He died a little bit every moment on those missions. He felt dead now — heart pumping, lungs filling, but just as certainly dead inside.
Stoner’s sat phone began to ring. He pulled it out but had trouble hearing.
“Stoner, this is Dog.”
It was Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian, the leader of Dreamland himself, miles away, over the border, circling in an EB–52 Megafortress to provide radar coverage.
“This is Stoner!” Stoner yelled into the sat phone, trying to make himself heard over the helo’s turbines.
“Stoner, tell your pilot and Colonel Brasov there are four MiGs headed in your direction,” said Colonel Bastian. “They’re about ten minutes away from the helicopters.”
“Four what?”
“Four MiGs. Russian fighters. Get the hell out of there. Get over the border.”
“We’re working on it, Colonel.”
Stoner turned to Colonel Brasov and tugged on his arm.
“There are fighter jets headed in our direction,” he said. “They’re about ten minutes away.”
Brasov’s face blanched — he’d said on takeoff that it would take the helicopters roughly thirty minutes to reach the border — then went forward to the cockpit to tell the pilots.
There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, a dozen boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew; the extra weight slowed it down dramatically.
Brasov returned, a frown on his face.
“We will stay very low to the ground,” he said, shouting in Stoner’s ear. “They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight.”
The helicopter suddenly veered hard to the left. Stoner had trouble staying on his feet. The chopper ran a tight zigzag across the fields, the pilot trying to get as close as possible to the trees and buildings so the Aerospatiale would blend into their radar returns and be lost to the MiGs. It was a time-honored solution to the problem of escaping more powerful aircraft.
The problem was, the aircraft they were trying to dodge had look-down radar specifically designed to counter that tactic. And the French-made helicopter wasn’t the most maneuverable chopper in the air.
Stoner realized they were going to be caught. They had to do something desperate — sacrifice themselves maybe, to save the others.
“We’re not going to make it,” he told Brasov finally. “We can’t outrun them.”
The colonel nodded grimly.
“A mother bird when its nest is being attacked pretends to be wounded, drawing the predators away,” Stoner continued. “You could do the same — have one of the helicopters peel off, get the MiGs interested, then land. Everyone runs for it — the MiGs come down and investigate. The other choppers get away. We make our way home by foot.”
Instead of answering, Brasov went forward to the cockpit. Stoner glanced around the cabin. The troops were quiet now, aware they were being pursued.
“You are full of good ideas, Mr. Stoner,” said Brasov, returning. Then he added, “The Russian aircraft are almost on us.”
“How far is the border?”
The colonel just shook his head.
“I would not ask my men to make a sacrifice I was unwilling to make myself,” he said.
“Neither would I,” said Stoner. He glanced around the cabin as Brasov spoke to the pilots. It was one thing to risk his own death, another to risk those of the men around him. He’d just saved a bunch of them. Undoubtedly they were thinking about their families, about getting home, and now he was dooming them.
Colonel Bastian was under orders not to interfere. Bastian wasn’t exactly known for following orders, but in this case he might not have any choice. He was too far away to intercept the MiGs.
Still, Stoner found himself wishing he would.
The helicopter popped up suddenly. Stoner fell back against the bulkhead, then slipped and fell on the deck. Two of the Romanian commandos helped him to his feet.
One of them said something in Romanian. Stoner thought he was telling him not to lose hope. He nodded.
He grabbed the spar as the helicopter whirled hard into the turn. The pilot had spotted a small clearing on the hillside ahead. He launched flares in hopes of decoying the Russian missiles, then pushed the nose of the helicopter down, aiming for the hill.
The helicopter blades, buffeted by the force of the turn, made a loud
Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.
“When we get out, run!” Brasov yelled. “Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours’ walk.”
The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.
The helicopter pitched hard to the left.
“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.
“You, too,” said Stoner.
“Until we meet again.”
Brasov held out his hand.
As Stoner reached for it he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of Breanna Stockard, who’d parachuted with him into the water. They spent the night together in the rain, without any hope of rescue. Now he saw her smiling face in the aircraft just after they were picked up.
He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.
There was a flash above him, and a loud clap like thunder.
And then there was nothing, no memory, no thought, no pain or regret.
Needs
2
Y
The man they called Black Wolf heard the voice in his head, the words playing on an endless loop. He tried to block them out but could not. They were always there, part of an inner voice he could not control.
But there were many things he could not control.
