Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (98 page)

 
          
“I’m
not giving up. Listen, something’s happening here. If Maraklov was flying at
one hundred percent we’d be dog meat by now. He’s not engaging, I think
maybe
he’s reached his limit ...”
Wishful thinking . . . ? He began a turn back in the opposite direction and
activated the air-to-air attack radar.

 
          
Immediately the computer reported, “Radar
target, range twelve miles, bearing right. ”

           
He hit the voice-command button:
“Select radar missile. Launch missile. Launch missile.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
The
pain that racked Maraklov’s body was constant now, rolling across every nerve
ending like a brush fire out of control. The numbness in his left shoulder
spread to his left arm and elbow—it was the first time in two years that
Maraklov ever noticed anything about his appendages while flying under the
neural-computer interface system. The sensory dichotomy created momentary
confusion. He became aware of still more problems with his body—he was
incredibly thirsty, weak as a kitten. He was aware of the taste of blood—he
could even feel blood dripping down the side of his head and pooling inside his
oxygen mask. Taste? Feel? These sensations were as foreign to him while under
ANTARES as mental radar images had been when he first saw one.

 
          
At
the same time, ANTARES was warning him about a hundred other things. Cheetah
was in a left turn, heading back for him. Fuel state was critical—less than
twenty minutes fuel left, without reserves. Oxygen was low. That last Scorpion
missile’s miss was not altogether harmless—ANTARES was now reporting minor
ventral fin actuator damage and a few sectors of the ventral superconducting
radar arrays malfunctioning.

 
          
It
was time to destroy Cheetah, once and for all.

 
          
But
DreamStar had barely completed its turn back toward Cheetah when more missiles
were detected in flight. And now they were in a head-on engagement, with one,
then two missiles in flight. Maraklov began a series of high-speed random
maneuvers, trying to make the missiles swing farther and farther away on each
turn. At the same time he moved farther and farther from Cheetah, getting a few
more yards of lateral separation, waiting for the moment to begin a lead turn
into the F-15
^to
start his gun pass.

 
          
This
time, Maraklov thought, he could not miss. McLanahan had become lazy—never go
head-to-head with his DreamStar.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Scorpion
missile tracking . . . stay with him, Patrick, he’s getting outside you ...”

 
          
McLanahan
blinked beads of sweat out of his eyes as he nudged the control stick farther
right toward Cheetah. He had a steady
JOKER
indication on the heads-up display—less than fifteen minutes of fuel
remaining, enough to get him back to La Cieba or Puerto Lempira. If he
continued the fight much longer the number of possible landing sites, in
Honduras or Panama, would steadily decrease to zero until he would be forced to
put down somewhere in Costa Rica.

 
          
“Patrick,
watch it,”
Preston
called out, “he’s turning in on you—”

 
          
He
had let his mind drift off at the worst possible moment. That momentary lapse
of concentration had allowed DreamStar to get the angle on him. Maraklov was
now bearing in on Cheetah from the right side. A turn in either direction would
expose himself even more to a cannon attack.

 
          
He
lit the left afterburner and pulled Cheetah up into a hard climb.
Preston
hung from the handlebars in the back seat,
straining against the G-forces as she tried to keep DreamStar in sight over her
right shoulder.

 
          
“Warning, missile launch, ” the computer
threat-receiver blared. Then: “Warning, airspeed low. Stall warning. Stall
warning. ”

           
“He’s turned inside us. Missile
launch.
Get out of here.
”

 
          
McLanahan
hit the voice-command button: “ChaflF . . . Flares,” he grunted, forcing the
words out from the pressure against his lungs. He saw the decoys-eject
indications on the heads-up display.

 
          
“Where
is he?” he called out to
Preston
.

 
          
“
Five o’clock
low, climbing with us. He’s still coming .
. .”

