THE FIELD AT IASI WAS FAIRLY LONG, BUT THE APPROACH was not. Between the nearby mountains and the possibility of handheld antiaircraft missiles, aircraft had to drop precipitously and then veer sharply to the west to land. For all his experience in the Megafortress, Dog broke into a sweat as his copilot, Lieutenant Kevin Sullivan, read off his alt.i.tude.

But he loved it.

"You're right on beam, Colonel," said Sullivan.

"Hang tight, boys," said Dog, swinging Dreamland EB-52 Bennett onto the airstrip with a crisp turn.

Like all Megafortresses, the Bennett was named for a Medal of Honor winner-Captain Steven L. Bennett, who in 1972 had saved innumerable lives supporting Marines overrun by Viet Cong, then given his own life so his copilot/observer would live, crash-landing his aircraft rather than ejecting when the other man's gear failed.

Dog was eligible to have a Megafortress named after him as well, but he'd already decided to do without that honor for the time being. He didn't quite feel up to the standards Captain Bennett and the others had set.

"You still have the touch, Colonel!" said Sullivan as they rolled to a stop on the far end of the concrete.

Despite the long flight, Sullivan was his usual overenthusiastic self, bouncing in his seat as they secured the aircraft. When they were done, the copilot practically danced off the flight deck. Dog followed him down, waiting as Zen lowered himself into his wheelchair using the special lift attached to the EB-52's ladder.

Dog had debated whether to take Zen on the mission, given his recent ordeal off the coast of India. But not having him along on a mission was almost inconceivable, and Dog didn't even bother arguing when Zen volunteered.

Breanna, however, was another matter.

"Your daughter's never going to forgive you for leaving her home," Zen told him as they headed toward a pair of cars near the edge of the runway ap.r.o.n.

"She should blame the doctors, not me," Dog told him. "They say she needs rest."

"Hey, I'm just the messenger," said Zen. "Personally, I agree."

Two Romanian enlisted men and a major were standing in front of a boxy-looking Romanian-built Dacia near the hangar. The men snapped to attention as Dog and Zen approached. Dog gave a quick but sharp salute in return.

"You are Colonel Bastian?" asked the major.

"That's right." Dog extended his hand.

"I am General Petri's aide. I'm to take you to him immediately."

"Sounds good."

The major looked at Zen. Dog knew exactly what he was thinking: What was a man in a wheelchair doing on the mission?

"This is Major Jeff Stockard. Everyone calls him Zen," said Dog. "He's my second in command on the mission. He's in charge of the Flighthawks-the unmanned aircraft that will actually provide support."

Zen stuck out his hand. The Romanian major took it warily.

"This our ride?" Dog asked, pointing to the car.

"Yes," said the major. He glanced again at Zen.

"Don't worry about me," Zen told him. "I can just hold onto the b.u.mper. Tell the driver to try and avoid the potholes, though, all right?"

DOG WAS NOT A TALL MAN, BUT HE HAD A GOOD SIX OR seven inches over Romanian Air Force General Boris Petri, a gray-haired, hollow-cheeked man whose crisp uniform gave a hint of starch to the tiny office where he met the two Dreamland officers. Petri's English was serviceable, but to ensure that there were no mistakes in communication he called in one of his aides, a lieutenant whose brother was a star soccer player on the Romanian national team. The general was so proud of the connection that he mentioned it not once but twice as they waited for him to arrive. In the meantime, he offered Dog tea and brandy, sloshing them together in large cups that, to Dog's palate, held considerably more brandy than tea.

Once the lieutenant arrived, the talk turned serious, with the general briefing them not only about the guerrilla situation, but the air force in general. He seemed somewhat apologetic and defensive at the same time, noting that the Romanian air force was in the process of rebuilding itself and that it would soon be capable of defeating its enemies.

Dog slipped into diplomatic mode, a.s.suring the general that his mission was first of all symbolic, demonstrating not the deficiencies of the Romanians but rather the country's strategic importance to Europe and the United States. Working with the Romanians would be of considerable value to the Dreamland contingent, he explained, since Dreamland's mission had recently been expanded to help in similar situations across the globe.

"It will be some time before our air force is ready to work with yours," said Petri.

"I understood there was a squadron of MiG-21s at Bacau."

"A squadron, yes." The general gave him a sad smile. "All but one of the planes is grounded because of a lack of spare parts. And there is no one there to fly the plane. The pilots have been shipped south to train on our new aircraft. Lamentably, those are not suitable for ground attack."

