ABOUT IT
, M
R
. P
RESIDENT
,” said Jed. “Those are Russian planes, on a deliberate mission
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

“L
ASER CYCLING
!”
SAID
B
REANNA
.

“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.

“
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

G
ENERAL
L
OCUSTA 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

V
ODA HUGGED HIS WIFE AND
J
ULIAN
. B
OTH WERE SOBBING
. Someone had thrown a blanket over him; someone else
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.”

 

Z
EN SAT ON THE FABRIC BENCH ACROSS FROM THE
R
OMANIAN
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?”

“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.

Aboard Dreamland B-1B/L
Boomer,
over northeastern Romania
0155

T
ERRILL
“E
ARTHMOVER
” S
AMSON HAD FLOWN
B-1B
S 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 peppered 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.

“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?

Aboard Dreamland Osprey
over Romania
0205

D
ANNY 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.”

 

V
ODA TOOK THE MICROPHONE AS THE
O
SPREY 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.

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!
”