 
          
McLanahan
pulled back on the stick even harder, his neck and jaw muscles quivering
against the pressure. He rolled inverted, ejected more chaflF and flares to
decoy the missiles, then plunged Cheetah earthward. They were head-to-head once
again, but this time they were fighting in the vertical, not the
horizontal—Cheetah was in a full-power descent, rapidly building airspeed, and
DreamStar was in a screaming climb, heading right at him . . .

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
ANTARES
adjusted each flight control surface and every pound of two-dimensional
vectored thrust to keep Cheetah centered in its crosshairs. Measuring by
DreamStar’s precision millimeter-wave radar and calculating by computer several
times a second, Maraklov commanded DreamStar to open fire seconds before McLanahan’s
finger even closed on his trigger. They were still almost two miles apart when
DreamStar opened fire, dead on target . . .

 
          
The
cannon reported locked-on and firing—then stopped.

 
          
After
several days of misuse, inexperienced handling, and lack of routine preventive
maintenance, and because the Russian-made ammunition was not precisely
compatible with its American counterpart, DreamStar’s twenty-millimeter cannon
fired five rounds, then jammed solid. The M61A5 cannon’s automatic jam-clearing
mechanism tried to reverse the cartridge belt-feed, spin past the portion of
the belt where the jam occurred and refeed the belt through the firing chamber,
but the jam could not be cleared in flight.

 
          
At
the speed of thought, ANTARES transmitted several bits of data to Maraklov’s
exhausted mind. The cannon jam was reported in minute detail—he knew exactly
where the jam was, the status of the unsuccessful attempts to clear it and the
changing status of all the attack options that had been computed using the
cannon. He also knew the range to Cheetah, knew Cheetah’s Doppler-measured
velocity, and knew that

 
          
Cheetah
was within lethal gun range. And he knew to the nearest one-tenth of a knot his
own decreasing airspeed and the position of his wings and canards to overcome
his speed deficit. He commanded his last AA-11 missile to launch, but it was a
desperate snap-shot, with only one or two seconds guidance time and launched
with a much higher launch angle of attack than the Russian missile was designed
for.

 
          
With
the realization that a defensive turn and descent away from Cheetah was the
last available option, the pain returned full-force to Maraklov’s already
tortured nervous system. This time, the pain was unbearable . . . He never knew
that ANTARES’ stabilization system automatically corrected the impending stall
condition. He also was not conscious enough to realize that DreamStar had taken
several direct hits all across its wings and upper fuselage as ANTARES pulled
its nose back to the horizon.

 
          
Warning
messages began flooding in from almost every system on board the fighter, but
Maraklov was too dazed by exhaustion and too overloaded with pain to assimilate
them all—now the ANTARES computer was forced to take over all safety and flight
control functions. The computers aboard DreamStar detected a fire in the engine
compartment, momentarily shut down the engine, put out the fire and restarted
the engine all in a few seconds. Engine-fuel feed was rerouted to draw fuel
from leaking tanks before they ran dry. The mission-adaptive wings reshaped
themselves to compensate for hydraulic actuators damaged by gunfire.

 
          
But
through it all, Maraklov hovered on the brink of unconsciousness. And without
him, for all ANTARES’ capability, DreamStar was no longer capable of fighting.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
McLanahan
came out of military power and set the throttles to eighty percent. He saw the
BINGO
low fuel warning projected onto
his windscreen—less than ten minutes of fuel remaining—but for now he ignored
it. He clicked open the interphone. “He’s
what?”

 
          
“I
see smoke coming out of his exhaust,”
Preston
said. “Not heavy but I can see it. He’s flying straight and level, not
maneuvering. You
got
him . . .”

 
          
McLanahan
looked over far to his right and spotted DreamStar. He turned toward him.
Preston
said, “You’ve got two-hundred rounds
remaining and two missiles. Take the shot. We’re low on fuel.”

           
He lined up on DreamStar, selected
an AIM-132 infrared missile, aligned it, hit the voice-command button: “Safe
all missiles. Safe cannon.”

