There were a few extra security guards along, plus several cases of supplies that were hauled out. The last man off the chopper was Major Hal Briggs. “Patrick, J.C., things are looking better,” he said. “Wendy’s gonna do okay, and we’re gonna get our baby back.” He checked his watch. “It’ll take us less than an hour to get to Puerto Cabezas. We should plan to leave in about forty-five minutes, right?”
“Wrong,” McLanahan said. “I want the chopper fueled and ready to go fifteen minutes max.”
“But they said we can’t be there any earlier than eight A.M.”
“Push them. Ask for immediate clearance into Nicaraguan airspace and clearance onto Puerto Cabezas. If they won’t let us near the plane until eight, fine—but I want to get on the base as fast as possible.”
“You’re the colonel, Colonel.” Briggs stuck his head back in the helicopter cockpit to talk to the Dolphin’s pilot and have him arrange for clearances.
McLanahan turned to Butler. “Got everything you need? I know this was short notice.”
“I could’ve brought half my shop if Briggs had let me,” Butler said. “I’ve got two portable logic test units, assorted toolkits and supplies, about a thousand pounds worth. The best test unit we have, though, will be Captain Powell. Once he’s interfaced with ANTARES, we can diagnose and fix any problems.”
“Good.” McLanahan found Carmichael alone with J. C. Powell in one of the nearby tents. Powell was leaning back against a tent pole, his head bent down as if he was napping; Carmichael was just a few inches from his ear, saying something to him. As McLanahan approached, Carmichael held up his hand to keep him away. A few moments later Carmichael pulled a stethoscope from a jacket pocket and placed the electronic pickup against Powell’s chest, then stood and walked over to Patrick.
“I saw it right away,” Carmichael said. “He was jumpy as hell.”
“J.C.? I didn’t notice anything. He seemed himself.”
“He’s like that. He’s the most laid-back guy I’ve ever met. The differences were subtle, but after working with him for eight months on the early ANTARES project I can tell when he’s nervous. I put him in a mild hypnotic state to help him relax—actually he took my suggestion and put himself in a hypnotic state.”
“Will he be able to interface with ANTARES?”
“We won’t be able to tell until he tries it, but I’d say yes. He put himself right into alpha-state as if he had been doing it for years. He should be able to go into theta-alpha. Whether or not he can maintain it during the interfacing—well, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Sooner than you thought,” Briggs said as he came over to McLanahan and Carmichael. “We’ve got clearance to cross the border and into the Puerto Cabezas control zone. Final clearance onto the base will be issued through the control tower. The Dolphin will be topped oflF in five minutes.”
“Then tell everyone to get back on board,” McLanahan told Briggs. “Let’s go get our fighter back.”
Puerto Cabezas Airbase, Nicaragua
Monday, 22 June 1996, 0605 CDT (0705 EDT)
This was the one of the hardest jobs General Tret’yak had ever performed in peacetime, rivaling the unpleasant duty of telling mothers or young wives of their son’s or husband’s death in some training accident. To be ordered by the Kollegiya, the senior political-military staff in Moscow, to give back the DreamStar aircraft was one thing—to have the Americans land here and take it from him was doubly embarrassing.
The DreamStar aircraft was right where Maraklov had left it two nights ago. The airfield at Puerto Cabezas, originally built in 1987 as a combined air force and navy base, was designed as the primary air-defense base in Nicaragua besides Managua itself. A series of semi-underground aircraft shelters were had been constructed to house Nicaragua’s alert fighter- interceptors. The shelters, six in all, were concrete pads with six-foot-high walls and concrete roofs. They were located one hundred meters north of the west end of Puerto Cabezas’ single east-west runway, well distanced from the rest of the base.
But as the strategic importance of Nicaragua had tended to diminish over the years, fewer and fewer shelters were used until all alert air-interceptor operations were relocated to Managua. These revetments had been unoccupied for years, used only for annual Soviet-Nicaraguan exercises. Until now.
Tret’yak and two armed KGB Border Guards waited outside the revetment where DreamStar had been parked. All of the Nicaraguan troops on the base were kept away from the alert shelters—that was as much to avoid the embarrassment of the Nicaraguans finding out that they were turning over DreamStar to the Americans as it was for security. A landing pad had been prepared just inside the alert area fence on the throat or exit-taxiway from the alert area. A three-meter-high fence surrounded the entire alert area.
