“Not exactly.”
Moffitt broke in. “Those big thinkers in Moscow can’t understand the data. They’ve got it piled up to their ears but can’t really decipher it. They have linguists, but the Americans use words that have no Russian equivalents. They say there are electronic parts made of atomic elements ... I think that’s it . . . that even some of our best scientists have never heard of.
“So it takes time. In a couple of years everything they don’t understand will be commonplace. Right now they have superconducting circuitry that weighs two hundred pounds—in two years or less they’ll be putting superconductors in wrist- watches—”
“Our people will not wait two years to build a thought- controlled aircraft,” Kramer said. “In two years the Americans can replace their European-based fighter force with these DreamStar aircraft. With an aircraft like DreamStar opposing our forces, our conventional-force superiority will be offset. We got them to reduce theirs and still leave us with an advantage. A plane like this DreamStar can undo all our advantages.”
“But DreamStar is still in its early research phase. It won’t be ready for production for two years. They might have a first operational unit by the year two thousand but even that’s an optimistic estimate.” He looked at Kramer. “Whoever’s feeding you or the Command this stuff is dangerous, Kramer. They’re trying to push the Kremlin into making a false move, one that could be embarrassing to the government and deadly for us.”
“What would you know about it?” Moffitt broke in. “You don’t even speak Russian any more. You’ve lost touch with your country. What would you know about what goes on in the Kremlin?”
Maraklov sidestepped the accusation to firmer ground. “I know that someone has overestimated the progress on the DreamStar project. You listen, Moffitt—this project is as much mine as it is yours. It’s my life if I get caught. I can be executed or spend the rest of my life in prison. If you get caught you pull out your diplomatic credentials and get yourself kicked out of the country. Big deal—”
“I said enough,” Kramer interjected. “Orders have already been received from Moscow. They are what prompted and justified this meeting with you. The Ramenskoye Research Center in Moscow reported that your data, although revealing, is still not sufficient for them to reconstruct the XF-34 DreamStar aircraft. It is much more than copying the design and the components—it seems they do not have the basic knowledge of the technology involved with the craft. They estimate several years before we will have the technology to duplicate the design with sufficient quality to match the present-day aircraft.” He paused, then: “The KGB has been ordered to obtain the XF-34 DreamStar aircraft from the American High Technology Advanced Weapons Center. Captain James, you are to steal DreamStar and bring it to Moscow.”
“Steal DreamStar? Impossible! Crazy!”
“Nevertheless, we have been ordered—”
“I refuse. You would jeopardize all this work, all this time, in an attempt to get a fighter out of the most heavily defended military reservation in the United States?”
Moffitt finally let out what he had been thinking ... “He has been turned, just as I thought—”
No hesitation, James rushed Moffitt, feinted with a right roundhouse to Moffitt’s head, stepped closer and put him on the floor with a practiced kick in the groin.
He could hear Kramer trying quietly as he could to order him to stop. He wasn’t listening. As Moffitt crumpled unconscious on the carpet, Maraklov grabbed the poker and held the point on Moffitt’s throat. . . “The first thing I’ll do if they ever turn me,” he said, pressing the sharp iron shaft into Moffitt’s Adam’s apple, “is hunt you down and kill you. Don’t give me an excuse to do it before then.”
“Enough, ” Kramer said, and grabbed away the poker. Breathing heavily more from the adrenaline pumping than from any exertion, Maraklov told Kramer, “He knows too much. Any man with as little common sense who can name agents in the western United States is a major security risk—” Kramer looked at Moffitt, back to Maraklov. “We are not unaware of the problem... diplomatic visas are being delayed. I need him, for now.” He noted Moffitt was beginning to come around. “Now sit down, we need to talk about this.”
James went to the kitchen, brought two cans of beer. As he opened his can he said, “The idea is impossible, Henry. I can’t conceive of a plane leaving Dreamland without authorization and make it away from American pursuit. Never.”
