Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (91 page)

 
          
Maraklov
took aim on the helicopter’s canopy, fired. The shot missed the pilot by
inches, but it sped through the cabin and through a circuit breaker panel,
showering the cockpit with sparks. The helicopter engine faltered, lost power,
then regained it. Maraklov tried to get off another shot but the rotor’s
downwash forced him to his knees, and he had no choice but to crawl away from
the blast, though he was still sideswiped by the Dolphin’s fiberglass nose.

 
          
Meanwhile
Briggs had jumped out and run over to
Carmichael
.
McLanahan took Powell, and together they began to drag the wounded toward the
helicopter.

 
          
The
pilot halted his advance at the body of Sergeant Butler. McLanahan and Briggs
dragged Carmichael and Powell through the side door, then together they picked
up
Butler
’s body and carefully as they could manage
put his body in the helicopter. Blood and viscera were everywhere, on their
faces, covering their uniforms. Briggs and McLanahan jumped inside the chopper,
ignoring whatever they were stepping or slipping on. Patrick shouted to the
pilot, “go,” and the chopper lifted off.

 
          
Maraklov
had crawled back to DreamStar’s shelter just as the chopper rose off the
concrete. Again he took aim at the canopy and fired, but at this angle the
bullets were ricocheting off, not penetrating. He fired once more on the
retreating helicopter, doing no more damage that he could see—but the chopper’s
engine was definitely faltering. He had hit something vital—no way it would
make it back to
Honduras
. No reason to worry about McLanahan any
more—he would be long gone before McLanahan could call in a counterstrike, and
Powell was definitely no worry.

 
          
But
Maraklov had a new worry: the Nicaraguans. If anyone from the base came out
here to investigate, the game would be over. He ran back to the taxiway and
dragged the bodies of the two KGB Border Guards and General Tret’yak out of
sight in the aircraft shelter, then checked the ammunition in his pistol. Three
shots left. Two for any curious spectators that decided to investigate—and
perhaps one for himself.

           
He sat down in front of DreamStar’s
nose gear, peering up over the edge of the semirecessed parking stub, waiting
for anyone to approach. After ten minutes there was still no sign of activity.
Either no one had heard the shots—unlikely—or no one cared enough to interfere.

 
          
Maraklov
felt a rush of excitement. He had snatched DreamStar out of the hands of the
Americans once more, just as he had done back in Dreamland. This fighter was
destined
to be his. More than ever, he
felt it must be.

 
          
He
ran out the back of the shelter toward the perimeter fence, checking for any
sign of intruders or surveillance. He went to where he had hidden the cases
containing his flight suit and helmet and quickly brought them back to the
shelter. He checked the perimeter once more—once he had the metallic flight
suit on, it was going to be impossible for him to defend himself. The aircraft
shelter had a set of steel doors that could be motored in place, but Maraklov
had no choice but to keep them open—there was no one alive to open them again.

 
          
No
matter. In two hours, perhaps less, he’d be airborne, heading away from this
damned place, once and for all.

 
          
Maraklov
dragged the aluminum cases up onto the service platform beside the cockpit,
then climbed up the ladder and began opening them. Already, he was beginning
the deepbreathing exercises that would relax his body, open his mind and allow
the electronic neural interface to begin. In five minutes he had stripped down,
put on the pair of thin cotton underwear, and began connecting the fiber-optic
electrical connections between the suit and helmet and from the suit and helmet
to the interface inside the cockpit. He could feel the familiar, soothing body
cues beginning to wash over him as he entered the first level of alpha-state,
the primary selfhypnosis level of his mental relaxation. Coincidentally, this
alpha-state was helping to block out the throbbing pain in his shoulder and
calm the quivering in his muscles as adrenaline began to be dissipated from his
bloodstream.

 
          
He
opened DreamStar’s canopy and climbed inside. No longer needing the platform,
he unlatched and collapsed it, then kicked it away as hard as he could. The
ladder rolled across the stub, hit the revetment wall and fortunately did not
roll back toward DreamStar’s wings or canards.

 
          
Next
he activated DreamStar’s internal battery power and did a fast system self-test
to make sure he had all the connections right—the self-test reported fully
functional and ready to receive computer commands. The test also reported on
any ground safing pins, access panels, or covers out of place. The standby
gauges read full tanks, full twenty-millimeter ammunition drum and connectivity
with the four remaining air-to- air missiles. DreamStar was ready for engine
start as soon as the ANTARES interface was completed.

 
          
Finally,
standing on the ejection seat, Maraklov began to put on the flight suit. He had
thought it would be impossible to do it without help, but it was turning out to
be less of a problem than he’d anticipated. In twenty minutes he had put on and
adjusted the sixty-pound suit, then carefully lowered himself into the ejection
seat and fastened as many body restraints as he could. The suit was not
designed for free range of motion— it resisted any movements that departed from
the normal cockpit flight position—but he was soon strapped in tight.

 
          
After
a few moments of concentration he had his breathing back to normal, then well
below normal as he reentered full alpha-state hypnosis. Still no sign of
interference as he closed his eyes to begin the progressively deeper levels of
self-hypnosis.

 
          
Soon,
DreamStar would be his once more. And he would be DreamStar’s . . .

