Day of the Cheetah

Sebaco Military Airfield, Nicaragua

Work had begun on DreamStar less than three hours after the last transmission from Moscow, and even though he had diverted the plan to dismantle his aircraft, every minute that Andrei Maraklov watched DreamStar’s refit was like another twist of the knife that seemed to be stuck in his gut.

He was standing a few meters in front of DreamStar’s hangar, just a few dozen meters from the flight-line ramp leading to Sebaco’s runway. The hangar doors, which had remained closed to guard against sabotage or espionage, were now wide open because of the huge volume of trucks and workers scrambling in and out. The hangar was guarded by KGB border troops, two stationed every ten meters around the perimeter, along with a manned BMD armored vehicle or BTR-60PB armored personnel carrier on every cardinal point. Workers carried large picture I.D. cards slung around their necks, which allowed the point guards to check I.D. ‘s against wearers without the workers stopping.

The technicians and engineers assembled to do the job seemed to be even more ham-handed than General Tret’yak had described. They tore at fasteners they did not understand how to open, yanked at delicate data cables, got greasy hands all over the superconducting antennae arrays. They made notes about everything, in writing and by video camera, but mostly they cared about getting their jobs done on time, not on how well the fighter flew after leaving Sebaco.

Each twist of the worker’s wrench brought home another reality to Maraklov — that along with the delivery of DreamStar to the Soviet Union came the end to his own usefulness. General Tret’yak was correct, of course — DreamStar would be dismantled in ultra-fine detail once it was safely delivered to the Ramenskoye Test Facility near Moscow. It might be flown once or twice, but more than likely its avionics would be activated artificially and all its subsequent “flights” would be confined to a laboratory. If there was no DreamStar, there would be little need for a DreamStar pilot, especially one who would seem more American than Russian. They might create an ANTARES ground simulator to study the thought-guidance system and train future pilots on how to fly DreamStar, but that would not last long. After that, he doubted very much that the Soviet military would allow him to fly or even participate in any way, except as.some glorified figurehead … until his usefulness there ran out too.

The workers were struggling with a service-access panel on DreamStar’s engine compartment. The senior non-commissioned officer, Master Sergeant Rudolph Artiemov, spotted Maraklov standing outside the hangar, came over to him, gave him a half-salute, pointed to the engine and said something unintelligible to Maraklov.

“Speak slower, Sergeant,” Maraklov said in halting Russian. The technician squinted at him. “Mahtor sestyema smazki nyee khodyaht, tovarisch Polovnik. Vi pahnyemahyo?”

“I don’t understand what the hell you’re saying,” Maraklov exploded in English. The startled sergeant stepped back away.

“You’re tearing my damned aircraft apart, you want me to tell you from here if it’s okay? Is that it? Get out of my face.”

“He said the engine-lubrication system access-panel is stuck, Andrei,” a voice said. He turned to see Musi Zaykov beside him, her attractive smile momentarily piercing his gloom. Musi said something to the technician in a stern voice and the sergeant saluted, turned and trotted back to the workers.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that you said he is an incompetent fool, and that you will kill him first and report him second if he is not more careful.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“They say they will have the aircraft ready for a test flight in twelve hours,” Musi said. Maraklov looked at her, then turned away from the open front of the hangar and began walking down the flight line. Musi followed.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Maraklov said. “I just feel …” Could he trust her? He was beginning to feel he could. She had become something of a confidante over the past few hours. If she was a KGB operative assigned to watch him, she was either doing a very good job, or a very poor one … “I feel a terrible mistake is being made here … they don’t trust or respect my judgment. I brought them the U.S.’s most advanced fighter, and all they can seem to think of is taking it apart. Musi, that is no ordinary aircraft. It is … alive. It’s part of me … Can you understand any of that?”

“Not really, Andrei. It is, after all, a machine—”

“No …” But he knew it was useless to try to explain. He changed the subject. “You tell me, Musi, what will they do with me after I return to Russia?”

“You will be honored as a hero of the Soviet Union—”

“Bullshit. Tell me what’s really going to happen.” She seemed to avoid his eyes. “Come on, Lieutenant.”

“I … I don’t know, Andrei.” Her voice now seemed to lose its easy tone, to become almost stiff, as though she were reciting. “You will be welcomed, of course … following that, you will be asked to participate in the development of the aircraft for the Air Forces—”

“I want to know what kind of life I’ll have in Russia. I want to know if I’ll have a future.”

“You ask me to predict too much, Andrei.” Her tone changed again. “In my eyes you are a hero. You have done something no one thought possible. But there are … people who are distrustful of any foreigner—”

“I’m not a foreigner.” Or was he?

“Andrei, I know what you are, but you know what I mean … You do not speak Russian. You must understand that there will be less trust at first.” She took his hands in hers. “Could it be, Colonel Andrei Maraklov, that it is perhaps you who do not trust us?”

Maraklov was about to reply, stopped himself. She was right. The U.S. bias toward the Soviet Union had taken hold and was his now — distrust, fear, the works, in spite of the show of glasnost and perestroika.

He smiled at Musi, pulling her closer. “How did you get so smart, Lieutenant Musi Zaykov?”

“I am not so smart, Andrei. I think I understand how you feel. Living in Nicaragua for a year, feeling the resentment from the people, isolated in this little valley — it is easy to mistrust, even hate, those you do not understand or who seem not to understand you.” She moved in closer to him, her lips parting. “I love it when you say my name. I wish you’d do it more often.”

And then she kissed him, right there on the little service road next to the flight line. “I know you don’t trust me, Andrei, not yet. But you will. Just trust your instincts and I will mine …”

Without another word they turned their backs to the flight line and headed back to the officers’ quarters hidden in the trees beyond. They shut themselves in her quarters, and Maraklov gave himself up to the remarkable skills of this woman who exorcised all his earlier doubts and made him, for the moment, even forget about DreamStar …

Over the Caribbean Sea

“She’s about as maneuverable as an elephant,” J. C. Powell said irritably, “and five times as heavy.”

Powell and McLanahan had just completed their second refueling from a KC-10 Extender refueling aircraft from the 161st Air Refueling Group “Sun Devils” out of Phoenix, the same unit — and, in fact, the same crew — that had refueled Cheetah just in time after their flight through Mexico. They were now at twenty thousand feet, still flying in tight formation with the tanker, so close that on radar screens from Texas to Florida to Cuba to the Cayman Islands to Jamaica they seemed like one aircraft — which was what they wanted.

J.C. had the throttles at full power to keep up with the KC-10, but after a few minutes the KC-10 pilot noticed the trouble the loaded F-15 fighter was having and backed off on its power. There was plenty of reason for Cheetah’s sluggish performance. In addition to sixteen-hundred-gallon FASTPACK fuel tanks near each wing root, Cheetah carried an AN/ALC-189E reconnaissance pod mounted on the centerline stores station. The two-ton recon pod carried four high-speed video cameras that pointed forward, aft and to each side, along with data transmission equipment that allowed the digitized imagery from the cameras to be broadcast via satellite directly back to Dreamland for analysis. On each wing Cheetah also carried a 600-gallon fuel tank, which normally gave it a cruising range of nearly three thousand miles.

That cruising range was considerably shorter with the recon pod mounted; it was even shorter with Cheetah’s other special stores: two QF-98B Hummer electronic drone aircraft, small single propfan-engined aircraft that carried several computer-controlled radar jammers. The two Hummer drones, one mounted on each wing, were preprogrammed to follow a specific flight path after being released. They carried no weapons. Their flight paths would take them close to known Nicaraguan and Soviet early warning radar sites, where their jammers would disrupt the radars long enough for Cheetah to make its run toward Sebaco. After flying close to the coastal radar sites, the drones would fly northeast toward recovery ships near Jamaica — if they survived the expected Nicaraguan air defenses.

“You boys sure go around looking for trouble,” the pilot of the Phoenix-based tanker said over the scrambled VHF radio. “Twenty-four hours ago I thought we’d all be in the stockade. You must lead charmed lives.”

“We found a few regs we haven’t violated yet,” J.C. said.

“You’re coming up on your start-descent point,” the nav on the KC-10 said. “One minute.”

“Time for one more fast sip before you leave?” the pilot asked.

“I think we’ve had enough,” J.C. said. “Thanks for the gas.”

“Thank your boss for getting us out of trouble with the brass,” the pilot said. “I saw what was left of my retirement flash before my eyes. You boys take it easy down there. Sun Devil starting a climbing left turn. Out.” The KC-10 wagged its wings once, then began a steep left turn and a sharp climb, heading toward its destination in San Juan.

“Nav computer set on initial point,” McLanahan reported. On J.C.’s laser-projection heads-up display a tiny “NAV” indicator flashed on the screen, indicating that the computer was directing a turn. J.C. hit the voice-command switch on his control stick.

“Autopilot on, heading nav.”

“Autopilot on,” the computer-generated voice replied. “Heading nav mode. Caution; select altitude function. “ The computer reminded J.C. that no autopilot function had been selected for holding altitude. Cheetah started a right turn, heading southwest.

In the aft cockpit McLanahan was completing his checklist items for drone release. “Release circuits safety switch to consent,” he told Powell. J.C. flipped a switch far down on his left instrument panel.

“Release switch to CONSENT.”

“Checklist complete. Stand by for drone release.”

“Ready up here.”

“Clear for zero-alpha maneuver,” McLanahan said.

J.C. pushed forward on the stick and throttles. As the speed increased and pitch decreased, the angle of attack, the difference between the wing chord and relative wind, moved to zero — this was zero alpha; the wings were knifing through the air with minimum disturbance or deflection, giving the cleanest airflow for the two drones to separate from Cheetah and begin their flight.

“Zero alpha … now.”

At that moment McLanahan hit the release button. Remote-controlled clips on the drone’s carrying racks opened, and the drones began flying in formation with Cheetah.

“Showing two good releases, clear to maneuver,” McLanahan announced.

“Here we go.” Powell gently, carefully pulled back on his control stick, and the drones dropped away from sight. J.C. did not yank Cheetah away; the sudden turbulence could throw the drones out of control. He eased back on the stick, allowing the distance between mothership and drones to increase slowly.

“Showing good autopilot program-startup on both drones,” McLanahan reported. A few moments later they saw both drones banking away to their right as they began their computer-controlled flights.

“Drones are clear to the right.”

“Got ‘em.” J.C. verified. He watched the drones for a moment to make sure they were far enough away, then said, “We’re goin’ down.” He hit the voice-command stud on his stick. “Autopilot attitude hold.”

“Attitude hold mode on,” the computer acknowledged.

J.C. pressed the pitch-select switch on the control stick and pushed. Cheetah started a twenty-degree descent. When he released the select switch, the autopilot held the pitch angle.

“Overspeed warning,” the computer announced. J.C. pulled the throttles back to seventy percent to avoid overstressing the recon pod and external fuel tanks as Cheetah approached the speed of sound in the steep descent.

“Autopilot altitude select two hundred feet,” J.C. commanded.

“Autopilot altitude command two hundred feet.”

“We should be entering early-warning radar coverage in a few minutes. We need to be down below two thousand feet by then.”

“No sweat,” J.C. said. “We’re descending fifteen thousand feet per minute. This baby feels like a real jet with those two loads gone.”

Suddenly a tiny indicator blinked on a newly installed panel in Cheetah’s aft cockpit. “Radar-warning indicator from one of the drones. Some radar’s got them. He’ll start jamming any minute.”

“We’ve got five thousand feet to level-off at two hundred feet,” J.C. said. “We should be ready.”

And Cheetah did level off as planned. By the time it reached the San Andres y Providencia Atoll east of Nicaragua, they were at two-hundred feet above the Caribbean, traveling five hundred miles an hour. The Nicaraguan early-warning radar site at Islas del Maiz, fifty miles off the coast of Nicaragua, never had a chance to see the sea-skimming aircraft. Cheetah’s automatic jammers activated once when the radar site was only a few miles away, but the Russian-built radar did not lock on or reacquire the aircraft. Fifteen minutes after passing the island radar site Cheetah was over the marshy lowlands of the east coast of Nicaragua.

“Where’s all this Russian hardware the Nicaraguans are supposed to have?” J.C. said.

“We haven’t hit the worst part yet.” They were riding the military crest — the point on a hill where observation was the most difficult — of the lush, green Cordillera Chontalena mountain range in southern Nicaragua, heading northwest at five hundred fifty miles an hour. “We should be safe from Managua SAM sites, but Sebaco is supposed to be loaded for bear — we could be within range of their SA-10 missile sites in five minutes. Once we bust their radar cordon, we’ll be assholes and elbows trying to get out of here—”

Just then, they saw two dark shapes streaking across the hills in front of them. The shapes trailed long fingers of flame that were visible even in daylight.

“Oh, God,” J.C. broke out. “They look like MiG-29s, heading north.”

“The drones are right on time,” Patrick said, realizing the MiGs had gone for the diversionary drone targets. A few moments later two more jets screamed northward behind the first two, now less than ten miles from where Cheetah was hugging the green forested mountains. One of the MiGs appeared to start a right turn toward Cheetah, but he was really maneuvering away from his leader as they raced away. They were close enough to see the MiGs’ external fuel tanks and feel their jet-wash as they passed.

“If they flushed their whole alert force to chase down the drones) we just may be able to go in without visitors.”

“When those guys find out they’ve been suckered by a couple of drones, they’ll be back in a hot minute and after us, “ J.C. said.

“Ten miles from the first SAM ring,” McLanahan said, checking his chart and the GPS satellite navigation system. “Punch off those external tanks any time.”

J.C. hit his voice-command button. “Station select two and seven.”

“Stations two and seven select,” the computer verified. The right multi-function display showed a graphic depiction of Cheetah, with the icons of the two external fuel tanks highlighted. J.C. aimed Cheetah for a deep, thicketed stream. There was little danger of dropping the tanks on any villages or people below — they had seen no signs of habitation since crossing the coastline. The tanks might not be found for years — maybe never. They hoped.

“Ready jettison command.”

“Warning; jettison command issued; select ‘cancel’ to cancel,” the computer intoned. The highlighted icons on the right MFD began to flash.

Powell hit the voice-command button. “Jettison … now.”

“Jettison two and seven. “ McLanahan watched as Cheetah’s two external fuel tanks disappeared from view. “Clean separation,” he said.

“Safe all stations,” J.C. told the computer. The display screen acknowledged the command, accomplishing a release-circuits check and reporting a “normal” and “safe” indication. “All right,” J.C. said. “Throttles coming up. Time to do some flyin’,” and he slowly began moving both throttles up until he had full power.

“Point-nine-eight Mach,” McLanahan said. “Speed limit for the camera pod.”

“I’ll hold it here for now,” J.C. said, nudging the throttles back a bit, “but we’re not going over a Soviet military base below the Mach. I’m not getting our butts shot off just to protect a lousy camera.”

“Five minutes out. Camera’s activated … good data-transfer signal from the satellite. We’re on-line …” And then the first warble from the radar-warning receiver could be heard through the interphone. “Search radar, twelve o’clock.” McLanahan punched buttons on his forward console. “All automatic jammers active.” He reached up and clicked in commands to the radar altimeter, which measured distance from Cheetah’s belly to the ground. “Radar altimeter bug set to one hundred feet.”

“Mine’s set for ten,” J.C. said.

“Ten feet?”

“If we’re supposed to look inside buildings, a hundred’s too high.”

“Well … we don’t have a terrain-following radar on this—” He was interrupted by a high-pitched warble and a blinking “10” on his threat-receiver scope.

“Warning; radar search,” the computer reported.

“SA-10 in search mode, twelve o’clock.”

“Let’s hope that pod can take a pounding,” J.C. said, pushing the throttles to min afterburner. “Here we go.”

“Warning; external store overspeed,” the computer intoned. J.C. ignored it.

“Mach one,” McLanahan said almost immediately. “Three minutes to target.”

“Warning; radar tracking, “ the computer said.

“The SA-10’s got us already,” J.C. muttered.

“Impossible, unless—”

“Warning; missile launch, missile launch.”

“Signal moved to one o’clock,” McLanahan called out. “They moved the SAM site.” He hit the chaff button on the left-side ejector. “Jink right …”

J.C. threw Cheetah into a hard right-turn. They saw the missile immediately, or rather they saw the smoke trail left by the SA-10 as it streaked by, missing them by scarcely a few dozen yards — one or two seconds slower reaction time and the missile would not have missed. “Goddamn, they put an SA-10 on that hilltop overlooking their base. That was too close …”

Powell started a hard left-turn away from the site and let the autopilot center back on the target. “Well, they took their best shot and missed,” he said. “If they want to shoot now, they’ll be shooting toward their own base.” Cheetah rolled out on the autopilot’s command. “I’ve got the target,” Powell said. “I’ll find your precious damn jet for you, Patrick. Hang on …”

Andrei Maraklov was watching Musi Zaykov get dressed when the siren pierced the silence of her bungalow. By reaction learned after four years in the Strategic Air Command, Maraklov got to his feet and began pulling on his flight suit. “What’s that?”

“Opasno pavarota, “ Zaykov said, and hurriedly put on her boots and buttoned her uniform blouse. “Bistra.” Maraklov never had a chance to understand what she said, but the urgency in her voice was clear. He ran out of the bungalow behind her.

Workers were running toward the flight line, some pointing toward the sky to the south. Maraklov started toward the flight line but Zaykov grabbed his arm. “No. If it is an attack you should not go there.” Maraklov shrugged out of her grasp and headed for the flight line, crossed the access road and leaped over the low gate — none of the security forces stationed around the flight line moved to stop him, apparently confused by the sirens. He ran into the clear, into an unused part of the aircraft parking ramp and scanned the skies.

He did not see it until he was halfway down the runway — apparently neither did the anti-aircraft battery located at the south end of the runway. The aircraft slid silently down the west side of the runway, straight and level — it was so low that it looked as if it was going to try to land. Then Maraklov realized that he didn’t hear the aircraft coming — it had made no noise as it passed. That meant … he instinctively cupped his hands over his ears and opened his mouth so the overpressure wouldn’t rupture his eardrums …

… Just in time. The sonic boom rolled across the parking ramp, knocking unsuspecting workers and soldiers off their feet. The shock wave felt like a wall of wind shoving him in the face, squeezing his head and chest in an unseen grip. Men were yelling all around him, as much from shock and surprise as pain. When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of the aircraft as it banked hard right and climbed a few meters. The sight turned his blood cold.

