"I need to be lower."

The captain shook his head.

"Lower!" yelled Voda.

The microphone caught his voice, and it echoed through the cabin. The Osprey settled a little closer to the ground, close enough, at least, for Voda to see that the soldiers were kids: eighteen, nineteen. To them, the dictator was just some story their parents told when they were bored. They didn't know what it was like to be the slaves of a dictator.

Or free men, for that matter.

"Gentlemen of the army," began Voda, his voice shaky. "This is President Voda. I wish to thank you for your role in helping save me today. Our democracy has pa.s.sed a great test, thanks to your help. Romania remains free! Romania for the people!"

The soldiers didn't react. Voda felt a moment of doubt. Then he leaned out the door.

"Thank you, Romania!" he yelled into his microphone. "We remain a free people, with a great future!"

The soldiers began to cheer. Voda waved so hard one of the Americans had to grab him to keep him from falling out.

"To Bucharest," he told Danny Freah.

"d.a.m.n good idea," said Danny. He waved toward the front. The door was closed and the Osprey wheeled back into full flight.

"Hey, Mr. President," said Zen Stockard, sitting across from him. "Whose fancy car is that?"

Voda crossed to the other side of the Osprey and looked out. It was a black Mercedes S series sedan with flags-one Romanian and the other...

The other bore the insignia of the Romanian army.

Locusta's car.

"I want that son of a b.i.t.c.h arrested!" he yelled. "Get him, now! Kill him if you have to."

"Now there's an order we can all live with," said Zen.

Southwest of Stulpicani, Romania

0210.

LOCUSTA HEARD THE AIRCRAFT BUT WAS CONFUSED. IT couldn't be his helicopter-they were still several miles from headquarters.

A black beast swerved in front of the car. His driver hit the breaks.

It was the Dreamland Osprey.

What the h.e.l.l were they doing?

SAMSON HAD ORDERED HIM TO FOLLOW THE ROMANIAN president's orders. Still, Danny Freah didn't feel entirely comfortable shooting up the car.

"Get him to stop," he told the pilots. "Fly in front of him, train the guns on him. Then we'll have him surrender."

The Osprey pitched around, settling in front of the vehicle. Voda was on the loudspeaker, talking to Locusta.

"General Locusta," he said in Romanian, "I order you to place yourself under arrest. You are to come with these soldiers. No harm will come to you, unless you try to escape."

"Tell him to stop the vehicle," said Danny.

"General, stop the car," said Voda.

The Osprey was moving backward, its chin guns pointed at the Mercedes. Instead of slowing, the car picked up speed.

"Can he hear me?" Voda asked.

"Yeah, he can hear you. He's just being stubborn. I'm going to mash up his front end and take out his engine. The car is armored, but that's not going to be much of a problem."

"Do it."

"Yeah."

A second after Danny gave the order, the pilot began firing his chin cannon. The Mercedes veered to the side of the road.

INSIDE THE CAR, GENERAL LOCUSTA THREW HIS ARMS FORWARD, bracing himself as it skidded off the road.

How could this possibly be happening? How had Voda managed to escape-and not only escape, but come for him?

The Americans. Dreamland. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. He'd kill as many of them as he could before they killed him.

He threw open the door and raised his gun.

DANNY SPRUNG FROM THE SIDE DOOR OF THE OSPREY, Sergeants Liu and Boston right behind him. The rear pa.s.senger side door of the car opened and a man leaped to the ground, rolled over, and came up firing a 9mm pistol.

The first two or three bullets flew wildly to the side.

Then one struck Danny in the chest, right above the heart.

His bulletproof vest saved him, deflecting the bullet's energy.

A second later Danny threw himself in the air. He couldn't fly without the MESSKIT, but flying wasn't what he had in mind. He came down on top of Locusta, who dropped the pistol under the force of the blow.

Two punches and it was all over. Locusta, stunned, lay limp on the ground, alive, breathing, but undoubtedly a condemned man.

His driver came out of the car with his hands high.