The new planes were four MiG-29s, front-line interceptors that could, in fact, be used in an attack role if their owner so chose. But for a variety of reasons-most especially the fact that the planes were deemed too precious to be risked in dangerous ground attacks-the MiGs were currently stationed at Borcea-Fetesti, far out of harm's way. The Romanians equipped them solely with air-to-air missiles; they had no ground attack weapons aside from iron bombs, and their pilots weren't even trained for the ground support role.

Officially, the Aviatez Militaire Romane had forty MiG-21s, older but still useful aircraft that would do reasonably well as ground support planes, at least during the day. But as Petri pointed out, only a minuscule number, less than a handful, were in any shape to fly. Romania even lacked attack helicopters; a few of its French-built Pumas had been fitted with .50 caliber machine guns that were fired from the right pa.s.senger door, but they were no subst.i.tute for actual gunships.

It didn't take a genius to realize that the country would have been much better off using the money it had spent on the MiG-29s for some lesser but more practical aircraft that could have been used in a counterinsurgency role, something like the American OA-10 Bronco, or surplus Russian Su-24s or Su-25s, all older planes that could be used for ground support. The left-over money could have been used for new parts and training for the MiGs they did have. But Dog wasn't there to offer that kind of advice, and General Petri wasn't in a position to implement it.

"You haven't finished your tea," said the translator when the general wound down his briefing.

"I'm a little tea'd out," said Dog, rising. "I'd like to arrange to meet with the commander of the ground forces as soon as possible."

"The general had hoped General Locusta would be here by now," said the translator. "Maybe within the hour. Certainly no later than dinner."

"Then with your permission, I'll get my people straightened out."

"Very good, Colonel."

Petri sprang up from his seat. "It's an honor to be working with a hero like you," he said, not bothering with his translation.

"Well, thank you," said Dog, embarra.s.sed. "I hope I can live up to your expectations."

WHILE DOG AND ZEN WERE MEETING WITH THE AIR FORCE general, the Dreamland MC-17 arrived carrying the Whiplash ground team, the Dreamland mobile command trailer, and an Osprey. Danny Freah had already set up security perimeters and launched a pair of low-observable dirigibles as eye-in-the-sky monitors.

A second balloon system would be used to provide protection against rocket and mortar attacks: Four balloons would be lofted above the four corners of the aircraft and used to anchor an explosive net above them. The two layers of the net were meant to catch projectiles as they descended toward the aircraft, and small explosives would detonate the warheads, destroying them before they damaged the plane.

The system had never been used in the field before, and though its chief engineer had come along to oversee its deployment, the Whiplashers were having trouble setting it up. The wind proved stronger and more complicated than the computer model could handle, and even the scientist had taken to cursing at the screen.

"We'll get it, Colonel," he said, without looking up. "Growing pains."

Dog smiled and gave him a pat on the back. Dreamland had gained quite a reputation for coming up with cutting edge technology, but in the colonel's opinion, its real ability was dealing with growing pains. That was what Dreamland was all about-taking things from the laboratory and putting them in the field, where the real tests took place. An old saying held that no battle plan survived first contact with the enemy; the words were doubly true when it came to technology.

A convoy of four Land Rovers and a black Mercedes with flags flying from its b.u.mpers approached the security zone around the Megafortresses. Two Whiplash troopers, dressed in full battle gear, stopped the lead truck; within seconds, Danny's radio was squawking.

"A General Locusta wants to visit," Danny told Dog. "His people are kind of p.i.s.sed that we won't let them through."

"Let's go make nice," said Dog, heading toward the stopped convoy.

GENERAL TOMMA LOCUSTA FUMED AS HE SAT IN THE REAR of his Mercedes staff car. It was bad enough that he had to accept a.s.sistance from the U.S. Air Force, but now the arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were preventing him from moving freely on a Romanian base.

An American officer appeared at the window, dressed in a pilot's flight suit.

"Lower the window," Locusta told his driver.

"General Locusta? I'm Lieutenant Colonel Tec.u.mseh Bastian," said the man, bending toward him. "A lot of people call me Dog. I'm in charge of the people here."

"No, Colonel," replied Locusta. "You are in charge of the Americans here. Not the Romanians."

Dog smiled, leaning his hands on the car. "Yes, sir. That's true. I understand we're going to be working with you."

"You're going to be working for me," said Locusta. "To provide support."

"We'll do whatever we can. I wonder if you'd like to huddle for a few minutes and start making some arrangements?"

"What's the word, 'huddle'?"