Cheetah …

“I saw it, I saw it,” McLanahan sang out.

“Me too, third hangar from the right, open doors. Hot damn, there it is; they couldn’t have positioned it any better for us.”

“You gotta get back over there before they close those hangar doors.”

But J.C. was already pulling on the control stick. “Check, boss. Hang on.”

McLanahan caught his handlebars just as J.C. yanked Cheetah into a hard right turn. He twisted in his seat so he could search in the direction of the turn for interceptors or obstructions. “Clear right,” he called out. “I can see a circular barricade at the south end of the runway … looks like it might be a triple-A gun emplacement.”

“I saw it,” J.C. said, “but we’re a good two miles out of range. I’m goin’ for the hangar.” J.C. completed his turn and leveled off barely a dozen feet above the east side of the runway. A Soviet helicopter and a small high-wing airplane blocked their path, but J.C. kept Cheetah coming down and flew between the two parked aircraft on the ramp. The hangar was the only thing in front of them now, with the cavernous doors looking like huge gaping jaws ready to devour them.

Cheetah. There was no mistaking it — the huge F-15 fighter with the big unmistakable foreplanes, the thundering twin engines, twin tails to match, broad wings. It was continuing its tight turn at an impossibly low altitude, barely above treetop level. In a few seconds it would turn perpendicular to the runway heading right for the main part of the base …

Maraklov looked down the flight line toward the hangars. What he saw made him break out in a run. Men and equipment were pouring out of the hangar where DreamStar was parked — and they were leaving the hangar doors wide open.

“How bad do you want DreamStar, Colonel?”

McLanahan took his eyes off the recon pod control panel and glanced at the forward cockpit in surprise. “What?”

Cheetah was aimed directly for the center of the open doors, and they were skimming the runway and parking ramp with less than two thousand feet to go to the hangar. J.C. said, “I got Cheetah on hard autopilot, Patrick. You punch us out, and bye-bye DreamStar.”

“You mean crash Cheetah into that hangar?”

One thousand feet to go. “Now’s the chance, friend. You start evening up for Wendy, Old Dog right here, right now. It’ll look like an accident during an authorized mission …”

Five hundred feet to go. The hangar doors towered above them. They could see men lying on the ramp, soldiers shooting in their direction, trucks and service vehicles taking off in all directions. They could see access doors open on DreamStar, tools lying on the hangar floor, even puddles of fluid. The camera pod was whirring away, broadcasting its information to HAWC headquarters.

Their immediate mission was finished. The Russians had DreamStar, no question about it — they apparently were in the process of dismantling it, in preparation for sending it back to Russia. Cheetah was a preproduction aircraft — the Air Force was in the process of building thousands of them. They would not be sacrificing anything important, and would be keeping one-ofa-kind DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians …

Maraklov yelled at the guards to close the. doors but it was too late. Cheetah was on top of him before he could run twenty steps, and the quiet, deadly hiss of the shock wave approaching him made him dive for the tarmac …

Incredible … Cheetah was going to hit. DreamStar was going to be destroyed …

“Standing by for ejection … Powell told his commander. It was now or never …

“No.”

Less than one hundred feet from the hangar door J. C. Powell yanked Cheetah on its tail and threw in full afterburner. It cleared the hangar roof by only a few feet — Powell and McLanahan could feel the unearthly rumble of metal beneath their feet as the sonic wave pounded the tin roof. J.C. kept the climb in for a few more seconds, then rolled inverted, pulled the nose to the horizon, rolled upright and leveled off.

“Get us out of here, sir, “ J.C. said.

“Right turn heading zero-one-zero,” McLanahan said evenly. “Keep it on the deck. Ten minutes to the Honduras border.”

They flew on in silence until McLanahan reported that they were crossing the border. There were some MiG-29 pursuers detected, but they were far behind them by the time they had reported in to Tegucigalpa Air Defense Control, and an entire flight of six Honduran F-16 fighters was scrambled to turn them away. J.C. ordered the voice-recognition computer to activate the IFF identification radios, then started a shallow climb at best-range power and turned northward toward home.

The roar of Cheetah’s twin engines didn’t subside in Maraklov’s head for several minutes, until it was gradually replaced by the sound of sirens wailing up and down the flight line. Slowly he rose to his feet and surveyed the scene around him.

To his surprise, everything seemed relatively intact — Cheetah had not been carrying a bomb on its centerline station, as Maraklov had thought, or else some major malfunction had kept it from releasing. But from the quick glimpse he got, it looked more like a camera pod than a bomb. Cheetah, it seemed, had come to take pictures. Well, they definitely got what they wanted. They had caught everyone off guard, with DreamStar unprotected and vulnerable.

It had to be J. C. Powell flying Cheetah. Several pilots at Dreamland were checked out on Cheetah, but only Powell would be crazy enough to fly it so close to the ground and so close to the hangar. Any other pilot would have been happy with a hundred, even fifty feet above ground. Not Powell.

For a moment it appeared that whoever was flying Cheetah was going to kamikaze himself right into DreamStar’s hangar. Cheetah and DreamStar gone together? Maybe not such a bad ending. But how different was his situation as it was? With DreamStar gone and out of his control, his career was surely at an end. There was no good future for him in the Soviet Union — he would be like a tiger, caged for the rest of his life, hunted by the U.S. and distrusted or worse at “home.” He would never be closer to Brazil or Paraguay than he was right now.

And DreamStar was still safe — though for how long, now that the Americans knew where it was? No choice but to play out this hand and see how the cards fell. Somehow the photographic attack on Sebaco gave him some hope — maybe, just maybe, DreamStar would fly again. And with the right man at the controls.

It wasn’t until they had completed their final air-refueling over the Gulf that J.C. felt confident enough to approach the subject:

“We could have had them, boss,” he said. “You could have done it.”

McLanahan had said nothing the entire flight, except the curt, monotone checklist of responses required of him. But this time he spoke up. “I know that.”

“The ACES seat would have blown us clear of the impact. We could have made it out.”

“Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you punch us out?”

“I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it wasn’t my job to waste Cheetah. Maybe I think we still have a chance to get DreamStar back. Maybe I thought it was a dumb idea all on its own. We are still alive; we haven’t been captured by the Russians, Cheetah is in one piece, and we’ve accomplished our mission. So if you can stand it, let’s leave it at that.”

Sebaco Airbase, Nicaragua

“Where were your air-defense forces, General?” Maraklov said to General Tret’yak as the commander of the KGB airbase came over to the hangar.

“Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik. Calm yourself, was anyone hurt, was there damage?”

“Do you know what that was, General? It was an American fighter. It was carrying a camera pod or some kind of reconnaissance unit — but it could have just as easily been carrying a two-thousand-pound bomb. We’d all be dead now if it was.”

“I said calm yourself, Colonel. Our air-defense forces were dispatched in response to an intrusion northeast of here near the Nicaraguan radar site at Puerto Cabezas. Our interceptors destroyed two unmanned drones heading back out to sea. Obviously they were part of this attack, used to draw away our defense forces while this fighter staged its pass.”

“Well, the lightbulb has finally come on,” Maraklov said. Tret’yak obviously did not understand, but Maraklov’s tone of voice was clear. “While your interceptors were being suckered away you left DreamStar wide open for attack. Here’s another news flash for you, General — they’ll be back. They no doubt transmitted those pictures to Washington, and they’re being analyzed right now. You can expect a second wave of fighters in a few hours — and this time they won’t just be carrying cameras. I know them. You have four MiG-29 fighters to counter a whole squadron of F-15 or F/A-18 fighter-bombers—”

“We will be ready for them, I assure you—”

“Never mind assurances, DreamStar is too vulnerable. We’re in real danger of losing it. After all I’ve done to get it here. It will take your workers another twelve hours to finish the refit, plus who knows how many to get her ready to fly?”

“We can transfer forces from Managua to Sebaco and other coastal bases to provide longer-range coverage—”

“You’re talking about the damned Nicaraguan air force as if it was a real defensive force.” Judging by the expression on Tret’yak’s face, Maraklov could tell the Soviet general agreed with him. “They might be good for providing a way for the Americans to deplete their missiles, but if you rely on the Nicaraguans to defend Sebaco … “

He did not need to finish the sentence — Tret’yak had finished it for him. They had MiG-29 fighters at Sebaco because Tret’yak did not trust the Nicaraguans to protect it. It would be a tactical nightmare to bring Nicaraguan pilots to Sebaco. Few of them spoke Russian, few spoke English, and few had trained for longer than a month or two with their Russian counterparts. Maraklov was right — they were good for little more than target practice for the Americans.

“I understand, Colonel,” Tret’yak said, “but if an attack comes we must deal with it with the resources we have. I will contact my headquarters and request additional defensive forces from Cuba. Perhaps some diplomatic pressure can be applied as well Meanwhile, the refit of the aircraft will proceed. I will call in all shifts to increase our pace.”

KGB Headquarters, Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow

Viktor Kalinin crumpled the dispatch in his hand. His senior aide, Kevi Molokov, stood by as the KGB chief swiveled in his chair and stared at a map of Central America that had been set up near his desk. “The Americans have just flown an F-15 fighter bomber aircraft over the exact spot where the experimental aircraft is being stored. Tret’yak believes the Americans now have detailed, incontrovertible evidence that their aircraft is in Nicaragua. Tret’yak ends his message with an observation from Maraklov that the Americans may attack at any time.”

“Sir, I think General Tret’yak is overreacting,” Molokov said. “The United States will not take direct military action.”

“You seem so sure. Yet they sent an F-15 fighter right into the Nicaraguan and General Tret’yak’s forces.”

“That was foreseeable, sir. I would have expected a high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft, such as their SR-71 or TR-1 aircraft, but I am sure they did that for show. If they were really serious about retrieving their aircraft, they have a carrier in Puerto Rico that could have been moved into the area by now. That carrier is still in port. They could have sent a squadron of fighter-bombers to destroy the aircraft on the ground, but they sent one aircraft, apparently only to take photographs. If they were going to mount an offensive it would have followed immediately.”

“I almost wish the damn plane had been bombed,” Kalinin said. “The XF-34 is slipping out of our grasp, Kevi. It’s fortunate that the American government is denying the entire incident — no pressure on our government has been applied yet.” Yet …

“We need Maraklov to fly the plane out of Nicaragua before real pressure begins,” Molokov said. “Once the aircraft is in our hands, we can control events.”

“But I can’t stand by waiting for the dam to burst,” Kalinin said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. “I want a way to stop an American offensive before it begins. Never mind that you think they’re not going to start one.”

“That would mean exposing the Central Committee,” Molokov said. “Only they can initiate any direct dealings with the American government.”

Kalinin paused, considering his aide’s words. “We just may be able to bypass the Central Committee. To a degree, at least …”

“I am sure it is possible, sir, but can you take that chance? It would mean a major breach of procedure—”

“It’s time to reach out,” Kalinin said cryptically. “Be sure I have two secure communications lines open all evening.”

“Yes, sir; they are open now. But who can you possibly contact that has the authority to act in so little time?”

“This government’s golden boy. He is in a perfect position to influence the Americans. Whether he will cooperate with us depends — if he has any skeletons in his closet. I believe a call from KGB headquarters will be enough to get his attention. It is time to see if this star performer also has reason for a guilty conscience.”

The White House Conference Room

General Elliott watched as the President, Deborah O’Day, Wilbur Curtis, William Stuart and Richard Benson viewed the replay of Cheetah’s sortie over Nicaragua. He had had an opportunity to see the tape as it was received via satellite from Dreamland after decoding, and it reminded Elliott of films shot from the first car on a roller-coaster. The viewers were twisting and squirming in their seats as it unfolded.

“This is the forward view,” Elliott explained, “as the aircraft approached Sebaco. The F-15 is under attack from an SA-10 surface-to-air missile site. There — you can just barely see the missile as it misses.” The huge missile could be seen easily, and Elliott watched the viewers cringe and even move to the left as the missile shot by, missing by only a few yards.

“The aircraft is now approaching Sebaco. As you can see, the base is not very large, but its facilities are extensive. Here — you can see an anti-aircraft gun emplacement that we have identified as an older version of the standard S-60 air-defense weapon. Our aircraft has come up on the base so fast there wasn’t enough time for the Soviets to get this S-60 into position. Both the SA-10 and S-60 are fairly old systems. The Soviets throw nothing away.”

The scene shifted to a side-looking image, with forests and hills going by in a blur. “This imagery has been slowed down fifty percent — we’ll slow it down even more in a moment. Our aircraft is at Mach one — about seven hundred eighty miles an hour.” The trees thinned out as the first few signs of the runway environment came into view, but the most spectacular sight was the buildings and other structures racing by — all towering over the F-15. Elliott slowed the imagery down by half again as he continued:

“We are now looking out the left-side camera of the F-15, at the rows of hangars and buildings just off the flight line at Sebaco. We will replay the image without magnification at first. Here — take a look at this hangar.”

Even without increased magnification the sight was obvious — it was the XF-34 parked inside the hangar. “It’s unmistakable — this is DreamStar. Notice the forward-swept wings, the canards with the trailing edges pointing downward, the chin intake, the slanted vertical stabilizers. This is what the crew saw on their first pass. Now I’ll let the film go for the rest of the pass.”

In normal speed the scene suddenly swung down out of view, revealing only sky and treetops — mostly treetops, since the fighter was still very low. The scene then shifted back to the forward camera, and Elliott could see Benson grabbing his chair’s armrests as treetops skittered past the bottom half of the screen. The image then centered on the hangar again — and remained centered on it. They did not see the top of the hangar. The field of view was centered precisely on the aircraft inside. Their eyes widened as the mouth of the hangar raced forward. It seemed to engulf the entire screen. The needle nose of the XF-34 was aimed right at them. It seemed impossible that the fighter could turn away in time—

The hangar disappeared, to be replaced by a rearward shot as the F-15 sped a few feet above the hangar — they could see antennae and even birds’ nests on the hangar roof. The image revolved once, and the trees rushed up again, snapping and whipping around in the fury of the fighter’s wingtip vortices.

Attorney General Benson was the first to get out a word. “That was unbelievable. Who was that pilot?”

“One of my best test pilots. He flies photographic chase missions against the XF-34. He was the one who almost shot down DreamStar over Mexico.”

“He must have a death wish,” William Stuart said. “Or else he’s completely nuts. How could you let him fly this mission? Wasn’t he reprimanded by General Kane?”

“I needed the best pilot for this job. There was no final decision on a reprimand, and I needed him. Considering his performance today I believe he’s in line for a commendation.”

The President was still blinking from what he had just seen. “I’m very impressed, General Elliott. It certainly sent a message to the Soviets … There’s no doubt that your DreamStar fighter is in Nicaragua. What do you think they’re going to do with it?”

Elliott pressed a button on his remote control. The reconpod imagery rewound to a clear view inside the hangar, just before Cheetah dodged skyward. “That’s clear in this picture, sir. You can see access panels on the sides open, and these objects here are fuel tanks. We believe they’re modifying DreamStar with long-range fuel tanks. I believe their objective is to fly it out of Nicaragua as soon as possible, maybe to Cuba, maybe even to Russia.”

The President nodded. “Well, for damn sure they obviously aren’t about to give it back … I will call a meeting later this evening with the Russian ambassador and Secretary Danahall. Debbie, Richard, I’d like you to be there. We need to make an official protest. Let’s set it for eight P.M. That’ll get the ambassador’s attention.”

“But Mr. President,” Elliott cut in, “that won’t stop the Russians. By the time that meeting is over DreamStar could be on a Soviet-controlled airbase. We have got to keep it from leaving Nicaragua.”

“And exactly how am I supposed to manage that? Load up your F-15 fighter with bombs and destroy that base? Send in the Marines? Think, General. I can’t attack a country that’s barely the size of Arkansas and five times poorer without a damn good overwhelming reason.”

“This has very little to do with Nicaragua, sir. It—”

Stuart, still smarting from not being included in the plans on Cheetah’s recon mission over Sebaco, said: “The world won’t care if we say we’re really after Russians. All they’ll know is that we attacked Nicaragua. Your strong-arm tactics would get this government into deep trouble—”

“All right, enough,” the President said. “It’s late. General Elliott, I’ll expect you at the staff meeting tomorrow morning at eight A.M. We’ll go over the situation then and decide what next.” As Elliott stood, tight-lipped, and headed for the door, the intercom phone on the President’s communications panel beside his desk buzzed and he picked it up.

“Hold it, General,” the President called out. His eyes widened with delight. “You’re kidding … and he’s here? Right now? You bet, Paul. Send him up.” The President scanned the faces around him in the room. “Rewind your tape there, General. Sergei Vilizherchev just arrived. He wants to speak with us.”

“The Russian ambassador is here?” Benson said.

“It’s just got to be about DreamStar,” Deborah O’Day said. “But I never expected them to react first. I was figuring on a world-class stall job if we tried to see him tonight. What are you going to do, Mr. President?”

“Listen to what he has to say. I assume he wants to talk about a way out of this. If he tries to deny that they have the aircraft we’ll show him this tape.” He picked up his intercom button again. “Paul, see if Dennis Danahall is available. If he can be here, we’ll ask Vilizherchev to wait until he arrives.”

“Yes, sir.”

The President put the phone down. “I hate to admit it, Wilbur,” he said to Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, “but it looks like sending that F-15 over Sebaco wasn’t such a bad idea. We seemed to have gotten the Soviets’ attention without getting anyone killed.”

“The crew of the Old Dog,” Elliott said quietly.

“I accept the reminder,” the President said, “but this isn’t the time to be settling a score, General. Right now, we want your airplane back. Period.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I think they owe more than DreamStar,” Elliott said. “A dozen good people are dead, plus the destruction of the B-52 and the fighters.”

“What I want is an end to this whole business,” the President said. “We’ll still negotiate for reparations, but to tell the damned truth I’ll settle for getting back what belongs to us and having the parties move back to their corners and call this one a draw.”