Tret’yak’s men had checked the perimeter and found the fence in disrepair but intact.
“Why must we even be here, sir?” one of the guards asked Tret’yak. “Let the Americans get their own plane.”
“We are here because I personally want to meet the men who built this incredible machine,” Tret’yak told him. He studied the amazing shape of DreamStar for at least the tenth time since arriving on the base. “She’s a masterpiece of aeronautical design.” The guard looked disgusted. Tret’yak shook his head. “It may be hard for you to understand, but building a machine like this is an art. And sometimes art can transcend politics.” But don’t quote me, he added to himself.
A few moments later Tret’yak heard the rhythmic beating of helicopter blades. They looked up to find an American HH- 65 transport helicopter flying down the runway. It slowed to just a few miles per hour as it approached the west end of the runway, then barely to walking speed as it flew up the throat and over the security fence. Tret’yak signaled to one of his men, who pulled a flare from his belt, popped it and set it on the edge of their prepared landing area. The HH-65 dropped its landing gear and settled in for a landing.
The first man out of the helicopter was a tall, thin black man. One of the Border Guards smiled. “There is your artist, sir,” he said to Tret’yak.
“Quiet,” the KGB general said. “He’s carrying a weapon, obviously a security guard.” The others quickly moved ofiF the helicopter—one civilian, a non-commissioned officer in dark green fatigues, and two U.S. Air Force officers in light green flight suits. As the rotor blades slowly moved to a halt and the turbine noise subsided, the five men walked toward Tret’yak. The short, thickly muscled officer in the flight suit headed over to Tret’yak while the others stopped about ten paces behind.
“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force,” the man said in slow English. In hesitant but obviously pre-rehearsed Russian, he asked, “Vi gavaretye angleskiy?”
“Yes, I speak English,” Tret’yak said. “I am General-Major Pavel Tret’yak, senior KGB field commander in Nicaragua.” He looked over McLanahan’s shoulder at the other men. “I was told there would only be four persons coming here.”
“My fault and my responsibility,” McLanahan said, and turned toward them. “Major Briggs, my security chief. Dr. Alan Carmichael, chief engineer. Sergeant Butler, senior maintenance non-commissioned officer. And Captain Powell, senior test pilot.”
“And your function, Colonel?”
“Officer in charge of the DreamStar project.”
“Ah. Captain Kenneth James’ senior officer.” McLanahan’s only reaction was to narrow his eyes, his mouth tightening.
Tret’yak nodded toward the four men. “Well, you are here, and I would prefer to get this business over with as quickly as possible. You are cleared to enter.” McLanahan nodded, then waved the four men behind him to follow.
Butler was the first to react when he saw the XF-34. “Oh, boy,” he muttered, ran ahead and into the shelter. Carmichael and Powell followed. McLanahan studied the two Lluyka tanks and the missiles hung on the fighter. “I see you made a few modifications.”
“Modifying
a fighter for external ferry tanks, in-flight refueling and foreign-made weapons is a major task. Our devices worked very well.”
“You didn’t need extra tanks to fly to Cuba.”
“But to fly to Russia, our original and eventual destination...”
“This plane and its pilot shot down two American fighters—after you stole it.”
“Come now, Colonel, the theft, the air battles, all part of the game. We both played it.”
McLanahan shook his head. Get on with it, he told himself. Butler finished a cursory inspection and came back to McLanahan. “Looks like they used two pylon hardpoints on each wing to stick those tanks on. Simple electronic pyrotech- nical jettison squibs. Same with the missiles. We can punch ’em off here but there’s no telling what damage it might cause.”
“Leave them on, then,” McLanahan told him. “I want DreamStar out of here fast as possible.” Butler nodded and trotted back to the helicopter to get his gear. McLanahan turned back to Tret’yak. “Where is Maraklov?”
“On his way to Moscow. He will be debriefed. Even though he was not given the opportunity to bring this aircraft back with him, he carries a great deal of information. His talks with our intelligence people should be revealing.”
