Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (74 page)

 
          
He
went to the closet, found a fresh flight suit and began pulling it on. “I’ll
talk to the general—hell, I’ll talk to
Moscow
. I doubt that the Americans will attack
this base. But if they do we can move DreamStar to another location until the
attack is over. Unless the
U.S.
declares war, they won’t threaten the peace
in
Central America
by bombing a base, even over this fighter.
And they’re not going to declare war.” Maraklov pulled on a pair of boots and
left his room.

 
          
Zaykov
remained there for several minutes. The strain, she decided, was getting to
him. Even more than before, the fighter was
his
personal possession, more than the
U.S.
’s or the
USSR
’s, and he was determined to ignore official
orders and political realities and do with the fighter as
he
thought best. The signs of paranoia were stronger as well. She’d
never thought he’d agree to leave DreamStar in
Nicaragua
, but at the very least she thought her
words would comfort him if not altogether reassure him. It had had the opposite
effect. He clearly now believed that the Soviet military would discard him like
a spent shell casing after his mission was completed. (She did not consider the
likelihood that he might be right . . .)

 
          
She
had to try to convince him to trust his countrymen. That was now more important
than ever. With the threat of American retaliation hanging over them, a
battle-fatigued and alienated mind of Colonel Maraklov could mean disaster for
himself, the mission and all Soviet personnel in
Nicaragua
.

 
          
He
had to be brought back to the fold—or he had to be eliminated.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Maraklov
went to the command post, where he found General Tret’yak in his office sitting
in front of a computer terminal, staring at a half-filled screen. “I need to
talk to you, General.”

 
          
Tret’yak
looked up, motioned to a chair. Maraklov ignored it. “I am composing a detailed
report on this morning’s incident,” Tret’yak said in a distracted tone. “Five
aircraft lost. Watching that Ilyushin go in—I have never felt so helpless—”

           
“Sir, we have to discuss the XF-34
fighter,” Maraklov interrupted. “It’s not secure here. I recommend it be moved
as soon as possible to a secret location and prepared for another flight to the
Soviet Union
as soon as possible.”

           
Tret’yak stared at the screen for a
few moments; then, to Maraklov’s surprise, began typing again. “Colonel
Maraklov, personally, at this moment, I don’t care
what
happens to our fighter,” he said without looking up from his
work. “I have lost seven men and five aircraft today—that is more men and more
equipment than I have lost in four years as a squadron commander in
Afghanistan
. I will certainly lose my command and
possibly my pension. The safety and security of your wondrous aircraft is out
of my hands. I have no more resources to defend it with.”

 
          
He
reached over to a stack of papers, selected one and tossed it to Maraklov
without looking up from the computer screen. “Here are your orders, transmitted
by the chief of the KGB. You are authorized to take any actions necessary to
protect the aircraft. Authorization has already been obtained to allow you
access to
Sandino
Airport
in
Managua
, Aeroflot hangar number twelve, and
Puerto
Cabezas
Airport
, main transient hangar. You will take
weapons with you. I have already ordered my men to load Lluyka tanks,
ammunition and missiles on your fighter—we suddenly seem to have plenty to
spare. It’s
your
responsibility now.”

 
          
Maraklov
picked up the message. It was true—he had been given almost unlimited authority
to protect DreamStar from destruction until the chief of the KGB, Kalinin,
could consult with the Soviet Kollegiya. Trucks, trains, ships, tankers,
weapons, hangars, men, money—anything he felt was necessary, so long as
DreamStar was safe. It was an exciting prospect, but he realized that if he
failed, the Kollegiya would demand repayment—and not in money.

 
          
Maraklov
almost felt sorry for the man—he had, in effect, just been relieved of command
because of something he had no control over. “I understand, sir,
spasiba
—”

 
          
“Get
out, Colonel,” Tret’yak said. “You have everything you need.”

 
          
“I
want to ask your opinion, sir,” Maraklov said quickly, “about where you
recommend I take
Zavtra.
”

 
          
The
old fighter pilot looked up from his work. “You want my opinion?”

 
          
Maraklov
saw the old glimmer in his eyes, at least something of the fire he’d noted when
they’d met that day he arrived at Sebaco. Tret’yak wanted a piece of the
action, no matter what. “I’m glad you asked, because I have given it some
thought.” Tret’yak motioned to a chair, then poured a tall glass of ice water
for Maraklov. “I am very, very glad you asked.”

Washington
,
D.C.

Saturday, 20 June 1996
, 1900 EDT

           
President Taylor cursed, his
New England
accent, rarely heard after years in
Washington
, leaking through.

