"Yes, General," said the secretary.

Mack appeared a few minutes later. The major had apparently been eating lunch, because a small bit of ketchup clung to his chin.

"Mack, I want our B-1B/Ls en route to Romania by tonight."

"The B-1s, General?"

"Is there an echo in this room?"

"General, the B-1 project-"

"Spit it out, Major. Let's have your objections in plain language."

"Yes, sir. It's not an objection, it's just-even with Breanna-I mean, Captain Stockard-I'm still one pilot short. We have Sleek Top, Jack Kittle, and Breanna. That's one short-and to be honest, I don't know if you can push Sleek into combat."

"If he volunteers, he can go."

"Well, I don't know that-"

"Have you ever heard of a Marine who didn't volunteer for combat?"

"Um, no sir. But even so, you're still one short."

"No, we're full up. I'll fly Boomer." Samson rose. "Get the others into my office right away. I don't care where they are. Get them. Now. We have a job to do."

V.

Voyeurs at the Edge of Battle

Dochia, Romania

28 January 1998

0500.

IT WAS THE LAST TIME HE'D SEE HER. They'd lain in bed all night, not talking, only their sides touching. Stoner slid away from her now, unsure of himself.

Had there been real emotion from the very beginning, l.u.s.t, or grat.i.tude because of her help? Something vulnerable and simple, frail, unworthy of a spy?

No matter how you steeled yourself-how you stole yourself away, hid the vulnerable part of the soul that everyone had behind a wall, in order to do your job-there was some small slither of humanity left, some piece of flesh vulnerable at the edge.

Stoner pulled on his pants, slipping in the b.u.t.ton at the waist. They were loose. He always lost weight on a mission. Another week and he would need a belt.

Shirt on, he unrolled a fresh pair of socks and sat on the bed, his back to her.

Temptation lingered, her perfume and his sweat mixing in the stuffy room.

He took his shoes, ignored his chance for one last glance, and left.

A HALF HOUR LATER, STONER TURNED HIS MOTORCYCLE off the main road just north of Bacau, riding down a narrow dirt trail that formed a horseshoe between a farm field and the road. Danny Freah was already waiting, sitting in a borrowed Romanian jeep. Stoner drove past quickly, checking the area, then spun back, kicking up dirt and rocks as he skidded to a stop next to Danny's window.

"How goes it?" asked Freah. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a heavy jacket.

"I'm OK. You?"

"This Romanian coffee could wake the dead," said Freah, holding up a plastic travel mug.

"One of Locusta's aides called me last night," Stoner told him. "They're going ahead with the raid tonight. a.s.suming they get approval."

"Yeah, I heard. Locusta's chief of staff called Colonel Bastian." Danny took a sip of the coffee, wincing as he swallowed. "You think their president's going to approve?"

Stoner shrugged. He had no idea. If he had to, he'd sneak into Moldova himself and check on the sites. It'd be far more dangerous, but in some ways much easier: He wouldn't have to worry about anyone but himself.

Danny took another pull from the coffee and once again made a face.

"If it's so bad, why are you drinking it?" Stoner asked.

"I guess I like the pain," said Danny. He laughed softly.

Stoner pulled a blank piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "You got a pen?" he asked.

Danny handed him one and he wrote out the directions to the house where Sorina was holed up.

"She's expecting you in an hour," Stoner said. "Be careful. She's pretty tough."

"Mind if I ask you a question?"

Stoner tensed, expecting that Danny would ask if he'd been sleeping with her.

Would he lie?

No. Tell the truth. No sense not to.

"Aren't you freezing your buns off on that motorcycle?" asked Danny.

Stoner tried not to show his relief that the question wasn't the one he expected.

"It's handy. And it's what I have."

"If there were time, I'd ask to take it for a spin."

"Next time I see you," said Stoner.

"Deal."

"Good luck, Captain."

"Same to you. I don't trust Locusta much."

Stoner smirked, but instead of answering, he revved the bike and started in the direction of the Romanian army camp.

Dreamland

27 January 1998

1900 (0500 Romania, 28 January 1998)

BREANNA FELT HER HEARTBEAT RISE AS BOOMER'S BIG engines cycled up, their ma.s.sive thrust sending a rhythmic shudder through her spine as the afterburners lit. Despite the immense thrust, the big plane seemed to hesitate ever so slightly, her wheels sticking for a brief instant to the concrete pavement.

And then everything let go and she felt herself pushed back in the seat as the B-1 rocketed forward, quickly gathering momentum. Wind swept beneath the aircraft's wings and Boomer lifted off the ground, her nose pushing upward like the proud head of an eagle taking flight.

"Retract landing gear," said General Samson, sitting next to her in the pilot's seat.

"Cleaning gear," said Breanna as she did just that.

The big plane continued to climb, moving through 2,000 feet, through 3,000, through 4,000. Airspeed shot past 360 knots. It was a jolt compared to a Megafortress's takeoff, but by B-1 standards it was almost lackadaisical. Breanna told herself to stop comparing the planes and just fly.

There was a tickle in her nose. She hoped she wasn't getting a cold.

"Big Bird to Boomer. I have you in sight," said Sleek Top from the other B-1B/L. His voice was so loud he drowned out the engines.

"Boomer," acknowledged Samson. "How are you looking?"

"Purring like a kitten, General," responded Sleek. "We have your six."

"Roger that."

"First way marker in ten minutes, General," said Breanna. "Systems are in the green. Fuel burn is a little lighter than originally computed."

"Hmmmph."

"We have a bit more of a tailwind," said Breanna, explaining the difference.

"Good, Captain. Stay on it."

Not too many pilots would have been miffed that they were getting better mileage than expected, but that was Samson. His tone tended to be a bit gruff, but it wasn't anything Breanna wasn't used to from her father. In many ways the two men were similar-no wonder they couldn't stand each other.

GENERAL SAMSON CHECKED HIS COURSE ON THE COMPUTER screen. While he'd flown this B-1 during an orientation flight a few weeks before, it still felt a bit odd. In nearly every measurable aspect, the plane was superior to the "stock" B-1Bs he was used to. It was faster, a hair more maneuverable, and could fly farther without refueling if the tanks were managed properly-which was almost a given, since the computer did the managing.

Boomer's internal bomb bays were taken up by the laser, but the weapon's comparatively lighter weight meant a heavier bomb load could be carried on the wings and fuselage. In this version, the aircraft didn't need the offensive and defensive systems officers; their jobs were completely replaced by the computer. The computer could even take over most if not all of the piloting tasks-not that Samson was about to give it the opportunity.

Still, there was something about Boomer and its sister ship, Big Bird, that bothered him. It was almost too slick, too easy to fly. It wasn't going to keep a pilot on his toes the way an older ship would.

But what the h.e.l.l. It was good to be flying again, and even better to lead a mission. Samson knew there'd be flak from above at some point, but if Colonel Dog Bastian could do it, so could he.

Maybe it would earn him a new nickname: the Flying, Fighting General.

Now that was the sort of thing that helped you get confirmed as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Bucharest, Romania

8 January 1998

0900.