“Dreamland is like a safe, correct?” Kramer said, looking on as Moffitt rolled up to his hands and knees, groaning and shaking his head. “The defenses there are to keep people out, not to keep anything in. ”
“Wrong. The defenses around HAWC can do both.” James stood and went into his bedroom, coming back moments later with a Las Vegas visual navigation chart. He unfolded it and set it on the coffee table.
“Here. R-4808 North. Groom Lake. Emigrant Valley Road, military only. Where the road meets the south edge of Groom Lake is where the four aircraft hangars, offices, labs and weapons storage areas are. Garrisoned right there with the hangars are a detachment of twenty combat-ready security police with dogs, around the clock. They have armored vehicles, automatic weapons, guided missiles—they could hold off a regiment. Keeping one plane from leaving the security area would be a simple exercise. The buildings are surrounded by a twelve-foot concrete reinforced cyclone fence. You have to get past all that just to get into position for takeoff on Groom Lake . . . But let’s say I make it and I managed to take off. Now I’ve got to get out of Dreamland.
“Dreamland has this country’s only fixed surface-to-air missile sites. They’re on Bald Mountain, on the Shoshone Mountain range, Skull Mountain, Timber Mountain and Papoose Peak. First-generation Rapier missile batteries, complete coverage from surface to thirty-thousand feet within R-4808N. Single mobile sites are located on Tonopah Test Range to the northwest and China Lake to the southwest.”
Kramer took a sip of beer, grimaced at the taste, then pointed to the chart. “So, you do not go that way.”
“There is no way to go. There are a dozen Navy and Air Force fighter bases within a thousand miles of Dreamland, and I guarantee you, every one of them will launch aircraft in pursuit. If each base launches only two aircraft, that still means there will be twenty-four advanced fighter planes looking for me. Where do I run, Kramer?”
The agent studied the chart. “Mexico is only three hundred miles away . . .”
“True. But the Mexican government would allow American fighters in hot pursuit across their borders. And that’s if DreamStar could get across the border. There are four fighter- interceptor squadrons between here and Mexico, and both the Americans and the Mexicans conduct all-altitude surveillance of the airspace near the border. It’s impossible, Kramer.” “You’ve had your nose in that plane too long. Relations are strained almost to the breaking point between the United States and Mexico,” Kramer said. “The U.S. pressing Mexico on repayment of debts has turned them cold. And the pro-U.S. government is being accused of selling out the country to Uncle Sam. The Soviet Union is the beneficiary. We have a carefully developed cordial relationship with the rest of Central America too. We can ensure that any American pursuit of > DreamStar across the border will not be allowed, that Mexican military forces will interdict American aircraft penetrating their airspace. They’re very proud, you know ... Anyway, that should allow you time to evade pursuit. After that we can arrange an emergency refueling somewhere inside Mexico.” “Even if all you say about their feelings toward the U.S. is true, the Mexican government would never agree to that. ” “There are thousands of square miles of the interior that could serve as a temporary base,” Kramer said. “From what you have described, your DreamStar aircraft could land and take off anywhere—on a dirt road, a grass strip, a plateau—” “I’m not going to try to land DreamStar on some grass strip . . .”
Kramer looked closely at him. Maraklov sounded like he was talking about a personal possession. He filed it away an
d decided not to use it for the moment . . . “We have Mexican transport companies on private contract—they of course do not know that their contract is with the KGB—that can fly our teams in to service your aircraft without arousing the authorities—”
“And then what? I can cruise a little over a thousand nautical miles on full tanks—no air combat, no external stores, no low- altitude flight. I’d have to cross the Gulf of Mexico undetected to be able to make it into ... Cuba. That’s impossible. We both know the U.S. can track every aircraft over the Gulf unless it’s down at low altitude. I’d be jumped after I went a hundred miles. If I tried to make the flight at low altitude I’d flame out before I made dry land.”
