Just then a rocket-propelled grenade or perhaps a mortar sh.e.l.l struck the back of the house. The brick walls held, but the blast blew out the gla.s.s from the windows, sending the shards flying through the rooms. Lienart ran to the window, peered out, then began firing his submachine gun.

"We're going to the bas.e.m.e.nt," Voda said, pulling his wife with him.

"Go!" yelled Oana Mitca.

"Come with us!" Voda told her.

She hesitated for a moment. Voda grabbed her arm.

"Now!" he said.

Another sh.e.l.l rocked the house. This one landed on the roof and descended into the second floor before exploding.

Debris showered from above, and part of the kitchen wall crumbled. A beam slapped downward, striking the nanny across the shoulder and throwing her to the floor. Voda let go of his wife and ran to her. As he tried to pull the timber off, another sh.e.l.l hit the house. Red flashed through the house, the air filled with dust and smoke.

"Go," whispered Oana.

Voda glanced across the floor, made sure his wife was still there, then reached under the fallen beam. He leveraged his back against it, pushing it upward. Oana Mitca crawled forward, groaning as she came free.

"We need to protect you," she said. Her voice was practically drowned out by the sound of submachine guns.

"Yes, protect us downstairs," said Voda. "Stay with the boy. That's your post."

He pushed her next to his wife, then led them to the door. Just as they started down the stairs, another large round hit the house. The rumbling explosion shook Voda off his feet; he fell down the stairs, tumbling into the women.

They helped each other up. Voda gave his wife the Glock, figuring she would do better with it than the revolver.

"Where's Julian?" asked Oana Mitca.

"This way, come on," said Voda, leading them back to the storage room. He kept flashlights near the entrance to the room, but it wasn't until he started through the doorway that he remembered them. He went back, calling to his son as he grabbed them.

"Julian, Julian, we're here," he said. "Papa's here."

There was no answer. He switched a flashlight on, worrying that Julian had somehow snuck by him and was upstairs. Then he realized he must be in the root cellar around the back of the workshop, unable to hear. He moved through the cobwebs and dust, snaked around the shelves which had once held preserved vegetables, and pulled up the trapdoor.

"Julian?"

"Papa, I'm scared."

"It's OK. Here's a flashlight." He tossed down the light he was holding and lit another. "Down. Come on," he told his wife and Oana, shining the light for them.

Mircea hesitated.

"Julian's down there," he told her.

"Oh, thank G.o.d," she said, squeezing by.

"Come on," he told Oana Mitca.

"No. I will stay here."

"The army is already on its way," Voda told her. "They'll be here in a minute."

"Then I won't have to wait long. Here." Oana Mitca dug into her pocket. "My phone."

Voda took the phone. His impulse was to stay with her, but he didn't want to leave his wife and son alone. "You'll be OK?" he asked.

"Alin, please," said the young woman. "Let me do my job."

"Knock twice on the door," he told her. "Twice, then pause, then again. All right?"

She nodded. Voda gave her his flashlight, then squeezed around the shelves. It was hard to see the stone stairs down to the door of the root cellar, and he slipped on the third step, crashing down to the bottom, against the heavy door. He reached for the doork.n.o.b and tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge.

"Mircea!" he yelled. "Mircea, it's me!"

He couldn't hear anything. He pounded on the door, then tried it again. It still wouldn't budge. Desperate, Voda raised the pistol and was about to fire when he heard the loud creak of the door's hinges.

"It's me, it's me!" he yelled, sliding inside.

"Papa!" yelled Julian.

"Alin, what's going on?" asked his wife.

"The army will be here in a second," he said. "How did you lock this door?"

"I didn't. I jammed the hatchet head against the handle."

She showed him. The blade slipped in under the handle, sliding against the spindle and keeping it from turning.

He took the flashlight from Julian. The walls on either side of the door had iron hooks positioned so a board could be placed across it and keep it closed, but there was no board nearby to lock it down with. He glanced around the cellar, looking for something to use. There had once been a set of shelves against the wall, but the wood was long gone; all that remained were the stones that had supported them.

