Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  Deborah O’Day gasped as she saw Briggs and McLanahan. Blood covered their bodies. Quickly they found seats in the back of the eight-passenger jet.

  Elliott moved past her in the narrow center aisle, blocking her view of the three newcomers. “Deborah, sit up front, would you?” The NSA chief nodded and quickly changed places. Elliott took her seat and strapped himself in, waited until Secretary Curtis had the airstair door closed, then touched the intercom button. “Ready for takeoff, Major Preston. Best possible speed for Puerto Lempira. Call for medical assistance on arrival.”

  The C-21 executed a tight left turn as Preston lined up again on the road for takeoff. Sixty seconds later they were airborne.

  “We don’t need medical assistance, what we need is an attack against Puerto Cabezas. Right now or it may be too late.” McLanahan turned and recognized the Secretary of the Air Force. “Secretary Curtis, I think Ken James—Andrei Maraklov—will try to fly DreamStar out of Puerto Cabezas as soon as possible. He killed J.C. and five other men out there. He’s gotta be stopped.”

  “Colonel, we’re trying to work out something, but we don’t have any assets out here. We withdrew everything when the Soviets agreed to this turnover.”

  “We’ve got Cheetah,” McLanahan said. “I want to fly Cheetah out there and get him.” Curtis and Elliott said nothing, sat back in their seats. “I can fly it, I know I can. I’ve flown it in the simulator and I’ve had lots of stick time—”

  “I’ve flown in the F-15F’s simulator,” Curtis said, “but that doesn’t mean I can take it into combat, especially against a plane like the XF-34. We’d be risking you and Cheetah against impossible odds.”

  “Wilbur is right,” Elliott said. “Even J.C. couldn’t beat DreamStar and James half the time in flight-test exercises. You would have no chance. I just can’t endorse it—”

  “And I won’t authorize it,” Curtis added.

  “J.C. told me the key to beating DreamStar, he had it figured out and he taught it to me.”

  “It takes more than a second-hand theory to—”

  “Besides, James himself has changed. You should have seen him—he looks like he’s lost thirty pounds and aged twenty years. I know how it can eat at you from the inside, from the brain. It’s been eating at James for almost two years. ANTARES has changed him into . . . into something else—”

  Hal Briggs broke in. “The man has become a cold-blooded murderer. He gunned down those KGB soldiers, and J.C. and Dr. Carmichael, like he was shooting at paper targets.”

  He’s gotten compulsive—acts like DreamStar is his. I think that may be our chance ... His entire being is centered around that machine. But one thing he isn’t—he’s not a cool-headed fighter pilot any more. He’s changed into something else.”

  “But you’re not a fighter pilot either, Colonel . . .” Curtis pointed out.

  “No, I’m not, but what I am is the only chance we’ve got to keep DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians or an obsessed type like Maraklov. We don’t have any choice, we’ve got to do it.”

  Elliott looked at Curtis. “What about it? He makes sense.”

  “We’d be throwing Cheetah and McLanahan away. We’d have another dead officer on our hands, and lose both our advanced fighters all in one morning.”

  “That’s bull, General Curtis, and you know it,” McLanahan snapped. “There’s only one thing we know for certain here—if I don’t go, Ken James, Maraklov, gets away with DreamStar. Sure, if James gets away we still might get DreamStar back from the Russians, but only after they’ve copied all our technology and duplicated the ANTARES interface. After that, we’d he forced to build the F-34 fighter because we’d know that the Russians would build and deploy their own DreamStar—but we’d be building the F-34 knowing that it would be a trillion-dollar waste of money because the Russians would have developed defenses and countermeasures against it and its weapons . . . Worse than surrendering DreamStar is letting James get away. He’s killed a dozen Americans to get his hands on DreamStar. He blew away three of his own people right in front of us. He’s gone round the bend. I want him, General Curtis.”

  There was silence again in the C-21 cabin. Marcia Preston made an announcement that they were about to land in Puerto Lempira, but no one reacted. As they touched down and taxied to the parking area, Elliott said quietly, “I’ll fly as your weapon- systems officer.”