 
          
“Caution, all weapons safe. ”

           
“Patrick, what are you
doing?
You got to bring this guy down.
There’s no other choice. He can turn on us . .

 
          
McLanahan’s
reply was to click open the emergency frequency: “DreamStar, this is Cheetah.
I’m at your six, five miles. I’m joining on your right side. Do you hear me?”

 
          
“Stay
away ...” The pain in his voice was obvious, even through the computerized
distortion. “Do not come any closer ...”

 
          
“It’s
over, I’m joining on your wing. When you see me stay on my wing. We’re landing.
Do you
understand?”

 
          
He
maneuvered Cheetah closer to DreamStar, finally overtaking him. “I’ve got the
lead, coming right. You’re on the wing, stay there.” He began a shallow right
turn.

 
          
“I
am not giving up this aircraft. . .” the computer-synthesized voice said. “I am
not. . . not going to surrender DreamStar . . .”

 
          
“It’s
over. Listen to me. DreamStar is damaged, you’re hurt bad. You’ll destroy
DreamStar or force me to destroy you. You’ve got a chance to live. Take it—”

 
          
Suddenly
Marcia called out, “He’s turning behind us ... !

 
          
But
it was only a momentary deviation. A moment later DreamStar moved into perfect
fingertip formation with Cheetah. “That’s it, stay in position.” On interphone
McLanahan said, “Marcia, get on the radio to any air traffic facility you can
reach. Tell them we need vectors to a hard-surface runway ASAP.”

 
          
He
paused, taking his first real deep breath, then added: “Two American military
aircraft landing, both require assistance.”

Brooks
AFB
Hospital
,
San
Antonio
,
Texas

Thursday, 23 June 1996
, 2037 PDT (2337 EDT)

           
“SHE’S A
remarkable woman,” the doctor told him. “You were right.
She just refused to give up.”

           
He bent over and kissed her. “She’s
a tough broad.” Wendy returned the kiss, reached up and touched his face, ran
her fingers across his temples. “You’ve gotten a few gray hairs in the past few
days, Colonel.” Her smile dimmed as she saw his eyes, remembering. “I’m sorry I
won’t be there for J.C.’s service tomorrow. I’m going to miss him . .

 
          
He
nodded. “I’ve never felt as secure, or as happy in an aircraft until I started
flying with J.C. And he was a
friend.”
McLanahan
was silent a few moments. “But seeing you like this again, it overwhelms
everything . . . How do you feel?” “Like they say, lucky to be alive. Also
tired as hell. The doctor says I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, then a
few months’ convalescent leave. I think that’s too much. Four, five weeks
should do it.” She took his hand, squeezed it tight. “I ... I heard about what
you did before you left for
Honduras
again. I heard everyone was ready to let me
go. I—”

 
          
Patrick
put a finger on her lips. “I did it because I’m selfish. What the hell would I
do without you?”

           
He knelt down beside her bed and she
wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close to her. They didn’t say a word.
Even one would have been superfluous.

 
          
They
heard a polite cough behind them. Joe and Betty Tork were standing in the
doorway. “May we come in?” Betty asked.

 
          
McLanahan
moved aside. Wendy’s parents gave their daughter a hug and spoke in low
whispers. Then Joe Tork stood and faced Patrick.

 
          
“Congratulations,
Patrick,” he said in a low voice. “Thank God Wendy is doing all right.”

 
          
“Yeah,
well, I have to be going.” Joe put a big hand on his shoulder.

 
          
“Hey,
McLanahan, I’m trying to apologize.”

 
          
“Colonel,
it’s not so bad for an ex-Marine. Okay?”

 
          
“Okay.
All even.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
There
was one spot in the thousand-square-mile Dreamland complex not classified
top-secret or restricted access, although it was one of the most difficult
places to get in to visit. Surrounded by a simple picket fence and a grove of
trees, a green oasis in the middle of miles of desert and rocks, was a cemetery
dedicated to the most extraordinary aircrewmen and support personnel in the
world.