An old rug sat on the floor. Desperate, Voda grabbed at it, hoping it hid boards. Instead, he saw a smooth piece of metal-a small trapdoor they had never explored.

The explosions were continuing, and growing more intense.

"What happened to the army?" his wife asked.

"They're on their way," Voda told her, dropping to his knees to see if he could open the metal. It was solid, but more the size of a grate than a door.

"Papa are we going to be OK?"

"We're going to be fine Julian. Mircea, help me."

"If we're going to be fine, why are we hiding?" asked Julian.

"Help me with this. Let's see how strong you are," Voda told his son, straining to pull up the metal.

Though thin, the trapdoor was very heavy. Finally, with Mircea's help, Voda managed to push it slightly aside, then pushed with his heels to reveal an opening about two feet by a foot and a half.

It was part of an old cistern system, designed at some point in the very distant past to supply water to the house. The walls were overgrown with blackish moss. About four feet down, it opened into what looked like a tunnel.

"We can't go down there, Voda," said Mircea.

"I didn't say we were going to."

He went back to the door.

"I'm going up and getting some of the boards to block us in," he told his wife. "I'll knock twice, pause, then knock again. Twice. You'll hear my voice."

"Where is the army?" Mircea demanded. "Why aren't they here?"

"Just give them time. I'm sure they're on their way," he said, removing the hatchet. He left her the flashlight. "Lock it behind me."

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2240.

ZEN WATCHED THE LONG-DISTANCE RADAR PLOT, MARKING the progress of the helicopters as they left the field near the church. From all reports, the operation had been a resounding success. Both sites had proven to be rebel strongholds, and the guerrillas taken completely by surprise. Roughly a hundred guerrillas were killed or captured at the farm; a little less than half that at the church. Weapons had been stockpiled at both. The church had also yielded a treasure trove of doc.u.ments and a computer.

"A lot of activity at border post M-2," said Spiff, operating the ground radar upstairs. "Looks like the Moldovans have finally woken up."

Zen switched his video view to Hawk Two, which was near the border post. He was too far to see anything however, and the terrain and nearby trees made it difficult to get much of a view of the small guardhouse unless he went into Moldovan territory-which of course he couldn't do.

"First helicopter is over the line," said Rager, who working the airborne radar.

Zen felt his body starting to relax. The operation would be over inside an hour, and they could stand down.

It wasn't that he felt exhausted. It was that feeling of uselessness that he wanted to lose.

"s.h.i.t-MiGs are back!" said Rager, practically yelling over the interphone. "Afterburners-they're coming west, high rate of speed. Touching Mach 2."

"Here we go again," said Sullivan.

"Colonel, they don't look like they're coming for us," said Rager a minute later. "They're on a direct line for the helicopters."

Moldova

2245.

THE INSIDE OF THE HELICOPTER WAS SO LOUD IT WAS HARD to hear Colonel Bastian's voice over the roar of the blades. Overloaded, the aircraft strained to clear the trees at the edge of the field. It cleared the top branches by only a few feet, but continued to steadily rise.

"This is Stoner!" Stoner yelled into the sat phone.

"Stoner, tell your pilot and Colonel Brasov there are four MiGs headed in your direction," said Colonel Bastian. "They're about ten minutes away."

"Four what?"

"Four MiGs. Russian fighters. Get the h.e.l.l out of there. Get over the border."

"We're working on it, Colonel."

Stoner turned to Colonel Brasov and tugged on his arm.

"There are fighter jets headed in our direction," he said. "They're about ten minutes away."

Brasov's face blanched-he'd said on takeoff that it would take the helicopter roughly thirty minutes to reach the border-then went forward to the c.o.c.kpit to tell the pilots.

There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, several boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew.

Brasov returned, a frown on his face.

"We will stay very low to the ground," he said, shouting in Stoner's ear. "They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight."

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2247.