Elliott considered pressing his argument further, but there seemed no point to it now. He had spent much of the day on the carpet with the President of the United States after an exhausting twenty-four hours the day before. He had organized a daylight recon mission through a heavily defended Soviet base with no losses, which apparently had forced the Russians to the bargaining table. He had been at it for eighteen hours. He was beat. All right, maybe it was time to let the big-shots do their thing.

The phone rang again. Vilizherchev had just arrived. Surprisingly, none of the few straggling members of the White House press corps had picked up on the early evening visit — since Friday was now considered the first day of the three-day weekend, few reporters hung around in the evening. Secretary of State Danahall was en route; they would make the ambassador wait about fifteen minutes until Danahall arrived and could be briefed on what was going on.

Danahall, partially briefed in his car on the way to the White House, arrived ten minutes later — Cesare had to give him a jacket and tie from the contingency closet — the Secretary of State, working late in his office, looked rumpled. Cesare handed him the coat as he finished with the tie.

“I was wondering where my jacket had disappeared to,” Danahall deadpanned. “… So Vilizherchev just called the White House and requested a conference?”

“We figure it has to do with DreamStar,” Richard Benson said. “General Elliott’s group found the aircraft in Nicaragua. We got photos.”

“Brad Elliott’s group, eh?” Danahall said with a shake of his head. “That explains why Vilizherchev is coming out here at this time of night. What did you do, General — create a new Lake Nicaragua with some Star Wars neutrino bomb?”

There wasn’t time for a reply. The President gave a nod to Cesare, who went to the formal waiting area and asked the Soviet ambassador inside.

Sergei Vilizherchev didn’t fit the image of the stereotypical Russian bureaucrat. Young as career diplomats went, in his early fifties, dark haired, tall and athletic, he wore an Italian-tailored suit, spoke with a slight, well-trained British accent. Altogether as polite and correct as could be. A Soviet cookie-duster, or so it seemed. It was common knowledge that this man would be the next Soviet foreign minister, in a few years, and possibly could become General Secretary.

Vilizherchev strode up to the head of the conference table, where the President was seated. Taylor stood just as Vilizherchev approached him. The Russian ambassador made a slight bow before extending his hand.

“Good evening, Mr. President, very nice to see you again, sir.”

“Dobriy vyechyeer, Mr. Vilizherchev,” the President said in awkward Russian. If Vilizherchev was amused by the President’s attempt, he was careful not to show it.

“Thank you very much, Mr. President. Your Russian is excellent. You will soon be able to dismiss all your interpreters.” The ambassador shook hands all around and seemed quite at home in the White House conference room — until he saw General Elliott. Then, for the first time, Vilizherchev looked genuinely surprised.

“Good evening, Ambassador Vilizherchev,” Elliott said, extending his hand. “I am—”

Vilizherchev took his hand as if he was accepting a delicate china cup. “General Bradley Elliott. It is a pleasure,” he said. He shook hands with Elliott, clasping it firmly as he spoke. “It is an honor.”

“Have we met before, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Your name and reputation are well known in the Soviet Union, General. I must admit, not always in a friendly fashion, but they are the short-sighted ones. I assure you, sir, many hold you in very high regard in my country. We recognize military genius and patriotism no matter what the nation or politics.”

The man knew how to lay it on, Elliott thought. “Spasiba, Mr. Ambassador.” Cesare motioned to a seat, and the ambassador sat down. Elliott remained standing.

“You asked to see us, Mr. Ambassador,” the President asked.

“From the group assembled here tonight, Mr. President, I think we all know what the topic of discussion will be. I must, as I’m sure you can appreciate, strongly protest the overflight of our military base in Nicaragua by your aircraft. It was, as you know, a violation of restricted airspace and territorial boundaries, as well as a serious violation of international aviation regulations.”

The President glanced at his advisers, looked at Vilizherchev with an exaggerated expression of confusion. “Ambassador, did you really come here at this hour to tell us this?”

Vilizherchev smiled, shook his head. Ever engaging, no matter the mission. “I would not be so impertinent as to waste your time like that, Mr. President.” His accent was so flawless it was hard to remember that he was a Russian. “That was the official statement, Mr. President, and the official airspace-violation protest will be sent through the proper government channels for processing. But I doubt if the pilots on that mission will ever be identified. No, sir, I have come to relay my government’s position concerning the incident with the very unusual aircraft.”

President Taylor waited, said nothing.

“This is, of course, being recorded,” the ambassador said. “And I understand that such a recording is for confidential use only, and I agree to the recording if you, sirs, guarantee that it will not become public and if my office is furnished an unedited copy of the transcript.”

The President nodded. Formalities over, Vilizherchev continued:

“We have concluded our initial investigation into this matter, including interviews with the pilot, a reconstruction of the flight path taken by the pilot, and an examination of the aircraft. We conclude that a formal, high-level military investigation must be conducted to discover how the aircraft in question came to arrive at our installation in Nicaragua, why it is there, and what, if any, ulterior objectives the pilot may have had. We are asking your cooperation while our investigation is underway.”

As Elliott stared in disbelief at Vilizherchev, Secretary of State Danahall reacted. “If I may … Ambassador, this sounds to me like your government is saying that you don’t know why this aircraft is on your base, that you don’t know the pilot and that you were all unaware of any aspect of the plan to steal that aircraft and deliver it to your country. Do I have that right?”

Vilizherchev appeared genuinely surprised. “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary, but I am to understand that you believe the media reports that the pilot of that aircraft is a Soviet KGB agent? You actually believe that a Soviet agent, somehow in place and undetected in your military for several years, actually managed to steal a top-secret military aircraft — and that this was a plan devised by our intelligence service? We must clear the air right now …”

“A good idea,” Elliott said.

Vilizherchev ignored him. “The pilot of that aircraft is not a Russian, sir. We have identified him as Captain Kenneth F. James of the United States Air Force, a test pilot in your organization, General Elliott. He has never had any connection with the KGB or our government in any fashion or capacity — no association with the Soviet Union in any way, except that his late parents traveled on occasion to the Soviet Union for purposes of business and pleasure. I am aware that your press reported that Captain James radioed he was a colonel in the KGB. That is nonsense. James is not, never has been, a KGB agent or any other kind of agent of the Soviet Union.”

The President glanced at Danahall and O’Day, and even though he returned his clinical gaze back at Vilizherchev, the momentary hesitancy in his eyes had been detected. This was not a possibility that anyone had seriously considered. Was it a KGB colonel in that jet? Just because he said he was KGB didn’t make it so, and the President, and the others, realized that they had no real evidence to prove the true identity of the pilot.

“Our intelligence service has interviewed Captain James at out installation in Nicaragua, and we have tapes of that interview that you are welcome to review. Captain James is not exactly cooperative, nor has he completely made clear his motivations, but he has stated that he requests asylum in the Soviet Union. His request has not been approved; it will become part of our investigation—”

“You’re saying he defected?” the President said.

“That, Mr. President, is precisely what I am saying.”

“That’s bullshit—” Elliott exploded. The President held up a hand to cut him off.

“General Elliott, I am telling you the truth,” Vilizherchev said. “Your Captain James acted on his own, without coercion or support from my government—”

“What about the refueling in Mexico?” O’Day asked. “Our pilots reported that it was a Soviet supply helicopter at that mountain airfield that refueled our fighter.”

“The details of that aren’t clear to us, Ms. O’Day. But apparently Captain James made contact with operatives in Las Vegas and arranged for refueling support. But I am pledging to you that your Captain James had no support from us in planning and executing this operation. We concede only that we were cooperative, mistakenly in my government’s view, once he left your country.”

“You’re lying,” Elliott said. Heads turned in his direction, but no one, including the President, made a move this time to silence Elliott.

Vilizherchev turned to face Elliott. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Look, we identified the two men killed on my airfield in Nevada. One was an experienced KGB operative. The other was a young, inexperienced infantryman. We’ve also identified the mortar rounds used during the escape. All were Soviet in origin. James was a KGB agent, and he killed twelve people while stealing a top-secret aircraft from a U.S. military installation. In my book they call that an act of war. Of course, I’m a general, not a statesman.”

It was all supposed to be a bluff. KGB Chief Kalinin had assured Vilizherchev that the identities of the two operatives were untraceable. By some standards, perhaps, but the Americans had sophisticated ways of identifying even a badly mutilated body. And Elliott now was describing the two operatives almost perfectly. Vilizherchev decided he had been caught in a neatly arranged trap. To use the American vernacular — he’d been set up.

But, again according to Kalinin, a trace of the mortars used in the attack should have revealed that they were Belgian in origin, not Soviet. They had never been consigned to anyone remotely connected with Russia until they were turned over to the two operatives by a dealer in the Dominican Republic days before the operation was to begin … Unless there’d been a terrific foul-up, Elliott was just talking to provoke him into reacting, showing his hand …

“I would like to see your report on those men and those weapons,” Vilizherchev said.

“And we would like to see Kenneth James,” Elliott said.

“It can be arranged very soon. I have been in contact with—”

“And I want the modification process discontinued on the aircraft,” Elliott added.

“Modification?”

Elliott hit one button on the remote control he held in his hand. The digital videotape cued itself to the preprogrammed point and the screen flared to life, showing the last clear image of DreamStar taken from Cheetah. The picture clearly showed access panels open, the fuel tanks in position under DreamStar’s wings, and jacks supporting DreamStar in position. Vilizherchev studied the image.

“Thank you, sir, for verifying that it was an American aircraft that violated our restricted airspace,” Vilizherchev said.

“Thank you for verifying that you have the aircraft and that you are in fact destroying something that is not your property,” Elliott shot back.

The film was a surprise as well — Kalinin had not mentioned anything about a reconnaissance film of such detail. “The aircraft was heavily armed when it arrived at our airbase. Since it is obviously an unusual aircraft with systems and devices unknown to us, a thorough examination was necessary to verify that the aircraft posed no threat to our people. Otherwise, immediate disposal would have been called for.”

“I’ll be happy to supply you with personnel to ensure that the aircraft is safe,” Elliott said quickly.

“That will not be necessary. Our technicians are well qualified to—”

“The bottom line is that the aircraft is not your property, it belongs to the U.S. We want it back immediately.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, General,” Vilizherchev said, surprised that the President or one of his advisers wasn’t stepping in. He turned away from Elliott and back to the President. “I trust you understand, sir, that a complete investigation must be conducted. The aircraft is material evidence in that investigation. We simply can’t release it until the investigation has been completed.”

Silence. Elliott was being left to carry the ball, for the moment. “That sounds like a dodge to me, Mr. Ambassador,” Elliott said.

Vilizherchev’s cool was wearing thin. “We have procedures that must be followed in serious matters such as this, just as you do. Let me assure this distinguished gathering that at the end of our investigation all property belonging to the United States will be returned—”

“Including James?” Deborah O’Day said.

“If he chooses to live in the Soviet Union, he will probably be allowed, just as you—”

“You still expect us to believe that James isn’t a Russian spy?” Elliott said angrily.

“That’s enough, General Elliott,” the President said, deciding the two had played out as much as was useful. “Mr. Ambassador, do you have any other message from your government?”

“Only this, sir. My government understands your reasons for the overflight of our base in Nicaragua, and we understand why you shot down our supply helicopter in Mexico. But I have tried to assure you that this aircraft intruded on our territory without our knowledge and that we must conduct an investigation to determine the facts. We expect no interference while this investigation is underway. We ask only for your patience. But we cannot, of course, tolerate any hostile or coercive acts. I remind you again that it was your aircraft and your pilot that intruded on our base and our ally’s sovereign borders. You must at least recognize our right to determine the truth.”

President Taylor moved forward in his chair, leaned on the conference table. “Now you give this message to the General Secretary, Mr. Vilizherchev. I don’t like threats, however diplomatically put. I don’t like being told what to do, especially by someone who has our property. You are in no position to make demands on us.”

Elliott was encouraged by these opening remarks, but they stopped quickly as the President continued: “I do, however, understand your request for a period of time to conduct an investigation, and I will allow it …”

Elliott rushed in. “Mr. President …”

“… On one condition, Mr. Ambassador,” the President went on, looking at Elliott out of the corner of his eye. “If your government guarantees me that the aircraft you hold will not be moved out of its present location, we will take no action against you for a period of five days. After that time we will take immediate steps to recover our property, including the use of naval, marine, and air forces. Clear, Mr. Ambassador?”

Vilizherchev paused. It was incredible — Kalinin apparently had actually got something right this time. The Americans did not want to precipitate a war over this aircraft. The other stuff was face-saving … “I will need to confer with my government about your proposal, sir.”

“Agreed. But the five-day timetable starts now. If we do not have our aircraft back in five days, we’ll go in and get it. I’ll expect your government’s reply in the morning. Good night, Mr. Vilizherchev.” Vilizherchev stood, made a polite but impatient bow to the President, and left. Cesare showed him out.

“Mr. President,” Elliott said, “you can’t give them five days. We can’t afford to give them five hours.”

“General Elliott, if I can get the Soviets to agree to keep DreamStar in the western hemisphere, and avoid hostilities at the same time, I consider that an accomplishment. Considering the situation I’ve been placed in.” He rubbed his eyes irritably, then pounded the armrest of his chair. “I’ve considered a military action each time you’ve presented your arguments, Brad, each time, and I always come back to this: we would lose the aircraft, the Russians would score a major propaganda coup, and it would be political suicide for this administration. That’s even supposing that we destroyed the thing on the ground. If we lost some of our soldiers or flyers in the process, or failed to destroy the aircraft, it would look even worse for us. A military response is just a no-win situation.”

“Sir, we’ve proved that the Soviets are planning to fly DreamStar out of Nicaragua. Just because we’ve heard from Vilizherchev doesn’t mean that they’ve changed their minds. They can make a deal with us and then go right ahead with their plans. We need to act, Mr. President.”

Elliott, the President thought, was relentless. Twenty-four hours earlier this guy was on the edge of a dishonorable discharge. Tonight he was interrupting senior Cabinet members, calling a credentialed ambassador a liar, and trying to negotiate with the President of the United States. Still, or maybe because of all that, and despite Benson’s warning, he was starting to respect, maybe even like, this veteran Air Force officer. But the man was too ready to hit out with military force. He had no conception of the political realities involved. Generals rarely did.

“I have to disagree, General, at least for now. Brad, the truth here is that we have few realistic options. I just feel the repercussions of an offensive against the Russians would be far worse than the loss of this aircraft, no matter how advanced it is. Let’s at least wait to see what their reaction to my proposal is.”

“I’m not suggesting an offensive, sir. My concern right now is that they’ll go ahead with their plans to take DreamStar out of Nicaragua — that this visit by Vilizherchev was just a smokescreen to get us to relax and drop any plans to retake DreamStar. While we wait for a response from the Soviets, DreamStar could be on its way to Russia, and then we would have no recourse except to begin negotiations all over again. That could drag on for weeks, even months — as long as it took to export the XF-34’s technology to their development bureaus …” Before anyone could interrupt, Elliott continued: “I have a plan, sir, to set up a very small-scale air cordon in the Caribbean — very small, unobtrusive, easily managed but effective. The plan revolves around one AWACS radar plane based out of San Juan, with fighter escort, to cover the eastern Caribbean, and one AWACS operating overwater out of Honduras to cover the northern and western Caribbean.”

“Why couldn’t DreamStar just blast its way out like it blasted its way into Nicaragua, General?” Stuart asked. “You said this XF-34 can fly rings around any other fighter in our inventory. If we put a radar plane and a few fighters right in its way, what’s to stop it from shooting them down?”

“If the Soviets fit those external tanks to DreamStar, she won’t be in nearly as good condition to fight,” Elliott said. He sounded more optimistic than he felt — he was in the realm of pure speculation now. “DreamStar’s wings weren’t designed for external fuel tanks. My guess is that a small interceptor group can defeat DreamStar in this situation — at least the odds would be nearly even …”

“But your plan still calls for an armed response,” Stuart said. “You’re trying to force this government into a confrontation with the Russians. How many times does the President need to say no to you, General?”

“If DreamStar stays in Nicaragua, sir, there won’t be a confrontation,” Air Force Secretary Wilbur Curtis spoke up. “Our interceptor task force will be on just another Caribbean training flight. If DreamStar tries to break out, then the Russians will have violated our arrangement and demonstrated a cynical unwillingness to resolve this matter—” he turned to the President— “in which case, in my opinion, it justifies a much stronger response from us …”

The President leaned back in his chair, massaged his forehead and stared at the chart of Central America. Exhaustion and strain made the colors in the chart begin to dance before his eyes. “What forces do we have in the area?” he asked.

Elliott was already flipping to the page in his notes in anticipation. “Sir, the forces are essentially in place right now to cover the eastern Caribbean. We can step up interceptor activity to identify all low-flying high-speed aircraft that we detect. As for the northern and western Caribbean, that will be tougher. We should be able to arrange a fighter drag into the area in six to eight hours—”

“A what?”

“A fighter drag, a deployment. Nine fighters from Howard Air Force Base in the Canal Zone would deploy to our garrison staging base at La Cieba on the Honduras north coast. Three aircraft would go on station over the Caribbean immediately with the AWACS bird and a tanker, with the rest rotating in shifts. It may be possible to get support from the Cayman Islands for landing rights, but I’m anticipating difficulties with them allowing armed American aircraft to land there, so I’ve planned this without the Cayman Islands.”

The President was impressed that Elliott had already planned this mission in such detail. Still …

“This would continue until we could bring up naval support from New Orleans or the eastern Caribbean, either of which would take approximately forty-eight hours to reach the area,” Elliott pressed on. ‘‘The best we’ve got available is the carrier Theodore Roosevelt, which is deployed north of Puerto Rico on a training cruise. She can be in position in about two days. CVN-73 George Washington is the better choice, but she’s in port in New Orleans and may take several days to deploy. Aircraft would be armed with short- and medium-range air-to-air missiles as well as long-range fuel tanks. They would intercept any aircraft within range and visually identify each one. If they become overloaded with targets, priority would be given to high-speed, high-altitude aircraft. Although it’s possible for DreamStar to make the flight at almost any speed and almost any altitude, the enormous distance he has to go would suggest he’d have to conserve as much fuel as possible, and that means high altitude and as little high-lift, low-speed flying as possible … Our pilot’s orders would be … and this hurts … to destroy DreamStar and any other hostile aircraft that may be escorting her that engage our aircraft. But if possible they would try to harass or divert DreamStar toward a forced water landing.”

