"Come on," he said, turning to get into the tunnel, but the others were ahead of him. His pants were soaked. He pushed ahead, slipping occasionally on the slime and mud, trying not to think that this was a perfect place for rats.

Lined with stone, the tunnel ran straight for about fifteen feet, then made a sharp turn to the left and began sloping upward. It narrowed as it turned, then the ceiling lowered to two feet. They began to crawl.

"I can stand!" shouted Julian suddenly.

"Wait," said Voda. Then, as the sound echoed through the chamber, he added, "Talk in whispers. Or better, don't talk."

Mircea played the light through the black s.p.a.ce before them. They were in a round room about the size of the one they had come down to from the bas.e.m.e.nt. At the far end they found another hole leading upward, similar to the one they had used to enter, though it was about eight feet deep and a little wider. There was a piece of metal on top, again similar to what they'd found in the root cellar.

"Maybe they're waiting above," said Mircea.

"Maybe." Voda climbed up the sides of the well. He thought he knew where he was-the barn about thirty feet from the eastern end of the house, used by the security people as a headquarters so they didn't disturb the family.

Centuries before, water would have been collected from the roofs of the building, piped down somehow, then stored so it could be distributed from these wells, both in the house and in the barn. The gutters or whatever had fed them were long gone, but the reservoir system remained.

Would they be safer in the tunnel or in the barn?

He wasn't sure.

It might be a moot question-the metal panel seemed impossible to move.

He braced himself by planting his shoes into the lips between the stones, then put his hand against the metal, pushing.

Nothing.

"Mama, I need the light!" yelled Julian below.

"Hush. Papa needs it."

"I think there is another tunnel this way!"

Voda climbed back down. Again he slipped the last few feet. This time he landed on his b.u.t.t, but at least didn't hit his head again.

"Let's see this tunnel," he told his son.

It was narrower than the others, but also ended in an upward pa.s.sage, only four feet off the ground. It too had a metal panel at its end, and Voda levered himself into position, putting his shoulder against it and pushing.

It moved, but just barely-so little in fact that at first he wasn't sure if it actually had moved or if he was imagining it. He braced himself again, and this time Mircea helped. Suddenly, it gave way, and they both slipped and fell together, bashing each other as they tumbled down.

The pain stunned him; the hard smack froze his brain. He found himself trapped in silence.

"Papa?" said Julian.

"Are you all right, Mircea?" he said.

"Yes. You?"

He rose instead of answering. "Up we go," he said, his voice the croak of a frog. "Up, up."

Gripping the edge of the trapdoor, he levered it open. He pulled himself up into darkness. It took a few moments to realize that he wasn't in the garage at all.

"Give me the flashlight," he hissed down to his wife.

"Voda, we can't stay down here."

"Just wait," he said, taking the light. He held it downward, hoping the beam wouldn't be too obvious if someone outside were watching.

The well had a stone foundation, and came up in the middle of a stone floor. Rotted timbers were nearby, some on the ground, others against the wall. But the ceiling and parts of the wall beyond the wood seemed to be stone. He got up, then saw casks against the wall, covered with dirt. Now he could guess where he was: an abandoned cave about seventy-five feet from the house, at the start of a sharp rise. It had once been used as a storehouse for wine or beer.

And probably for making it, if the cistern was here, though that was not important now.

"Alin?"

He went back to the hole and whispered to his wife. "Come up."

"I can't lift Julian."

Voda clambered back down. He had his son climb onto his shoulders, and from there into the cave. Voda turned back to help his wife, but she was already climbing up.

They slipped the metal cover back on the hole. Did they hear voices coming from the tunnel behind them? Voda didn't trust his imagination anymore.

"We're in the cave, aren't we?" said Julian, using their name for the structure.

"Yes."

"How do we get out?" asked Mircea. The cave door was locked from the outside. There was a small opening at the top of the rounded door, blocked by three iron bars. The s.p.a.ce between the bars was barely enough to put a hand through.