  “Out of the question,” Curtis said.

  “I’ll go alone,” McLanahan said. “Cheetah is designed to fly air combat with one pilot—”

  “I won’t allow any of you to fly this mission,” Curtis said as the C-2i’s engines were shut down. “It’s suicide, a major breach of regulations—”

  “I’ll go,” a voice said behind Curtis. They turned and saw Major Marcia Preston standing in the aisle behind Curtis and Elliott. “It’ll solve your problems, General Curtis. I’m high- performance twin-turbine qualified, also a qualified military instructor pilot. If General Elliott makes me part of his unit it’ll at least be a legal flight. All nice and by the book.”

  “Done,” Elliott said. He turned to Briggs and said something to him in a low voice.

  “And as senior project officer I can sign you off as qualified in the F-15F—judging by the way you handle this C-21, the F-15 should be a piece of cake,” McLanahan said. “I can also make you air-weapons qualified. And as a flight instructor qualified in the F-15F I can then legally fly front seat in Cheetah. Like you say, by the book.”

  “McLanahan’s not a pilot, he’s not qualified to fly in combat—”

  “I’ve got a hundred hours of stick time in Cheetah, including air combat maneuvers, General.”

  “And I’ve got two hundred hours flying time in the F/A-18 Hornet—air-to-air, air-to-ground, carrier ops, and even Red Flag, sir,” Marcia put in. “You’ll have the experience up there. But what Colonel McLanahan needs more than anything is a pair of air-combat-experienced eyes in his back seat. You’ve got the people you need, sir.”

  “It’s still a suicide mission, damn it... I still at least need to get authorization from the White House—”

  McLanahan stood and motioned to Preston. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.” Preston pushed open the airstair door and exited the C-21. McLanahan followed her out, along with Hal Briggs and the Dolphin helicopter pilot, and together they ran for the portable hangar in which Cheetah was tied down, yelling orders to the crew chiefs.

  “McLanahan, get your butt back here,” Curtis called out. “That’s an—” But Brad Elliott had put a hand on his shoulder.

  “The decision’s been made, Wilbur.”

  “Like hell.” Deborah O’Day joined the two men in the C-21 cabin. “I’m in charge of this operation. It’s my butt on the line. Yours too, Brad.”

  “My butt’s been chewed off long ago. I don’t really care what the suits in Washington say. I say let them go.”

  “And as one of the suits, I agree with General Elliott,” Deborah said. “You’re outvoted.”

  “Don’t give me this,” Curtis said. “You two can stand side by side in the Oval Office and explain to the President why you authorized this mission. But I’m going to call for authorization from the top. And I don’t want those planes to launch until I get it.” He moved toward the airstair door, only to find Hal Briggs rearmed with an M-16B2 automatic rifle slung on his shoulder, blocking the stairs. Curtis turned back toward Elliott, fixing him with a disbelieving look. He then turned on Briggs. “You have a problem, Major?”

  Briggs looked at Elliott with a silent request for an order. Elliott paused until Curtis turned back toward him again. “Brad, don’t do this . . .”

  Elliott met Curtis’ stare. He had stepped up to the very edge of insubordination, something he had never quite done. He nodded, abruptly. “The Secretary has a call to make, Hal. Let him by.”

  “Just wanted to pass along to you, sir,” Briggs said straightfaced. “We can’t seem to make contact with La Cieba. They’re sayi
ng another two hours to fix the problem with the radio, maybe longer.”

  “Don’t hand me that crap, Major.”

  “Wilbur,” Elliott said, “the radio works fine. I told him to rig it. But you know what were facing. We need a decision now. You have to make it. Launch Cheetah.”

  Curtis hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. Outside he heard a low whine and the whine of a turbine—the sound of an external power-cart being started.

