Revolution (8 page)

“You'll make it,” said Zen.

“My legs are kinda numb.”

Zen glanced up at the PJ, who now had a pained expression on his face. He'd been prodding the young man's foot with a pin, apparently getting no response.

“They gave you painkillers,” Zen said. “I'm surprised your head's not numb.”

“As long as I can walk.”

“Just close your eyes and relax now,” said the pararescue man, resting his hand gently on the young man's chest. “We'll be at the med center in a few minutes.”

Northwestern Moldova,
near the Romanian border
23 January 1998
0134

S
TONER FOUGHT THE URGE TO RETURN FIRE
,
KNOWING IT
would just give away their position. He lay still, gun ready, waiting as the bullets continued to fly. The cold seeped up through his jacket into his chest; his pants grew damp with the chill.

Finally, the rounds slacked off. Stoner waited, expecting more.

The ground smelled vaguely like cow dung. He funneled his breath through his mouth as slowly and silently as he could, worried that his breath might be visible in the moonlight. Finally, when he hadn't heard any gunfire for a few minutes, he began edging to his right. He raised his head ever so slightly as he moved, trying to see down the hill.

There were two shadows near the road, but by the time he spotted them they were moving toward the cottage and he didn't have a clear shot. He waited until their shapes had been consumed by the cottage then got up and ran down the hill toward the road.

Meanwhile, two flashlights played across the windows of the cottage. There was more gunfire, this time muted—a nervous gunman firing inside the house, Stoner thought.

The woman he'd come to meet was somewhere near the ridge, but he wasn't sure where; he'd lost track of her when the shooting began. He felt certain she wasn't in the building, but if she was, there was nothing he was going to do about it now. Stoner edged further down the hill, aiming to find a place where he could easily ambush the gunmen when they came out of the house. As he did, however, he sighted a shadow moving along the road. He held his breath as it disappeared in a clump of trees.

His night goggles were in his ruck, but he was afraid getting them out would be too noisy: the trees were less than twenty years away.

If there was just one man by the road, he would take him out as quietly as possible, then turn his attention back to the cottage. If there were more…

If there were more he would have to fight his way through them.

No. It would be better to simply leave.

He could do that, but it would mean giving up on his contact.

Wasn't she just a lure, though? Wasn't this an elaborate ambush?

Stoner transferred the AK-47 to his left hand, then reached with his right to his knife scabbard. Killing a man with a knife was not an easy thing, a fact Stoner knew from unfortunate experience: Some years back, he'd failed in his one attempt to do so, sneaking up on a border guard between China and Vietnam. He'd put his knife on the man's throat, but his pull hadn't been deep enough; the man had managed to shout an alarm before a second slash of the knife, this one deeper, killed him.

Stoner worked his fingers around the knife's hilt, trying to get the right grip. Only when he was sure he had it did he start working his way in the man's direction.

The cigarette tip flared again, then faded. Twenty yards was a long way to cross without being seen or heard. Stealth and speed had to be balanced against each other. Stoner bent his legs slightly as he walked, lowering his center of gravity, hoping that the way the trees threw their shadows would keep him hidden. He got to within ten yards, then five, then three—less than the distance across a kitchen.

He slid the rifle down. All or nothing now.

Two yards. The man lowered his head, cupping his hands, lighting another cigarette.

He was alone.

Stoner sprang forward. He grabbed the man's mouth with his left hand, while his right rode up and across the man's neck—too high, but with enough force that the mistake could be overcome. He pushed his knee into the man's back and rammed the knife hard across flesh that suddenly felt like jelly. Stoner pulled back with his left hand and plunged the knife across his neck a second time, the blade slicing through the windpipe and into the vertebrae. Stoner pushed his knee hard against the man's back, felt no resistance; he stabbed one more time, then let his victim fall away.

Even as the man hit the ground, Stoner reset his attention on the cottage, where the flashlights were now joined in an X near the outside wall. He scooped up his rifle, then grabbed the dead man's gun and began moving along the road.

If they saw a shadow coming from this direction, they would think it was their companion. The illusion would last only until they shouted to him. He wouldn't be able to answer, except with his gun.

Stoner stopped and undid the top of his backpack. Taking out the night glasses he put them on. The building, the night, turned silvery green. The men had gone back inside.

Stoner began trotting along the road, trotting then running, adrenaline pumping. He turned up a dirt path that led to the cottage's side door.

One of the flashlight beams appeared at the edge of the building. Stoner went down to his knee, ready to fire.

The beam grew longer, moving slowly back and forth across the yard.

Where was the other man? Or men?—He'd seen two flashlights, but there could always be another.

Stoner turned his head in the other direction quickly, making sure no one was coming across the front of the barn.

The man with the flashlight rounded the corner. He was dressed in fatigues, but Stoner couldn't see any insignia or other sign that he was a soldier instead of a guerrilla. He had an AK-47 in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

As the flashlight swung in his direction, Stoner fired a three-shot burst that took the man square in the chest.

The man's companion began shouting from behind the cottage as his friend fell. Stoner raced up the hill, then threw himself down as bullets began flying from the corner of the building. Stoner fired back, then got up into a crouch to swing to his right and flank the gunman.

A fresh burst of bullets cut him off. Stoner hunkered against the ground.

The man took a step out from the corner of the building. Stoner began to fire as the man reared back and threw something, then disappeared behind the building again.

A grenade.

Stoner saw it arc to his right. He threw himself leftwards, tumbling against the hillside, hoping to get as much distance between himself and the explosion as he could.

