Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (45 page)

           
McLanahan strained again to search
behind Cheetah’s twin tails. “Two ... no, four fighters, two flights of two,
right behind us. I can’t see what they are but they’re coming on fast—”

 
          
“I
gotta break it off, Patrick—”

 
          
“No,
stay on him, nail him—”

 
          
But
even then it was too late. DreamStar had picked up the same radar indications
as Cheetah, and the advanced fighter had made a hard break to the right and an
even harder one up and down to shake off the radar-lock by the advancing
strangers. A boresight missile-launch was impossible.

 
          
“Infrared
missiles to safe. Set attack-mode radar missiles,” Powell ordered.

 
          
“Two
jets going high, two coming in,” McLanahan said. “I can’t tell for sure but
they look like . . . they’re F-20S, Mexican F-20S . . .”

 
          
“Warning, radar target lock,
six o'clock
...”

           
J.C. yanked the stick hard right to
stay with DreamStar, but it had regained its lost speed and was pulling away,
staying at boulder level.

 
          
“They’re
still with us,” McLanahan said. “Can you get a shot off anyway?”

 
          
“I
think so . . . here we go . . .”

 
          
“
Warning, radar missile lock.
” A missile
was in flight, heading for them . . .

 
          
J.C.
hit the voice-command button on his stick. “Chaff right.” The computer ejected
two bundles of radar-decoying chaff from the right ejector rack as J.C. yanked
Cheetah into a hard left bank, pulling on the stick until the computer issued a
stall-warning message.

 
          
“No
missile,” McLanahan called out, straining his head up out of the cockpit
against the G-forces pushing him into his seat.

 
          
“Didn’t
see a missile . . .”

 
          
“They
faked us out,” J. C. said, “they wanted to get our attention—”

 
          
“Damn
it, get back on DreamStar.”

 
          
Powell
began a hard right turn back toward DreamStar, but as he rolled out of the turn
they heard: “American F-15 fighter, this is Mexican Air Force. You are directed
to follow me at once.”

 
          
“Goddamn,
there he is, left wing.” The F-20 Tigershark, the single-engine, high-tech
version of the American F-5F Tiger fighter, was in loose route formation off
Cheetah’s left wingtip.

 
          
“Number
two is behind us,” McLanahan said. “Stay on DreamStar.” He switched to the VHF
guard
international emergency
frequency. “Mexican Air Force, this is the F-15, Storm One. We are on an authorized
search mission for Storm Two, which is at our
one o’clock
position. We have permission from your
government to pursue and destroy this aircraft. Over.” So he lied a little.

 
          
“We
have been advised that no foreign aircraft has permission to enter Mexican
airspace. We will destroy both if you do not follow us immediately.”

 
          
“The
XF-34 Storm Two is an experimental aircraft. It’s also lethal as hell. We will
pursue and destroy it. Stay clear.”

 
          
“No.
Follow me or you will be shot down.” The F-20 on Cheetah’s left wing dropped
back a few yards and began a climbing left turn.

 
          
“Warning, radar target lock,
six o'clock
.
” The F-20 following behind them had
activated its tracking radar again. At his distance he could hardly miss . . .

 
          
“I’m
open to suggestions, Colonel,” J.C. deadpanned. “DreamStar’s moved out to ten
miles,” McLanahan said, checking his radar. “Those other two Mexican are
chasing him but it’s no contest, he’s pulling away—”

           
“I’ve got to follow,” J.C. said,
gently easing into a left bank. “That guy behind me will hose us if I don’t.”

 
          
“Damn
it, we had him ... he was so close . . . can you get away from these guys?”

 
          
“Sure.
This guy ahead of us is so sloppy I can fill him full of holes right now, and I
think I can get away from the guy on our tail. But then what? We’re into our
fuel reserves as it is. After we lose these guys we’ll need afterburner the
whole way back just to get within missile range of DreamStar, and then the best
we got is a tail-chase until we run out of gas.”