Elliott finally stopped his headlong briefing, then glanced at Secretary of the Air Force Curtis. Curtis nodded to Elliott and said to the President: “Sir, I’m recommending adoption of this plan. It’s low profile, and at least the Air Force’s part is easily implemented. We’ll need to confer with Navy and the rest of the Joint Chiefs on the deployment of a carrier group, but I’m afraid this situation warrants an immediate go-ahead on the first phase.”

The President looked skeptical as he studied the chart. “How much danger will it be to our pilots?” he said, pointing to the map. “It looks like they’ll be overwater for a long time.”

Elliott nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s true, sir. The fighters will have to cover eighteen-thousand square miles of open ocean. Tanker support can keep them in the air for as long as necessary. we’ll rotate another flight and another tanker in to take over every four hours.”

“Six-hour missions for them, refuelings every hour, plus the strain of visually identifying and possibly going into combat on each intercept they make,” Curtis summarized. “And all of it overwater — not exactly a fighter pilot’s favorite place to be.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it, Wilbur,” the President said wryly. He held up a hand as the Secretary of the Air Force began to speak. “I know, I know you’re just hitting me with the worst. Well, I think it’s a lousy plan, gentlemen.”

Curtis and Elliott felt their hearts drop.

“You’d be placing those pilots in great jeopardy because you don’t trust the Russians to keep their word in this thing. You act like Stalin or Khrushchev is still in charge there.” He did not try to curb his temper; exhaustion, tension, concern and frustration had all built to a point he had to let loose. “And all to stop one aircraft and one pilot from possibly being flown out of Nicaragua, and all because you two failed to uncover a Soviet agent in your own organizations. No. You’re asking me to place more men’s lives at risk because of your screwups. You’re asking me to put this presidency in jeopardy to satisfy your need for revenge.”

The President swiveled his chair around and stared at the Central American chart. Secretary of Defense Stuart had trouble hiding his satisfaction — there was little doubt that he was going to enjoy being Taylor’s hatchet man when the order came down to get rid of Elliott and Curtis. Cesare had motioned in a young steward with a pot of coffee, quietly telling him to keep the president’s cup far out of reach in case his temper exploded again.

Elliott glanced at Deborah O’Day, who, to his surprise, seemed to be wearing a confident expression. What did she know? After that tirade, the President wasn’t going to—

“General Elliott.” The President was pointing at the chart. “I want another option for those pilots. Six to seven hours over-water in a single-seat fighter is too much, especially if they have to keep it up for days. What else have you got?”

Elliott stepped quickly to the chart, finding the place he wanted and putting a finger on it. “I’m afraid there are few other options, sir. In the eastern Caribbean we have landing rights only in Puerto Rico and Grenada, and possibly in Montserrat or Anguilla, but it still requires long overwater periods. It’s worse in the western Caribbean. There are several other coastal airfields in Honduras, including Puerto Lempira here, thirty miles north of the Nicaraguan border, but they’ve been abandoned by the military and probably aren’t secure. I wouldn’t recommend landing fighters there — the drug traffickers control the area better than the militia. Honduras has a small island, the Santanilla, between Honduras and the Cayman Islands, but their airfield is very small. Nine U.S. fighters and their support teams would quickly overwhelm the place. La Cieba is the best option—”

“Maybe not,” Deborah O’Day said. “General Elliott, you’ve already mentioned the Cayman Islands. Your assessment of that government’s response to a request for landing rights may be a bit premature. Sir, I’d like to follow up on this. Allow General Elliott’s fighters to take up their stations in the Caribbean. We can get permission from Honduras for landing rights in La Cieba. While the planes are airborne I’ll get permission from the Cayman Islands and the Brits to land and service our fighters. The Navy goes in there all the time — I don’t think a few fighters will bother them too much. I’ll work on landing rights in Montserrat too.”

“I don’t like this,” the President said. “We’re risking dozens of lives to guard against a breach of a legitimate deal with the Soviets. But like Reagan once said, ‘Trust, but cut the cards.’ All right, the operation is approved, General Elliott. Provided that we get landing rights in the Cayman Islands and Montserrat. If we don’t get authorization, your western fighters will refuel with their tanker, recover in Honduras for crew rest, then return to Panama, and the eastern fighters will stay in Puerto Rico. I’m not going to authorize extended overwater patrols. If they’re allowed to recover in Georgetown on Grand Cayman, or Plymouth on Montserrat, I want no more than four-hour patrols over-water. I’ll reserve judgment about follow-on naval operations until I get a briefing from the Navy. Understood?” Curtis and Elliott quickly said it was.

“Brief your pilots that I want no interference with normal air traffic in the area,” the President said. “It’s probably full of high-speed jets. I don’t want your people scaring any airliners or, much worse, pulling the trigger on the wrong target. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Curtis replied.

“I’ll be on board the AWACS and take on-scene control of the situation,” Elliott said.

“I’ve heard that one before. Wilbur, I want briefings every hour once this thing kicks off, beginning first thing in the morning. And be prepared to stand down your fighters if we get the right answer back from the Soviets.”

“Yes, sir.”

The President stood and walked out of the conference room without another word. Deborah O’Day went up to Elliott, a smile on her face.

“Thanks for the assist,” Elliott said quietly.

She stepped closer. “You owe me one, Bradley Elliott. And I expect prompt repayment, in full.”

Elliott studied her bright eyes, nodded.

“Plan on your fighters recovering in the Cayman Islands,” she said. “The deputy governor of the Caymans happens to be an old family friend. I hope you can bring a two-seat fighter with you — he and members of his family will probably ask for a ride. He’s a nut about fighters.”

“I doubt this mission will turn out to be a joy-ride,” Elliott said, and shut up as Wilbur Curtis joined them and they all walked down the hall from the Oval Office to O’Day’s office. Major Preston served coffee as the three took seats.

“We need to get our staffs together and fine-tune this thing,” Curtis said. “Briefing the Old Man is one thing — getting two squadrons of interceptors together for an extended deployment is another.” He looked at Elliott. “Problem, Brad?”

“Something doesn’t make sense.” Elliott walked over to a large map of the southern United States and Central America. “Between naval units normally on-station and our airbase in Puerto Rico, we’ve got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty well right now. It’s the western Caribbean where we don’t have enough coverage. Yet we’re assuming the Russians would fly DreamStar east toward Russia.”

“Naturally,” Curtis replied. “Where else?”

He pointed at the map. “Cuba. Cuba is only six hundred miles from Sebaco. Once DreamStar is in Cuba … hell, it might as well be in Russia. We couldn’t touch it there. Cuba is no Nicaragua …”

“But why put those external tanks on DreamStar?” O’Day asked. “Why spend the extra time to bother?”

“I think they still intend to fly it to Russia,” Elliott said. “But we caught them red-handed preparing for a long flight. They know we can close off the eastern Caribbean. For now, Cuba is a more logical destination.”

“It doesn’t make sense to go to Cuba, Brad,” Curtis insisted. “Sure, they can protect it better, but Cuba is right on our back doorstep. We have round-the-clock surveillance on Cuba. If we could get the President to buy off on it, we could blockade that island by sea and air. DreamStar could never get out. Besides, we saw those extra tanks on DreamStar. Why would they waste the time putting those things on if they only intended to take it to Cuba?”

“I disagree with your assessment of Cuba’s security,” Elliott said. “We don’t have the same military superiority we did back in the sixties — a cordon would be much more difficult. And I think the Russians realize that we aren’t going to use a lot of military force to get DreamStar back. This is an election year — they figure Taylor won’t hang it out over one fighter.” He paused, then rapped his knuckles on the long, thin island south of Florida. “Nope, I’m convinced — they’ll take DreamStar to Cuba instead of flying it east.”

“What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, Brad,” Curtis argued. “I think we should concentrate our forces on the southern and eastern Caribbean. It would be stupid to fly to Cuba — that wouldn’t get them anywhere.”

Elliott was silent for a few moments, then: “All right, sir. But we’ve got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty well. I’ll take command of the western task force.”

“The Old Man expects you to take the east.”

“I only told him I’d be airborne in an AWACS — I didn’t say which one. I’ll be in real-time contact with the eastern forces at all times from the AWACS out of Honduras. I’ll bet my pension they try to pull a fast one on us.”

“Let me assure you, Brad,” Curtis said, “you are betting your pension on this one.”

The Consulate of the Soviet Socialist Republics, Washington, D.C

The voice and data-scrambler system was experiencing severe distortion from solar-flare activity, but the elation in the KGB chief’s voice was obvious.

“That is very good news,” Kalinin said. He was sitting in the Kremlin communications center in Moscow, sipping tea and waiting impatiently for his aide, Molokov, to finish buttering a plate of pirozhoks, his favorite small turnover pastries, with fruit and creme fillings. “The Americans are obviously anxious to avoid an embarrassing conflict so close to their national elections.”

“The Americans may have extended their waiting period, comrade Kalinin,” Vilizherchev said from Washington, sipping a snifter of brandy, “but they have certainly not relented. They are expecting a message from Moscow in no more than twelve hours agreeing not to move their aircraft out of Sebaco and agreeing to turn the aircraft over to them in five days. If you do not comply) they have well-supported and vocal elements of their military that are ready to invade Sebaco and take their property back. They’re led by General Bradley Elliott of their air force.”

“Elliott … a paper tiger, an anachronism,” Kalinin said. “Too hawkish for the current government. I estimate he will be forced to retire soon. After all, we removed the XF-34 from his base.”

“Elliott was at the White House tonight,” Vilizherchev said. “Apparently he was the one who staged the overflight at Sebaco today. If he has fallen from grace in the eyes of Taylor’s government, they are hiding it very well. “

“Don’t worry about Elliott—”

“I am not worried about him,” Vilizherchev said. “I am concerned about you, sir. On your behalf I agreed to take their message to my government. The Americans are expecting a reply. But I sense that you are unconcerned about any possible agreements and that you plan to take that aircraft out of Nicaragua regardless of any tentative agreements …”

“You will be vindicated in this, Sergei,” Kalinin said. “The aircraft will be gone from Nicaragua long before the Americans expect a reply from the Kremlin. The KGB will accept the responsibility for the aircraft, and you can tell the Americans that the rotten KGB ignored your agreement and acted on their own. There’s nothing they can do once we have the aircraft except protest. And they will get their aircraft back — after we finish studying it, of course. I understand it is a fabulous machine.”

“I agree; it must be a fantastic machine,” Vilizherchev said, “because I believe the United States will retaliate in ways other than just protest.” There was a pause, with both men listening to the crackles and snaps of solar-generated electrons interfering with the satellite transmission. Then: “About my report to the Foreign Minister …”

“Delay it for twenty-four hours.”

Vilizherchev had been expecting this. “That is impossible,” he said. “I went to the White House. I spoke with the President. I left the Consulate at night without escort, without leaving an itinerary or contact log. What shall I report — I went on a drive around Washington to see the sights? What if someone in the White House mentions my visit to someone in Moscow and they find out I did not report it? What if this whole incident ends up in the newspapers — the media is behind every lamppost in this city.”

“Calm yourself,” Kalinin said. “The missing report will not surface for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps more. By then this incident will be concluded and I will explain everything to the General Secretary and the Politburo.”

“I expect it,” Vilizherchev said. “Unauthorized contact with the American government by a member of our government is still punishable, as you know, by life at hard labor. I have a desire to retire to warmer climates than Siberia.”

Kalinin broke the connection without replying. The signal, in any case, was deteriorating rapidly; so was Vilizhervchev’s resolve. He was not a stupid man but he had not been in government long enough to represent a danger to Kalinin’s power. Unless everything came completely unraveled, Vilizherchev could be trusted to keep silent — after all, having the director of the KGB as a co-conspirator was not such a bad position.

But now it was up to Maraklov to get that aircraft safely out of Nicaragua. All of their futures now rode on him.

Sebaco, Nicaragua

Andrei Maraklov awoke to bedlam. Dozens of faults were being reported to him at once, ranging in severity from complete system short-circuits to oil leaks. But the familiar rush of power and energy that always accompanied a successful interface with ANTARES was a welcome feeling, in spite of the faults being reported.

DreamStar had undergone a major transformation. Her newest additions were two large cigar-shaped stainless-steel fuel tanks, one suspended under each wing. Two of the four weapon hard-points on each wing were combined to hold the Lluyka tank’s pylon; that, plus the size of the tanks themselves, left DreamStar with the capability to carry only two missiles instead of eight. Inside each tank pylon, the fuel tank’s pressurization line was spliced to the wing tank’s bleed air-pressurization system, which allowed fuel to flow from the tanks and feed the engines before wing-tank fuel was used. The hardpoint’s jettison-circuitry was spliced into jettison-squibs in the pylon, which would blow the pylon off the wing.

There was no time to test the aerodynamic qualities of the fuel tank with DreamStar — no way to determine if DreamStar could even fly with the tanks installed. The tanks could fail to feed properly, feed unevenly, rupture the wing tanks, hit the aircraft on jettison, or flutter so badly that even a normal takeoff would result in a crash. There just was no time to test it. The flight would have to go as scheduled in spite of the risks.

DreamStar’s anterior fins were replaced, and the aircraft put back together as best they could after being partially dismantled shortly after landing. The plan was to use DreamStar’s own self-diagnostic computer routines to check the aircraft and direct the aircraft maintenance technicians to the problems.

As always, Maraklov activated the radios first. “How do you read, General?”

General Tret’yak stared at Musi Zaykov as the machinelike words came over his headphone. He keyed his microphone: “Kw dyela? “

“This is Maraklov, General.”

“Colonel, are you all right? Your voice sounds different.”

“My voice is altered by computer. I don’t think I can speak in Russian. I have several faults that need inspection. The most serious is a left primary-bus short-circuit. The technicians will have to open the left number-four access panel. The bus-module is on the center electronics rack. I will deactivate the system when the panel is open.”

“Azhidan yah, “ Tret’yak said. “Wait, Colonel, I do not understand you.” There was a slight pause as Tret’yak passed the headphones to Zaykov.

“Andrei?”

“Yes, Musi.”

Zaykov stared in surprise when she heard the voice. “Andrei, is that you …?”

“No time to talk,” Maraklov said. “Relay these instructions exactly to the chief of maintenance. I can’t start my engine until this problem is corrected.”

Zaykov copied Maraklov’s instructions down on a clipboard, read them back to verify them, then gave the clipboard to the chief of aircraft maintenance. He read the instructions several times, then finally called to his assistant to get someone to begin removing the left access panel.

“They are removing the wrong panel,” the computer-synthesized voice told Zaykov. Musi called to the workers to stop, then directed them to the correct panel. She had to repeat the instructions to the assistant crew chief, who told the crew chief, who issued the same orders back down the chain to the workers. They did not begin the job of removing the fasteners until told by their superior.

“Left primary bus-power is off,” Maraklov said after issuing the mental command to redirect the power from the external power cart away from the left primary circuit. “That maintenance chief would be out on his ass in the States. Five minutes to open one access panel — we’ll be here all morning.”

Sarcasm did not transmit well through ANTARES, but Zaykov nodded her understanding. “They are all afraid to touch the aircraft,” she said. “They’re afraid you will electrocute them. The chief has to order them to do the simplest task.”

“At this rate I’ll be forced to make the crossing in daylight,” Maraklov said.

“They should be finished in a few minutes.”

“But that’s only the first of about a dozen major items that need to be inspected before I can launch. It’s almost sunrise now. I’ll have half the U.S. Navy on top of me before I can fly a hundred miles, and in daylight with two external tanks I’ll be a sitting duck.”

“Our headquarters is coordinating with the Nicaraguan navy in sweeping the Caribbean for any American ships that might get in your way,” Zaykov said. “So far, they report no American ships closer than six hundred miles, except those in the Canal Zone and Puerto Rico. Besides, we have been informed by Moscow that the Americans have agreed not to take any action for five days. They will be totally unprepared for this.”

“Never mind all that,” Maraklov said, “just make those idiots out there work as fast as they can. Every minute I sit on the ground in this hell-hole is another mile closer the Americans can get. …”

One Hundred Miles Southwest of the Cayman Islands

“Dragon Five-One flight, this is Georgetown radar,” the cheerful British voice announced over the command radio. “Welcome to the Cayman Islands. Stand by for frequency assignments.”

“Now this is what I call a summer camp,” Major John Coursey said happily, taking another sip of orange juice. Coursey was one of twelve F-16 ADF pilots from Howard Air Force Base in Panama taking part in an operation they had come to know simply as Barrier. Coursey was the leader of Dragon Blue, one of four three-ship cells in the huge fighter formation. The twelve fighters were all from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group, New York Air National Guard, from Niagara Falls International Airport, deployed to Panama in one-month rotations. They were all serving their annual training commitment, which for F-16 pilots was always more than the standard Air National Guard two weeks per year.

“One week in Panama is heaven,” Coursey said over the scrambled interplane frequency, “but a secret mission to the Cayman Islands is a real hardship.”

“Cut the chatter, Blue flight,” came the order from the squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Tinker. “Okay, listen up. Red, Yellow and Gold stay on me for recovery. Blue, Georgetown Radar will clear you to an orbit just outside their airspace, blocking altitudes from five to thirty thousand. You’re required to squawk modes and codes even though you’re outside their airspace, but you are cleared to strangle if you get into a situation. Get together with your tanker for refueling, then set up a high- and mid-CAP as directed by Barrier Control. Watch your fuel. No one goes below three thousand pounds over the high fix at Georgetown. Everyone got it?”

“Don’t drink all the margaritas down there, boss,” Coursey said.

“No screwing around, Blue Leader,” Tinker radioed back. “We’re expecting some brass on board Barrier Control for this one.” Barrier Control was the 767 AWACS radar plane that would be controlling the fighters from its more protected orbit point closer to the Cayman Islands.

“Blue Lead copies. We’ll look pretty for the brass.”

“You’d better. Dragon flight minus Blue, come right and start descent. Blue flight, watch your gas, and good hunting.”

