Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (89 page)

 
          
The
bullet just missed Maraklov’s left ear. Before she could get off another shot
he had knocked the pistol aside, swung around and, before he realized what he
was doing, plunged the hunting knife into her abdomen. The blade pierced her
diaphragm and punctured the right lung. She took one more breath, exhaled,
blood coming from her open mouth in spasmodic coughs. She shuddered slightly,
stared at him with a look of surprise, and then lay motionless underneath him.

           
He rolled off her, staring back at
her lifeless eyes, then away. Janet Larson, James’ girlfriend ... all over
again . . .

 
          
He
shook himself back to the present . . . pulled the pistol from her fingers and
crawled to the window, checking outside. Nothing. He checked the side windows,
the bedroom, the back door. Nothing. The gunshots that had shocked him had not
carried beyond her secluded quarters.

 
          
He
went back to the living room. Forcing himself back to her, forcing himself to
touch her, he grabbed her hands and dragged her to the bedroom, then into her
closet. There was little blood—her heart had stopped beating almost instantly.
He rested her as best he could in the closet and closed the door. She would not
likely be discovered until morning.

 
          
His
shoulder wound hurt badly now, but the bullet had only taken a shallow, ragged
gouge out of his left shoulder muscle. Maraklov found bandages, disinfectant
ointment and tape and wrapped the wound tightly as he could. The pain began to
build, but he decided against any of the pain-killers he found in Zaykov’s
medicine cabinet—the drive would be long enough, and any drugs might later
interfere with the ANTARES interface. The pain also acted like a stimulant,
helping to clear his mind. Fortunately, he thought wryly, he could fly
DreamStar without a fully functioning left arm.

 
          
He
found the two aluminum cases in a living-room closet and made a fast check of
the flight suit and superconducting helmet—both were as he had packed them the
day before. He pocketed the pistol, picked up the two aluminum cases and headed
for the back door. After checking outside for several minutes he brought the
cases out to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove oflF.

 
          
He
followed the access road out from the southeast runway hammerhead toward the destroyed
anti-aircraft gun emplacement, then turned onto a dirt road that led toward the
perimeter. No patrols were in sight. He followed the road right to the base
perimeter fence and found a long-unused gate secured by a chain and a rusty
lock that gave way when he rammed it open with the sedan. Ten minutes later he
was on the
Isabella Highway
heading east toward Puerto Cabezas.

Puerto Lempira
Airbase
,
Honduras

Monday, 22 June 1996
, 0515 CDT (0615 EDT)

 
          
Powell
and McLanahan had just finished refueling and securing Cheetah in its portable
hangar on the Honduran coastal airbase about eighty nautical miles north of the
concrete bunkers at Puerto Cabezas. They were also watching the construction of
a second portable aircraft shelter right beside Cheetah’s hangar. The second
hangar was for DreamStar. After leaving Puerto Cabezas, Powell was to take it
here to Puerto Lempira, where technicians would give it a thorough going over
before Powell would fly it first to Houston, and then on to Dreamland in Nevada.

 
          
Cheetah
was still armed for combat—there had not been time in nearly two days to disarm
her. She still carried four AIM-120C Scorpion radar-guided missiles in
semi-recessed fuselage stations, and two AIM-132 infrared-guided missiles on
wing pylons—two other AIM-132 missiles had been expended on Soviet fighters
during the bombing raid on Sebaco—plus
FASTPACK
conformal fuel tanks and five hundred rounds of 20-millimeter ammunition.

 
          
“The
Russians figured out how to put external fuel tanks on DreamStar,” Powell was
saying as they watched the final parts being assembled onto the
steel-and-fiberglass structure. “We should be able to do it. With external
tanks I’m sure I can fly her all the way back to Dreamland.”

 
          
“I’m
sure you can, but it’s too risky. From what you said yourself, you’ll be flying
DreamStar right on the edge of your capabilities to begin with—it’s been at
least two years, J.C., since you’ve flown her. The Russians probably didn’t
bother testing DreamStar with the external tanks—they just slapped them on and
hoped they’d work. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather make a few fuel stops
along the way than trust those tanks.”

 
          
“I
know. Well, I’ve no big desire to fly that thing all the way from
Central America
to
Nevada
in one leg. Four hours hooked up to
ANTARES? Gives me a migraine just thinking about it.”

 
          
“A
bad time for a headache,” McLanahan said. “We want that plane out of there
today.
”

 
          
“Hell,
why don’t
you
fly it out of
Nicaragua
then? You at least flew in DreamStar’s
simulator a couple weeks ago. You’d probably do better than me. I could fly
Cheetah on your wing and keep you company ...”

 
          
“It’s
an idea. But you know what happened the last time I flew in the simulator—I
crashed and burned, in more ways than one. If you think you can’t do it, we’ll
just call Elliott on the horn and get that Navy barge in here. No, I think I’ll
let you have all the pleasure of flying DreamStar. I’ll be in Cheetah on
your
wing.”

 
          
Powell
looked at him. “I’ll be happy if I can just keep it upright.”

 
          
A
few minutes later they heard the steady rhythm of helicopter blades
approaching. An Air Force HH-65A Dolphin helicopter swung in over the saltwater
marshes, down the runway and over to the asphalt and concrete parking area. A
security guard directed in the chopper with lighted wands, and it settled
gently in for a landing. As the rotors began to spin down, a fuel truck and
maintenance crew began making their way toward the chopper, and the passengers
began to deplane. Powell and McLanahan went over to greet them.

 
          
“These
helicopters have some real possibilities,” Master Sergeant Ray Butler said as
he exited the Dolphin. “But I’ll take solid wings and big turbofans any day.”
He shook hands with McLanahan. “How are you, sir?”

 
          
“Okay,
Ray.”

 
          
“Sorry
about Dr. Tork,” He mumbled.

 
          
Alan
Carmichael wrapped his big arms around McLanahan before saying a word. “I
called Brooks before we left La Cieba, Patrick. Wendy’s hanging right in there.
Still on full respiratory life support but she’s a fighter. I think she’s going
to pull out of it.”

 
          
“Me
too. Thanks for the news, Alan.”

 
          
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.