           
The full National Security Council
had been summoned for an early-evening meeting at the White House conference
room. They had just been briefed on DreamStar by General Elliott via two-way
satellite videophone from the E-5 AWACS plane, in which he was still orbiting
over the
Cayman
Islands
. The
President turned his face away from his advisers at the conference table, his
jaw tight. “They just went ahead and lied to me.”

 
          
“According
to Ambassador Vilizherchev, the military detachment in
Nicaragua
acted on their own without clearing it with
Moscow
,” Secretary of State Danahall said. “Vilizherchev
insists there was no intention of deceiving us.”

 
          
“I
don’t care what he insists. For starters, I want Vilizher- chev’s ticket
pulled—he’s
persona non grata.
And I
want to make sure that the press knows he’s not being ‘recalled to confer with
his government’ or any such bull—I want them to know that I’m
kicking
him out.”

 
          
“Do
you want the press to know why?” Danaball asked.

 
          
“Because
he lied to me, he lied to this government.” He pointed a finger at Danahall.
“You don’t need to go into details.” Danahall shook his head as the President
turned back to the image of Elliott on the three-sided monitor set up in the
center of the conference table. Yes, Danahall thought, the President needed to
go into detail for something as serious as kicking out an ambassador,
especially the ambassador from the
Soviet Union
.

 
          
“So
we definitely know that the XF-34 was flown back to
Nicaragua
, back to this Sebaco airfield?” the
President asked Elliott.

 
          
“Positively,
sir,” Elliott radioed back. “We’ve had continuous AWACS radar coverage of
Sebaco since the XF-34 withdrew. It has definitely landed at Sebaco, and so far
no aircraft have departed or arrived at Sebaco except for two MiG fighters from
Managua
that had tried to chase our AWACS plane
away from
Nicaragua
. Our Falcons convinced him that it was all
right for us to stay. We’ve been keeping watch on Sebaco via our AWACS plane,
by satellite surveillance, and by sketchy reports from covert operatives in
Nicaragua
when possible.” “But that doesn’t mean they
can’t move it again,” William Stuart said testily. “It’s still a no-win
operation, Elliott. So you caught the Russians trying to move the thing.
They’re still not going to give it back until they’re good and ready—”

           
“We
can
stop them from moving that aircraft out of Nicaragua,” Elliott
said, “if we act fast enough.”

 
          
“Is
it true, General,” the President asked, “that we can’t detect them if they move
it out of Sebaco?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid so, sir. We have satellite overflights every ninety minutes to scan the
base, and our radar plane can track anything in the sky. Our agents in the
field are keeping watch on the area surrounding Sebaco, but the Russians have
stepped up security around that base and our agents can’t get too close. There
are gaps... But we don’t have to know the XF-34’s exact location,” Elliott
added, readjusting his headset. “We know they have it—we don’t need to know
anything else—”

           
“You’re recommending that we
bomb
Sebaco, regardless of whether we
know that fighter is there or not?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir, I am. It would help if the plane were returned to its hangar where it was
first spotted, but there’s not too much chance of that. I’d expect them to hide
it in the jungle or transport it to
Sandino
Airport
, where we’d be less inclined to attack—”

 
          
“
‘Less inclined’ is right, General,” Stuart said. “We will
not
attack a civilian airfield.”

 
          
“Sandino
is a military airfield, sir. The Nicaraguans don’t operate any civilian
airfields. Sandino is operated by the military but accepts civilian traffic. A
surgical strike—”

 
          
“We’re
getting off the point, General,” the President said. “I’ll end this right
now—we will
not
attack
Sandino
Airport
. It may in fact be a military airfield, but
it is considered a civilian airfield. If the Soviets ship it to Sandino, then
it’s just another step out of our reach.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Elliott said. “Sebaco is our target in any case. Our objective is to send
a message that we don’t accept our fighter being stolen, our people killed and
our so-called agreement being broken.”

 
          
For
a brief moment the President thought about the upcoming election, the scrutiny
he was under already, the criticism he could expect when the country learned
that he had mounted an attack against
Nicaragua
. But Elliott’s carefully phrased statement
seemed the bottom line—the Soviets had been banking on this election year to
get away with killing American servicemen and stealing a multi-million-dollar
aircraft . . .

 
          
“Let’s
send that message, General Elliott,” the President ordered, and said a silent
prayer.

Moscow
,
USSR

Sunday, 21 June 1996
, 0700 EET (Saturday, 2300 EDT)

 
          
The
General Secretary, as always, began the emergency meeting of his senior
advisers precisely on time. He was dressed in a business suit and tie, in spite
of the early hour, and bestowed a disgusted look on any of his civilian or
military advisers who arrived in rumpled suits or unpolished shoes or who did
not shave. The man set high standards for himself and he expected each of those
around him to measure up to the same standards. And, contrary to much of the
rest of the world, Sunday was still a day of work in the Kremlin.