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“Gentlemen, today is an historic day,” he said as he entered the meeting room. His officers stepped back to clear his path as he continued toward the front, speaking as he went. “Tonight we will strike the criminals where they live. I expect nothing less than a full victory. We must be bold, we must be swift, and we must be resolute.”
The general turned the meeting over to Colonel Brasov, who would have charge of the mission. Brasov, nodding at the American CIA officer, said the attack area had been narrowed to two ten-mile swatches fifty-seven miles from the border. Each camp was small, housing from one hundred to three hundred guerrillas.
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Brasov’s attack plan called for strikes by six companies on each hideout, giving them at worst a two-to-one advantage against the rebels. They would be ferried across the border in helicopters that had come up from southern Romania earlier that day, and in trucks that would cross into Moldava between two border stations to lessen the chance of detection.
There would be no direct air support, but the Americans would be able to use their sensors to monitor the attack areas from Romanian territory.
Locusta watched the hollow-eyed CIA officer as Colonel Brasov spoke. Stoner stared as if his face were rock, betraying no emotion; not fatigue, not excitement, not boredom.
Locusta thought it was possible that he was being used and the troops would find no guerrilla hideout. Possibly they would even be ambushed, though Brasov’s preparations were designed to meet that possibility and turn the tables on the guerrillas if it occurred.
Whatever happened, thought Locusta, the path was set. By this time tomorrow he would control Romania.
STONER STUDIED THE TOPO MAP, EXAMINING THE AREAS
where Sorina Viorica had said the attacks should be concentrated. He could make a pretty good guess where the camps were within those squares, and suspected that Brasov had as well. One was centered around a mine abandoned sometime in the 1920s. The other, less obvious, was a farm isolated from the nearby settlements.
“Did you want to add anything, Mr. Stoner?” asked Colonel Brasov.
“You were very thorough. There should be evidence of Russian involvement at these camps. There may even be a few Russian agents or soldiers,” added Stoner. “So I would be prepared. Very, very prepared.”
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Dreamland Command Trailer,
Iasi, Romania
1700
GENERAL SAMSON HAD ARRIVED BY THE TIME DOG REturned to Iasi. He’d told Dog he was coming, of course, and Dog tried hard not to interpret Samson’s arrival as yet the latest example of his distrust.
It was hard, though.
“So, what are the Romanians doing?” Samson asked without other preliminaries when Dog reported to him at the Command trailer.
Dog outlined the overall Romanian plan as well as their role in it. The EB-52s would give advance warning of any large troop movements without going over the border, though of course real-time video from the Flighthawks would be impossible.
“You think they’ll pull it off?” Samson asked.
“If they can handle the logistics side. They only have about thirty helicopters, and they’re fairly old. The problem will be getting enough men in the field quickly.”
“I’d feel better if we could go over the border and support them directly,” said the general.
Samson’s remark caught Dog by surprise. “I agree with you, General. Maybe we should make that point to Washington.”
Samson seemed to consider it, but then reverted to his career officer mentality, anxious to protect his stars. “No.
We’ll carry on as is. I’ve brought two B-1B/Ls with me.”
“Yes, sir, you explained that.”
“They can get into the mix as soon as it’s appropriate.
We’ll fly them in tandem with a Megafortress. If you think that’s a good idea.”
Now Dog was really surprised. Was Samson asking for his opinion?
“They may be useful,” said Dog. “Depending on the circumstances. If they were able to pinpoint a target on the ground—”
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“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Samson. “I want to see if these fancy lasers are really as good as they’re advertised.”
“If we were supporting the Romanians, they’d have a real role,” suggested Dog, taking one more shot at encouraging the general to argue with Washington about the absurd restriction in their orders.
“No. No. That will come in time,” said Samson. “I’m sure there will be plenty of changes in the future.”
Aboard Dreamland Osprey,
above the Black Sea
1900
THE SUN HAD ALREADY SET BY THE TIME THE OSPREY NEARED
its rendezvous north of the Bosporus Strait at the southern edge of the Black Sea. The Bosporus was like a fu
Ideally, Stoner would have found an American warship for Da
“That’s our ship there, Captain,” said the Osprey copilot, pointing toward a small collection of dim lights in the distance. “We’ll be over her in a minute.”
“Thanks.”
Da
Sorina was sitting in the middle of the bench on the starboard side of the aircraft. She was so light her body barely made an impression in the stretched fabric sling that formed the seat.
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“We’ll be going down,” Da
He pointed to the side. Besides the rear ramp, the Dreamland Osprey had a side door that slid open like a traditional rescue helicopter, allowing a boom to be swung out so passengers or cargo could be lowered.
“Rope?” asked Sorina Viorica.
“Can you slide down the rope to the ship, or should we lower you by harness?”
Sorina looked dubious.
“It’s all right. We’ll winch you down,” said Da
“That’s what I figured you’d want to do, Cap.”
Da
“It’s either this or we fly into the airport,” said Da
She’d already vetoed that idea. Still, she made a face as she pulled the safety harness on. The harness provided more protection than a standard sling.
Meanwhile, the flight engineer—the only crewman on the flight besides the two pilots—came back and punched the automatic door opener. A red light came on and the door began sliding toward the rear of the aircraft. Wind swirled through the cabin.
“You going first or last, Cap?” asked Boston. Like Da
“I go first. Then send Sorina. You come down behind her.”
“Gotcha.”
“Wait till I make sure everything’s kosher.”
Though the ship had only its normal navigational lights on, it stood out clearly against the darkness of the sea. A small 282
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flashlight began blinking on the forward deck near the bow.
The Osprey dipped slightly to the left, then corrected, leveling itself about twenty feet from the deck, moving sideways to keep pace with the ship.
Twenty feet wasn’t much for an aircraft, but it was a long fall for a man. The Osprey tucked a few feet lower, nudging toward fifteen. Da