“Blue flight is clear,” Coursey reported as he watched the three groups of F-16 Falcon air-defense fighters execute a tight echelon turn to the right as they began their approach into Georgetown, the capital city of the Cayman Islands.

Coursey sucked in his breath. Against the crystal-blue shimmering backdrop of the Caribbean Sea, the large formation looked spectacular — especially to a desk-bound accountant from Tonawanda, New York, for whom the biggest excitement in life lately was having the Delaware Avenue monorail going into downtown Buffalo arrive on time. The Air National Guard was the country’s biggest secret, he told himself — he was getting a great Caribbean vacation paid for by Uncle Sam, and all he had to do was fly one of the hottest jet fighters in the world.

“Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Georgetown radar. Squawk mode three code zero-zero-one-four, mode C on, and have your wingmen squawk standby,” the juicy sounding controller from the Grand Cayman said.

“Anything you say, babe.” Coursey was feeling altogether the hot pilot. He knew his wingmen would check that their mode three identification beacons were in standby — they were placed in standby so collision alerts between fighters in the formation would not continually show on radar — so he doubled-checked his IFF settings and got himself comfortable.

“Dragon Five-Four flight; you are cleared to orbit as required within one-zero-zero nautical miles of BRAC intersection as requested, in the block from five thousand to thirty-five thousand feet. Contact me on this frequency if you require assistance. Clear to switch to tactical frequencies. Georgetown radar clear.”

Coursey was about to ask her for an after-hours phone number but it was time to get things organized. “Roger, Georgetown. You have a nice day, now. Dragon flight, push blue.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Blue” was the assigned common scrambled UHF frequency to be used by Coursey’s flight, the AWACS known as Barrier Control, and King 27, their KC-10 tanker out of Homestead AFB, Florida.

“Dragon flight, check,” Coursey called out a few seconds after switching frequencies.

“Two.”

“Three,” his wingmen responded.

“Station check, report with fuel status.” Coursey took a fast look at Dragon Five off his right wingtip. The big centerline fuel tank on the F-16s made the sleek bird awkward looking, not to mention the huge decrease in performance and range — those tanks would be the first to go if they engaged any hostiles out here. Each F-16 carried two AIM-132B European-built infrared-guided ASRAAM (Advanced Short-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for close-range “dogfighting” engagements) and two AIM-1200 AMRAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for longer-range attacks), along with five hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition. They were loaded and ready, but out here, flying quietly and peacefully over the sparkling blue Caribbean, trouble seemed a zillion miles away.

“Let’s hear it, Dragon flight.”

“Two’s in the green, four and five hundred all safe, eight thousand.” He had called out his overall status, his armament number and status, and his fuel remaining.

“Three’s in the green, four and five hundred safe, seven-point-seven.”

“Looks like everyone’s thirsty here,” Coursey said. The large external fuel tanks on the three fighters’ bellies were all empty — they were usually empty shortly after a heavy gross-weight takeoff — and the internal fuel loads were also depleted by half. They all had about an hour’s worth of fuel left, plus the required forty-five minutes reserve. “Lead’s got eight-point-one, four and five hundred. Break. King Two-Seven, this is Dragon Five-Four Flight of three on tac blue, over.”

“Dragon flight, this is King Two-Seven; read you loud and clear,” the KC-10 air-refueling tanker radioed back. “We’re receiving your position beacons, codes verified. We’re seventy miles north of your position on a heading of two-zero-zero, altitude twenty thousand feet. Over.”

“Copy, Two-Seven,” Coursey replied. “You’ve got three receivers at nineteen thousand feet, onload as briefed, point parallel auto rendezvous. Weapons all report safe and ready for refueling. We’ll do a few orbits out here to stay in our assigned block, then turn northbound at thirty miles.”

“Copy, Dragon.”

Coursey began some gentle standard-rate turns in order to burn some time without going outside his assigned airspace. A few moments later he heard, “King Two-Seven at fifty miles.”

“Copy. Dragon flight, take route spacing; stand by for auto rendezvous.” The two members of Coursey’s formation stayed in formation but increased the distance between aircraft to almost a mile. Dragon Four started a turn to the north, and Coursey watched to make sure his wingmen were staying with him.

“Thirty miles … twenty miles, stand by for turn …”

At seventeen miles, on the dot, Coursey’s F-16 Falcon started a left turn and gentle climb. A few moments later one of Coursey’s wingmen called, “Tally ho, ten-thirty position.” Coursey stared harder toward the crystal-blue horizon and finally spotted the huge green converted DC-10 airliner in the distance.

“Lead’s got a tally.”

It appeared as if the F-16 formation was on a collision course with the huge tanker, but in auto-mode it always looked like that. Coursey pulled his throttle back to ninety percent and pegged his airspeed at four hundred twenty knots. By the time the computer-controlled turn was done, the tanker was looming over the lead F-16 fighter’s nose like a storm cloud, and the autopilot beeped to remind the pilot that the rendezvous was completed.

“Dragon Five-Four flight, this is King Two-Seven boom operator radio check.”

“Dragon lead’s loud and clear.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Loud and clear up here. Dragon Five-Four cleared to the contact position; Two-Seven is ready.”

“Dragon Five-Four moving up on auto.”

The tanker’s nozzle was aligned less than a thousand feet ahead. Coursey punched off the autopilot and moved the throttle to eighty percent, which, after his years of experience he knew would give him the three-hundred-knot refueling speed he wanted; tiny speedbrake deflections would take care of any excess speed. He opened the air-refueling receptacle on the F-16’s spine and checked the status indications on his heads-up display. They showed ready for refueling.

“Dragon Five-Four stabilized pre-contact and ready,” Coursey reported.

Coursey carefully guided his fighter under the KC-10’s broad belly, following the rows of director lights arranged along the tanker’s bottom, until he received a steady yellow light — which placed the front glare-shield right on the tanker’s UHF antenna blade.

“Stabilize … “ Behind Coursey’s canopy the twenty-foot boom extended its tubular nozzle, and like some alien mating ritual the boom operator extended the nozzle into the F-16’s receptacle. Coursey’s HUD indicated CONTACT.

“Contact Five-Four.”

“Contact Two-Seven,” the boom operator replied. At that, the copilot on the KC-l0 activated the refueling boost pumps and began transferring fuel. When the boom operator’s flow panel showed a positive transfer rate, he reported, “Taking fuel.”

“Give me five thousand, and we’ll cycle,” Coursey said. Each fighter in the formation should take on a token load at first to confirm that their refueling systems were working; once all fighters could take fuel, they would spend more time on the boom and fill to full tanks. Five thousand pounds of fuel took only thirty seconds to transfer. Coursey disengaged from the tanker and swung out to the left to let Dragon Five-Five in on the boom.

The pilot aboard Five-Five, a young lieutenant who had just finished F-16 training and then reported directly into the Guard, had a bit more trouble completing the rendezvous. On his first attempt he moved no closer than ten feet from the extended nozzle.

“Forward ten, Dragon Five-Five,” the boom operator prompted. Coursey could see the F-16 inch closer, but he always pulled off too much speed or ducked down away from the nozzle.

“Forward twelve.”

Impatience got the better of him. This time he shoved in too much power and overcorrected. The F-16 slid under the KC-10 so far that the vertical stabilizer looked as if it was going to scrape against the refueler’s boom pod.

“Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway,” the boom operator called out. Not exactly an emergency situation but the KC-10’s response was automatic — the boom shot full up into its retracted position, the engines went to full power, the tanker began a steady climb. Dragon Five yanked off his power and slid out of sight. Coursey and Dragon Six stayed on the tanker’s wingtip as it pulled ahead.

“Two-Seven, this is Dragon Leader, Dragon Five-Five is well clear,” Coursey radioed to the tanker, trying to keep Five in sight. “Cancel breakaway. Clear Dragon Five-Six to the contact position, and clear Dragon Five-Five to the right wing. Five-Five, take a breather and try to relax.”

“Dragon Five-Five, clear to Dragon Five-Six’s right wing,” the boom operator said. The F-16 that had balked its hookup reappeared, sliding under Dragon Five-Six and moving into position on Six’s right wingtip.

“Dragon Five-Five is on your right, Five-Six.”

“Dragon Five-Six, clear to the contact position, Two-Seven is ready.” Five-Six moved smoothly down into contact position, and fifteen seconds later it was taking fuel. A minute later he was back off Five-Five’s right wing, and Dragon Five-Five was moving back into contact position.

“All right, Myers,” Coursey told the pilot of Dragon Five-Five, “you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of these tankers toads — try not to do it again. Remember, these Falcons don’t like being muscled around. They respond to gentle inputs. Just like the ladies. Remember your visual cues and for God’s sake, relax.”

He watched as Dragon Five-Five again began his approach to contact position. Myers needed this hookup for much more than just to avoid embarrassment. If he didn’t get his refueling on this pass he’d have to take the tanker, turn north and attempt another contact while heading for Georgetown. It would be highly embarrassing for one of Coursey’s wingmen to come back alone because he couldn’t accomplish a refueling, especially in near-ideal weather conditions. But whatever else Myers had on his mind, he apparently had finally managed to put it behind him as he made contact with the KC-10 on the first try.

“Fill ‘er up, Two-Seven,” Coursey said. “We’ll top off in reverse order. I’ll be on radio two.” Coursey switched radios momentarily to his second non-scrambled UHF radio. “Barrier Control, this is Dragon Five-Four flight. How copy?”

“Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Barrier Control, loud and clear. Over.”

“We will complete refueling in one-zero minutes,” Coursey said. “Looks like we’ll have three birds in the green. We’ll be in the center of the assigned area at completion. Over.”

“Copy all, Dragon flight,” the controller replied. “First response will be in approximately zero-eight minutes. Upon completion of refueling, take flight level two-five-zero and heading two-zero-five for your first intercept.”

“Copy all, Barrier. We’ll report back when refueling is complete.”

Dragon Five-Five was topped off in three minutes, after easing out of the boom’s refueling envelope twice. Five-Six had an easier time of it, completing his refueling in two minutes. Coursey took a bit longer than two minutes, electing to use lower pump pressure from the tanker to avoid pressure disconnects, which would result in less than completely full tanks. The KC-10 then executed a right turn and headed north for its orbit point near Georgetown, and Dragon flight headed southwest toward their first intercept.

“Five-Five, you got the high CAP,” Coursey said. “Top of the block is three-five-oh, so take three-three for now.” The high CAP (Combat Air Patrol) was an overlook position from where he could react quickly to hostile situations below him.

Coursey hoped as Dragon Five-Five started his climb to thirty-three thousand feet that the advantages of the high-combat air patrol would make up for Myers’ inexperience.

“Barrier, Dragon flight on blue,” Coursey called on the scrambled command radio. “Two on heading two-zero-five and twenty-five thousand feet. One on the high CAP at three-three-oh.”

“Roger, Dragon,” the controller on board the Boeing 767 AWACS radar aircraft replied, “your bogey is at twelve moving to one o’clock, forty miles.” Coursey checked his infrared spotting scope, which was slaved to the data-link from the AWACS — right on the money. The F-16’s infrared seeker laid an aiming square on the target and began feeding targeting information to the missile’s weapons computer.

“Dragon has IR lock, twelve o’clock.”

“That’s your target, Dragon,” the controller confirmed. Coursey started a left turn to take a greater angle into the target. The target wasn’t maneuvering.

“Dragon, we’ve got modes and codes on this one,” the controller said. “Verify I.D. and make sure he’s a solo.”

“Rog.” Coursey allowed himself to relax a bit. “Modes and codes,” meant the AWACS was picking up standard airliner-beacon codes, such as air-traffic control codes and altitude readouts, but they wanted each aircraft checked out visually anyway. Apparently whoever they were looking for could transmit standard codes. They were also expecting whoever they were looking for to be either traveling in a formation or trying to sneak through underneath another aircraft, a tactic that even in high-tech, super-electronic times could still only be detected visually.

“Twenty miles, one o’clock,” the controller said.

“Five-Six, take spacing, coming right,” Coursey ordered. Dragon Five-Six did a slow aileron roll to the right, which instantly increased his spacing from his leader to about a half-mile. When he was stabilized in route formation, Coursey started a turn toward his bogey.

“Twelve o’clock, ten miles.”

“Tally Ho, Five-Four,” Coursey called out. The aircraft was just off the right side of his F-16’s nose, heading north. It was still not maneuvering, nor was it giving off any telltale radar emissions of its own.

“Five-Four, this is a message from Barrier command, don’t let the target’s crew see you out there,” the controller of the AWACS said. “Select a course well aft of the cockpit and any cabin windows. Over.”

“Copy, Dragon flight, check.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Coursey maneuvered around behind the aircraft and its left elevator, well out of sight of the pilot and anyone looking out the windows. He could understand Barrier’s concern — airline pilots, not to mention passengers, got very nervous with armed fighters swarming nearby.

“Barrier, looks like we got a Boeing 707, cargo configuration,” Coursey reported. As he closed in, he continued, “It has Varig colors on its tail. Stand by for serial number. Five-Six, take the right side and stay out of sight.” Dragon Five-Six peeled off and began to converge on the 707’s right side. Coursey pulled in close to the vertical stabilizer, well clear of the plane should it make a sudden turn. “I copy M as in Mike, five-seven-oh-seven-three alpha. No music, no weapons”—”music” meaning any hostile radar emissions or jamming.

“Belly’s clear,” the pilot on Dragon Five-Six reported.

“Dragon, this is Barrier. I.B. confirmed on your bogey. Resume patrol orbit and stand by.”

“Roger, Barrier.” Coursey rolled left away from the airliner, then took a second to check his position.

“Barrier, what are we supposed to be looking for?” Coursey asked.

A slight pause, then: “Stand by, Five-Four.”

They were asking the brass on board if it was okay to tell the guard puke what he was doing in the middle of nowhere, chasing down airliners, for God’s sake. He had a feeling the answer was going to be don’t ask stupid questions, guard puke.

He got his answer sixty seconds later: “Five-Four, command says you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Say again, Barrier?”

Another pause; then a different voice came on the radio: “Dragon flight, your target is a single-seat fighter aircraft. It may be armed, and it may be escorted by one or more Soviet aircraft. It may be supported by a Soviet tanker. The aircraft may have U.S. Air Force markings on it. It must still be considered hostile.”

“An American aircraft? We’re going after an American aircraft?”

“The bad guys got it, Major,” the voice said. “We want it back. Your job is to identify it, force it to follow you to Georgetown, or if necessary destroy it. Those are your orders, Major Coursey. Over and out. “

This was becoming less and less like a Caribbean vacation, Coursey thought.

“Five-Six, I’ve got the lead. Join on the right.”

“Three.”

“Five-Five, maintain your high CAP until the next refueling; then you’ll swap with Five-Six. Set best endurance power. Seems this is going to be one long day.”

Colonel Edward Marsch, commander of the 21st Airborne Warning and Command Squadron from Tinker AFB, looked at General Bradley Elliott and shrugged when they heard Coursey’s reaction. “Air Force Reserve boys,” he said.

“No need to apologize for him, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I should be apologizing to him. He’s the one putting his ass on the line.”

“How long do you think we’ll be on station?”

“If I’m wrong we’ll get recalled in about six to eight hours. If I’m right, things will start happening in the next two, three hours.”

“Which should I be hoping for, sir?”

No answer. Either way, Elliott thought, it had already turned into a nightmare.

“Dragon Five-Seven flight of three reporting airborne,” the communications officer relayed to General Elliott. “ETA one-five minutes.”

Elliott nodded, took another sip of coffee. It seemed that the Russians would actually honor the agreement drawn up with Vilizherchev. They had come up empty on each of the twelve intercepts the three F-16 Falcon interceptors had performed. Although there had been no recall order, it was only ten A.M. in Washington. Still plenty of time for an agreement to be struck. They could already be on the phone together making a deal.

“Dragon Five-Five, you. take the lead,” Elliott heard the interceptor-formation leader, Major Coursey, say on the command radio. “Five-Six, you’re on his wing. I’ll take the high CAP. Let’s see if you guys have learned anything today.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Lieutenant Myers, the pilot of Dragon Five-Five, called out: “I’ve got the lead. Dragon Five-Four, clear to climb and clear the formation. Five-Six, clear to my right wing.”

“Three,” Douglas, aboard Dragon Five-Six, replied. Of all three pilots he had had the least to say the entire flight — his vocabulary had consisted of the word “three,” his original formation assignment. Even when they changed leads, Douglas would always report in as “three” because he had started out in that position.

“Five-Four’s outta here.”

Elliott glanced at the master radar display. Another aircraft had just appeared on the scope at two hundred miles range. The operator had drawn an electronic line on the screen, depicting the airway A321, and the new target was dead on that line. This airway ran all the way from Rio de Janeiro to Goose Bay, passing near Colombia, Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba, Miami and New York — A321 was the most widely used airway in South and Central America. Every aircraft they had intercepted had been dead on this airway, and each had been transmitting the proper identification codes. When they were intercepted by Coursey and his wingmen they had turned out to be just what their I.D. codes said they were.

The exercise was beginning to wear on Coursey and his pilots, so they had been swapping leads on each intercept. For the first time, the least inexperienced pilot, Myers on Five-Five, was going to be in the lead for an intercept.

“What’s the inside pitch on Myers, Ed?” Elliott asked the 767 AWACS commander.

“A hard-charger, from what I hear,” Marsch replied, checking his duty roster for this mission. “Top in his class at Nellis. One of the first pilots to go directly from an Air National Guard commission to F-16 ADF training. He’s low-time, but he’s good.”

Elliott nodded. A good opportunity for Myers to get some training — he hoped that was all he’d get. He checked the data readouts on the newcomer. “Relatively low altitude,” Elliott remarked. The new aircraft was at fifteen thousand feet and climbing. “Got an origin?”

“Negative, sir,” the console operator said. “I should be getting his IFF data in a minute.”

“Five-Four’s on the high CAP,” Coursey reported.

“Slow down your turn rate for me, Five-Five,” Elliott heard on the radio — obviously Dragon Five-Six was having trouble keeping up with Five-Five. In many ways being a formation leader was more stressful than staying on a guy’s wing — you had to think ahead all the time. On the wing all you had to worry about was staying on the wing. As lead you had to consider your wingmen’s reactions to each of your moves and radio call — every throttle movement, hesitation, control input or decision had a ripple effect on everyone else.