 
          
The
cemetary, belonging to the men and women who died in the service of the
top-secret weapons and aircraft laboratory in the high desert of southern
Nevada, had seen a lot of use in the past few days. The services for the dead
security guards and the crew of the Old Dog had already taken place here; their
grave sites, only a few yards away, still bore fresh flowers. Granite walls had
been erected near the plots, telling who these men and women were and how they
died; the walls were concealed by black plastic covers because the incident was
still classified and under investigation. Now three more burial places and
another granite wall, covered with secretive black as well, had been prepared
for Alan Carmichael, Raymond Butler and Roland Powell.

 
          
No
matter how much he prepared, the sound of the shots from the seven rifles over
the graves of his friends stung McLanahan right to the heart. The echoes of the
twenty-one shots reverberated off the surrounding
Groom
Mountains
, seemingly rolling oflF the hills and
echoing on forever.

 
          
As
taps were played by a lone bugler, McLanahan heard the roar of jet engines
passing overhead. At first he had no desire to watch the planes—the realization
that he would never see these three men again had hit him with full force. They
were such an important part of his life that their loss made him feel weak,
completely drained. Then he looked across to the grave site, and the further
realization of the deaths of Ormack, Pereira and the other members of the Old
Dog’s crew made it especially hard. There seemed to be no future beyond this
place . . . his future seemed to be lying at his feet . . .

 
          
He
felt a hand on his shoulder, turned and saw Brad Elliott. Standing on one side
of Elliott was Deborah O’Day, and on his other side was Hal Briggs. Elliott
motioned skyward with his eyes, and McLanahan looked up and saw the astonishing
formation passing overhead.

 
          
The
sky seemed to be filled with planes. The lead formation was composed of some of
the most high-tech machines in the world, led by a B-52 Megafortress. The
formation also had a “flying-wing” B-2 stealth bombers, a B-i Excalibur bomber,
one of the new stretched FB-111 bombers and a large aircraft that looked a lot
like a smaller version of the B-i, with its wings pulled back to its fully
swept high-speed setting. The second formation was composed of five F-15F
fighter-bombers, and it was from this formation where one aircraft, J.C.’s
Cheetah—he recognized it immediately, its right vertical stabilizer was still
missing—peeled oflF from the rest to form the “missing man” formation.

 
          
Among
the onlookers was a man who had had more than a little to do with this
ceremony. Ken James . . . Maraklov. He had been allowed, over protests of some
members of HAWC, to attend the service, handcuffed and surrounded by two
security guards. Eventually he was taken away by the security agents.

 
          
Elliott
and McLanahan turned back toward the three grave sites as the ceremony ended
and the crowd dispersed. “I feel like everything’s come to an end here,
General.”

 
          
“Not
quite.” Elliott motioned skyward again, and McLanahan followed his lead. The
unusual B-1 lookalike had moved its wings up from its full aft-sweep position
to a forward-swept position like the XF-29 fighter’s high-maneuverability
wings. The amazing hybrid plane then pulled up out of the formation, lit its
twin afterburners with a rolling boom and did a spectacular climbing roll,
accelerating quickly out of sight.

 
          
“The
new XFB-5 Tracer,” Elliott said in a low voice. “First generation, designed for
strategic escort-duties like the Megafortress. We combined the technology of
the F-29 and the B-i and came up with a plane that’s twice as good as the sum
of its parts. It’s as fast and agile as a fighter, but with almost the same
payload and power as a supersonic bomber.”

 
          
The
officer in charge of the ceremony handed the folded American flags to Secretary
of the Air Force Wilbur Curtis, who in turn handed them to the widows and
families. Elliott said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow afternoon,
three o’clock
,” and walked off with Deborah O’Day and
Briggs to join Curtis and pay his respects to the families.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
The
next day McLanahan walked into Elliott’s office in the heart of the HAWC
complex. Elliott, O’Day,
Preston
and
Briggs all had snifters of brandy, and Hal offered one to McLanahan.

