Revolution (36 page)

Did it lead out? Or was it simply a trap?

Where would you collect rainwater from?

The roof maybe. Gutters. This might just be a reservoir, with no opening big enough to escape through.

Voda tucked the flashlight into his pants and climbed back up.

“Come on,” he told his wife. “Let's go.”

“I don't want to die like a rat in a hole,” she said.

There was a burst of gunfire from somewhere above. Voda turned the flashlight back on and saw his son's eyes puffing up, on the verge of tears.

“We're not dying.” He picked up the boy. “Come on. Out this way. I'll be with you.”

Even though it was only four feet, it was difficult to climb down with Julian in his arms. Voda slipped about halfway down. Fortunately, he was able to land on his feet, his back and head slapping against the wall.

Julian began to cry. “That hurt,” he wailed.

“Come on, now,” Voda told his son. “No tears. And we must be quiet. We're only playing hide and seek until the army comes.”

Mircea came down behind him, then reached back and started pulling at the metal top to the hole.

“I was going back up,” he told her.

“No. We stay together.”

Voda handed her the flashlight, then reached up and put his fingers against the metal strip that ran along the back of the cistern's metal top. He could hear, or thought he could hear, voices in the basement.

“Come on,” he said, turning to get into the tunnel, but the others were ahead of him. His pants were soaked. He pushed ahead, slipping occasionally on the slime and mud, trying not to think that this was a perfect place for rats.

Lined with stone, the tunnel ran straight for about fifteen feet, then made a sharp turn to the left and began sloping upward. It narrowed as it turned, then the ceiling lowered to two feet. They began to crawl.

“I can stand!” shouted Julian suddenly.

“Wait,” said Voda. Then, as the sound echoed through the chamber, he added, “Talk in whispers. Or better, don't talk.”

Mircea played the light through the black space before them. They were in a round room about the size of the one they had come down to from the basement. At the far end they found another hole leading upward, similar to the one they had used to enter, though it was about eight feet deep and a little wider. There was a piece of metal on top, again similar to what they'd found in the root cellar.

“Maybe they're waiting above,” said Mircea.

“Maybe.” Voda climbed up the sides of the well. He thought he knew where he was—the barn about thirty feet from the eastern end of the house, used by the security people as a headquarters so they didn't disturb the family.

Centuries before, water would have been collected from the roofs of the building, piped down somehow, then stored
so it could be distributed from these wells, both in the house and in the barn. The gutters or whatever had fed them were long gone, but the reservoir system remained.

Would they be safer in the tunnel or in the barn?

He wasn't sure.

It might be a moot question—the metal panel seemed impossible to move.

He braced himself by planting his shoes into the lips between the stones, then put his hand against the metal, pushing.

Nothing.

“Mama, I need the light!” yelled Julian below.

“Hush. Papa needs it.”

“I think there is another tunnel this way!”

Voda climbed back down. Again he slipped the last few feet. This time he landed on his butt, but at least didn't hit his head again.

“Let's see this tunnel,” he told his son.

It was narrower than the others, but also ended in an upward passage, only four feet off the ground. It too had a metal panel at its end, and Voda levered himself into position, putting his shoulder against it and pushing.

It moved, but just barely—so little in fact that at first he wasn't sure if it actually had moved or if he was imagining it. He braced himself again, and this time Mircea helped. Suddenly, it gave way, and they both slipped and fell together, bashing each other as they tumbled down.

The pain stunned him; the hard smack froze his brain. He found himself trapped in silence.

“Papa?” said Julian.

“Are you all right, Mircea?” he said.

“Yes. You?”

He rose instead of answering. “Up we go,” he said, his voice the croak of a frog. “Up, up.”

Gripping the edge of the trapdoor, he levered it open. He pulled himself up into darkness. It took a few moments to realize that he wasn't in the garage at all.

“Give me the flashlight,” he hissed down to his wife.

“Voda, we can't stay down here.”

“Just wait,” he said, taking the light. He held it downward, hoping the beam wouldn't be too obvious if someone outside were watching.

The well had a stone foundation, and came up in the middle of a stone floor. Rotted timbers were nearby, some on the ground, others against the wall. But the ceiling and parts of the wall beyond the wood seemed to be stone. He got up, then saw casks against the wall, covered with dirt. Now he could guess where he was: an abandoned cave about seventy-five feet from the house, at the start of a sharp rise. It had once been used as a storehouse for wine or beer.

And probably for making it, if the cistern was here, though that was not important now.

“Alin?”

He went back to the hole and whispered to his wife. “Come up.”

“I can't lift Julian.”

Voda clambered back down. He had his son climb onto his shoulders, and from there into the cave. Voda turned back to help his wife, but she was already climbing up.

