"Fire Fox One!" said Sullivan. The radar missile dropped off the rail. It accelerated with a burst of speed.
"MiG is turning back east," said Sullivan. "Missile is tracking."
Dog brought the ground radar plot on his control board. He had the same situation on the ground as he had in the air — if the Moldovans attacked, he'd be unable to do anything until they came over the line.
"Splash MiG!" shouted Sullivan.
"Close the bay doors," said Dog.
"Colonel, looks like the Moldovan ground forces are going to miss our guys," reported Spiff. "The trucks just got on the highway, heading east. Eight, nine troop trucks. Ten, twelve. Whole force looks like they've caught the wrong scent."
Thank God, thought Dog.
General Locusta stared down at the map being used to track the raid's progress. The appearance of the MiGs had dramatically changed the mood in his headquarters conference room.
"I still can't get them on the radio," said the communications specialist.
"Prepare a rescue mission. Ground and air."
"Standing by, General. The helicopters should be refueled within ten minutes."
Damn the Russians. They would claim that they were merely honoring their treaty with Moldova, but Locusta knew this was actually aimed at him — a pointed reminder that he could not count on the Americans in the future.
As for the Americans…
"The Dreamland people. What are they doing?"
"Continuing to engage the aircraft at last report."
"Have them pinpoint the route of the helicopter toward the border."
"Yes, sir."
"Losing one helicopter does not mean the mission was a failure, General," whispered one of his aides as Locusta stalked across the room for coffee.
"Yes," he muttered. His thoughts were split between the operation, the men he'd lost — and the president.
The call should have come an hour ago.
"General, we have an urgent call for you from Third Battalion."
About time, thought Locusta, though as he turned he made his face a blank.
"The unit near the president's house — they're responding to an attack by the guerrillas."
"What?"
"Here, sir."
Coffee spilled from Locusta's cup as he practically threw it back down on the table and strode to the phone. "Locusta."
"There has been an attack," said one of the captains at the headquarters of the unit assigned to help guard the president. "Guerrillas."
"When? What's going on?"
Locusta listened impatiently as the man related what he knew. The alarm had come in only a few minutes before. Guerrillas had struck at the battalion's radio and the local phone lines around the same time, making it difficult to communicate with the base.
"When did this occur?" demanded Locusta.
The man did not know. The attack had apparently begun sometime before.
"Where is the President?"
"Our troops are only just arriving," said the captain. "We have not yet made contact with his security team." "Didn't they send the alert?"
"No."
They hadn't been able to — as part of his plan, Anton Ozera had directed his team to activate a cell phone disrupter just before the attack. Like everything else that would indicate the assault was more than the work of unsophisticated guerillas, it would have been removed by now.
"Keep me informed," said Locusta.
He handed the aide back the phone.
"We have another developing situation," he announced.
Voda watched from the small, glassless window of the cave as two more members of his presidential security team were carried out to the space in front of the barn. They were clearly already dead; their bodies bounced limply when they were dropped.
The men carrying them were soldiers — or at least were dressed in Romanian army uniforms. The fighting seemed to have died down; Voda couldn't hear any more gunfire.
Julian was trembling, either with the cold or fear, or maybe both. Voda pulled him close.
"We're going to be OK," he whispered. "It's going to take us a little while, but we'll be OK."
"What are they doing?" Julian asked.
"I'm not sure."
Lights arced through the window. Voda froze, then realized they had come from the headlamps of trucks driving up past the garage. He rose and looked out the corner of the window. Two trucks had just arrived. Soldiers ran from the back, shouting as they disappeared.
"What's going on?" Mircea asked.
"I can't tell."
"Is the army here?"
"Yes, but there's something odd about it." "What kind of odd?"
Voda couldn't bring himself to use the word "coup." He watched as two soldiers came into view, walking from the direction of the house. He moved his head to the very side of the window as they took up their posts guarding the bodies yet not hardly looking at them, save for a few glances— guilty glances, Voda thought, though they faced the street, their backs to him.
It was possible that the soldiers had arrived toward the very end of the firefight, with all of his defenders dead, and were unable to tell who was who. Still, the way that the bodies had been handled alarmed Voda. His guards all had IDs, and were wearing regular clothes besides. It ought to be easy to differentiate between them and the guerrillas.
Was he just being paranoid? The only people in this pile were security people. Perhaps he was mistaking fear of the dead for disdain.
"If the army is here, shouldn't we go out?" asked his wife.
"There's something about it that's not right, Mircea," he whispered. "I can't explain. But I don't think it's safe yet."
"They'll find the tunnel we came through."
"I know."
Voda sat down next to the door, trying to think. Mircea turned on the flashlight. He grabbed it from her and flipped it off.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm looking around. Maybe there's something here we can use."
"Don't use the flashlight. They'll see outside."
"I can't see in the dark."
"There's enough light, when you get close."
This was true, but just barely. Mircea began crawling on her hands and knees, working her way deeper into the cave. They had been in this cave only once that he could remember, soon after buying the property three years before. There was nothing of use, he thought — no machine guns, no rifles. But at least looking would give his wife something to do rather than stand around and worry that they would be found.
They would be found sooner or later. Most likely very soon — it was only a matter of time before someone figured out that they'd gone into the cistern well.
Could the army have revolted? These men were under Lo-custa's control. Would they defy him?
Would he launch the coup?
He was certainly ambitious enough.
If the generals, or a general, revolted, would the men in the ranks follow suit? Would they remember what the country was like under the dictator?
But maybe life for them under the dictator was better. They were privileged then, poor but privileged. Now they were still poor, and without privilege.
Voda stood back up and looked through the window. The men guarding the bodies were young; they would have been little older than Julian when Ceausescu died, too young to know how things truly were then.
"Two more," said someone he couldn't see.
Voda slipped his head closer to the side. Two more bodies, both of his security people, were dumped.
"Have they found the president yet?" asked one of the men who'd been guarding the bodies.
Voda couldn't hear the answer, but it was some sort of joke — the soldiers all laughed.
He had to find a place to hide his family. Then he could find out what was going on.