“And after that?”
“After that, I cannot say. He is a difficult man, but if I were the General Secretary of the Kollegiya I would make Colonel
Maraklov a Hero of the Soviet Union. We like to reward loyalty, courage and initiative,” Tret’yak said.
“Thanks for the compliments, General,” a voice behind them said. Tret’yak and McLanahan turned. And saw Andrei Maraklov emerging from behind the concrete walls of the revetment. Tret’yak and McLanahan saw the man, but the two KGB Border Guards accompanying Tret’yak saw the pistol he held. They lifted their rifles and swung them toward Maraklov. With two muffled puffs of the nine-millimeter automatic pistol, they were dead as fast as they had reacted.
Maraklov then turned the pistol toward Hal Briggs, who had only gotten as far as reaching for the Uzi at his hip. “Don’t do it, Hal. Left hand, unbuckle your holster and toss your gun over here.” Briggs hesitated, his hand still poised near the Uzi. “I’ll kill you otherwise.” Briggs had no choice, did as he was told. Maraklov picked up the Uzi and took its safety off.
“You had a detour on your way to Moscow,” McLanahan said.
“There’s been a change in plans, Colonel. It happens.”
“Where is Lieutenant Zaykov?” Tret’yak said.
At that, Maraklov’s attention seemed to wander, but only for a moment. “She found out about our plan.”
“ ‘Our’ plan?’ ” McLanahan said, turning to Tret’yak. “You never intended to turn DreamStar over to us.”
“I know absolutely nothing about this,” Tret’yak told him. “He obviously has killed the officer I ordered to escort him to Managua.”
“What counts,” Maraklov said, “is that DreamStar is mine. It always has been. I decide what to do with it.” Not quite the case, he realized, but by now it felt like it was ... “It’s not going back to the United States, and it’s not going to be hacked up in the Soviet Union. I’m flying it out of here to a place where it’ll be safe.” He stuck the automatic pistol in his pocket, cocked the Uzi, raised it and aimed at them—
Out from behind the Dolphin helicopter, Sergeant Butler appeared holding one of the computer logic test devices, a large suitcase-sized object, up before his body like some huge heavy shield. And proceeded to run full speed at Maraklov, who whirled, dropped to one knee—more out of surprise than to help his aim—and fired at Butler.
The Uzi had been set for single-shot. Maraklov squeezed off two, three rounds, swore and reached down to move the action lever. Butler had eaten up all but a few yards of the distance between them before Maraklov switched the weapon to full automatic and sprayed the charging man. But Butler had finally reached Maraklov and crashed into him before one of the bullets found Butler’s unprotected legs and cut him down. Butler drove the test device into Maraklov’s face, then used his body weight to haul him to the ground.
Lying on top of Maraklov, Butler tried to raise the test device over his head and drive it into Maraklov’s skull. But he was too late. Maraklov put the muzzle of the Uzi into Butler’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The senior NCO’s gut exploded, he dropped over backward, dead before he hit the ground.
McLanahan yelled, “Run for cover, ” and made a dash for the helicopter. The pilot immediately started the engines in the Dolphin, and Powell and Carmichael, both inside DreamStar’s shelter, ran for the helicopter.
Briggs made his run at Maraklov, but to his surprise, General Tret’yak turned, blocked his path, then pushed him back toward the helicopter. As Briggs stumbled backward and fell to the concrete taxiway, Tret’yak turned on Maraklov. “Ehtat yah svenyena mo sahm. This pig is mine.”
Tret’yak never had a chance. He’d take no more than three steps when Maraklov raised the Uzi and emptied its magazine into the KGB general.
“Hal, run for it,” Patrick called out. The Dolphin’s rotor blades were spinning up to takeoff RPMs. Hal got to his feet and sprinted for the open door.
Maraklov got to his knees, took aim at Briggs, squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He had emptied out the magazine on Tret’yak. He tossed the machine pistol aside and pulled out the nine-millimeter silenced pistol. Briggs had just gotten to the Dolphin’s starboard side-door and jumped inside, so Maraklov swung his aim left to the two running figures and squeezed off a shot.