“That’s better, Bob,” Douglas on Dragon Five-Six said.

Just then Ed Marsch handed General Elliott a messageform. “Message from SAC headquarters via JCS, sir,” he said. Elliott read the note, lips tightening; then nodded and flipped the note onto the console.

“It seems the Russians have agreed to the President’s terms. They’ve promised not to move the XF-34 out of Nicaragua. They’re negotiating on terms for the removal of the aircraft — they say the aircraft is damaged and unflyable. The pilot will not be returned until the investigation is completed. We’ve been ordered to stand down. The fighters have been granted a two-night stay in Georgetown but are ordered back to Panama by Monday.”

Marsch let out his breath, trying to restrain his relief at being ordered to get out of this duty. His E-5A AWACS radar plane was vulnerable out here, with no ready fighter protection and only a few minutes flying time from Cuba. “I’ll order the fighters from Georgetown to RTB,” he said. Elliott nodded. To the senior controller, Marsch ordered, “Tell Dragon Five-Four flight to recover to Georgetown ASAP. Set up a refueling for them if they need it — they must be down close to an hour’s duration.” The senior controller nodded.

“If they can properly secure your plane, Colonel,” Elliott said, “request permission for you and your crew to spend the weekend in Georgetown. It beats flying all the way back to Oklahoma. I can find my own way back to Nellis.” Back to Dreamland. Back to forced retirement. Back to disgrace …?

“Excellent suggestion, sir,” Marsch said excitedly. One weekend in the Caribbean beat a year in Oklahoma City. “I’ll work on it immediately.”

“We’ve got an I.D. code on the newcomer, sir,” the radar operator at the main console called out. “Checking his flight plan with Georgetown air traffic control now.”

Marsch had gone over to the communications section, so Elliott said, “Let’s have it, Sergeant.”

“Flight plan from Georgetown says it’s a flight of three — a Soviet Ilyushin-76 Midas tanker-transport plane and two MiG-29 Fulcrum fighters. One four-zero-nine-six code and one mode C.” Standard civilian air-traffic beacon codes; the first transmitted aircraft-identification data, the second transmitted altitude.

“What’s their origin?”

“Origin code is MMNP, sir,” the operator replied. “Augusto Cesar Sandino International Airport, Managua, Nicaragua.”

Elliott slipped on his headphones and keyed the mike switch. “S-One, this is S-Five. Have the fighters from Georgetown turned back yet?”

Marsch’s head poked up from behind a communications console as he punched his mike button. “Affirmative, sir.”

“Tell them to turn around and rendezvous with us,” Elliott said.

“Excuse me, sir,” Marsch said and exited the communications console and began to walk toward Elliott, “we’ve been ordered to stand down—”

“We got two fighters and a Soviet transport heading our way,” Elliott said. “I want to run an intercept on them. And I want cover for us until they pass.”

Marsch returned to the master radar-console and checked the readouts. “An Il-76 and a couple of MiGs. Have they got a flight plan?” The operator nodded. “They’re squawking the proper codes, General. They’re on the airway. I don’t see what the problem is—”

“There’s no problem, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I just want an intercept on them, and I want air cover for us until they leave.”

“Sir, the mission is over,” Marsch said, “we’ve been ordered to return to base. Besides, it’s crazy running an intercept on Russian aircraft. If something goes wrong we could be in serious trouble—”

“I know what we’ve been ordered to do, Colonel. I also know what my responsibility is and I know what your responsibility is. Do what I tell you, goddamn it.” Marsch nodded, eyes on Elliott. No question, Marsch thought, that the old man meant what he said. He turned back to the communications cabin.

“Have the mid-CAP run an intercept on the transport,” Elliott told the senior controller. “But I want no hostile moves out there. Have the mid-CAP flank the fighters, but no radar and no taIl-attack aspect. I just want them close enough for a visual on the transport.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marsch came back to the radar cabin and stood behind Elliott. “Dragon Five-Seven flight is on its way,” the radar-console operator reported. “ETA twenty minutes.”

“What’s the ETA on the MiGs?”

“Fifteen.”

“I want one of the fighters in the Dragon Five-Seven flight joined on us in twelve minutes,” Elliott said. “How’s the intercept running?” Elliott didn’t expect an answer; he could hear the strained interchange of the pilots as they closed in on their first hostile bogeys.

“Dragon Five-Five on heading two-zero-five, level flight level two-zero-zero,” Myers replied. The transition from flight lead to eventual Caribbean beach bum and back to flight lead was jarring.

“Roger, Dragon,” the controller said. “Your target is one o’clock, one hundred and fifty miles, flight plan reports two MiG-29 fighters and one Il-76 transport. Radar showing one primary target only—” Only one of the possible three aircraft was positively being tracked.

“What the hell are we doing, Barrier?” Coursey said. He was still on the high combat air patrol, electing not to take over the lead from Myers. The kid needed the experience, and what better experience than intercepting some real Russians? But the sudden switch from stand-down to I.D.’ing some Russians was weird. “Say again our ROE. Over.”

“Roger, Dragon. You are to visually I.D. and inspect the transport. Avoid hostile-attack aspects. Do not fire unless fired upon. Over.”

“You guys got that?” Coursey said.

“Two.” That was Myers — his voice was shakier, tenser than ever.

“Three.” Even Douglas sounded nervous. These guys were wound pretty tight.’

“Listen up, Dragon,” Coursey said, “run it like all other intercepts. Take it nice and easy. As long as you don’t hit ‘em with an attack profile the MiGs should leave you alone — they’re on a cruise to the Copacabana; that’s all. They got as much right to be here as we do. Follow the ROE and the normal air-traffic rules and we’ll be on the beach sipping cubra libras before you know it. Head’s up.”

“Two.”

“Three.” Douglas sounded better, but Myers sounded like someone had a vise-grip on his balls.

“One hundred miles,” the controller said. “Rate of closure nine hundred sixty knots. Bogeys moving to one o’clock … radar now showing three primary targets, Dragon, repeat, three primary targets—”

The radar-warning receivers on the F-16s lit up. On the displays of the three Falcons was a diamond symbol. On the left display the computer identified the radar source as search-radar.

“Dragon’s got music,” Myers reported.

“Barrier copies,” the controller said. “Transport target may be an airborne-radar aircraft, Dragon.” The warning hung on the frequency; then the controller added: “Use caution.”

Coursey had to laugh into his face mask.

What the controller did not convey to the F-16 pilots was that the MiGs might be planning, computing their attack on them using the long-range radar on the Il-76 just as they themselves would use the E-5’s radar to direct an attack on the MiGs. The 767 AWACS controller should be setting up options for the F-16s in case the MiGs started to mix it up. Intelligence reported that the Soviets now used an AA-11 infrared short-range missile, code-name “Archer,” and a copy of the AIM-120 launch-andleave medium-range missile called the AA-15 “Abolish,” but that neither was as good as the American counterpart. Well, if things went to shit they were going to find out first-hand about the Russian missile’s capabilities.

“Eighty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing increasing between fighters and transport aircraft. Altitude readouts on all three remain flight level one-eight-zero.” The MiGs were getting some maneuvering room, Coursey thought, but it was unlikely they’d leave the transport unprotected.

“Sixty miles. Flight level one-eight-zero. Moving to one-thirty position. Distance between fighters and transport now one mile.”

“Barrier, Dragon Five-Seven is zero-three minutes from join-up,” Coursey heard a new voice report. That was Major Tom Duncan, the squadron operations officer and leader of the second flight. The brass must have called back the second flight of F-16s when the MiGs showed up. At least someone on the AWACS is thinking, Coursey thought.

“Forty miles,” the controller said. “Spacing between fighters and transport now one mile. Altitude still one-eight-zero.”

They should just cruise on by, Coursey told himself. As long as Douglas and Myers kept their guns away from them, they shouldn’t feel threatened. Nothing’s going on here, Coursey told himself, trying to convince himself this was a routine training flight, but he began heading toward the Soviet formation as if running his own intercept on the transport. Radar-warning indications illuminated his threat receiver — he had to assume that the Russians knew he was up here …

“Twenty miles, Dragon, moving to two o’clock position.”

“Tally ho,” Douglas called out. It was just a speck on the horizon, but the huge Ilyushin transport moved into view. From twenty miles away the huge saucer radome, viewed from above, could be clearly seen; it resembled an American C-141 Starlifter with a flying saucer hovering over it. “Definitely an AWACS configuration,” Douglas reported.

“Five-Five has a tally,” Myers finally said — a few more seconds and Douglas would have had to take the lead. “Coming right to intercept.”

“Fighters moving out to two miles of the transport,” the controller reported.

Two miles? They were still fairly close to the transport, but two miles’ separation was a long way for escort aircraft. They were loosening up their escort duties considerably …

“Fighters moving to three miles … now four miles, Dragon,” the controller said. “Report visual contact on the fighters.”

“Five-Six has a tally.”

“Five-Five.” He didn’t sound very positive — Coursey guessed that he hadn’t yet picked up the fighters.

“The fighters are breaking off to join up on you individually,” Coursey called out on the command channel. “Ignore them. Keep an eye on them, but all we want is a visual on the transport. Be careful — they might try to crowd you or hit you with a radar lock-on. Nice and easy.”

Coursey was prophetic. “Dragon, MiGs are pairing up with you, one turning left, one turning right, both climbing. Five-Five, your bogey is at eleven o’clock, fifteen miles. Five-Six, your bogey is at two o’clock, fifteen miles.”

“Lead, c’mon down here.” That was Myers.

“I said ignore the fighters,” Coursey said. “Keep your damned cool.” But Coursey found it was getting harder and harder to believe himself — the Russians were up to something. What?

“Ten miles to the transport,” the controller reported. “Five-Five, your bogey’s at nine o’clock, eight miles. Five-Six, three o’clock, seven miles … Dragon flight, both MiGs moving rapidly on your outboard beams, closing rapidly to three miles … two miles …”

Myers could only stare out his canopy — the twin-tailed MiG-29, resembling a larger single-seat version of the Navy F-14 Tomcat, was in a shallow right bank and screaming right at him. He was not stopping his turn rate … Myers called on the radio— “He’s gonna hit …”

“Hold your position …”

But Myers couldn’t stand it any longer. With the Mig still a mile away, he selected max afterburner and yanked back on his control stick. Douglas was completely taken by surprise but somehow managed to stay within a half-mile of his leader.

Myers shot skyward, allowing his F-16 to gain at least five thousand feet before even thinking about recovering. Then, noticing his airspeed bleeding off, he rolled inverted to the left and pulled to arrest his ascent — but he had ignored his wingman trying to stay on his right wing. Douglas instinctively rolled left with Myers and found himself at the top of the roll directly over Myers and fast running out of airspeed. “Five-Five, roll right,” Douglas called out as he remained inverted and pushed his nose below the horizon to gain airspeed.

Douglas dropped like a stone right at Myers’ F-16. Myers had taken a few seconds to roll upright before he yanked his fighter right just in time to avoid Douglas. The second F-16 dropped another two thousand feet to regain its airspeed before rolling upright and accelerating to join up on Myers.

“Myers,” Douglas called, “watch what the hell you’re doing—”

“That crazy Russian almost rammed me—”

“No one’s going to ram you,” Coursey told him, “they’re just screwing with you. You guys are looking like bozos. Now get back them and check out that transport. Now. And goddamn it, take it easy.”

Myers scanned the sky — none of the aircraft was in sight. “Barrier, where are they?”

“Dragon, transport is at one o’clock, ten miles and northbound, two thousand feet above you. Fighters have rejoined left and right with the transport.”

Murphy finally caught sight of them. “Roger. Tally ho. We’re climbing to pursue.”

“Stay behind them,” Coursey said. “I want an I.D. on the transport; that’s all. Don’t mix it up with the MiGs.”

Fine with Myers. He waited until Douglas caught up with him, then pushed his throttles back to min afterburner to pursue. He stared at the transport — it looked immense even from this distance. “Something strange with that transport, Barrier—”

Just then the two MiGs peeled off left and right from the transport and made a hard descending turn straight at the two F-16s.

“They’re diving right at us,” Myers called out.

“Hold your position, Myers,” Douglas told his leader. “Hang in there—”

Suddenly, when the diving fighters were less than three miles away, Myers’ jaw sagged. Out of the left fuselage wingroot area he saw bright winking flashes of light and realized that … God, one of the MiGs had actually opened fire on him with its cannon.

“They’re shooting at us. “

Douglas saw the MiG’s descending on them but it was soon clear that they were going to pass well in front of the F-16s. He yelled to Myers, “Hold your—” Too late. Myers saw the cannon firing and rolled hard left, quickly disappearing from view. One of the MiGs turned to pursue while the other MiG continued its dive, passing almost a mile in front of Douglas. But this time Douglas did not turn to stay on’Myers’ wing. Instead he accelerated and headed straight for the transport.

“Five-Six, where are you?” he heard Myers yelling. “I’ve got a MiG on my tail—”

“Join up on me,” Douglas told him. “I’m on the transport.”

“Dammit, get this MiG off me—”

“He’s not on you, Five-Five,” Douglas said. “He’s just buzzing you. Ignore him. Join on me and let’s I.D. this transport and go home.”

The radar-threat receiver screeched a warning. “He’s got missile lock.” Myers again. “He’s got missile lock …” The second MiG, which had crossed below Douglas, had apparently zoomed back up and behind Douglas and activated its missile-tracking radar. Douglas ignored it. “I’m almost at the transport, Barrier, there’s something going on—”

“You’ve got one on your tail!” Myers shouted, forgetting about the MiG behind him. “I’ll be there in a second—”

“I’ve got the lead, Five-Five,” Douglas said. “Join on my left wing. Ignore the MiGs.” Douglas stared at the transport. “Barrier, this is Five-Six. I can’t yet make it out clearly but it looks like this transport’s got three other planes under him. Repeat, it looks like three more planes flying tight formation underneath him. Over.”

“Five-Six, look out; you’ve got one right at your six …”

“I said ignore him, Myers,” Douglas said. “If he was going to shoot he would have done it before now.”

Coursey felt his throat tighten. He keyed his microphone. “All Dragon units, hold your fire.” But it was too late. On board Dragon Five-Five all Lieutenant Myers heard from Dragon Five-Six was the word “shoot.”

The F-16’s throttle and control-stick grips were designed for rapid touch-and-feel attack-mode activation, eliminating the need for the pilot to take his eyes off the target to bring his weapons to bear. Myers had that procedure down cold. With the index finger of his right hand he hit the MSL step-button to select an AIM-120 radar-guided missile. Selection of the missile automatically activated the attack data-link between the 767 AWACS and the F-16. Target-designation diamonds appeared on the heads-up display and surrounded both Douglas’ F-16 and the pursuing MiG-29. Myers hit another button on the top of the control stick with his right index finger, causing a blinking square to surround the target-designation diamond around the MiG — the attack computer was now locked onto the MiG and was transferring attack data to the selected missile. A moment later a steady beeping sound was heard in Myers’ helmet, indicating that the AIM-120 Scorpion missile had received its initial flight-course information and was ready for launch.

One last check around. Myers keyed his mike switch. “Fox two,” he called over the command radio, then hit the weapon-release button on the control stick with his right thumb. A streak of white roared off the left wing of Myers’ fighter; the white finger extended itself directly to the MiG and touched it. A flash of orange billowed out of the MiG’s tail, and the dark shape began arcing toward the bright blue Caribbean Sea far below. Large dark shapes fell free of the doomed MiG; seconds later a dark green parachute blossomed out of one of the shapes as the Russian pilot began his descent to the waters below.

“Splash one MiG,” Myers called out. “Your tail’s clear, Five-Six.”

“What the hell did you do?” Coursey screamed. “Dragon flight, disengage, clear, and extend immediately …”

“Barrier, this is Five-Six,” Douglas said. “I’ve got an I.D. on those birds under the transport. There’s two more MiG-29s and another aircraft — looks like an X-29. Forward swept-wing job. Carrying two fuel tanks and two missiles. Repeat, we’ve got another two MiGs and an X-29 underneath the Midas transport. Over.”

A few moments later Myers pulled up alongside Douglas’ right wingtip and flashed a thumbs-up. “We’re clear, Five-Six,” Myers said on the command radio — the adrenaline pumping. “We’re—”

Myers’ exhilaration was cut short by a thunderous pop, a flash of excruciating heat, then darkness. The second MiG had instantly, silently, avenged its comrade’s death. Myers had forgotten about the second MiG closing in behind him. The Soviet infrared search-and-track system needed no radar or even a radar data-link to attack a target — the MiG-29’s infrared AA-11 dogfighting missile was slaved to directions provided by the large infrared telescope mounted in front of the MiG’s canopy. At close range the AA-11 missile did not miss. Now it exploded directly underneath the F-16’s engine compartment, turning the Falcon’s turbofan engine into a one-ton dynamite stick. Myers never had a chance to eject.

Aboard the 767 AWACS Elliott hammered the console with his fist. “That’s it; that’s the XF-34. They’re trying to fly it to Cuba.”

“General,” Marsch called out, the warning words of Douglas in Dragon Five-Six still echoing in his head, “what are you talking about? We’ve just lost one of our planes. We’re suddenly, up against three MiG-29s with only two F-16s for cover. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Elliott ignored Marsch and keyed his microphone. “Comm, this is General Elliott. Priority message to JCS. Give present position and heading. Report sighting XF-34 in protective convoy with four MiG-29s and one Il-76 tanker-transport-AWACS aircraft. Send and repeat and get confirmation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Colonel, you had better take charge of this mission, or I will,” Elliott warned the spooked Reserve AWACS commander. “We’re not running anywhere, so get that out of your head right now.”

“General, I’ve got my procedures to follow,” Marsch said. “Three against two is superior forces. The second F-16 flight won’t be here for ten minutes — by then we could be at the bottom of the Caribbean. My procedures say butt out—”

“And my orders are from the White House, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I am to find the XF-34, prevent it from leaving Nicaragua, force it to land in friendly territory … or destroy it. You’ll have one F-16 on us in one minute to protect this aircraft. Our F-16s are better than the MiG-29—they can handle it. We’re not facing superior forces, Colonel, and we’re not retreating from this flight. Now take command of this engagement, or I will.”