Voda went to it and looked out into the night. Compared to the darkness of the tunnel and the cave, the outside was bright with moonlight. He saw figures in the distance, near the driveway and the garage.

They were soldiers, or looked like soldiers. An army truck had pulled up to the driveway. Men jumped out.

Thank G.o.d!

But Voda's relief died as he saw two men dragging a woman into the light cast by the truck's headlights.

He recognized her clothes and hair. It was Oana Mitca.

The soldiers dumped her the way they would dispose of an old rag. She lay limp.

Another man came up; an officer, he thought. He had a pistol. Oana Mitca's head exploded.

Why would they kill his son's bodyguard?

"Voda?" whispered his wife. "What's going on? I hear trucks, and I heard a shot."

"There's more trouble than I thought," he said, sliding back from the door.

Aboard EB-52 Johnson,

over northeastern Romania

2251.

THE MIGS HAD FINALLY REALIZED THE HELICOPTERS WERE to their south. They were ten miles from the closest group. Even if the pilots took their time and waited for the perfect shot, they'd be in position less than three minutes from now.

And still far from the border.

"Why the h.e.l.l aren't we doing something?" snapped Zen over the interphone. "Colonel, you can't keep us here."

"We have our orders," responded Dog.

Zen checked the positions on his screen. He could get Hawk One over the border, tell the computer to take out the lead MiG. Even if the Megafortress flew west, out of control range, the onboard computer guiding the robot plane would take it in for the kill.

He had to do it. He couldn't let the men aboard those choppers die.

If he did that, he knew he'd be disobeying a direct order. He'd be out of the Air Force, maybe even imprisoned.

"Colonel, we have to do something."

"No, Zen. Keep the planes where they are. Be ready if they come over the border. If you can't follow my orders, you'll be relieved."

f.u.c.k that, thought Zen.

It was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to keep his mouth shut-and the planes where they were.

ON THE SITREP VIEW OF THE RADAR SCREEN DOG WAS watching, it looked as if one of the helicopters stopped in midair.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"He just popped up, gaining alt.i.tude," said Rager. "He's making himself a target. It's a decoy."

Dog saw the helicopter peeling back, trying to decoy the MiGs away. It was a n.o.ble idea, but it wasn't going to work-there were too many MiGs.

"Sully, open bomb bay doors. Prepare to fire Scorpions."

"You got it, Colonel."

Sullivan quickly tapped the controls and the Megafortress rocked with the opening of the bay doors.

"Scorpion One is locked on target!" yelled Sullivan.

"Fire. Lock the second-lock them all, and fire."

Sullivan quickly complied.

Not one member of the crew objected. They'd all put their careers, possibly a good portion of their lives, in Dog's hands. They knew the orders, realized how explicit they were: Do not under any circ.u.mstance cross the border or fire across the border, do not engage any Russian aircraft.

Under any circ.u.mstance.

Everyone aboard the Johnson wanted to disobey those orders, Dog realized, and would, gladly it seemed, if he led the way.

Was it because he had a Medal of Honor?

They were good men, men who knew right from wrong and valued honor and duty as much as he did; they weren't easily influenced by medals.

Dog checked his radar screen. The first MiG had suddenly jinked back east. Missile one, tracking it, jerked east toward the border.

"Self-destruct missile one," said Dog.

"Colonel?"

"Sully, hit the self-destruct before it goes over the border. Now!"

Dog tapped his armament panel to bring up the missile controls, but it was unnecessary-Sullivan did as he was told. He did the same for missile three as its target also turned east, taking its missile with it.

The last two aircraft continued toward the helicopters.

"Missile two, tracking and true," said Sullivan. There was a tremor in his voice. "Missile four, tracking and true."

"Self-destruct missile two," said Dog as the missile neared the border.

"Colonel?"

Dog ignored him, reaching for the panel and killing both missiles himself.

"Missile launch," said Rager, his voice solemn.

A launch warning lit on his dashboard. One of the MiGs had just fired a pair of heat seekers at the helicopter.

Moldova

2256.