Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (42 page)

 
          
Maraklov
immediately activated DreamStar’s on-board database, and in an instant the
computer had found the field and displayed a chart and airfield-information on
Sebaco. “It’s a mining town with a dirt runway?”

 
          
“Your
information is dated,” Kramer said, “although to tell the truth, we have made
our own modifications only recently. Sebaco is now a functional airfield and
military post, staffed by our people. The runway has been lengthened and paved
and is protected by anti-aircraft missiles and artillery. The KGB Central
American Command is based there, along with a small squadron of
Mikoyan-Gureyvich-29 fighters. It will be home away from home for you—your
first taste of homeland in some time.”

 
          
“Yes,”
Maraklov replied curtly.

 
          
Maraklov,
sitting immobile in DreamStar’s ejection seat, felt the life-giving flow of jet
fuel into DreamStar, felt the energy and vitality as the precious liquid flowed
into the fighter’s tanks—and yet, watching the efficient Soviet plainclothes
agents hunting down the villagers, he also felt cornered, trapped, alone. The
Soviet KGB forces out there—his
countrymen
—were
in a way as strange to him as men from Mars. He even felt a bit of the typical
American response when seeing pictures or videotapes of Russian soldiers or
airmen: curiosity, puzzlement, even a little fear. They were the enemy—no, they
were his countrymen, his fellow Russians. So why did he feel this way?

 
          
He
looked back toward the nose of his fighter and noted the tall, beefy frame of
Kramer’s assistant and chief neck-crusher, Moffitt. No matter what he’d
accomplished, guys like Moffitt would always suspect him, figuring that as
valuable an asset as he was to the Soviets he could be an even more valuable
one for the Americans. Had he been turned? Was he a double agent? What if the
returning hero turned out to be an embarrassment? At least he hadn’t forgotten
how they thought, never mind
glasnost.

 
          
At
a mental command, Maraklov activated DreamStar’s attack radar and concentrated
the energy on the right-forward nose-sector antenna-arrays. But after a few
moments he turned the radar off. He would have enjoyed barbecuing Moffitt with
microwaves—or at least scaring him.

 
          
He
would have to deal with Moffitt, and the other Moffitts in
Russia
, very soon. Even being a hero could be
dangerous. But he was getting ahead of himself. He was no hero. Not yet. So far
he was nothing more, or less, than an uncommon traitor to the
U.S.A.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Tinsel,
this is Storm One. Refueling completed with Goalie Three-Zero, squawking
normal.”

 
          
“Storm
One, roger. Strangle mode two and four for IFF check.”

 
          
“Roger,
Storm One.” J. C. Powell issued commands to deactivate the two military-only
data channels that would help Tinsel, the E-3B AWACS radar plane, locate and
identify Cheetah. One by one, Tinsel ordered J.C. to turn each transmitter on
until all were activated.

 
          
McLanahan
lowered his oxygen visor. The waiting was the worst part . . . waiting for
special clearance for takeoff, clearance to use the KC-10 refueling tanker,
clearance to join up with Tinsel and the rest of the interceptor pursuers, and
now they had to wait for permission to cross into Mexican airspace. He was
itching to get
on
with the chase.
DreamStar had such a long head start... He continued to check his equipment and
thought about Ken James. It was nearly unbelievable. Appar-

 
          
ently
a Soviet agent had gotten an assignment into the most highly classified
research facility in the United States and had gotten to be chief test
pilot—hell, the
only
test pilot—of
the hottest tactical jet fighter in the world. And had now managed to steal
that fighter out from under the noses of a large security force and escape with
it out of the
United States
right past
four
interceptor squadrons.

 
          
And
the son of a bitch had shot down the
Old Dog, killed all but three on board—they had found Major Edward Frost, the
radar navigator, badly broken up but somehow alive a mile from the impact area;
his parachute never had time to open before he hit the ground, they said. Colonel
Jeffrey Khan, the copilot, ended up at the edge of the scorched earth in
critical condition but alive. And Wendy . . . she was alive, clinging to life.
The investigators said there was no way she could have gotten out by
herself—Angelina Pereira must have sacrificed herself to save Wendy.

 
          
One
man had caused more damage, more destruction and more death than McLanahan
could have ever imagined, not to mention the military secrets he must already
have turned over to the
Soviet Union
.
And if this ... this Maraklov had replaced the real Kenneth James
before
his assignment to Dreamland, he
would have done even more damage. The real Ken James was a B-i commander for
three years. The phony one could have turned over enough data on the B-i, its
mission, its routes of flight, its weapons and other top-secret information to
destroy the strategic bombardment mission of the Strategic Air Command for
years. And now, James—it was still hard to think of him as anyone else but Ken
James—had DreamStar . . .

 
          
“Storm
Zero One, data-link checks completed,” the controller aboard the AWACS
reported. “Clearance not yet received to proceed through the Monterrey FIR
sector one. You can join Eagle Zero Two flight of four over Luke Range Complex
Seven, or orbit within three-zero miles of REEBO intersection at flight level
two-five zero until clearance is received. Over.”

