Day of the Cheetah

Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras

Patrick McLanahan and J. C. Powell might have thought they had been transported to the set of a low-budget Vietnam war movie. They were sitting on a plastic fold-up picnic table inside a musty green canvas tent, eating cold scrambled eggs and canned ham out of tin mess kits. Outside, it was warm and impossibly humid, with occasional heavy downpours that seemed to erupt with no warning and then, just as abruptly, end a few minutes later as if God had simply shut off a faucet somewhere in the heavens. Their sweaty flight suits, now going on their second day of use, stuck to their bodies like strips of papier-mâché and smelled like the saltwater swamps that surrounded the tiny Honduran airbase.

“Airbase” might have been a flattering term for Puerto Lempira. The base was actually a small airstrip clinging to a marsh near the ocean on the northeast comer of Honduras, only forty miles from the Nicaraguan border. The place had a nine-thousand-foot concrete runway, but only six thousand feet of it was usable, the encroaching swamps having retaken almost half a mile of the eastern end; workers were busy sandbagging the end of the runway, trying to drain it. There was a small concrete aircraft parking area where a prefabricated aircraft hangar had been erected for Cheetah. Outside the ramp area was a half-sand, half-rock clearing where the tents and a communication trailer had been airlifted in — except for the runway, the entire base may have occupied a total of five acres.

Almost all the personnel at Puerto Lempira were security guards, here to guard Cheetah and the support equipment that had been moved in. Over the years Puerto Lempira had been used more by smugglers and drug runners than military forces. Four guards stood watch in Cheetah’s portable hangar, two guarded the communications trailer, and another thirty were stationed around the airbase’s perimeter. Everyone expected trouble.

“When do you suppose we’ll get out of here?” J.C. asked, frowning at the lump of canned ham in his mess kit and pushing it away.

No idea.” McLanahan glanced at the device that had been set up on the picnic table beside him. “We should find out soon.”

The device was a field communications unit linked to the system of power generators and electronics in the trailer. They had instant satellite, UHF, VHF and HF communications capability with most of the rest of the world through that tiny unit, which was about the size of a cereal box.

The rains began coming down again, lightly at first, then in virtual sheets with big fat rain droplets that threatened to shred their canvas roof. The rain rattled the metal roof of Cheetah’s hangar. Cheetah had been rearmed for air combat with both long- and short-ranged missiles, but intelligence had been received that DreamStar might have been moved to Puerto Cabezas in Nicaragua less than a hundred miles away, and a crew was standing by to arm Cheetah with its photo-reconnaissance pod again — as well as an array of air-to-ground weapons.

The sound of the rain almost drowned out the gentle beeping of the satellite communications transceiver. McLanahan picked up the receiver, laying his finger on the SCRAMBLE/DESCRAMBLE button. When he heard the snaps and whine on the other end he hit the button. The static disappeared, replaced by a faint hiss.

“McLanahan.”

“Patrick, this is Brad Elliott.” His heart began pounding — Elliot rarely used his first name, even to his closest friends and most senior officers, unless something was wrong.

“Go ahead, sir.”

“I’ve sent a F-15E down to pick you up. It should arrive in about an hour from now.”

“Wendy …?”

“They’ve asked you to come back.”

Suddenly, in the heat and humidity, he felt very, very cold. He forced himself to ask, “What about DreamStar?”

A slight pause, then: No word yet. We’re bringing your replacement on the F-15, a guy from the tactical bomb squadron at Luke Air Force Base. He’ll fly Cheetah if DreamStar tries to make a break. The F-15E will fly you directly back to Brooks AFB.”

This time he did not try to rationalize staying with Cheetah in Honduras. She had spent hours in surgery and a full day in post-operative intensive care. Now even General Elliott was telling him to come back …

Or maybe he finally realized that it was time for him to start facing up to reality. He had flown three missions in Cheetah since she was hurt, tearing himself away — no, running away — from her agony, claiming that he was the only one who could do the job, the only one who could defeat James in DreamStar. In fact, a young F-15E back-seater in Cheetah could probably do a better job than a forty-year-old desk jockey. His responsibility was with his wife and her family — not hiding behind an oxygen mask and a radar scope.