 
          
“So
do it . . .”

 
          
“If
that’s what you really want ...”

 
          
“What
the hell does that mean . . . ?”

 
          
“That
I think you better think pretty damn hard about it. If you try to chase down
DreamStar from here we won’t make it home. You’ll risk Cheetah for a
fifty-fifty chance of downing DreamStar. You’ve already violated Mexican air
space and will take heat for that, but if you don’t bring back Cheetah you’re
guaranteeing yourself a Big Chicken Dinner—”

 
          
“Cheetah
was my responsibility. If I let James get away . . . we all go down the tubes.
As long as there’s a chance I’m not going to let this guy go.”

 
          
“You’ve
done everything you could. Like they say, there’s a time to chase and a time to
get the hell out of Dodge. I suggest we boogie.”

 
          
McLanahan
hesitated. J.C. rolled out behind the lead F-20 and reduced power slightly. The
leader reduced his power to move beside Cheetah.

 
          
J.C.
tried the last gambit he could think of to get Patrick back to reality... “I
don’t love chasing DreamStar over
Mexico
with two chilibeans on my tail and sucking
fumes but I can live with it. But you . . . you have something worth more than
DreamStar back in a hospital in Vegas. Let’s get back and go after him another
day.”

 
          
It
worked. Watching the Mexican F-20 off their left wing, with one speedbrake
raised to slow himself down, McLanahan realized J.C. was right. He’d taken an
incredible chance and violated a few dozen rules by coming this far. He and
J.C. had almost got James . . . they’d done everything they could . . .
“There’s
going
to be a next time,” he
muttered. “Bet on it.”

 
          
J.C.
added: “The Russians don’t have DreamStar yet
—a
Russian has it and he’s still ten thousand miles from home.”

 
          
“So
we’ve still got these Mexican guys.” He strained to search behind Cheetah.
“Number two’s back there right between the tails.”

 
          
“No
offense to the Mexican Air Force,” J.C. said, “but I’ll bet these bozos never
intercepted anything but a soccer ball. The lead’s got his power way back
waiting for us, and his wingman’s right in our jet-wash. They’re both out of
position. Hang on.”

 
          
J.C.
jerked the throttles to idle and popped Cheetah’s big speedbrake. The lead F-20
noticed the sudden power reduction and, not realizing how slow he was already
going, pulled back his power even more. On the verge of a stall, he had no
choice but to scissor left and fall away to regain his lost airspeed.
Meanwhile, the number two F-20, not watching Cheetah and distracted by his
leader’s sudden departure, never tried to slow down. He yanked his stick
hard-right just in time to avoid slamming into Cheetah’s tail, and had to spin
away. At that moment J.C. retracted the speedbrake, went into full power and
began to accelerate and climb away from the Mexican interceptors.

 
          
McLanahan
was staring out the back of the large bubble canopy. “They’re still below us .
. . not climbing yet ...”

 
          
“Warning, radar search, six o'clockfrom the
computer.

           
“They dropped from radar track to
search,” J.C. said. “Are they getting closer?”

 
          
“I
can’t see them, they’ve dropped back.”

 
          
“American
F-15, this is Mexican Air Force. Follow us to base immediately. Acknowledge.”

 
          
J.C. shut off the VHF guard channel.

           
“I don’t think we can make it,”
McLanahan said a few minutes later, using the computer to check their fuel
status. “We’ll have to divert to a Mexican airport after all.”

 
          
“We’ll
start a climb and then use an idle descent into a diversion base,” J.C. said,
gently pulling back on the stick and starting a shallow climb. “Oh, well,” he
sighed, “I haven’t been in a Mexican jail since high school. It’ll be like old
times.” “Sorry I got you into this, J.C. I’m going to waste that sonofa- bitch
if I have to walk back to
Nicaragua
or
Columbia
or
Bolivia
or wherever he’s headed—”

           
Suddenly the number one radio, still
set to the refueling tanker’s operating frequency, crackled to life: “Storm
One, this is Cardinal Three-Seven. Over.”