 
          
“To
our friends,” Elliott said, raising the glass. He took a sip, then set the
snifter down on his desk. “I never realized how young Powell was. His
parents
still look like college
graduates.”

 
          
“Powell
was the one who made it happen,” McLanahan said. “He gave me the key to beating
DreamStar ... no matter how advanced a system is,
human
unpredictability and flexibility can overcome it. Funny, the
very thing that made DreamStar supposedly unbeatable actually led to its
defeat—its singleminded command to attack meant it didn’t know what retreat or
caution were. J.C. had the intelligence and insight to discover that.”

 
          
“Well,
he gave you the key just in time,” Elliott said. He turned to O’Day. “It was
very . . . generous of you also to recommend that James be allowed to attend
the ceremony.”

 
          
“Very,
” Briggs said.

 
          
McLanahan
said nothing. His sentiments were obvious. This was his buddy.

           
“My lieutenant says Maraklov wants
to make a deal—asylum for information,” Briggs said. “I’m going to talk with
him. Frankly, I’d just as soon turn his butt over to the Russian government.
I’m sure
they'd
show him a good
time.”

 
          
“I
have some bad news, people,” Elliott said. “As you know, the Defense
Intelligence Agency, the CIA, and the Pentagon are all conducting
investigations at HAWC. I don’t know what the future of the Center will be. But
we do know some of the first casualties. As expected, Hal and I have been
relieved of our assignments, effective at the end of the year.”

 
          
“That’s
lousy,” McLanahan said. “Neither of you deserve it—”

 
          
“There
will be another casualty.” He looked at McLanahan. “Sorry, Patrick. I think the
housecleaning will be total.” McLanahan looked neither shocked nor even
surprised. “If
anyone
didn’t deserve
this, it’s you. Your actions during this whole business have been above and
beyond.”

 
          
“So
were J.C.’s. So were General Ormack’s. Maybe I deserve what I got—they sure as
hell didn’t.”

 
          
“It’s
not the end, though,” Elliott said. He turned to Deborah O’Day, who took
another sip of brandy and got to her feet.

 
          
“No,
it is
not
the end. The fact is, in
this room right now is the heart of an entirely new outfit. We have groups that
can specialize in many different types of operations, all working directly for
the President, and all supervised to various degrees by Congress. This group,
including Marcia Preston, will carry on with the type of work you’ve been doing
for the past few years, except now you’ll be doing it directly and accountably
for the White House.”

 
          
She
picked up her brandy snifter. “Of course, all of this might come to a crashing
halt if Lloyd Taylor doesn’t get reelected. But that’s not up to us.” She held
up her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, all those here present interested in
working more long hours for low pay and probably lower recognition, but having
the absolute time of their lives, signify by saying ‘aye.’ ”

 
          
The
ayes had it. Unanimous.

 
          
“Here’s
to the charter members of Future Flight. And may heaven have mercy on the bad
guys.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
The
whole second floor of Dreamland’s small detention facility had been turned into
a huge high-security area. Guards were posted on the stairways and in every
hallway. All personnel were screened and checked any time they came in or out
of the building.

 
          
Andrei
Maraklov was the floor’s only occupant. He had a room to himself in the center
of the second floor, guarded inside and out by armed soldiers and undercover
CIA operatives. All in all, twenty soldiers and agents were assigned to him
round-the-clock.

 
          
Even
for other agents, it was tough to get near him. From the time he came onto the
grounds of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center, Defense Intelligence
Agency operative Anthony Scorcelli, Jr., was searched, had his I.D. checked and
was electronically scanned for weapons as well as by teams of bomb dogs. He
went through one metal detector at the entrance, one before getting into the
elevator and one before getting near Maraklov’s room. After the last machine he
was carefully pat-searched and sniffed over by an explosives dog as his name
and I.D. were checked once again.