Her sister didn't have a cell phone; if Jennifer didn't answer, she'd miss her.
Jennifer pitched herself forward on the couch, leaning on the arm to push upward. By the time she grabbed her crutch, the phone had rung for a second time. Her knee muscles had stiffened from sitting, and even though the distance from the living room to the kitchen was only ten feet at most, it seemed to take forever for her to reach the phone. The phone rang for the fourth time just as she grabbed it.
"Hello?"
"Jennifer Gleason, please," said an official sounding male voice.
"Speaking."
"Stand by, Ms. Gleason."
"Who—"
"Hey, Jen. How's it hanging?" "Mack Smith?"
"One and the same, beautiful. Hey listen, we have a serious situation here. Do you have your laptop with you?" "Of course."
"Great. Greeeaaat. Dr. Ray says this is super easy to do, with your eyes closed even… "
While Zen and Hawk One were taking care of the first Russian MiG, SSoim Doi had been hot on the tail of the second. The Russian fighter jock might or might not have been as accomplished as his wing mate, but he was far luckier. Jinking hard and tossing decoy flares as the Romanian closed on his tail, he managed to duck two heat-seekers without deviating too much from his course. SSoim Doi pressed on, closing for another two-fisted missile shot. But bad luck — or more accurately, the notoriously poor Russian workmanship involved in manufacturing the export versions of the Atoll missiles — saved the Russian pilot: the lead missile of the Romanian self-detonated prematurely, knocking out not only itself but its brother less than a half mile from the target.
§oim Doi kept at it, however, following the MiG as it came east and crossed into Romanian air space. Zen, taking over Hawk Two from the computer, pounced on the bandit from above, pushing the Flighthawk's nose toward the MiG's tail. With his first burst of bullets, the MiG jettisoned two of its bombs, then tucked hard right, then left, trying to pull away.
"SSoim Doi, I'm going to close right," Zen said, pushing the throttle to the limit. "Slide a little farther to his left and be ready if he goes toward you."
"Yes," answered the Romanian.
Zen turned the Flighthawk in toward the Russian and lit his cannon. A few bullets nicked the MiG's tail, but the pilot worked his stick and rudder so deftly that Zen couldn't nail him. He was just about to turn the plane over to Dog when a heavily accented voice warned him off. SSoim Unu had rejoined the fight.
The Romanian flight leader had circled around to the west and managed to get in front of the other planes as they jabbed at each other. He turned in, still pushing the pedal to the metal, and made a front quarter attack at high speed, cannon blazing. Most if not all of his bullets missed, but the spooked MiG driver rolled downward and to the south.
The move took him into the path of the other Romanian. §oim Doi pumped a dozen or more 30mm slugs into the enemy MiG before he overtook the plane and had to break off.
Though battered, the Russian managed to come back north, pointing his nose in the direction of the pipeline. But there was no escape now — both Romanians were on his tail. The Russian fired his air-to-ground missiles — much too far from the pipeline to strike it — then turned hard to the right, trying to pull one of the Romanians by him so he could open fire. The maneuver worked, to an extent—§oim Unu started to turn, then realized the trap and broke contact. Before the Russian could take advantage, however, §oim Doi closed in for the kill. The canopy exploded and the Russian shot upward; by the time his parachute blossomed, his aircraft had crashed to the ground.
General Locusta folded the map over the hood of the car. He was losing time; he wanted to be in Bucharest by first light. This needed to be wrapped up. Now.
"What's this building?" he asked, pointing to a small square on the map.
Major Ozera shook his head. "Abandoned. It's small. One of our teams is near there now. The president is not there."
"He has to be on the mountain somewhere."
Locusta looked back at the map. He could send swarms of men onto the hill to find Voda, but he doubted they would kill the president.
He would have Voda brought to him, take him into the ruins, then have him killed.
Along with his family, who must be with him.
And the soldiers who found them? He'd have to kill them too.
Was it worth risking complications? Not yet.
Ozera and his men would have to do a better job.
The general's attention was distracted by the sound of a helicopter flying nearby.
"I told you I didn't want the helicopters involved," Locusta told the major. "Their pilots can't be trusted."
"It's not ours. The sound is different. Louder. Listen."
Locusta listened more carefully, then pulled out his satellite phone.
"Get me the Dreamland people. General Samson. Immediately."
"We're about five minutes away from the top of the hill," the Osprey pilot told Danny Freah. "Where's your man?"
Danny shook his head. He'd checked with Dreamland Command, but Voda had not called the number the ambassador had given him. And the ambassador said that Voda was worried that if they called him, the phone would be heard.
"We can search with the infrared cameras," the pilot told Danny. "We should be able to find them. The night's pretty cold."
"You sure, with all those trees?" asked Danny.
"There's no guarantee. But if they move around — if they want us to see them, we should be able to. I'd say the odds are probably sixty-forty we find them, maybe even higher."
Danny had been on search teams in the Sierra Nevadas at the very start of his Air Force career and he wasn't quite as optimistic. Besides, if Voda was hiding, the people they saw might actually be his pursuers.
"We'll give him another five minutes," he told the pilot. "Let's see what happens."
To Voda, it sounded as if the dogs and troops were less than ten feet away.
A wind had whipped up, and it blew through the trees like a torrent of water streaking over a high falls. The cold had turned his wife's nose beet red; Julian's hands felt like stones in his. Their fear had stopped providing them with energy. They were at the edge of despair, ready to give up.
Mircea started to rise. Voda practically leaped over Julian to grab her. She opened her mouth; Voda clamped his hand over it.
"Sssshhhh," he whispered in her ear.
She gave him a look that he had never seen directed at him before, a stare that in his experience she'd used only twice during their relationship. Both times, it was directed toward members of the old regime, men who were her sworn enemy.
"We'll get through it," whispered Voda. She didn't answer.
The men were louder, closer. Or maybe just the wind was stronger, pushing their voices toward them.
The dogs began to bark wildly. Voda reached for Julian with his other hand, pulling him close. He thought of the pistol — should he take their lives to spare them whatever torture Locusta had in mind?