 
          
“I
got it,” McLanahan said. On the radio he replied: “Cardinal Three-Seven, this
is Storm One. Over.”

 
          
“Storm
One, this is Cardinal. We’re Sun Devil KC-135 out of
Phoenix-Sky
Harbor
Airport
, one hundred and sixty-first Air Refueling
Group, Arizona Air National Guard. Set beacon code seventy-four, we’ve got
thirty-one. We’re at flight level two-niner zero, orbiting fifty miles south of
Tucson
near
Nogales
. What’s your situation? Over.”

 
          
“Air-to-air
TACAN
beacon? I haven’t used that
since I was a butter-bar.” J.C. checked the distance readout. “He’s still out
of range, not picking him up yet.”

 
          
“Cardinal,
Storm One is approximately one hundred miles southwest of
Chihuahua
. Fuel situation critical. We were about to
divert to
Chihuahua
for emergency refueling. Over.” “Copy that,
Storm. I guess your boss wants you back real bad. We’ve been ordered to . . .
how should I put it? . . . have a catastrophic navigation failure and come and
get you. As I speak, our autopilot is mysteriously taking us south across the
border.” A pause, then: “Air-to-air
TACAN
shows two hundred miles, Storm. Can you make it?”

 
          
“It’ll
be close,” McLanahan said.

 
          
“We
may have visitors,” J.C. added. “We left a couple sorehead Mexican
F-20S
in our dust.”

 
          
“They
should have gotten the word by now that you’re on an authorized sortie,” the
crewman replied. “Your boss tells us that they finally authorized your
overflight. But that’s not going to help you much. I hope you got what you came
for, boys—I doubt there are going to be any high fives waiting for you.”

 
          
“No,”
McLanahan said, “we didn’t get what we came for. Not this time ...”

Sebaco Military
Airbase
,
Nicaragua

Thursday, 18 June 1996
,
0645 CDT (0745 EDT)

 
          
ANDREI MARAKLOV
awoke with a start but
didn’t try to get up—his muscles quivered with the slightest hint of exertion.
He was incredibly thirsty. Beads of sweat rolled down from his eyebrows, and
the dirt and salt stung his eyes.

 
          
He
opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a firm mattress, his face buried in
stiflF white sheets. His arms were by his side. Judging by feel, he was only
wearing a pair of briefs.

 
          
Suddenly
he felt a cool sponge touch the back of his neck, and a young female voice said
in a soft voice,
“Dobrahye otrah,
tovarisch Polkovnik.
”

 
          
He
had prepared himself for this, ever since deciding to take DreamStar out of the
United
States
. In hesitant, poorly phrased Russian, he replied,
“Vi gahvahretye pah angleyski?”
“Of course, Colonel. My mistake.”
The sponge ran over his shoulders, across his back. He tried to look at the
woman but couldn’t even manage that much energy. Now in a near-perfect mid
western American accent the woman said, “Good morning, Colonel.”

 
          
“Who
are you?”

 
          
“My
name is Musi Zaykov. I am your aide and secretary.”

           
“Are you KGB?”

           
“Yes, sir. I am a
starshiy leyt
. . . I’m sorry—a
lieutenant, Central American Command. I have been here in
Nicaragua
for almost a year.”

 
          
Nicaragua
. Maraklov closed his eyes. He had almost
forgotten. That explained the heat and the humidity. The events of his flight
across
Central
America
came back
and invaded his thoughts. That explained his debilitation—he had flown
DreamStar several hours longer than he had ever done before. He routinely lost
four or five pounds on every one-hour sortie in the past, and this last flight,
with ANTARES in combat conditions, had taken three hours. No wonder . . .

 
          
“I
have been asked to notify the base commander when you awoke, sir,” she said,
rinsing the sponge off in a pan on a stand by the bed, “but I’ll wait and let
you go back to sleep if you want.”