“I don’t have to take your orders when the safety of my crew and my aircraft are concerned—”

“Then it’s no longer your aircraft. You’re hereby relieved of command.” Elliott seated himself in the commander’s seat behind the main radar console Control One and the main defensive radar operator, Control Three; he had his own screen, Control Two, but he didn’t know enough about the new system to use it. He would have to divide his attention between three screens to stay on top of this fight. Other radar operators, Controls Four through Eight, would scan the sky around the AWACS at long range for aircraft and ships as well as focus in on each friendly aircraft involved in the fight and warn him of enemy aircraft around him.

He hit the shipwide intercom button. “Crew, this is S-Five, General Elliott. I am taking command of this aircraft. Crew, prepare for air-to-air engagement.” He unplugged his headset cord from the intercom box and plugged it into the commander’s net. “Control Three, put Five-Seven on a high CAP over this aircraft. He’s responsible for a fifty-mile diameter around us. Control Four, can Dragon Five-Eight and Five-Nine get a refueling before their ETA?”

A pause while the radar operator took in the news about the sudden change of command, then another few moments to get his mind back to the fight around them. “Affirmative, sir, but they’d have to wait zero-three minutes for the rendezvous.”

“No good. Get Five-Eight and Nine in to relieve Six as fast as they can — he’s gotta be low on fuel. Communications, contact Dragon Control in Georgetown and have them scramble a third flight ASAP.”

“Roger. “

Elliott glanced at Marsch, who stood behind him clenching and unclenching his fists — obviously angry, but also surprised at how well this four-star walk-on was deploying his fighters.

“l understand you have command responsibility for this mission, General Elliott,” Marsch said, phrasing his words for the running tape recorders on the control deck.

Elliott did not take his eyes off the main screen. “Colonel, I want you on Control Two. I want you to watch that Russian Ilyushin and track any aircraft that try to peel away from it. I want you to identify the XF-34 and track every move it makes. If it gets away I’ll hang your ass.” Marsch shut up and went to do as he was told.

“Dragon Five-Six, bogey at your six o’clock, six miles, MiG29,” Control One reported.

“Two fighters breaking off from the transport,” Marsch called out. “Looks like they’re maneuvering to engage.”

Elliott muttered to himself, “Now we are outnumbered. I hoped those two would stay with DreamStar and the Russian AWACS.” Without ready help, Dragon Five-Four and Five-Six, he thought grimly, we’re going to have to get out of this jam by ourselves.

Douglas aboard Dragon Five-Six yanked his control stick hard right as he heard the warning from his AWACS. Meanwhile Coursey had rolled inverted and had pointed his nose down toward the transport, searching for Douglas. He spotted him seconds later, the big MiG-29 dead on his tail. But instead of following Douglas in his hard break, the MiG was in a dive.

“Five-Six, this is Five-Four, your MiG’s going vertical. Punch your tank. Catch him on the climb.”

But by the time Douglas had jettisoned his fuel tank and completed his ninety-degree break to get away from infrared missile firing range of the MiG, his pursuer had built up enough speed in his dive to turn hard right and zoom upward. With his nose high in the air, Douglas rolled out of his break directly in front of the MiG.

“Reverse,” Coursey yelled.

Douglas heard the warning and banged the stick hard left. It was the right decision — the MiG pilot was expecting another right break to preserve his energy, was not expecting the left turn. He tried a fast cannon burst as the F-16 crossed in front of him but had no time to line up.

“Extend and get your speed up, Doug,” Coursey ordered. Douglas checked the airspeed readout on his heads-up display — it was down nearly to three hundred knots. “He’s coming around behind you again. He yo-yoed on you. Don’t dick with this guy — he seems to know his shit.” Coursey pulled his nose down and aimed it at the MiG. “I’m on my way, Doug, but you be smart; play in the vertical. Don’t let him drop down on you.”

The F-16 regained its speed quickly, but the twin turbofans of the MiG-29 had three times the power of the Falcon. In an instant the MiG was back on Douglas’ tail.

“Let’s try to sandwich this guy,” Coursey said after he finally got into position behind and above the MiG. “Break left.”

Douglas pulled into a hard left turn but was forced to release back pressure on the stick or risk stalling. The break was not as quick or as clean as it would have been, and he offered an enticing target for the MiG, which instead of dropping down into a low-speed yo-yo maneuver chose to turn with Douglas.

Exactly as Coursey had hoped. With the MiG in a left turn, Coursey used his diving-speed advantage and pulled directly behind the MiG, then immediately went to an AIM-132B short-range infrared missile — and fired. The missile tracked perfectly, missing the fast-moving MiG by only a few feet, but the explosion of the missile’s warhead damaged something vital. The MiG pilot nosed his fighter over, trailing a thick black cloud of smoke.

“Splash two MiGs,” Coursey called over the radio. “Coming up on your right side, Doug.”

“Dragon Five-Four, two bogeys at your four o’clock, ten miles …” The warning had barely been received when Coursey’s radar-threat warning receiver bleeped.

“Five-Six, break left.” Coursey could see chaff stream out of Five-Six’s right ejector, and then the F-16 was gone in his hard defensive bank. Coursey broke right, pumping out chaff and flares from his left ejectors, and straining against the G-forces to scan out the top of his canopy for his attackers. He spotted one of the MiGs just in time to see its cannon flashing and tracers stream toward him — the missile had missed but the MiG had enough power to press the attack and go in with his twenty-three-millimeter gun.

The MASTER CAUTION light snapped on and the HUD displayed a WARNING message. Checking the caution panel on the right side, Coursey found a half-dozen cautions lights illuminated but nothing immediately serious — rudder, nozzle, fuel leaks. No fire lights. The shells had ripped across his tail from the top but missed the engine compartment. With the nozzle now stuck in the military position, engine performance in afterburner would probably be degraded, and with the rudder damaged, landing might be tricky or impossible — if he managed to make it to dry land with his fuel leak.

Such inflight emergencies ran through Coursey’s mind, but he was able to dismiss them for now … his engine was running, his wings were still attached and personally he was undamaged except for his pride. The one overriding thought that stuck in his mind was that the Russians had gotten a shot off at him and had hurt his Falcon. They’d pay for that.

Coursey executed a nine-G turn to the right to pursue the MiGs that had passed behind him. They were in loose route formation, the double-leader formation that was very effective in covering each other, and they were both going after Douglas again. Douglas tried some hard horizontal moves but the MiGs matched him every time.

“Go over the top, Doug,” Coursey told him. “Hard as you can. Now.”

Dragon Five-Six suddenly heeled, pointing itself straight up in the air in a sharp Immelmann maneuver, held it there for seconds, then rolled inverted and began a sharp descent.

“I’m right under you, Doug,” Coursey said as he approached the area where Five-Six had begun his climb. “Roll out.” Five-Six rolled upright a thousand feet above Coursey and sped away behind his leader. Coursey selected his M61 cannon and fired as the descending MiGs came into view.

A head-on gunpass was not exactly a high-percentage attack, but for sheer visual impact it was hard to beat — and this time Coursey got a bonus. As the second MiG banked away from him, he could see dark bits of material peel off the upper surface of the lead MiG’s wings. It seemed a few of the F-16’s twenty-millimeter shells might have caught the MiG’s extended spoilers or speedbrakes and chopped them off …

This was turning into a battle of attrition, and Coursey knew at this rate he was going to lose it. These fighters had undoubtedly refueled off their Il-76 tanker before the fight began and had enough fuel for hours of dogfighting — Douglas in Dragon Five-Six had to be down to minimums for recovery at Georgetown, and Coursey was in danger of flaming out any minute. Something drastic was in order …

Coursey saw it immediately, far below him and to the left — the Ilyushin-76 AWACS-tanker-transport plane. For some reason the Il-76 pilot had driven right into the middle of the dogfight. Coursey selected a radar-guided Scorpion missile and activated his attack radar as he went over the top and aimed right for the forward cabin of the Russian AWACS.

His intentions were noted. Both MiGs broke off their attac

against Douglas and changed directions, climbing to line up o Dragon Five-Four. Coursey could see the Ilyushin disgorge bun dies of radar-reflecting chaff and infrared decoy flares as the Falcon’s APG-88 radar locked onto the aircraft less than two miles away. The radar-lock tone was intermittent from the Ilyushin’s self-protection jamming, but the instant it steadied out Coursey hit the weapon-release button on the control stick, rolled and turned away from a murderous gun-pass by one of the MiG-29s. But the Scorpion was a “launch-and-leave” missile — it needed no guidance from the carrier aircraft after launch.

The missile hit the forward edge of the radome, chewing a large piece out of the circular device. The wind blast immediately lifted the broken, jagged edge and ripped the forty-foot-diameter radome off its support legs and back into the Il-76’s T-tail stabilizer. The entire horizontal portion and half of the thirty-foot vertical stabilizer broke free of the aircraft and tumbled away. The Ilyushin transport skidded violently several times, heeling over so sharply that it appeared to be heading into a spin at any moment, but somehow its pilot managed to bring the one-hundred-seventy-ton aircraft under control. The transport made a wobbly turn and headed south, trailing a long line of thick black smoke from its aft section.

Coursey watched as the huge aircraft swerved southward. But as he was searching the skies for the two MiGs, a warning beeped in his helmet. He was down to less than fifteen minutes of fuel, and with a fuel-tank leak, probably much less than that.

“Barrier, Dragon Five-Four is bingo,” he radioed as he started a turn to the right. “I’m heading north toward the margaritas. Don’t forget to send someone to pick me up.”

“Roger, Five-Four,” the controller said. “Use channel Bravo for rescue. We will—”

Coursey never heard the end of the transmission. The damaged MiG had missed his shot at Coursey during the attack on the Russian AWACS, but his wingman did not miss. The AA-11 Archer missile detonated on target, igniting the fuel vapors in the nearly empty tanks and creating a massive fireball in the crystal-blue Caribbean skies.

There was one thing that was hard to teach new pilots and even harder to reinforce in older pilots, Maraklov thought — discipline. The two young MiG pilots on the Ilyushin’s wing forgot it, and they got themselves splashed. The second two, more experienced pilots flanking the XF-34 underneath the Ilyushin, also forgot it, and it cost them the effective use of the Ilyushin.

Maraklov considered himself very damn lucky to be alive. The impact of the missile on the Ilyushin’s radar dome had forced the transport’s nose down several meters; only his computer-fast reactions saved him from crashing into the Ilyushin’s belly. He had dodged aside just in time to avoid the wild seesawing action of the transport as the pilot fought for control. Now he was tucked back on the Ilyushin’s left wing, relaying damage reports to Sebaco Airbase via satellite transceiver and kicking himself for not finding his own way out of Nicaragua.

He activated his radar and picked up the two remaining MiG29s and the one F-16 Falcon still in the fight. They were widely separated from each other, neither side anxious to mix it up again. He deactivated his radar, activated the tactical data-link, which gave him an image of what the E-5 AWACS was transmitting to the F-16s. The AWACS was still tracking all the Soviet aircraft but had not paired any fighters with them. The data-link was rescrambled in random periods, and without the scrambler’s seed code it took a lengthy frequency-scan to reacquire it once it was lost, but when ANTARES was tied into the data-link it provided an excellent means to eavesdrop on the Americans and use their own radar plane to find them.

“Escort Three and Four, this is Zavtra,” Maraklov transmitted on the convoy’s command-frequency in ANTARES’s computerized voice, using the Russian word for “tomorrow” as DreamStar’s call sign. “Join on the transport immediately.”

“We will engage the last American fighter,” Escort Three replied. He was the one with flight control damage, anxious to settle the score. A real fool.

“I gave you an order; join on the transport!”

“But the American fighter is retreating; we can catch him—”

“He’s trying to trap you,” Maraklov said. Too bad ANTARES only transmitted his voice at one volume and one tone, because mentally he was screaming at the two Soviet pilots. “They have two American fighters waiting to bushwhack you. Join on the transport’s wing.” It was only a guess — the data-link picked up only the lone F-16 Falcon heading north toward Georgetown — but the American AWACS must have called in for more air cover as soon as they discovered the MiGs. Those fighters would be arriving any minute. Finally the warning sunk in, and a few minutes later Maraklov detected the two Soviet MiGs in tight fingertip formation just above and aft of the transport.

“Escort Three, stay with the transport,” Maraklov ordered. “Check your flight controls and fuel. Escort Four, you’re useless staying in tight formation. This isn’t a damn air show. Take a position low and to the left, into the sun so you can watch the formation and we can watch you.” These Soviet pilots were like rookies, Maraklov thought as the fighters deployed themselves. Lucky for them, their machines mostly made up for their carelessness.

“We can make it, Colonel,” one of the MiG pilots said. “We could have broken you free past the Americans—”

“Don’t tell me what we could have done. You ruined our chances by breaking away from the Ilyushin to begin with.”

“Our people were under attack; what was I supposed to do?”

“Those fools in Escort One and Two should not have broken formation either,” Maraklov said. “Their actions only provoked the Americans to attack. We must return to Sebaco and reorganize …”

Maraklov studied the data-link image just before it scrambled once again. The first F-16 was retreating north, but three more high-speed fighters were approaching. The reinforcements had arrived.

If we can make it back before we are destroyed, Maraldov silently added.

“Dragon Five-Seven, this is Barrier Command; you have the lead of the attack formation,” General Elliott radioed over the command frequency. He studied the data-link radar-depictions of the Soviet aircraft on his heads-up display. “The Soviet aircraft are at flight level one-five-zero, six-zero nautical miles, heading south. I want to draw out the XF-34, try to force it down. We’ll reinforce your group with Dragon Six-Zero flight when they get on station. Take heading of two-zero-zero to intercept. Over.”

Tom Duncan, commander of the second F-16 flight, which was to relieve Dragon Five-Four, was not about to stay on the E-5 AWACS’s wing with two MiG-29s in the area. “Barrier, this is Dragon Five-Seven, I copy all. Dragon Five-Six, get on the tanker, then stay and cover Barrier. Gold Flight, I’ve got the lead, coming right heading two-zero-zero. Take combat positions. Set mil power.”

“Two.”

“Three.” The three F-16 Falcons executed a precise right turn as they spread into a wide triangle formation, with the two wingmen about a mile away from the leader at staggered altitudes, then accelerated to two hundred knots overtake speed.

“Gold Flight, listen up,” Duncan said to his wingmen. “We’re looking at a three-on-three situation here, but they’ve lost their AWACS, and we still have ours up. The MiGs have been in the fight, and they’ve burned down weapons and fuel.” … On two of our F-16s, Duncan added to himself … “One of the MiGs may be damaged as well. I want fast attacks, mutual support and heads-up smarts. Watch your airspeed. The Falcon can burn off energy real easy in tight turn but you can extend, regain speed and get back in the fight faster than any bird flying. Keep your speed up and use your heads.”

“Dragon flight, this is Barrier Command,” Elliott called in on the command net. “Bogeys are at twelve o’clock, forty miles.”

Elliott decided to drop the cold monotone of an air-combat controller — these guys were about to face an entirely different threat. “Listen up, you guys. This is General Brad Elliott, commander of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center. Your target is the XF-34, an American experimental forward-swept wing fighter that was stolen from Dreamland a few days ago.”

“Goddamn,” Duncan said. “We’re going after one of ours?”

“Be advised — that fighter is much more maneuverable than the F-16,” Elliott was saying. “It fights at high angles of attack. It has a radar that can see in all directions and high-speed microprocessors that simultaneously process attack and defensive information at high speed.” Elliott decided not to tell them about ANTARES or any thought-control capabilities — this was going to be tough enough. “It has an advanced data-link capability with the E-5 AWACS; we must assume that the XF-34 is receiving and using AWACS data-link information. The Russians aren’t going to allow you to close on the XF-34. You may have to start the attack beyond visual range. I advise you not to engage the XF-34 singly or at close range. He can reverse, change directions and cause you to overshoot faster than you can believe. If you can force him to punch off his external tanks and delay overwater for several minutes, we can maybe force him to ditch. You guys are experienced fighter pilots, so I won’t tell you your business. But I tell you the XF-34 is a killer. Be careful when you go for a shot. If you lose sight of him, extend and clear—don’t waste time looking for him because he’ll probably be right on your tail. Use your speed and maneuverability and your buddies to get him. Good luck.”

“Bogeys at twelve o’clock low, twenty-five miles to nearest target, fifteen thousand feet,” the controller said. “Showing only two targets now. Second target at eleven o’clock low, thirteen thousand feet.”

“Gold Flight copies all, Barrier,” Duncan replied. Both targets were displayed on his heads-up display as a data-link between the E-5 AWACS and the F-16. Duncan immediately selected an AIM-120C Scorpion missile and designated the leftmost target. The missile immediately received its steering information and relayed IN RANGE and ARM messages to Duncan’s heads-up display.

“Let’s get the ball rolling. Gold Flight, fox two,” Duncan said, and squeezed off the first missile.

“They’re twenty-five miles behind us,” Maraklov warned. “Escort Three and Four, stay with the transport and keep the F- l6s away from it. If the Americans get any closer I’ll engage and try to keep them busy while you get away. The Nicaraguan MiG-23s should be able to help as we get closer.”

“Shouldn’t we counter the Americans now?” the pilot of Escort Four asked. “The transport will be sure to get away …”

Just then ANTARES transmitted a radar-threat warning to Maraklov’s brain louder than any audio signal. He reacted instantly. “All aircraft, chaff and jink, now!”

The MiG pilots reacted quickly, but the AIM-120 missile was detected only seconds from impact, when its internal active radar steered it into its target. A huge black cloud erupted from Escort Three’s right wing, which seemed to push the fighter to the left, then hard over right into a spin. The pilot was able to eject and was even accorded the rare indignity of watching his aircraft spin into the Caribbean Sea.

Maraklov rolled upright after his own rapid left turn. A quick ‘radar-scan showed the F-16s still just over twenty miles away — they had launched from long range, nearly the outer limit of the Scorpion. The sky should be filled with Scorpion missiles, but he and the other two aircraft of his convoy to Cuba had survived.

