Dreamland: Revolution Part 26

Burnt Wood and Flesh

U.S. Emba.s.sy, Bucharest

26 January 1998

0410.

STONER RUBBED THE SLEEP FROM HIS EYES AS HE LOOKED at the photo of the house and the aftermath of the guerrillas' explosion. There was a torso in the foreground. The other photo showed a baby's arm clutched around a doll.

The American amba.s.sador to Romania pushed the rest of the photos toward the far side of his desk, no longer able to look at them. The amba.s.sador, rarely seen in public without a tie, wore a hooded yellow sweatshirt and a pair of old jeans, as if he were going to work on his car when they were done.

"Pretty gruesome, I'd say." The amba.s.sador shook his head. "b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"Yeah," said Russ Fairchild, the CIA station chief. "This is what they're up against."

"Was it the Russians or the guerrillas?" asked the amba.s.sador.

"Had to be the Russians," said Fairchild. "That much explosives?"

Stoner leaned forward and took the rest of the photos. Fairchild was probably right about the source of the explosives. But the description of the operation he'd heard from the Dreamland people made it sound too amateurish for Spetsnaz.

He flipped through the pictures, which had been taken by the Romanian army on the scene. The guerrillas were in pieces, their bodies shattered when the explosives blew.

Stoner found a severed leg. He slipped the picture onto the amba.s.sador's desk.

"They were guerrillas," he told the others. "See the shoes?"

"G.o.d," said the amba.s.sador, reacting to the gruesomeness of the shot.

"An old Puma," said Fairchild.

"The Spetsnaz people who came after me had new boots," explained Stoner. "Besides, the Russians would have tried to shoot their way out."

Fairchild nodded. The amba.s.sador seemed to be in shock.

"Can I have these?" Stoner asked, rising.

"By all means," said the amba.s.sador. "We can print more."

"Mark?" Fairchild called after him as Stoner started down the hall. "Stoner-where are you going?"

"I should be back tomorrow," he said.

Dreamland

25 January 1998

1810 (0410 Romania, 26 January 1998)

SAMSON PACED BEHIND THE CONSOLE NEAR THE FRONT OF the Dreamland Command Center, impatiently waiting for the connection to the White House Situation Room to go through. He'd put the call in ten minutes earlier, and had been standing by ever since.

Dealing with the National Security Council and the White House was still new to him, and try as he might, Samson couldn't help but feel a little excited. And nervous. He'd had Mack Smith prepare a PowerPoint presentation, complete with images from the explosion. The photos were dramatic, ill.u.s.trating again what the Dreamland people-his people-were up against.

And by extension, what a good job he was doing commanding them.

"Connection with the White House," said the specialist at the station to his right.

Samson raised his chin and looked at the main screen. Instead of a video feed of NSC head Philip Freeman, however, Jed Barclay's face came up.

"General, sorry I was late. The President called me into a meeting."

"Yes," said Samson, trying to hide his disappointment that he was dealing with a kid barely out of his teens instead of Freeman himself.

"Do you have an update?"

"I have the report from Colonel Bastian regarding the guerrilla attack," said Samson. "The Dreamland units tracked the guerrillas and helped detain them. As a matter of fact, I have a presentation-"

"Yes, sir. I was wondering if there was an update on the Russian aircraft. You'd told me about that earlier."

"There's not much more to tell," said Samson. "They had contacts at a very long distance. Bastian believes there are spies in Iasi that watch them take off."

"OK."

"I have images from the Flighthawk of the guerrillas exploding the house," said Samson. "I had them prepared for the President. If you'd like to see it-"

"We got some photos from the emba.s.sy an hour ago," said Jed. "So I think we're good. They came from the army. Pretty gruesome. That's pretty much all we need."

"OK."

"I'm sorry, I'm late," said Jed. "If you want to upload the report, I can check it out when I get back."

Samson fumed. What was the kid late for? A date?

"I'll have my aide do it," said Samson frostily.

"Oh, there was something I wanted to mention to you," added Jed. "Kind of on down low."

"Down low?"