Alan Carmichael grabbed the right side of his chest and pitched forward. J. C. Powell skidded to a halt, knelt down and began to drag Carmichael toward the helicopter. Maraklov took aim once again, and before McLanahan or Briggs could react, fired. Powell flew backward away from Carmichael’s inert form, and lay still.
“You bastard. ” McLanahan was screaming, rushing out of the helicopter and heading toward Maraklov. He had just cleared the Dolphin’s right door when the Dolphin pilot yanked the chopper off the ground, hovering less than three feet above ground, and aimed the helicopter at Maraklov. McLanahan, knocked aside, crawled on hands and knees toward Powell and Carmichael, trying to shield his eyes from the flying gravel and sand.
Maraklov took aim on the helicopter’s canopy, fired. The shot missed the pilot by inches, but it sped through the cabin and through a circuit breaker panel, showering the cockpit with sparks. The helicopter engine faltered, lost power, then regained it. Maraklov tried to get off another shot but the rotor’s downwash forced him to his knees, and he had no choice but to crawl away from the blast, though he was still sideswiped by the Dolphin’s fiberglass nose.
Meanwhile Briggs had jumped out and run over to Carmichael. McLanahan took Powell, and together they began to drag the wounded toward the helicopter.
The pilot halted his advance at the body of Sergeant Butler. McLanahan and Briggs dragged Carmichael and Powell through the side door, then together they picked up Butler’s body and carefully as they could manage put his body in the helicopter. Blood and viscera were everywhere, on their faces, covering their uniforms. Briggs and McLanahan jumped inside the chopper, ignoring whatever they were stepping or slipping on. Patrick shouted to the pilot, “go,” and the chopper lifted off.
Maraklov had crawled back to DreamStar’s shelter just as the chopper rose off the concrete. Again he took aim at the canopy and fired, but at this angle the bullets were ricocheting off, not penetrating. He fired once more on the retreating helicopter, doing no more damage that he could see—but the chopper’s engine was definitely faltering. He had hit something vital—no way it would make it back to Honduras. No reason to worry about McLanahan any more—he would be long gone before McLanahan could call in a counterstrike, and Powell was definitely no worry.
But Maraklov had a new worry: the Nicaraguans. If anyone from the base came out here to investigate, the game would be over. He ran back to the taxiway and dragged the bodies of the two KGB Border Guar
ds and General Tret’yak out of sight in the aircraft shelter, then checked the ammunition in his pistol. Three shots left. Two for any curious spectators that decided to investigate—and perhaps one for himself.
He sat down in front of DreamStar’s nose gear, peering up over the edge of the semirecessed parking stub, waiting for anyone to approach. After ten minutes there was still no sign of activity. Either no one had heard the shots—unlikely—or no one cared enough to interfere.
Maraklov felt a rush of excitement. He had snatched DreamStar out of the hands of the Americans once more, just as he had done back in Dreamland. This fighter was destined to be his. More than ever, he felt it must be.
He ran out the back of the shelter toward the perimeter fence, checking for any sign of intruders or surveillance. He went to where he had hidden the cases containing his flight suit and helmet and quickly brought them back to the shelter. He checked the perimeter once more—once he had the metallic flight suit on, it was going to be impossible for him to defend himself. The aircraft shelter had a set of steel doors that could be motored in place, but Maraklov had no choice but to keep them open—there was no one alive to open them again.
No matter. In two hours, perhaps less, he’d be airborne, heading away from this damned place, once and for all.
Maraklov dragged the aluminum cases up onto the service platform beside the cockpit, then climbed up the ladder and began opening them. Already, he was beginning the deepbreathing exercises that would relax his body, open his mind and allow the electronic neural interface to begin. In five minutes he had stripped down, put on the pair of thin cotton underwear, and began connecting the fiber-optic electrical connections between the suit and helmet and from the suit and helmet to the interface inside the cockpit. He could feel the familiar, soothing body cues beginning to wash over him as he entered the first level of alpha-state, the primary selfhypnosis level of his mental relaxation. Coincidentally, this alpha-state was helping to block out the throbbing pain in his shoulder and calm the quivering in his muscles as adrenaline began to be dissipated from his bloodstream.
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