“Escort Four, stay as low as you can over the water,” Maraklov radioed to the last remaining MiG-29. “Stay with the transport and protect it as best you can.”

Maraklov issued a mental command and punched off his two Lluyka fuel tanks. With the added drag of the tanks gone, DreamStar suddenly seemed to wake up. The offensive and defensive options suggested by the ANTARES computer automatically jumped from a scant few to hundreds of options. Maraklov initiated a ten-G Immelmann, which got him turned around heading north toward the three F-16 attackers.

Maraklov carried five-hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition and two AA-13 Axe radar-guided air-to-air missiles. The AA-13 was inferior to the American Scorpion — it was a fast and powerful missile, capable at ranges out to forty miles, but it weighed twice as much as the Scorpion and required continuous radar illumination by the launch aircraft to home in on its target — carrying no missiles at all would almost have been better. If he was lucky the missiles might actually hit something — but their primary use would be to break up this well-organized combat patrol of F-16s.

Maraklov picked out the high F-16. He was the spotter, the one who was supposed to detect the enemy first and draw fire until his wingmen could get into position to press the attack. He was also the most dangerous, since in his high and fast position he could defend himself easily yet turn quickly and bring guns or missiles to bear if his wingmen were attacked. Maraklov quickly designated the high F-16 with his attack radar, and at a range of ten miles, launched his first AA-13 missile.

“Missile launch,” Duncan called out as his radar-warning receiver blared to life. “Check your trackbreakers; clear to maneuver, pick it up …”

“Tally on the missile,” John “Cock” Corcoran, the pilot aboard Dragon Five-Eight shouted. “On me at my twelve. Going vertical … “

Corcoran pumped out chaff to decoy the missile, activated his F-16’s trackbreakers to jam the steering signals from DreamStar to the missile, and zoomed upward to force the missile to lose some of its energy. The AA-13 locked onto the chaff and almost flew right into the cloud, but finally reacquired its true target and veered upward toward the F-16 when the chaff cloud dissipated. By then the fast-burning solid-fuel propellant had burned out, and the missile was coasting toward its target, losing speed every second. The F-16 pumped out more chaff, rolled inverted and dived straight down. The AA-13 promptly locked onto the chaff once again, flew through the chaff cloud, and exploded.

It had taken the F-16 pilot only a few seconds to defeat the missile, but in that short span of time the distance between DreamStar and the F-16 had decreased from ten miles to two. Maraklov knew that the F-16 could maneuver fast enough to evade the Soviet missile, but that same violent maneuvering consumed every ounce of the pilot’s concentration and took a massive physical toll — in extremely hard maneuvering in an F-16 pilots often blacked out for seconds at a time. Maraklov was hoping that the harder the F-16 pilot worked at defeating the missile — he would fall all the easier under a follow-on attack.

And it was working. The F-16 was in a headlong dive after coming over the top in a tight hairpin turn, pulling at least three negative G’s. Unlike positive G’s, which forced blood out of the head and produced tunnel vision or blackouts, negative G’s drew blood toward the brain, creating redouts, which were much more serious. It took, he knew, at least six or seven positive G’s to incapacitate a pilot, but only two or three negative G’s. This guy had allowed himself to go right out on the edge.

“Dragon Five-Eight, bogey at your one o’clock low, two miles,” the controller called.

Duncan heard the warning and scanned the sky for the attacker. He spotted both his wingman and the XF-34. The forward-swept-wing jet was making an unbelievable gun pass — instead of raising its nose to intercept Corcoran, the plane was climbing like … like a helicopter, flying horizontally but moving vertically. As Corcoran got closer the XF-34 raised its nose and slowed its ascent, seemed to hang in mid-air, slowly raising its nose at the oncoming F-16, tracking it perfectly.

“Bandit, twelve o’clock, Cock, get out of there,” Duncan shouted. Too late. Corcoran barely had time to recover from the disorientation and fuzzy vision caused by the negative G-forces in the wild dive when he saw the XF-34 DreamStar angling up for him dead ahead. He tried to roll away but DreamStar kept on coming. Now in high-maneuverability mode, with its canards angled downward, DreamStar’s gun port easily tracked the F-16 through each turn and jink — the cannon muzzle never strayed from the F-16 even during the most violent maneuvers. At one mile Maraklov opened fire, spraying the F-16 with fifty rounds of twenty-millimeter shells before dodging clear. The shells ripped across the F-16 from canopy to tail, killing the pilot in a fireball of exploding fuel.

“Five-Eight’s been hit,” Duncan called out. “No ‘chute.”

The full significance of Barrier Command’s warning was obvious now. The forward-swept wing aircraft, the XF-34, appeared to hover, virtually suspended in mid-air as it cut down Corcoran. No aircraft except a subsonic Harrier Jump-jet or a helicopter could do that.

But now it was the prey, not the hunter. It had slowed itself down to practically nothing, which made it, he thought, an almost laughingly easy target. Duncan selected an AIM-132 missile, lined up on the XF-34 and waited until the missile had locked—

In the blink of an eye the XF-34 had flat-turned, faced Duncan and began firing its cannon. Astonished, Duncan rolled hard left and dived, trying to put as much distance between his F-16 and those cannon shells as he could. He dived five thousand feet, ejected one chaff and one flare bundle to decoy any missile the Russian might have fired, then pulled hard on the stick and zoomed skyward.

The XF-34 was waiting for him. As Duncan brought his F-16’s nose up to reacquire his target he saw that the Russian had positioned himself to take a shot as he flew above the horizon. Duncan hit the afterburner and snapped his Falcon into tight aileron rolls to spoil the Russian’s aim …

“Extend, Dunk,” he heard a voice call out. It was Lee Berry in Dragon Five-Nine. “Break right and extend …”

Duncan could hear cannon shells buzzing, pinging around him. A warning horn sounded but he didn’t stop to check the malfunction. He halted his wild last-ditch roll, banked hard right, rolled upright and scanned the sky for his attacker as he waited for his airspeed to build.

The XF-34 was nowhere to be seen.

Duncan forced his attention back inside the cockpit to check his instruments and the warning panel. The OIL PRESS light was lit — he had taken a hit in the engine. No smoke in the cockpit or fire lights, so he still had time to head back to Georgetown, but in a single engine aircraft an oil pressure problem was a land-as-soon-as-possible inflight emergency. “Barrier, this is Five-Seven. I’ve got an oil pressure light,” Duncan reported on the command channel as he headed north. “I need a vector to Georgetown.”

“Copy, Five-Seven. Heading zero-three-five, vectors to Georgetown Airport, one-one-five nautical miles. Climb as required. Emergency channel Bravo. Search and rescue has been notified.”

Duncan angrily clicked his mike in response. They were already preparing to fish him out of the Caribbean. Thanks a bunch.

He keyed his mike. “Gold Flight, check in.” No answer. “Berry, where are you?” Still no reply.

“Barrier, where’s Five-Nine?”

“No contact with him, Five-Seven,” the controller replied. “No IFF, no primary target.”

Oh, God, Duncan thought. That guy got Berry, too. He closed his eyes, trying to force the image of his two squadron buddies out of his mind. It was no use. Two hours ago they were together making plans for a luau on the beaches near the casinos — now he’d have to make plans for a funeral.

That last guy was good, Maraklov thought as he pulled his power back from full afterburner to military power. Very good. The F-16 pilot had maneuvered so fast that he never got a clean shot off at him, but he had apparently taken some damage because he wasn’t pressing the fight. Maraklov had taken his shot, then immediately turned south at full power and headed back toward Nicaragua to join up with the stricken Il-76 transport and Escort Four.

Dream Star … his plane … was still safe, still with one AA-13 missile and two hundred rounds of ammunition. Fuel was the problem now — almost none left for another dogfight with any more F-16s. He’d have perhaps fifteen minutes of fuel remaining once he returned to Sebaco.

“Escort Four, this is Maraklov,” he called on their assigned frequency. “Approaching your formation at fifteen thousand feet, twenty miles behind you. Area is clear.” There had been three F-16s in the attack formation, but his spherical scan showed clear. The third F-16 must have returned with his leader.

The pilot in Escort Four acknowledged. The Ilyushin transport and the MiG-29 had managed to climb back to a safer altitude, but the transport looked worse every second. “Clear to approach. Flight Kepten Kameneve reports that the Ilyushin is very unstable and landing may be impossible. He is briefing the crew on ditching procedures at this time.”

“Understood.”

It seemed the game was up. The Americans weren’t likely to send in another jet with a camera over Sebaco. Next time they’d send in bombers. One aircraft carrier loaded with F/A-18 fighter-bombers, or one B-52 like the Old Dog he destroyed in Nevada, could devastate Nicaragua’s whole defense network and waste Sebaco. Should he fly his plane back to Sebaco — or to Nicaragua for that matter?

Maraklov initiated a computer database search for all available runways within DreamStar’s current safe-endurance range. Possibilities — Belize, Costa Rica, offshore islands belonging to Colombia. All had isolated runways along with possible nearby sources of fuel.

The Americans, it now seemed, were out to destroy DreamStar if that was the only way to keep it from escaping, and the Russians seemed incapable of stopping them. Why shouldn’t he take charge of defending his aircraft? Besides, maybe if no one knew where DreamStar was he’d have a better chance of getting it to Russia …

… or anywhere else. He tried to be practical, not sentimental. DreamStar was a commodity, wasn’t it? A bargaining chip. If he was so worried about what would happen to him in the Soviet Union, maybe the Soviet Union wasn’t where he should be. The Americans, Elliott and the rest, would pay a stiff price to have DreamStar back, enough for Maraklov to live like a … like an American—

The warnings carne in rapid succession. Aware that he hadn’t scanned the skies for a few minutes, Maraklov commanded a two-second spherical sweep of the skies, and instantly an aircraft was detected directly beneath them, climbing right toward them at terrific speed.

“Warning, target beneath us …” But at that same moment the MISSILE LAUNCH warning sounded — a radar-guided missile was in the air. “Escort Four, break away; bogey at your five o’clock low—”

Escort Four ejected chaff, rolled inverted and began a steep dive toward the ocean, but with the combat damage he had taken in the dogfight he could not maneuver fast enough. The Scorpion missile plowed directly into the center of the canopy, and the last MiG-29 fighter exploded and crashed into the sea.

DreamStar had no chaff or electronic countermeasures, but it had maneuverability that equaled the Scorpion missile. Maraklov turned DreamStar as hard as he could directly for the F-16 that had appeared out of nowhere. He found himself eyeball-to-eyeball with the Scorpion missile itself, seconds before impact.

The plan had worked, nearly to perfection, Berry had said to himself. It was obvious why the XF-34 could defeat them so easy — if he had access to the AWACS’s data he could see the attack coming and plan against it. So Berry had decided to disappear from the AWACS scope — shut off the IFF and the data transceivers and drop down low enough to the ocean that his radar blip would be surrounded by clutter from the ocean. It was easy for him to approach the Russian aircraft unseen from sea level, climb directly underneath them, designate both fighters on his attack computer and launch his two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles at the Russians.

The first fighter went down with near-textbook precision, but something must have gone wrong with the second AMRAAM. It was running hot and true right on target, but the missile’s plume passed by the XF-34 without even a proximity explosion. Berry flipped on his IFF and data-link transceiver.

“Barrier, this is Five-Nine; splash one MiG.”

“Five-Nine, this is Barrier Control … Roger …” came the confused voice of the surprised AWACS controller. “Do you need a vector?”

“Berry, where the hell are you?” Duncan called out, interrupting the controller.

“Head to head with that stolen fighter,” Berry said. “He’s mine.” The data-link image of the last fighter seemed to hover in front of him — his velocity had decreased to less than three hundred knots. Berry selected an AIM-132 missile and centered the line-of-sight infrared aiming-reticle on the target. This was easy. The reticle eased into place, and the missile’s computer reported a lock-on—

But Berry did not notice the range rapidly decreasing until it was much too late. DreamStar bad heeled sharply downward to avoid the Scorpion missile attack; the maneuver had been so fast that it appeared that the fighter had stopped all forward motion. The only warning Berry had was the rapidly growing black spot under the reticle and the sudden SHOOT indication on the heads-up display, but by the time his right thumb had pressed the weapon-release button, DreamStar had cut loose with its cannon in a Mach-one gun-pass. The twenty-millimeter shells missed the cockpit but tore into the fuselage and engine compartment. FIRE and EJECT lights snapped on as the cockpit filled with smoke. Berry clawed for the ejection handle just as the first rolling waves of fire hit the fuel tanks.

“Emergency locator-beacon coming from Five-Nine’s last plotted position,” the controller reported. Elliott could hear the faint clicks of the intercom as the controller relayed position-data to Communications, which would relay them to the tilt-rotor CV-22 Osprey search-and-rescue aircraft out of Guantanamo Naval Base and Puerto Rico.

“Dragon Five-Seven looks like he’ll make it, sir,” the controller reported. “He’s approaching the initial approach-fix for landing at Georgetown.”

“Dragon Six-Zero flight of three will be on station in ten minutes,” a third controller reported. “Do you want them on a high CAP?”

Elliott had kept silent ever since the third F-16 got hit. He could do nothing but watch DreamStar head south with the stricken Ilyushin transport.

“Soviet aircraft moving out of range,” Marsch, the AWACS commander, reported from his console. “Shall I reposition to maintain contact?” No reply — Elliott closed his eyes as the computer data block that read “XF-34 USSR” froze on the edge of the screen while it cruised out of range. “Sir?”

“I heard you, Colonel,” Elliott said. “I heard you. We will stay on station over Five-Nine’s locator beacon until the Osprey picks him up. Bring the tanker south and arrange a refueling for us if we need it. Arrange a refueling with Dragon Six-Zero flight, and have them stay with us until we withdraw from the area.”

“Are you going to pursue the XF-34 any further, sir?” Marsch pressed, his own anger rising. “We’ve got three more fighters on the way, plus three more on the ground — maybe you can waste the entire squadron this morning. Like the commercials used to say—’we do more by nine A.M. than most people do all day…”

“Knock it off, Colonel,” Elliott said, too tired to react to Marsch’s heavy sarcasm. “If you’re looking to get yourself busted … oh hell, we’ve got a pilot in the water — I want you to make sure he gets picked up ASAP. Okay?”

“May I remind the general, we’ve got pilots in little pieces in the water,” Marsch said. “We got three pilots killed, sent up against known superior forces. For what? One lousy fighter already in Soviet hands?”

“You just worry about getting that pilot out of the water, Colonel.”

Marsch glared at Elliott, but turned to his interphone to give the orders. Elliott slumped in his high-backed seat overlooking the master consoles. Any other thoughts except the images of five out of six F-16s damaged or destroyed and three out of six pilots dead was all but impossible. True, they had exposed the true intentions of the Soviets, but at a shocking cost. Now the decision had to be made — what were they going to do about it? DreamStar may have been headed back for Nicaragua, but it was certainly not going to stay there for long. It might just refuel, arrange for another escort and try again — with the U.S. air task-force decimated by fifty percent it now had a much better chance of making it.

Elliott hit his intercom button. “Communications, this is Elliott. I want a secure satellite link direct with JCS set up soon as possible. Get Air Force on the line, Secretary Curtis direct — he should be standing by for a report on transponder kilo seven. Set up the call with JCS on that channel if possible.”

“Yes, sir. Kilo seven is active. I should be able to conference JCS and Air Force in a few minutes.”

The mission had gone sour, but its objective, no matter how terrible the price, had been achieved — to intercept the XF-34 and prevent it from leaving Nicaragua. The question remained — would the price Elliott paid to reveal the Soviet Union’s deceit be too high for the President of the United States to accept? And what would he do about it?

Orbiting at five thousand feet over the marshy northeast coast of Nicaragua, Maraklov watched as, one by one, crewmen bailed out of the stricken Ilyushin-76 AWACS transport. Because the aircraft was no longer structurally sound, ditching was not recommended; instead, they decided to crash the aircraft in the peat bogs of the Mosquito Coast after the crew bailed out. The Ilyushin had been trimmed for a shallow left-turning descent to allow time for the pilot to run back to the cargo door and jump out. Maraklov watched each crewman bail out, electronically measuring and recording the location of each man as he hit the marshy ground, then watched as the huge transport, still streaming smoke from its mangled tail and ruptured fuselage, continued its left turn, pointed itself toward the ocean and pancaked in just a half-mile offshore.

They had hoped to retrieve the aircraft relatively intact and salvage as much of the expensive electronic gear on board as possible, but their estimates of the aircraft’s poor structural integrity were on-target. Even though the plane made a rather gentle belly-flop into the warm Caribbean, the weakened fuselage cracked and tore apart as if made of balsa wood. The last Maraklov saw was the huge wings of the Ilyushin flying and spinning in the air; then the sea swallowed the plane and it quickly disappeared from sight.

“Control, this is Zavtra,” Maraklov reported as he electronically recorded the impact point and the point at which the fuselage disappeared from view. “Ilyushin is down and submerged. Stand by for transmission of impact coordinates for possible naval salvage. Requesting immediate clearance to land.”

“Request approved, Zavtra,” the controller replied in English, then added: “Plenty of parking space available now.”

The reply, a bitter one, underscored the fast-worsening situation Maraklov faced. Sebaco was virtually defenseless. All four of the MiG-29s assigned to Sebaco had been destroyed — the only aircraft available were borrowed MiG-23 fighters from the Nicaraguan Air Force at Managua and possibly some of Nicaragua’s Sukhoi-24 swing-wing fighter-bombers to counter any naval forces that might threaten Sebaco. Sebaco did not even have Russian pilots to man these twenty- to thirty-year-old aircraft — they’d have to rely on poorly trained Nicaraguan or Cuban pilots until Russian pilots could be flown in.

As Maraklov approached Sebaco he noticed the small antiaircraft artillery guns at the end of the runway. They had piled up more sandbags and scrap-armor plates around the gun’s bunker to protect the gunners. but the extra buttresses decreased the gunner’s visibility and reaction time. Those too would be useless in a fight.

Tret’yak and his men, isolated for so long in this damned never-never land, had no conception of what was about to be unleashed on them.

Whatever, Maraklov was determined not to allow their shortsightedness spell the end of DreamStar.