"Between us. There was a discussion today relating to the B-1 laser project. Apparently some members of Congress were asking the Pentagon what was going on with it."

"What questions?"

"You'll have to sweat the specifics through channels, General. I didn't get the details myself, but the tone was, uh, um, hard-nosed. Like they wanted to kill the plane completely. Seems the B-1 has a bad reputation."

"Unjustly."

"Well, the reason I'm mentioning it is, the President was looking for an update."

"It's right on schedule," said Samson. Then he remembered that in fact it was a few weeks behind. "More or less on schedule. What is the President's concern?"

"I really can't speak for him," said Jed. "But, uh, you know with the way Congress is, um, funding..."

Samson got the message. Well, at least Jed was good for something. And maybe Freeman had purposely had the kid talk to him, so his "fingerprints" weren't on the warning.

"I just thought you'd like the heads-up before someone from the Pentagon calls," added Jed.

"Yes, yes, actually-thank you, Jed. Good information. I owe you one."

"Uh, yes, sir." Jed signed off.

"Where the h.e.l.l is Mack Smith?" Samson thundered.

MACK SMITH STARED AT THE MOUNTAIN OF FOLDERS ON HIS desk for a moment, then picked up the phone.

"Mack Smith."

"Is this General Samson's chief of staff?"

"Yes, sir."

"I figured you'd be working late. This is Robbie Denton. Colonel Denton."

"Oh yes, Colonel Denton."

The name was vaguely familiar. Mack quickly flipped through the folders. Darby, Denton...ah, Denton was the man General Samson had tapped to take over Combined Air Wing 1, the new designation for the Megafortresses and other aircraft and personnel when on a Whiplash deployment.

"Colonel, good to hear from you," bellowed Mack. "All right. Glad I happened to be working late tonight. A real fluke. Now, as far as security procedures go, I'm afraid we're a little a.n.a.l about the process. The first thing you need to do-"

"Listen, Major, I'm going to save you a little time here. I've had second thoughts on the job."

"S-Second thoughts, Colonel?"

"Actually, I never really wanted to take it in the first place. I love what I do now. It's the best job in the world. I just had a hard time telling Terrill that the other day."

"Um-"

"He's a force of nature," Denton told Mack. "That's why they call him Earthmover."

"Colonel, you really want to tell him this yourself."

"No, no, that's why I asked for you. I was his chief of staff back when he was in Strategic Air Command," added Denton. "I don't envy you."

"Oh."

Mack dropped the handset on the cradle. Samson wasn't going to be happy; by Mack's count, Denton was the third person he'd offered the job to. Part of the problem was that Samson only wanted proven overachievers, all of whom already had high-profile jobs to begin with. But they were also men he knew personally, which meant they'd served time under him...and therefore knew that working for Samson wasn't exactly a holiday.

As he could testify firsthand.

He got up from his desk. There was no question of going home-he had a week's worth of work that had to be finished by the morning. But he was hungry and could use a break.

The phone rang again. He started to leave anyway, thinking he'd let it roll over to voice mail, then saw that the light indicated it was an internal call.

"Mack Smith," he said, picking it up.

"General wants you down in Dreamland Command ASAP," said Lieutenant Stephens, the com specialist on duty there. "Actually, faster than ASAP."

"Tell him I'm on my way," said Mack.

Maybe he's going to compliment me on my PowerPoint presentation, he thought as he walked briskly down the hall to the elevator.

Perhaps. But "good" and "job" were two words that Samson rarely put together, except as a preface to an order for more work. If Samson did like the report, he would probably tell him to make a hundred copies each with personalized comments and have them sent out by midnight to everyone in the Pentagon.

The ride down to the secure command center was so quick Mack felt a little light-headed; he regretted not grabbing something to eat earlier. He nodded at the security sergeant standing in front of the door, then pressed his palm against the reader. The doors opened.

"Where have you been, Mack?" growled Samson from down near the center screen.

"Going through some reports, General. How'd the White House briefing go?"

"Fine," said Samson in a voice that suggested the opposite. "What's the status of the B-1 program?"