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Mayday,
Mayday, Mayday, Air Force helicopter TripleEcho Three-Four on
GUARD
frequency, twenty miles east of
Lecus Southeast airport at two thousand feet. We are a United States Air Force
military flight. Three on board plus three casualties, seven thousand pounds
fuel, heading two-niner- zero degrees magnetic toward Buena Vista airport at
one hundred knots. Engine and electrical damage and uncontrollable fuel loss.
Requesting search and rescue meet us along southern Honduran border south of
Puerto Lempira. Emergency. Please respond. Over.” There was no reply. The pilot
repeated the call on both UHF and VHF
GUARD
emergency frequencies.

 
          
“Nothing
from the Nicaraguan military?” McLanahan asked.

 
          
“It’s
like they all disappeared off the face of the earth,” the pilot said. “When vve
crossed the border into
Nicaragua
, they were all over us every second. Now
they don’t even answer a distress call.’’

 
          
“They
might not hear you,” Briggs said, checking the overhead circuit-breaker panels.
“Your radio panel looks like it might be damaged.” The pilot kept trying.
Briggs moved up beside McLanahan, who was scanning a chart and keeping track of
their progress. “Patrick . . . J.C. . . . he’s had it.”

 
          
The
chart dropped from his lap. His mouth turned dry as sand. His fingers trembled.
“Jesus, no . . .” He shut his eyes. “J.C., J.C., dammit. . .” His only
immediate relief was to allow the grief to overflow into blinding rage at
Maraklov. That sonofabitch was going to pay, somehow, he was going to pay...

 
          
McLanahan’s
anger was disrupted by a hard
thump
and a low-frequency vibration that began to echo through the helicopter. The
pilot tapped him on the shoulder. “Behind your seat, in the survival kit,
there’s a hand-held radio.” He was also struggling against a sudden vibration
that shook the entire helicopter. “We were briefed to use rescue channel alpha
on this mission. See if you can raise anyone with that.” But before Briggs
could retrieve the kit the chopper took a steep dive. The pilot had to pull
with all his strength on the collective to keep the helicopter airborne.

 
          
“I’m
losing it fast,” the pilot said. “I’ve gotta set it down.”

           
McLanahan picked up the chart and
relocated their position. “Try to make it across the Rio Coco river into
Honduras
. No way we want to go down in
Nicaragua
.”

           
The pilot shook his head. “I don’t
know how far we can go but I’ll try. You two better strap in.” McLanahan stuck the
chart in a flight-suit pocket. Briggs grabbed the survival kit, found a seat
between the bodies on the chopper’s aft deck and strapped in.

 
          
Somehow
the helicopter did manage to stay intact for ten more minutes. McLanahan
directed the pilot farther west toward a road leading northeast, and the pilot
found it just as a yellow caution light lit up on the front instrument panel.
“She’s seizing up,” the pilot said. “We can’t autorotate with all these trees
around us. We land now or crash.”

 
          
Following
the road as best they could, they glided in over the forests, searching for a
clearing. They found a bend in the road, and the pilot headed for it. He had
timed it well. The

 
          
Dolphin
hit the road, hard, just as the overspeed safety system in the chopper’s transmission
automatically uncoupled the rotor.

 
          
“Out!”
the pilot yelled, cutting oflF
fuel and power and activating the automatic fire-extinguishing system. “Form up
oflF the nose. Fast.” The three men dashed from the helicopter and ran a
hundred yards away from the chopper, then turned and waited for an explosion or
fire. Smoke billowed from the engine and power-train compartment behind the
cockpit, but there was no explosion or fire. The three collapsed on the driest
spot they could find beside the road, too weak from fear, tension, and
worn-oflF adrenaline to stand any longer.

 
          
After
a few silent minutes McLanahan unfolded the chart he had stuck in his flight
suit and pointed to the bend in the road. “He we are, I think, about three or
four miles from this town, Auka. Puerto Lempira is about twenty-five miles by
this road. Hal, see if you can raise someone on the survival radio.” Briggs got
out the radio, set it to emergency channel alpha and
GUARD
and began calling for help.

 
          
“I
got Puerto Lempira,” Briggs said a few moments later. “Storm Control, this is
Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four. You are weak and barely readable.
We are down zero-three miles south of town of
Auka
. Requesting pickup for three souls and
three fatalities. Over.” He listened for a few moments, made a few responses
and orders for priority assistance, signed oflF.

 
          
“Our
base says they don’t have another helicopter at Puerto Lempira,” Briggs said.
“They’ve called for one from La Cieba. They might be able to get one from
private companies but we can expect at least an hour before pickup, maybe
ninety minutes. We have to get to Auka, then find a clearing and vector the
chopper in. That’s the soonest they can make it.”

 
          
“Too
damn long,” McLanahan said. “Maraklov will be oflF in DreamStar before then.
We’ve got to get hold of Elliott and tell him to set up the air cordon again.”

 
          
“What
about fighters from Puerto Lempira?” Briggs asked. “Don’t you have that F-15E
there any more?”

 
          
“They
withdrew it to the States when the Russians cut their deal,” We had to take
down the whole air cordon out of the Cayman Islands as a sign of good faith.
Let’s just secure the chopper and get
moving.
”

 
          
As
they headed back to the Dolphin, McLanahan asked Briggs if General Elliott
wasn’t supposed to be on his way to Puerto Lempira by now.