 
          
“Thanks.”
He made an effort and rolled onto his back, opening his eyes wide as he did so
to help him regain his equilibrium. Musi Zaykov was sitting on the bed to his
right. She looked about thirty, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a bright disarming
smile. She wore a khaki bush shirt with the collar open several buttons from
the top against the heat.

 
          
“Musi
. . . Musi . . . very pretty name.”

 
          
“Thank
you, sir.”

 
          
“How
long have I been asleep?”

 
          
“About
fifteen hours, Colonel.” He watched her eyes scan his body. “I’m sorry we could
not provide you with better sleeping arrangements, sir. It was decided to leave
you here in the hangar where the security units have been assembled. I’m sure
air conditioning will be set up as soon as possible.”

 
          
Maraklov
nodded. “Pass the water.” Zaykov quickly passed the pitcher of ice water over
to him. He watched her over the rim of the plastic glass.

 
          
“They
say you were close to death when they took you out of your aircraft,” she said,
her eyes occasionally straying down to his abdomen and legs. “Dehydration and
chemical depletion.”

 
          
“Ten
pounds is unusual,” Maraklov said, “but dehydration and chemical imbalance
isn’t. I have a megadose on vitamins and minerals every time I fly my plane.”
She was fidgeting a bit on the edge of the bed, her breathing getting deeper.

 
          
She
was beautiful, but was he imagining this as a come-on? If it was real, why?

 
          
“Leave
me alone,” he said suddenly. “I want to get dressed.”

 
          
“I
have been asked to stay with you—”

 
          
“I
said get out.”

 
          
“I
am a qualified nurse, sir, as well as an intelligence analyst and operative.”
She leaned closer to him, inviting him to touch her body. “In your condition I
do not think it wise to leave you alone.”

 
          
And
he suddenly realized the real situation he was in. He was lucky the Central
Command had only sent a “friendly” operative, an agent instructed to get close
to him, become his confidante, including his sexual partner if necessary. Right
out of Academy syllabus . . .

 
          
“You
obviously didn’t place too well at
Connecticut
Academy
,” Maraklov deadpanned.

 
          
Zaykov
looked startled, but only for an instant. “I’m sorry, sir . . . ?”

 
          
“You’re
also bothering me, and I don’t want the KGB watching me on the john, even an
agent with big tits.”

 
          
She
didn’t blink. “Yes, Colonel, it’s true I am a KGB soldier, but right now I am
here to help you in any way I can during your recovery phase. You have been
through a remarkable ordeal and you have an even more difficult one ahead of
you. I think it important that you not go through this alone. All I ask is that
you please let me help.”

 
          
So
sincere, but she was using the exact hand gestures and body movements “Janet
Larson” had practiced back at the Academy—her body, her mannerisms, even her
accent were virtual duplicates of Janet Larson, who had tried to get him thrown
out of the Academy and take away his chance to come to America . . .

 
          
“I don't need any help—”

           
“But—”

 
          
“That’s
an order,
Lieutenant
Now get your
butt out of here.” Zaykov missed that bit of slang but got the idea, rolled off
the bed and left.

 
          
The
word was going to spread quickly that he was awake, so Maraklov went over to
the tiny closet-sized bathroom, found toilet articles and towels and showered
and shaved as fast as he could without making the room spin. He had finished
and was on his seventh glass of water when the door of the small apartment
opened and a man in the black battle-dress uniform of the KGB Border Guards
moved aside, allowing an older officer in a dark green-and-brown camouflage
flight suit to enter. The officer was tall and wiry—the flight suit, Maraklov
decided, wasn’t just for show; this guy looked like a fighter pilot. He looked
at Maraklov for a moment, then came to attention and made a slight bow.