“Then forget Cuba, go somewhere else . . . Nicaragua, for instance.”
“Nicaragua? Great. And how do I get out of Nicaragua? The U.S. Navy would seal off that whole region tight. I’d fly right into a trap—”
“You are being very uncooperative—”
“I’m being realistic. I’m not going to consider this deal without a detailed plan. You expect me seriously to consider this half-baked idea? I’m supposed to put my life on the line for some bureaucrat’s wet dream—?”
“The North American Command has issued its orders—” “And I’m countermanding them. I’m the commander of the Dreamland mission. That gave me the authority to decide how my operation proceeds. Unless I receive specific orders I am not going to consider any such operation.” He stood, facing Kramer and now Moffitt, who had struggled to a seat. “I’ll keep you updated on any developments—about DreamStar, security and the rest. Meantime, don’t contact me in my apartment again.”
“You’d better reconsider,” Kramer said. “An order from Moscow cannot be ignored. You know that.”
“I’ll consider it, but only when the situation justifies the tremendous loss of a trained agent in place. As of now, it doesn’t. All that’s indicated is that the operation proceed with extreme caution, which is what I intend to do.” He motioned toward the door. “Now get out. And you’d better not return directly to your consulate in Los Angeles. There’s a good chance that you’ll be followed.” He paused, then said: “Go visit your buddies in Mexico.”
Moffitt left first to check the parking area and driveway for tails. Kramer paused inside the front door.
“I will report what you have said. I warn you, do not separate yourself from the Command any further.”
Maraklov said nothing as Kramer looked out the door, got an all-clear flash from Moffitt’s cigarette lighter, went out.
After the agents had departed, James locked and bolted the door—and suddenly felt as if he was suffocating . . .
His mind’s eye could see unmarked cars roaring up the driveway toward his stairway, plainclothes FBI, CIA and DIA agents, led by Major Hal Briggs, coming up the stairs, kicking in his door, hauling him away in handcuffs, thrown into the back of a van with Kramer and Moffitt, who must have been arrested already . . . The federal authorities would interrogate them, separately, of course. He could trust Kramer to keep silent, insisting that he and Moffitt be returned to their consulate, but he was positive Moffitt would spill his guts just for an opportunity to get back at him. He would be identified as a Soviet agent and taken into custody, charged with espionage. His career was ruined. He’d never fly DreamStar again, never experience the indescribable experience of becoming one with that amazing machine . . .
Should he just sit here waiting, or escape right now? Activate his safe’s incendiary device himself so as to not risk Briggs or one of his men discovering the trip-wire and disarming the device? He’d take the money he’d hidden, go to Mexico, maybe further south, maybe to the wild interior of Brazil, out of reach of both American and Soviet intelligence units. He’d contact Moscow in hiding until he could be sure he was safe— from his own people as well as the Americans ... He removed two of the books on the top shelf in front of the hidden wall safe. In case someone tried to break in he could reach in between the books, pop open the hidden panel and activate the incendiary device. He then shut off the lights, poured himself a glass of Scotch whiskey and sat down in the darkened living room.
Half a glass of Scotch later, sleep finally overtook him, but he was not getting any rest. For the first time since those first few months of his new life in America, Andrei Maraklov as Ken James remembered what real fear, real terror was.
* * *
Now that she was a senior civilian contractor on a small military installation, Wendy Tork’s hours were much more regular than in the early years when she had spent days in her laboratory, working on some irritating software bug. She remembered slaving over a computer terminal, staring at a screen full of lines of computer code. In the early eighties debugging software and artificial intelligence-based computerized programmers were practically non-existant—human programmers, sometimes armies of them, had to disassemble a compiled routine, then read thousands of lines of code to try to find an error. One never knew if the error was on the screen or a hundred lines away or in a completely different sub-routine. Once the error was supposedly found, the code was reassembled into its compact faster form and run. It was a wonder anything as sophisticated as the B-52 I Old Dog’s electronic countermeasures equipment, Wendy’s first major military project, ever worked in the laboratory—not to mention in combat. Now she had computers that designed other computers’ programs, and computers that checked and debugged those computers’ work, and a master computer that supervised all of them. Her job was mostly telling her computers what their jobs were and receiving reports from them on their progress. What had taken dozens of scientists and engineers years to accomplish now took one person a few days. Because of all that she could keep regular hours, enjoy a four-day work-week—most of the industrialized nations of the world had switched to a four-day work-week by 1994—and spend more time at home.