 
          
“When
do you expect clearance through the sector, Tinsel?” J.C.
asked.           .

 
          
“No
idea, Storm. Our request had to be forwarded through Air Force to the Pentagon.
Pentagon will probably pass it on to State. We lost it from there.”

 
          
Patrick
checked his charts. REEBO was just east of
Yuma
, very close to the border; Luke Complex
Seven was farther north, closer to the tanker’s orbit point. “Take the orbit at
REEBO, J.C.,” Patrick told Powell.

 
          
“Tinsel,
we’ll take the orbit point at REEBO at two-five-oh.”

 
          
“Roger,
Storm One, cleared to orbit as required at REEBO. Climb and maintain flight
level two-five-zero. Orbit within three-zero miles, stay five miles north of
the southern domestic ADZ until given a Mexican controller freq and squawk and
cleared to proceed.’’

 
          
“Storm
One copies clearance." J.C. switched his outside radios to standby and
said on interphone to McLanahan: “Now let me guess—this air machine ain’t gonna
do no orbiting.”

 
          
“You
got that right. Take two-five-zero, maintain five-zero- zero knots. When we
reach REEBO start a climb to three- niner-zero and switch to max speed power
settings.”

 
          
“We’ll
be sucking fuel like crazy,” J.C. reminded McLanahan. “It’ll be real tight if
we don’t have tanker support on the way back.”

 
          
“We
need to catch this Maraklov and get a shot at him. What counts is nailing that
bastard. Right now I don’t really much care if I make it back.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
General
Brad Elliott sat alone in the small battle-staff operations center of HAWC’s
command post. A wall-size gas-plasma screen was on the far wall, depicting the
southern Nevada Red Flag bombing and aerial-gunnery ranges in which the Old Dog
was located. The airspace was empty except for the cluster of aircraft, mostly
security helicopters and shuttles for the investigation team, around the
Megafortress’ impact area.

 
          
Hal
Briggs entered the conference room. He was carrying his automatic pistol in a
shoulder holster and wearing a communications transceiver with a wireless
earpiece to allow him to stay in contact with his command center wherever he
went.

 
          
He
studied General Elliott for a moment before disturbing him. More than ever, the
sixty-year-old commander of Dreamland looked exhausted, physically and
emotionally. Working out here in the
Nevada
wastelands was demanding for even the
healthiest, but for Elliott it was especially tough. Briggs had seen the strain
on him during day-to-day activities—increased isolation, moodiness. But this
disaster looked as if it might push him right to the edge. He needed some close
observation from here on, Briggs decided. Very close.

 
          
Briggs
dropped a piece of paper on the desk in front of Elliott. “Preliminary report
from the investigation team, crewmember disposition analysis.” Elliott said
nothing. Briggs paused a moment, then decided to read on: “Two members of the
crew never tried to get out; Wendelstat in the I.P. seat and Major Evanston,
the nav. Right side of the crew compartment was badly chewed up;
Evanston
may have already been dead.” Elliott winced
as if struck in the face.
Evanston
was part of the “great experiment” of the early 1990s, the project
exploring the possibility of military women assigned to combat duties. A
graduate of the Air Force Academy, she was easily the best qualified for the
program, and she was accepted and soon became the first woman crewmember in a
B-52 bomber squadron. Because of her engineering background, she had been
temporarily assigned to HAWC to participate in the Megafortress Plus
project—obviously headed for promotion. What a terrible waste.

 
          
Hal
hurried on through the report to spare Elliott as much as possible: “I guess
Wendelstat in the I.P.’s seat didn’t have a chance for manual bailout unless he
was at high altitude.” Elliott nodded numbly. “Gunner’s seat was fired but
apparently malfunctioned. Remains still strapped in place—I guess Dr. Pereira
never tried manual bailout. Didn’t have a chance . . . Remains found in the
debris believed to be of General Ormack; he ejected but landed in the
fireball.”

 
          
“My
God . . .”

 
          
“Khan
might be okay, some bad cuts and lacerations, a broken arm but that’s it. Wendy
Tork is in critical condition. She’s on her way to the burn unit at
Brooks
Medical
Center
in
San Antonio
. Her progress is not favorable. Ed Frost. .
. died, sir. They said he never got a ’chute ...”

 
          
Elliott
rubbed is eyes. “I want Tork’s progress monitored hourly. I want to make sure
she’s getting the best treatment possible.”

 
          
“I’ll
see to it, sir.”

 
          
“What
about the families?”

 
          
“Being
assembled at the base chapel at Nellis, as you ordered,” Briggs said. “Dr.
Pereira listed no next of kin. All the rest are on their way.”

 
          
Elliott
shook his head, stunned. “This is the worst since the fall of
Saigon
.” He stared at the chart on the screen.
“What the hell can I tell the families?”

 
          
“Tell
them what you just told me, sir.”

 
          
“But
they’ll never understand, and why should they?”

 
          
“They
understood the sort of job those crewmembers did, even if they weren’t told
specifics. What they need is every bit of support you can give them. They’ll
want to know their husbands or friends or sons or daughters didn’t die for
nothing.”