  “You made a decision eight years ago that changed my life,” Elliott said. “You sent another crew and another machine on what was considered a no-win mission. You could have ignored the Old Dog, brought back the B-i bombers and let the politicians handle things. You didn’t. You took over and did what had to be done, and it worked. Do it again. Launch Cheetah.” Curtis said nothing. Out the starboard windows of the C-21 he could see Preston already in Cheetah’s aft-cockpit seat, strapping in and familiarizing herself with the layout. McLanahan was standing on the top of the boarding ladder, helmet and flight gloves on, hand on the edge of the front windscreen—but he had not yet entered the cockpit.

  “He’s gone through a lot of hell, Wilbur,” Elliott said when he saw what Curtis was looking at. “He’s seen more blood, more death in eight years than a dozen men will in their lifetime. He’s also got a score to settle—a blood-score—but he’ll stand on that ladder until you give the word. I think you’ve known that all along.”

  Curtis nodded, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Major Briggs, launch Cheetah. Now.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Over Nicaragua

  CHEETAH’S control stick felt alive, pulsating with power. Mounted on the right side of the cockpit instead of in the center as in most pre-i990s fighters, it was almost rigid. Tiny pressure-sensitive switches in the fixed stick detected hand movements and applied the inputs to the triple-redundant flight-control computers, which then transmitted movement instructions to the hydraulic systems that moved the canards and tail stabilators, as well as the micro-hydraulic systems that recurved Cheetah’s wings.

  The system was ultra-sensitive, very fast—not like the old gear, bell-crank and cable flight-control systems, or even the newer fly-by-wire electronic systems. The slightest touch on the stick would send Cheetah into an unexpected pitch-up or sway. He tried to loosen his tight grip on the control stick, but it was hard to reprogram his head to the realities of electronic fiber-optic controls—and J.C. had set the system to its lowest sensitivity.

  To complicate matters, a universe of information kept flashing on the windscreen, changing so quickly that McLanahan didn’t have time to read it before it disappeared and another line of numbers or symbols danced across his eyes. He had experimented with turning ofiF most of the laser-projected symbiology but found himself repeatedly calling the information back up a few moments later. Finally he decided to leave it there and just deal with it—he hoped it wouldn’t distract him too much when the shooting started. How J.C. could assimilate all this information was beyond him.

  Suddenly Patrick saw a gloved hand reach across his shoulder. “By the way, I’m Marcia Preston.” He realized only then that he had not said a word except “prepare for takeofiF” to his new back-seater. With all the things going on in Cheetah’s cockpit, he managed to reach across with his left hand and shake Marcia’s extended hand.

  He had just leveled Cheetah ofiF at only five thousand feet as once again he steered it southward toward Puerto Cabezas. At full power he was maintaining just under Mach one as he raced across the lush tropical forests and salt marshes of northeastern Nicaragua. He hit the voice-command control on the stick and in a deliberate voice said, “Autopilot, on, altitude, hold.” The computer repeated the command, which reminded McLanahan to double check the autopilot status indicators. Cheetah’s voice-command system had been programmed by J.C., and although it was supposed to be adaptable to any pilot, the subtle differences in pitch, accent and volume of voices sometimes confused the computer.

  “Marcia,” McLanahan said after setting the autopilot, “I’ve got a question—why the hell did you volunteer for this mission?”

  “Because you needed me, and mostly because I wanted to g°.”

  “There’s a chance we won’t make it back.”

  “Not to toot my own horn, sir, but your chances of making it back are much better now.”

  “Can the ‘sir,’ okay?”

  “Okay, Patrick. Where to?”

  “It’s an outside chance but it’s possible that DreamStar could still be on the ground. We need to check the shelter at Puerto Cabezas.”

  At seven miles per minute they reached Puerto Cabezas in a little over ten minutes. McLanahan pulled the power back to eighty percent. “I’ll line up so I can give you a good look out the right side,” he said. “The shelter is pretty low but you should be able to see if an aircraft is in there.”

  Their arrival at the Nicaraguan military base was greeted by a cacophony of warning messages in English, Spanish and Russian, ordering them to turn away. He ignored them—and there were no radar threat-warnings anywhere in the vicinity. They had decreased speed to less than five miles per minute to get a good look in the shelter. As they approached the base McLanahan hit the voice-command switch: “Arm, cannon, mode, strafe.”