"You're under arrest by the authority of the president of Romania," said Danny.

"Under the authority of the people of Romania," said President Voda, picking up Locusta's gun from the ground. He hobbled forward, favoring his injured leg. "It's the people who have sovereignty in a democracy, isn't it, Captain?"

VIII.

For Freedom

Bucharest, Romania

3 February 1998

1730.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE DREAMLAND TEAM RETURNED home from their deployment, the president of Romania hosted a special reception for them. When he first heard of the plan, General Samson began to fret-because of the rush, he hadn't packed his Cla.s.s A uniform, bringing only his battle fatigues and flight suits.

In another command the mistake might very well have been fatal. But when you headed Dreamland, people expected you to be a little different. Samson, though perhaps still not entirely comfortable, realized he was beginning to adjust.

President Voda didn't seem to care how the Dreamland people were dressed. He was back in control of his country, with the northern army corps dispersed and the units under all new command. General Locusta was in prison, as were his co-conspirators.

The guerrillas had stopped their attacks, though no one was sure whether they were simply biding their time or if the movement had collapsed, as Sorina Viorica had predicted.

The Russians, while not acknowledging that they had tried to attack the pipeline, had announced that they were appointing a new amba.s.sador to Romania and overhauling the emba.s.sy personnel. More significantly, they had lowered the price of the natural gas they supplied to Europe.

President Martindale had personally telephoned Samson to tell him about the Russians.

"I'm surprised you went to Romania yourself, General," he said. "I thought your priority was at Dreamland."

"My priority is my people, Mr. President. And my mission."

"I'm glad you did," said Martindale. "You need a sense of what's going on. I like that sort of initiative."

So did Samson. The mission had shown him exactly how much there was to a Dreamland Whiplash deployment, how much it depended on the proper mix of technology and old-fashioned warrior spirit. It had also convinced him that while he still had trouble stomaching Tec.u.mseh "Dog" Bastian at times, the lieutenant colonel deserved every accolade he'd ever received, and then some.

It happened that Samson and Colonel Bastian were seated next to each other at the reception. When the band stoked up following the speeches of grat.i.tude and friendship, President Voda rose to dance with his wife. While he favored his injured knee-the ligaments had been strained but not torn-he still cut an acceptable figure on the floor, moving with a slow, dignified grace.

Dog and Samson found themselves alone at the table.

"So," said Samson. "Have you given any thought to your next a.s.signment?"

"Not really," said Dog. "Maybe I'll retire."

"Retire? Quit?"

"I don't know if it's quitting."

"You know, Dog-if I can call you that."

"Sure."

"You have a h.e.l.l of a lot of experience. And you're being promoted to colonel."

"I can't be promoted for a few months at least."

"Way overdue." Samson waved in the air. "Everyone knows you're going to be promoted. You're on the fast track to general. a.s.suming you don't quit."

"I don't think retiring is the same as quitting. I don't have anything left to prove," said Dog.

He leaned back his seat. Samson followed his gaze. He was looking at his daughter, who was kissing Zen at the next table.

"No, true. You have absolutely nothing to prove," agreed Samson. "But on the other hand, you have a lot to offer. A lot of commands could use you. Mine, for instance."

Dog turned to him.

"Look, I know we don't get along. h.e.l.l, Tec.u.mseh, when I met you, I thought you were a big jerk. I still think that. To an extent. A lesser extent."

Dog started to laugh. It was the same laugh, Samson realized, that he'd heard from Breanna in the plane during the mission, after he'd said that some people were conceited.

It must be embedded in the family genes.

"But we don't have to be friends," Samson continued. "That's not what Dreamland is about. Or the Air Force. h.e.l.l, I don't need friends. What I need is someone to run the air wing. Someone with ability. Integrity. Creativity. b.a.l.l.s. A leader."

"I thought you offered that job to someone else."

"Don't worry about that. I've been known to make mistakes. Sometimes..." He broke into a smile. "Sometimes I even admit it."