They slipped the metal cover back on the hole. Did they hear voices coming from the tunnel behind them? Voda didn't trust his imagination anymore.

“We're in the cave, aren't we?” said Julian, using their name for the structure.

“Yes.”

“How do we get out?” asked Mircea. The cave door was locked from the outside. There was a small opening at the top of the rounded door, blocked by three iron bars. The space between the bars was barely enough to put a hand through.

Voda went to it and looked out into the night. Compared to the darkness of the tunnel and the cave, the outside was bright with moonlight. He saw figures in the distance, near the driveway and the garage.

They were soldiers, or looked like soldiers. An army truck had pulled up to the driveway. Men jumped out.

Thank God!

But Voda's relief died as he saw two men dragging a woman into the light cast by the truck's headlights.

He recognized her clothes and hair. It was Oana Mitca.

The soldiers dumped her the way they would dispose of an old rag. She lay limp.

Another man came up; an officer, he thought. He had a pistol. Oana Mitca's head exploded.

Why would they kill his son's bodyguard?

“Voda?” whispered his wife. “What's going on? I hear trucks, and I heard a shot.”

“There's more trouble than I thought,” he said, sliding back from the door.

Aboard EB-52
Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
2251

T
HE
M
I
G
S HAD FINALLY REALIZED THE HELICOPTERS WERE
to their south. They were ten miles from the closest group. Even if the pilots took their time and waited for the perfect shot, they'd be in position less than three minutes from now.

And still far from the border.

“Why the hell aren't we doing something?” snapped Zen over the interphone. “Colonel, you can't keep us here.”

“We have our orders,” responded Dog.

Zen checked the positions on his screen. He could get
Hawk One
over the border, tell the computer to take out the lead MiG. Even if the Megafortress flew west, out of control range, the onboard computer guiding the robot plane would take it in for the kill.

He had to do it. He couldn't let the men aboard those choppers die.

If he did that, he knew he'd be disobeying a direct order. He'd be out of the Air Force, maybe even imprisoned.

“Colonel, we
have
to do something.”

“No, Zen. Keep the planes where they are. Be ready if they come over the border. If you can't follow my orders, you'll be relieved.”

Fuck that, thought Zen.

It was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to keep his mouth shut—and the planes where they were.

 

O
N THE SITREP VIEW OF THE RADAR SCREEN
D
OG WAS
watching, it looked as if one of the helicopters stopped in midair.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“He just popped up, gaining altitude,” said Rager. “He's making himself a target. It's a decoy.”

Dog saw the helicopter peeling back, trying to decoy the MiGs away. It was a noble idea, but it wasn't going to work—there were too many MiGs.

“Sully, open bomb bay doors. Prepare to fire Scorpions.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

Sullivan quickly tapped the controls and the Megafortress rocked with the opening of the bay doors.

“Scorpion One is locked on target!” yelled Sullivan.

“Fire. Lock the second—lock them all, and fire.”

Sullivan quickly complied.

Not one member of the crew objected. They'd all put their careers, possibly a good portion of their lives, in Dog's hands. They knew the orders, realized how explicit they were: Do not under any circumstance cross the border or fire across the border, do not engage any Russian aircraft.

Under
any
circumstance.

Everyone aboard the
Johnson
wanted to disobey those orders, Dog realized, and would, gladly it seemed, if he led the way.

Was it because he had a Medal of Honor?

They were good men, men who knew right from wrong and valued honor and duty as much as he did; they weren't easily influenced by medals.

Dog checked his radar screen. The first MiG had suddenly jinked back east. Missile one, tracking it, jerked east toward the border.

“Self-destruct missile one,” said Dog.

“Colonel?”

“Sully, hit the self-destruct before it goes over the border. Now!”

Dog tapped his armament panel to bring up the missile controls, but it was unnecessary—Sullivan did as he was told. He did the same for missile three as its target also turned east, taking its missile with it.

The last two aircraft continued toward the helicopters.

“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

S
TONER 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,
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.

Aboard EB-52
Johnson,
over northeastern Romania
28 January 1998
2258

Z
EN 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
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
exactly where the Flighthawk was, or maybe because he panicked, 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.

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.

 

U
PSTAIRS ON THE FLIGHT DECK
, D
OG WATCHED THE
M
I
G
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.”

 

T
HE
M
I
G
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.”

“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:

“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.

 

“T
ARGET THE
M
I
G,” D
OG TOLD
S
ULLIVAN
.

“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.

Bacau, Romania
2300

G
ENERAL
L
OCUSTA 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.”

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

V
ODA WATCHED FROM THE SMALL
,
GLASSLESS WINDOW OF
the cave as two more members of his presidential security
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.