 
          
“It
is a pleasure to see you, Colonel Maraklov. I am General Major Aviatsii Pavel
Tret’yak, commanding officer of Sebaco Military Airfield.” He walked over to
Maraklov and extended a hand. “Welcome home.”

 
          
Maraklov
shook his hand. “Thank you, General. But I think I’ve quite a way to go before
I get home.”

 
          
“We
consider this is a slice of
Russia
in the middle of
Central America
,” Tret’yak said with a smile. “You will be home
soon. Until then, this base and all its personnel are at your disposal, and I
will see to it that you are treated in recognition of your feat.” Tret’yak was
bobbing around like a young flying cadet, showing his excitement at meeting
Maraklov. “Tell me about your flight, and all about this magnificent aircraft.
I took the liberty of inspecting it this morning. It seems a fantastic machine,
no doubt the fighter of tomorrow ... We must talk about your flight over
breakfast.”

 
          
“Thank
you, sir. I could go for some coffee and breakfast before we begin DreamStar’s
preparations for the flight back—”

 
          
“Oh,
we will see to that, Colonel. It is already being done.”

 
          
Maraklov
stared at Tret’yak. “What? You—?”

 
          
“Under
orders from
Moscow
, we have already begun the process of
dismantling the aircraft. In a few days it will be—”

 
          
“Dismantling
DreamStar? What the hell do you mean?”

 
          
Tret’yak
looked puzzled. “How else do you intend to get it out of
Nicaragua
? Do you intend to
fly
it back to
Russia
? It is sixteen thousand kilometers from
here to
Moscow
, with
North America
on one side, the U.S. Navy in the center
and all western Europe on the other side. I should think you would have found
it dangerous enough flying a thousand kilometers across
Central America
.”

 
          
“But
I don’t know how to take it apart,” Maraklov said. “I didn’t bring the tech
manuals with me and besides, I don’t want to risk—”

 
          
“That
is not our concern,” Tret’yak said. “We are pilots, not mechanics. When we are
in the cockpit, we are in charge. But when we are on the ground the
grease-monkeys and pencil- pushers are in charge.”

           
“That isn’t some rag-wing biplane
out there, General. You can’t just take a few screws out of her and fold it up.
DreamStar may be the world’s greatest jet fighter but it’s as delicate as an
inertial guidance computer. If it’s taken apart, it will never fly again.
Believe me ...”

 
          
Tret’yak
was obviously bored with the argument and anxious to hear about Maraklov’s
escape from the
U.S.
He shrugged. “There are tropical-weight flight suits in the closet. Get
dressed. We’ll talk.”

 
          
“Sir,
call off the dismantling until I can speak with
Moscow
. I don’t think—”

 
          
“It
is already being done, Colonel. Now—”

 
          
“I
said call it off, General.”

 
          
Tret’yak
turned and looked with astonishment at Maraklov. He was, after all, a general.
But then he softened, seeming to understand. “I know how you feel, Andrei,” he
said, sounding like an older brother or father. “But these orders came directly
from Kalinin himself. I must comply with them. It is an amazing war machine, I
realize. You are afraid it will never fly again and I understand that—our
scientists and engineers can get a little overzealous at times. They have
little appreciation for what we do. But you did realize, Colonel, that they
were going to get the XF-34, did you not? I cannot think of one instance where
an aircraft stolen or delivered to another country in such circumstances was
not used for study and research. It certainly never flies again. True, the
MiG-25 that traitor Be- lyenko stole from
Petropavlovsk
and flew to
Japan
twenty years ago was flown a few times, but
just for—”

 
          
“They
can’t destroy DreamStar. It’s no damn lab rat. You of all people should
appreciate that. DreamStar needs to be studied, true, but studied in
one piece.
We can train Russian pilots
to fly her and develop an entire squadron of pilots who can fly her.” Maraklov
paused, wondering how much of this he believed, how much was his attachment to
DreamStar, his communion with it. “How would you, sir, like to be the first
MiG-39 Zavtra squadron commander?”