Dreamland
1534

W
ITH THE DOGFIGHT SESSION OVER
, D
OG AND
S
LEEK
T
OP
put
Boomer
through a series of calmer tests, pushing her around the test range as special instruments recorded stresses on her frame and that of the laser housing. While the session was important—in many ways far more critical than the computer's dogfight was—it was nonetheless routine, and Dog found himself struggling to stay focused on his job. He thought of his lover, Jennifer, who'd had her knee operated on back East and would be staying with her sister in New Jersey for at least another two weeks. He thought of his daughter, Breanna, who'd been injured as well. He'd seen her the night before at the hospital. She looked so small in the bed, so fragile. For some reason, it made him think of all the time with her he'd missed when she was growing up.

Leaving, the hospital, he'd run into her mother. Surprisingly, he didn't feel any animosity toward her, and—uncharacteristically, he thought—she didn't display any toward him. Like the specialists who'd seen her, Bree's mother was baffled by the “coma-like unconsciousness” she'd suffered after landing, but she was very optimistic about her prognosis.

Dog's thoughts circled with the plane, until finally it was time to land. He let Sleek Top take the stick, and the copilot brought the plane in for a textbook perfect landing, taxi
ing right into the B-1 development hangar without help from either of the waiting tractors. Downstairs, Dog and Sleek Top prepared separate briefs on the mission, answering questions for the engineers who'd been monitoring the tests.

No matter how routine the pilots considered it, the geeks always had something to talk about, and it was going on 1900—7:00 p.m. in civilian time—before they were satisfied enough to let Sleek Top and Dog go.

“Probably wore them out with our duhs,” said Sleek Top as they rode up the elevator from the offices in the bunker directly below the underground hangar area. He mimicked one of the engineers' voices: “‘What did it feel like at thirty percent power as you came through the turn?' A lot like forty percent power, only slower, son.”

Dog laughed.

“They haven't been up in the plane,” Sleek Top continued, his tone more serious. “You should have some jump seats rigged and take them aloft.”

“That's a good idea, Sleek. But it's not my call.”

“It's your base.”

“Not anymore.”

“It'll always be your base,” said the test pilot as the door opened.

General Samson was standing across the vestibule. It wasn't clear that he'd heard Sleek Top's comment—the elevator doors were sealed pretty tight—but Dog had a feeling he had.

So did Sleek Top. He grimaced, gave the general a wave, then strode quickly away.

“Colonel Bastian, a word,” said Samson.

Dog followed him to the far end of the hangar ramp. Gently sloped, the wide expanse of concrete led to a large blast-proof hangar where the B-1s were kept. It looked like the ramp of a very wide parking garage.

Before he'd come to Dreamland, Dog had been in awe of generals—if not the men (and women), then at least the
office. Part of his attitude had to do with his respect for the Air Force and tradition, but a larger part stemmed from his good fortune he'd had of working for some extremely good men, especially during the Gulf War.

Dreamland had changed that. While he wouldn't call himself cynical, he had a much more balanced view now. He realized that the process of rising to the upper ranks had a lot to do with politics—often a lot more than anything else.

Colonel Bastian had met some inept generals in his day. Samson wasn't one of them. He was capable, though bullheaded and cocky—characteristics critical to a combat pilot, but not particularly winsome in a commander, especially at a place like Dreamland.

“B-1 is a hell of a plane,” said Samson, walking in the direction of
Boomer
. “I commanded a squadron of them for SAC.”

“Yes, sir. I think you mentioned that.”

“I don't know about some of these mods, though.” Samson stopped short and put his hands on his hips. “Airborne lasers?”

“Going to be a hell of a weapon.”

“Once it's perfected—that's the rub, isn't it? You know how many iron bombs one laser would buy once it's in production, Tecumseh?”

Dog actually did know, or at least could have worked it out, but the question was clearly rhetorical; Samson didn't wait for an answer.

“And having a computer fly it—that was your test today, wasn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don't like it.” Samson practically spat on the ground as he spoke. “What we need are more planes and pilots. Not more gadgets. Widgets, I call them. They can't replace pilots.”

Dog couldn't help but smile.

“Problem, Colonel?”

“You sound a little like my old boss, General Magnus,”
said Dog. “When he started. By the time he moved on, he was pushing for all the high tech he could get.”

“I know Magnus. Good man. Had to retire. Couldn't play the Washington system.”

That was probably correct, thought Dog—a point in Magnus's favor.

“But Magnus isn't here. I am,” added Samson. He turned his gaze back to the aircraft. It seemed to Dog that he wished he were back in the pilot's seat again—back as a captain flying missions.

Who didn't? That was the best part of your career. Though it was a rare officer who understood it at the time.

“This airborne tactical laser can change a lot of things,” said Dog. “It'll revolutionize ground support. With some more work, the laser will do a credible job as an antifighter weapon as well. And to do all that, it needs a pretty powerful computer to help the pilots fly and target the enemy.”

“I don't need a sales pitch,” said Samson sharply. Then he added, in a tone somewhat less gruff, “We've gotten off to a bad start, you and I. But I don't think it's necessary that we be enemies. In a way—in a lot of ways—you remind me of myself when I was your age. Ambitious. Tough. A bit strong willed—but that's a plus.”

Dog didn't say anything. He knew that Samson was trying to be magnanimous, though to his ears the general sounded like an ass.

“Congratulations on your Medal of Honor,” added Samson. “You've heard about it, I understand. You earned it, Bastian. You and the others did a hell of a job. Hell of a job. Made us all proud.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The President is coming. Or at least, I hope he can squeeze us into his schedule. I have made a request—I'm sure I'm going to get him here. Maybe as early as tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Samson waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “I still
have to do some paperwork—you know, there are going to be hoops with this medal thing, so don't expect too much too quickly. But I thought it would be nice for the President to show his respect, and admiration.”

“You don't have to go to any trouble. I don't—Medals don't really mean that much.”

“The hell they don't!” Samson practically shouted. “They mean everything. They remind us how we should carry ourselves. What we're about!”