But if most of the world had gone to the four-day work-week, the military, especially military aviators, had not. It seemed to go double for Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan. Since Wendy joined HAWC and moved in with him, her nights had often been long and lonely. Patrick had become an important administrator and commander at Dreamland research center, and it was not long before Patrick would call if he was going to be home more or less on time.
Tonight was one of those. He’d be home around seven, an early quitting time. Wendy doubted it and was right. She was wide awake when he finally did arrive home. He walked quietly as he could to the bedroom, tried to fumble his way, undressed without the lights.
“Hi.”
He threw his flight suit into the laundry hamper. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“Tough day?”
“You could say so.” He went into the bathroom briefly, then got into bed beside her. At first as he moved she pulled back with a shiver. His whole body was like ice—he’d taken one of his two-minute Navy shower sponge baths.
“You are freezing.”
“Sorry.” She allowed him to curl up beside her, his warm breath on the back of her neck, punctuated by a kiss, then another. A moment or two later he asked, “How was your day today?”
“The morning was busy—I finally finished the software upgrades for the Megafortress. Pretty quiet this afternoon, I came home early.”
“Sorry about standing you up for lunch.”
“That’s okay. It looked like you were pretty busy. Anything serious with the plane?”
“No. Some over-G warnings showed up on the computer readouts, but we couldn’t find any damage. We worked right through lunch. I could have used some of the Nellis O-Club’s roast beef after that flight this morning.”
Wendy hesitated. “I didn’t have lunch at the Officer’s Club.” “You ate at the cafeteria at HAWC?”
“No ... I had lunch at Indian Springs.”
She could feel his body tense. “Indian Springs? What’s at Indian Springs?”
“The Thunderbirds Club.”
“You went to Indian Springs Auxiliary Field
? How did you get there?”
“The Dolphin dropped us off.”
“Us?”
“Ken James and me.”
“Ken James took you to Indian Springs Field for lunch? Why?” '
“Why not? I’ve never been there before. Ken made it sound like he goes there all the time.”
“I didn’t know the Dolphin ever stopped out there . . . Honey, I don’t think it would be a good idea to go to Indian Springs again.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a restricted-use field. It’s supposed to be for official business—”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Patrick, but Ken seems to go there a lot.”
“Indian Springs is the fighter pilot’s hangout. But Ken also has a habit of stretching the rules. I don’t think there’s any problem, but let me check it out . . .”
“Okay.” She hoped it ended there. She was already sorry she’d brought it up at all.
“Damn it, if James can even find a rule, he’ll stretch it every last inch he can.”
“He says you grounded him and J. C. Powell today.”
“He said that? Damn it, that stuff is supposed to be classified.
He and J.C. came close to killing each other this morning. I should bust them both but I can’t. J.C. is maybe the best pilot in the unit and one of the few that can keep up with DreamStar in our flights. And James is the only one that can fly DreamStar with any effectiveness. I can’t even officially reprimand them until the project is declassified. I don’t know if it’s possible to train another pilot for DreamStar, and I can’t afford to put this project any more behind schedule. So, I gave them a slap on the wrist . . . they’re only grounded until the next scheduled sortie. Next week ... So to celebrate, James takes you to lunch at a restricted base and I have Elliott giving me the hairy eyeball all afternoon ...”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“And I’m sorry to sound like a pompous, jealous . . . except when you’re concerned ...”
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