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A grayish grid ghosted on the visor of helmet. The MESSKIT’s activation light began to blink.
All right, Zen thought, let’s get this done.
He spread his arms, trying to frog his body. The screen altimeter lit; he was at 32,053 feet, a little higher than he’d expected.
418
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Up until now, Zen had always tried to make his practice jumps last—he wanted to glide slowly to earth. Tonight, his goal was to get down as quickly as possible. So he instructed the MESSKIT to deploy at 10,000 feet, figuring it would be easier to fall to that altitude quickly than to fly to it.
The device didn’t like the instructions. It flashed the words beyond safety protocols on the screen.
“Override,” he told it.
But the computer wouldn’t. A
He compensated by leaning forward and pushing his arms back, turning the exoskeleton as close to a jet as possible.
His descent increased to 25 feet per second before the safety measures kicked in, once more preventing him from dropping any faster.
“This is Zen. Johnson, you hearing me?”
“We have you, Zen,” replied Lieutenant Englehardt in the Johnson. “You ready to talk to President Voda?”
“Yeah, roger that.”
“Be advised he’s hard to understand. And probably vice versa. Speak as slowly and distinctly as you can.”
“Yeah, roger that.”
“What am I hearing?” said a foreign voice, distant and faint.
“This is Zen Stockard, Mr. President. I’m going to help you. How far are you from the stream location?”
“I am still looking.”
“I’m about twelve minutes away,” Zen told him. “Do you think you can find it by then?”
“I will try.”
“Stay on the line, all right?”
“Yes, yes.”
REVOLUTION
419
Presidential villa,
near Stulpicani, Romania
0130
“NO, GENERAL. THERE ARE NO BODIES IN THAT PART OF
the house,” repeated Major Ozera. “Or in any part of the house. The president must have escaped the attack. He has to be on the property somewhere.”
General Locusta pounded his fist against the hood of the car. Where in God’s name was the son of a bitch? He couldn’t do anything until he found him.
Ozera trembled.
“Where is the search party?” demanded Locusta, trying to calm his voice.
“They’ve moved up the close side of the hill and are now working their way up to the summit. The dogs are having trouble with the wind,” Ozera added. “And they got a late start. The cold helps preserve the scent, but there are limits.”
More likely the problem was with the handlers, Locusta thought. He retrieved the area topographical map. They’d gone too far. Voda must be hidden somewhere on the hill.
The general’s sat phone began to ring. He ignored it.
“Pull the teams back to this side of the ridge,” Locusta told the major. “Have them concentrate on the area around that old pump building or whatever it is. There’s probably another secret passage.”
“Should I add the regular troops to the search?”
“No!” He raised his phone and hit the Receive button. “Locusta.”
“General Locusta, I trust you are having an interesting night.”
It was the Russian attaché, Svoransky.
“Why have you sent planes to attack my troops?” Locusta boomed.
420
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Relax, General. They were trying to attack the Americans, not your troops.”
“Liar.”
Locusta took control of himself. No one, not even Ozera, knew he had dealt with the Russians; he had to be careful about what he said.
“General, please. We should remain civil. We have much to gain from working together. I called to offer help.”
“How?”
“I’ve heard rumors about the president. They say he is dead, but I suspect they are false.”
“You suspect?”
Did the Russian have a spy in his organization? Locusta glanced at Ozera. Who else could it be?
No. Svoransky had to be bluffing.
Locusta turned his back and took several steps away from the major. “What business is it of yours if he is dead?”
“None, if he truly is. But I believe he is not. I believe, in fact, he is trying to escape. And that you are looking for him.”
The spy might be lower ranking—one of the men on the assassin team, or even the regular army, an officer who was a little too clever for his own good.
Or maybe the bastard Svoransky was simply guessing.
“We have a person at the national telephone company as well,” added the Russian. “If you wish, he might be able to provide information about cell phone calls in your area.”
“The president hasn’t used his cell phone, or his satellite phone,” said Locusta. He had taken the precaution of having the lines monitored. “Thanks very much.”
“No, he hasn’t. But one of his bodyguards has. The woman assigned to his son—she is in the area very close to where you are searching.”
REVOLUTION
421
Aboard B-1B/L Boomer,
above northeastern Romania
0135
BREANNA STUDIED THE RADAR PLOT THAT WAS FORWARDED
from the Megafortresses, the overlapping inputs synthesized by the computer into a wide-ranging view. EB-52 Johnson was flying about two miles west of the Romanian president’s house and slightly to the north. The Be
The radar also showed Zen, circling down toward the hill.
Brea
Don’t let that be our last kiss, she prayed silently.
“You’re awful quiet over there, Stockard,” said Samson, with his usual bark.
“Just making sure where all the players are,” Brea
“Dreamland Osprey is holding ten minutes from touchdown.”
“Good.”
Brea
Don’t let that be our last kiss. Please.
Near Stulpicani, Romania
0135
THE CREEK WAS SO NARROW THAT VODA MISSED IT AT FIRST.
It wasn’t until his wife slipped behind him, tripping over the rocks and cursing, that he realized where they were. He pulled Julian with him as he went back up the hill.
422
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“My ankle,” said Mircea. “It feels like it’s broken.”
“Come on. Lean on me. We have to go in this direction.”
Voda braced himself as his wife leaned against him. His knee felt as if it was being twisted, even though his leg was perfectly straight. He took a deep breath and began moving again.
Mircea started to weep.
“Come on, now,” Voda told her. “Our rescuers are on the way.”
“Mama, come,” said Julian. The boy took her hand, but she only cried harder.
“We’re almost out,” Voda whispered. “We’ve got just a few meters—look there.”
The creek dipped sharply to the left, past two white-barked trees, where he saw the clearing the Dreamland people had told him about.
“We’re there,” he said into the phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m right above you,” said the voice. “Here I come.”
There was a light sound in the air, the sort a spruce made when it sprang back after being weighed down by snow. Voda looked up toward the sky and saw a shadow dropping toward him. Had he not been speaking to the man, he would have sworn it was an angel.