Revolution

Sure enough, a white fu

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“Looked good from here,” said Parsons. “But then again, it always does. Buy you breakfast, Colonel?”

A week ago Dog would have felt guilty lingering here to watch the test, even from the distance. But now, Samson’s appointment as Dreamland’s new commander meant there was no mountain of papers waiting for him back at the office, no perso

“I could use a cup of coffee,” he told Parsons. “So tell me a little bit about the B-36, Chief. It was before my time.”

“You’re not implying I’m old, are you, Colonel?”

Dog chuckled. The two men turned in the direction of the Taj.

GREASY HANDS HAD JUST BEGUN TO WAX ELOQUENT ABOUT

the sound six 3,800-horsepower Pratt & Whitney engines and four GE turbojets made on takeoff when Major Natalie Catsman ran into the combined mess hall, the large cafeteria that served Dreamland perso

“Colonel, Zen just told me the news,” she said breathlessly.

“Congratulations.”

“What news?” said Dog.

“We all knew it—now the world will know it, too.”

“What news?” Dog asked again.

“Listen up everyone.” Catsman turned around. “Colonel Bastian is getting the Congressional Medal of Honor!”

“What?” said Dog, dumbfounded.

“It’s true,” said Zen, rolling into the room with a wide grin on his face.

Dog looked around the room, not exactly sure what was going on.

“You’re getting the Medal of Honor,” Zen told him as he came close. “Jed just told me. Bree’s on the phone. She wants to congratulate you.”

“The Medal of Honor?”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Hot damn, congratulations, Colonel!” said Greasy Hands Parsons, slapping Colonel Bastian on the back.

As if by some hidden signal, everyone in the cafeteria rose and began to applaud. Dog, not sure what to say—not even sure that this was in fact happening—opened his mouth, but then closed it.

The Medal of Honor?

The Medal of Honor.

II

An Honor and Privilege

Northeastern Romania,

near the border with Moldova

1933

THE GUN WAS AN OLD REVOLVER, A RUGER BLACKHAWK, a good gun but an odd one to find in northeastern Romania.

And not one particularly welcome when it was pointed at his head.

“Put the pistol down,” said Stoner. His hand was in his pocket, his own .45 aimed at the Romanian’s chest.

“You are Stoner?” the man with the gun asked.

“You think anybody else is going to be standing out in the middle of this fucking road at this hour?”

The man glanced to his right, looking at his companion. It was a half second of inattention, a momentary, reflexive glance, but it was all Stoner needed. He leaped forward, grabbing and pushing the man’s arm up with his left hand while pulling out his own gun with his right. The Romanian lost his balance; Stoner went down to the ground with him, pistol pointed at the man’s forehead. The Romanian’s gun flew to the side.

“Identify yourself, asshole.” Stoner pushed the muzzle of the weapon against the man’s forehead.

The Romanian couldn’t speak. His companion took a step closer.

“You come any closer, he’s fucking dead!” Stoner yelled.

“He doesn’t speak English,” said the man on the ground.

“Tell him, you jackass. Tell him before I blow your brains out. Then I’ll shoot him, too.”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

In a nervous voice, the Romanian urged his friend to remain calm.

“Now tell me who the hell you are,” said Stoner.

Though they were dressed in civilian clothes, Stoner knew the man and his companion had to be the two soldiers sent to help him sneak across the border, but there was a point to be made here. Pulling a gun on him was completely unacceptable.

“I am Deniz. He is Kyiv. He does not speak no English,”

added the man on the ground. “We were to help you.”

“Yeah, I know who the hell you are.” Stoner jumped up, taking a step back. “You’re going to check me out, you do it from a distance. You don’t walk right up to me and draw your gun. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

Deniz gave a nervous laugh, then reached for his pistol.

Stoner kicked it away, then scooped it up.

“This is your only weapon?” he asked.

Deniz shrugged.

“What’s he carrying?”

“No gun. The captain said—”

“No gun?”

“We are to pretend we’re civilians,” said Deniz. “No uniform, no rifle. Not even boots.”

Idiot, thought Stoner. “You know where we’re going?” he asked.

Deniz nodded.

Stoner looked at them. Deniz was twenty, maybe, taller than he was but at least fifty pounds lighter. Kyiv was a pudge of a man, his age anywhere from fifteen to thirty-five. He looked like a baker who liked his work a little too much, not a fighter.

Neither would be much help if things got rough. On the other hand, Stoner not only didn’t know the area, but knew only a few phrases in Romanian.

“Kyiv knows the border very well,” said Deniz, trying to reassure him. “Part of his family lives there. Yes?”

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He repeated what he had said in Romanian for Kyiv, who nodded and said something in Romanian.

“The girls are better on the other side,” added Deniz. “We go there often. No guns. Not needed.”

Stoner frowned, then led them to his car, parked off the road behind some brush.

“You know how to use these, I assume,” he said, opening the trunk and handing them each an AK-47.

“It is not dangerous where we are going,” said Deniz.

“It’s always dangerous,” said Stoner, pressing the rifle on him. “Don’t kid yourself.”

He took his own gun—another AK-47, this one a paratrooper’s model with a folding metal stock—and doled out banana magazines to the others.

“This is the spot,” he said, unfolding the satellite photo he’d brought. “The GPS coordinates are for this barn.”

Deniz took the paper, turning it around several times as he looked at it. Then he handed it to his companion. The two men began talking in Romanian.

“He knows the barn,” said Deniz finally. “Five kilometers from the border. The woman who owned it died two years ago. A neighbor mows the field.”

“Who owns it now?”

Kyiv didn’t know.

“The rebels have been quiet this week,” said Deniz as Stoner adjusted his knapsack. “We have become a very silent area.”

“That’s good to know.”

“We could take your car,” added the Romanian.

“No. We walk.”

Taking the car would mean they’d have to pass through a Moldovan as well as a Romanian military checkpoint, and their procedures required them to keep track of every car or truck passing through by recording the license plate. Even if it wasn’t likely there would be trouble, Stoner didn’t want the trip recorded. Besides, going on foot would make it easier to 38

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

survey the area and avoid an ambush or double-cross. Five kilometers wasn’t much to walk.

“We drive over many times,” said Deniz.

“Walking’s good for you. You should be able to do five kilometers inside an hour without a pack.”

The soldier frowned. Neither man seemed in particularly good shape. Stoner assumed their training regime was far from the best.

They walked in silence for about fifteen minutes, the pace far slower than what would have been required to do five kilometers in an hour. Even so, Stoner had to stop every so often to let them catch up.

“Why are we going?” asked Deniz after they had crossed the border.

“We’re meeting someone.”