  “Warning, cannon armed, strafe mode, five hundred rounds remaining. ” An holographic aiming-reticle appeared on the windscreen in front of McLanahan. He switched off the autopilot, descended to one thousand feet and began to line up on the shelter.

  “You’re arming the guns?”

  “If DreamStar is in there I want to shoot before he gets off the ground.” He hit the command button again: “Target select.” The reticle began to blink. He moved his head until the aiming reticle, slaved to follow the pilot’s head movements, was directly on the mouth of the shelter, then hit the voice- command button again: “. . . Now.” The reticle stopped blinking and a series of lines drew themselves on the windscreen like an instrument-landing director. Once McLanahan centered those lines, the cannon would blast the target to pieces.

  “Target designated, select target off to cancel. ”

  “Watch your altitude,” Marcia Preston said. “You’re less than five hundred feet AGL with autopilot off.”

  “Thanks.” McLanahan put the altitude-hold autopilot back on.

  As they raced across the Nicaraguan base they could see men and vehicles darting all across the airfield, even over the runway—it was much too crowded on the flightline for normal air traffic. A number of emergency vehicles crowded the throat taxi-ramp that led to the alert parking shelters.

  When they were about two miles from the alert area Marcia called out, “I can see the shelters. No aircraft in any of them.” Men were running from the shelter. “They think you’re going to bomb them, I think.”

  “I should put a few rounds in there.”

  “Waste of ammo.”

  “It would make me feel better, though.” Instead of firing, however, McLanahan hit the voice-command button. “Target off. Cannon safe.” The computer repeated and verified. He shut off the autopilot and began a shallow climb, putting in full military power once again.

  “Long gone,” Marcia Preston said. “Which way now?”

  “Not sure.” Patrick McLanahan climbed to ten thousand feet, well above the mountains of central Nicaragua far off to the west. “James’ original plan was to fly DreamStar to Cuba. More secure than Nicaragua. Then on to the Soviet Union...” He switched frequencies to the channel set up with the communications facility at Puerto Lempira. “Storm Control, this is Storm Two. How copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Storm Two,” General Elliott replied immediately.

  “Our target wasn’t at Puerto Cabezas. Is the AWACS up?”

  “Affirmative,” from Elliott. “He’s got complete coverage of the Caribbean north of Nicaragua. He’s got one F-16 with him. No word from him yet.”

  “Target must be heading south, back to Sebaco or Manag
ua.” McLanahan called up Managua on the inertial navigation unit and set the autopilot on course. “We’re enroute back to Sebaco to check it out, then Managua.”

  “Roger. Keep us advised. Storm Control out.”

  They flew on for another few minutes, then Marcia clicked on the interphone: “Colonel, you said we’re flying to Sebaco, then Managua ... What kind of air defenses does Sebaco have? I know Managua is heavily protected. Isn’t Sebaco that KGB base where they kept DreamStar?”

  “Yes,” he replied testily, the questions interrupting his train of thought. “Sebaco was protected by fifty-seven-millimeter guns and SA-io missiles and a few MiG-29 fighters. We destroyed them two days ago.”

  “Are they back in place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Managua? What kind of defenses does it have?”

  “Probably like Puerto Cabezas. SA-15 missiles, MiG-29 or MiG-27 fighters, probably tactical anti-aircraft artillery. Why?”

  “Why? Well... do you think the Nicaraguans are just going to let us fly over their cities? Don’t you think they’re going to throw everything they got at us?”

  “We’re going anyway. I don’t care what defenses they have, we’ve penetrated them before, and—”

  “No, sir—J. C. Powell and you defeated their defenses. You were in the backseat—”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that you can’t just charge in over Managua and Sebaco without some kind of a game plan,” she said. “We were lucky over Puerto Cabezas, sir—you assumed that the defenses that were destroyed by the B-52 two days ago were still destroyed, or they didn’t bring in more fighters just waiting for you to fly over looking for DreamStar. What if they’d been replaced? We would have been dead ten minutes in the sky. You can’t assume anything.”