"Excuse me, General. Your English is so good I just forgot for a minute that you weren't a native speaker. I meant, should we sit down somewhere and talk about the arrangements for our working together? And if you're available, I'd like to introduce you to some of my people, and show you some of the hardware."

Locusta realized the American was trying to be nice to him, but it was too late as far as he was concerned. To a man, the Americans were arrogant blowhards who acted as if everything they touched turned to gold.

"My headquarters right now is just being set up. It's rather spa.r.s.e," added Dog, who gestured toward a small trailer next to a hangar. "But it would give us a place to talk out of the cold."

"Let's go," said Locusta.

"Sir, the one thing I'd ask is that your people stay with you if they're inside our protective corridor. A lot of the security is automated and I don't want any accidents."

"Then see that there are no accidents," said Locusta, rapping the seat back to tell his driver to move on.

DOG TURNED AND LOOKED AT DANNY, ROLLING HIS EYES. Zen, sitting behind them, barely suppressed his laughter.

"Guess we got off on the wrong foot, huh, Dog?" said Zen as they started toward the trailer.

"Ah, he's probably not that bad," replied Dog.

"No worse than Samson."

Dog ignored the comment. "We are guests in his country," he said. "If the tables were turned, we'd probably be a little p.r.i.c.kly."

"You're bucking for the diplomatic corps," said Zen.

Dog laughed. "Maybe I am."

"He's just trying to prove he doesn't have a problem with all generals," said Danny.

"Samson's your boss now, Danny. And yours too, Zen," said Dog. While he didn't like Samson, the hint of disrespect in their voices bothered him. "You better remember that."

"I understand chain of command," said Danny. "I have no problem with that."

"It's generals I don't like," said Zen.

"Then you better not become one," snapped Dog.

He was still irritated when he reached the trailer. General Locusta stood there impatiently, waiting with a dozen aides. The entire contingent started to follow him up the steps.

"The thing is, General, I'm not sure everybody is going to fit inside," said Dog when he realized what was happening. "I'd suggest that maybe you choose-"

"My aides will stay with me."

"Yes, sir."

Not counting the communications specialist in the back compartment, twelve people could fit in the trailer, but it was a squeeze. Sixteen was uncomfortably tight. Locusta had twenty men with him.

Worse, the trailer had only recently been powered up-which meant the environmental system hadn't finished heating it. This wasn't a problem at first, since the body heat from the crowd quickly raised the temperature. But then the system had to switch into cooling mode. It couldn't react fast enough, and the small s.p.a.ce overheated.

Dog tried to ignore the rising temperature. He concentrated on the paper map the general's aides had spread on the table. It showed the mountains and valley farm area to the south where the guerrillas had been operating. Filled with small agricultural communities, the area had been mostly peaceful since the end of World War II.

"Here is the pipeline," said General Locusta, taking over the briefing. "The network runs through here, along this valley, then to the west. It must be protected at all costs. We have forward camps here, here, and here."

Locusta jabbed his finger at a succession of small red squares.

"These mountains here, 130 kilometers from the border-south of Bacau, where our main base is-that is where we have had the most trouble."

"Where was the pipeline attacked the other day?" asked Danny.

"Here, west of Braila, south of Route 25."

"That's pretty far from where you say the guerillas have been operating."

"I considered complaining to them," said the general sarcastically.

The general's brusque manner softened, but only slightly, as Danny explained how his ground team would train soldiers to act as forward air controllers, working with the Megafortress and Flighthawk crews. The Romanians, he said, would be in charge; the Dreamland people would work alongside them, taking the same risks.

When the general's aides began making suggestions about how and where the training should be conducted, Dog noticed the corners of Locusta's mouth sagging into a bored frown.

"General, why don't you and I inspect some of the aircraft that will be available to support you?" he suggested. "We can let these men sort out the other issues and arrangements."

"All right," said Locusta, even though his frown deepened.

LOCUSTA'S APPREHENSION GREW AS THE AMERICAN colonel showed off the Megafortress and its robot planes, the Flighthawks. He'd known the technology would be impressive, of course, but when he was shown a computer demonstration tape from an earlier mission, he was amazed by the ability of the radar to find ground forces and by the robot planes that would attack them. A Megafortress and two Flighthawks could do the work of an entire squadron of fighters.

They were potent weapons, and could certainly help him fight the guerrillas. But they could also upset his plans to take over the country if he wasn't careful.

"General, I'm looking forward to a strong working relationship," Dog told him as they walked back to his car. Locusta's aides were already waiting.

"Yes," said Locusta. "Just remember, Colonel-you are here to a.s.sist us. Not take over."

"I only want to help you."