Which was what the Russian wanted. "What is the interval between radio checks?" asked Svo-ransky.
"It is not necessary to worry about that," said Locusta, fearing he had given away too much information already. Svoransky was helping him, but it would be a mistake to believe that their interests were precisely the same.
A severe mistake. The Russians could never be trusted. Even Romania's fool of a president, Alin Voda, knew that.
Voda. Just thinking of him turned Locusta's stomach. He was a weakling, a democrat — part of the alleged liberalizing movement that aimed at bringing Romania into the twenty-first century. The movement was nothing but a cover for money grabbing capitalists who aimed at stealing Romania blind.
"Very good, then," said Svoransky. "I appreciate your showing me this in person."
Locusta nodded. He had taken the task on himself because he felt he could trust no one with it — not because he was afraid they would betray him, but because the soldiers in his command retained a strong dislike for Russians. Few Romanian soldiers, officers or enlisted, would have been able to countenance helping the Russians in this way. Locusta himself barely accepted it, and he was doing it so he could rid the country of its scoundrel democrats and return the strong hand it deserved.
"You are sure you have everything you need?" Svoransky asked. "Very sure? You must see to every detail — you do not want the government realizing who is truly behind the attacks."
The remark didn't deserve an answer, and Locusta made no reply. Instead he turned his glasses to the southeast, in the general direction the pipeline took from Bulgaria, through Turkey, and over to the far-off Caspian Sea. It was amazing to think that the gas would travel so many miles — and that it would go even farther still, to Austria, then Czechoslovakia, Germany, France, and Spain.
Of course, that wouldn't be the case once the attacks were finished. Western Europe would have to freeze — or buy from the Russians, which was what Svoransky wanted.
While stopping the flow of gas served Locusta's purposes as well, he did not want the pipeline damaged too severely. As soon as he was in charge of the government, the line would be repaired — and better guarded, most especially against the Russians. The revenues would be as handy for him as they were for Voda and his cronies.
"Tomorrow," said Svoransky. "Depend on it."
"We will," said Locusta, starting back toward the car.
Jeff "Zen" Stockard tapped the side of the pool and started back on his last lap, pushing hard enough to feel the strain in his shoulder muscles. The water was warm, and stank of chlorine. He closed his eyes and dove down, aiming for the bottom. He tapped it, then came up quickly, his thrusts so hard he nearly slammed against the end of the pool.
"You're looking good," said the lifeguard, standing nearby with a towel. They were the only two people in the large room that housed the gym's pool.
"Thanks, Pete." Zen put his arms on the edge of the pool and lifted himself out slowly, twisting his body around to sit on the side. Even though he'd grown friendly with the lifeguard — or trainer, which was his actual title — over the past six or seven months, Zen still felt self-conscious getting in and out of the pool, and especially getting into his wheelchair.
It wasn't the chair that bothered him; it was the looks of apprehension and pity from the people who saw him.
Not being able to use his legs did bother him, of course. It bothered him a great deal. But most days he had other things to focus on.
"Hey." The lifeguard squatted down. "You want to catch some breakfast? Coffee or something?"
"No, sorry. I'm supposed to meet Bree for breakfast before work."
Pete threw the towel over his shoulders. "I saw those news reports," he said. "God damn. You are a real hero. I'm really… it's amazing."
Zen laughed.
"No, I mean it. I ain't buttering you up, Zen. I'm really honored just to know you."
"Hey, I'm still the same guy," said Zen. He wasn't sure why he was laughing — maybe because he was nervous about being called a hero, or about being in the spotlight. "Still the same guy who pulls his pants on one bum leg at a time."
"You want me to get your chair?"
"If you could."
"Of course I can. God. Jeez, man, for you I'd do anything."
Zen began edging away from the pool. The flooring material was textured to provide a good grip for feet, which made it harder for him to move back. The lifeguard positioned the chair and helped him up.
"Hard to believe you could do all that and still be in a wheelchair," he said. "You guys really did stop a war."
"I guess we did."
"Maybe no one will ever go to war again, huh? If they know you guys will step in?"
"Somehow, I think that's wishful thinking, Pete," said Zen, starting for the locker room.
"What are you doing out of bed?"
"I'm taking a walk," said Breanna Stockard.
"What are you doing out of bed?" repeated the doctor. Her name was Rene Rosenberg, and she was so short that Bre-anna — no giant herself — could look down at the top of her head and see speckles of gray in the roots of her hair.
"I seem to be taking a walk," repeated Breanna.
"You're dressed."
"Just about." Breanna turned slowly, surveying the room. She'd forgotten where her sweater was.
"Ms. Stockard — really, I insist that you rest. Have you had breakfast?"
"I need to move my legs before breakfast."
"The bathroom is behind you."
"I've already been."
"Then please, back in bed."
Breanna spotted the sweater on the chair under the television.
"I don't want you putting weight on that right leg," warned the doctor.
"You said the X rays were clean."
"Yes, but the ligaments and tendons in your knee were severely damaged."
"But not torn. Exercise is good," added Breanna, remembering the doctor's own words.
"Supervised exercise as part of a rehabilitation program, not jogging around the halls at seven in the morning."
"I was thinking I'd save the jogging for after breakfast."
Breanna shifted her weight back and forth. The ligament connecting the muscles and bones together had been severely strained, but not torn. Still, it did hurt enough for her to fight back a wince.
The doctor had her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. "Frankly, Breanna, I don't understand how you managed to avoid breaking your leg, let alone ripping the knee to shreds. How are your ribs?"
"Solid."
"And your head?" "Still hard as a rock."
Dr. Rosenberg frowned. Breanna's lower right ribs were badly bruised. Her injuries had come after ejecting from her Megafortress, though their exact origin was something of a mystery — the doctors believed she had hit something, probably the bottom of the plane as she jumped, though Breanna thought it had happened much later, when she hit the water. She had a good memory of leaving the plane, jumping through the open hatchway in the Flighthawk bay with Zen. She could see him falling with her, diverted slightly by the slipstream of wind below the fuselage. His chute opened. She felt the tug of hers, looked up and saw the blossom above her…
The rest was a blank. Zen had found her in the water, pulled her onto a small atoll off the Indian coast, gotten her food and helped get them rescued.
"Breanna, really, you have to take it easy," said the doctor. "Seriously, Bree."
Something about the doctor's tone of voice-it was very unprofessional, almost pleading — caught Breanna off guard. "I'm OK," she told her.