“How is J.C. and your bird?” Elliott asked.

“Okay. Ready to go.”

“Okay. We’ve scheduled Cheetah for a photo-recon run over Puerto Cabezas — we’d like to pinpoint DreamStar’s location, but that’s unlikely. But they well might think it’s another prelude to an attack, help convince them to turn DreamStar over to us intact.

Silence.

“Patrick, about Wendy. What can I say? I wish to God she hadn’t been on that plane—”

“General, I’m sick and tired of everyone giving Wendy up for dead. And as far as I’m concerned we should stop pussyfooting around with the damned Russians. No more damn messages, no more warnings. If we think DreamStar is in Puerto Cabezas) let’s go in and get it. Right now. If we send Cheetah up to take pictures they’ll just move DreamStar somewhere else. Bring the carrier George Washington in with a naval bombardment squadron, level Puerto Cabezas, and let’s stop jacking around.”

When there was no response from the other end, he thought the connection had been broken. Then Elliott said: “Keep us advised on Wendy’s condition, Patrick. Elliott out.”

He dropped the phone back on its cradle. J.C. was looking at him carefully. “I’m leaving as soon as my plane gets here,” McLanahan told him.

The White House, Washington, D.C

“All I want to know from you, Vilizherchev,” President Taylor said as the Russian ambassador entered the Oval Office, “is where our aircraft is and when it will be returned to us.”

Sergei Vilizherchev was taken off guard but shrugged it off and continued inside the office. He was followed by Secretary of State Danahall, who had met the ambassador at the rear entrance to the White House. Secretary of Defense Stuart, Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, Secretary of the Navy John Kemp, National Security Adviser Chairperson Deborah O’Day, Speaker Van Keller and Attorney General Benson were already in the Oval Office, summoned there immediately after learning of the Russian’s hurried request for a meeting. The President’s advisers formed a semi-circle around Vilizherchev as the ambassador approached the President’s desk. Taylor ignored Vilizherchev’s offered hand: he did not stand to greet the ambassador.

The Russian smiled and made a slight bow. “Very nice to see you again, sir … “

“I asked you a question, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “I want that fighter. Immediately.”

“Mr. President, I am here to deliver my government’s most emphatic protest of the attack on our military installation last night,” Vilizherchev said, as if ignoring the President’s outburst. “That attack cost the lives of three pilots, four men on the ground, and millions of dollars worth of equipment and property destroyed. The attack was inexcusable—”

Taylor interrupted: “Mr. Curtis.”

Wilbur Curtis flicked on a high-resolution video monitor and began rolling a tape. “This was transmitted to us less than ten minutes ago, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. The monitor showed a concrete bunker, open at both ends, inside a depressed, rain-soaked aircraft parking area. Soldiers surrounded the structure. A few could be seen pointing rifles in the air, obviously taking aim at the aircraft taking the photographs. Inside one open end of the hangar the unmistakable forward-swept wings of DreamStar could clearly be seen in the early-morning sunlight.

“You moved our aircraft to a different base, and we found it,” the President said. “If I don’t get the answer I’m looking for I pick up this phone and I order the Navy to level that base like they leveled Sebaco. In fifteen minutes this whole thing will be over — I guarantee it.”

“The attack will fail,” Vilizherchev said quickly. “Such an offensive has been anticipated. We have strengthened the coastal defenses and are ready for such an assault—”

“The crew of this recon jet reported no defenses anywhere,” Curtis said. “We have pictures of the destroyed SA-15 missile sites — want to see them, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I must also tell you, sir, that Soviet forces in the region are prepared to retaliate. If American bombers cross the border again, orders have been issued to attack Honduran airfields with Soviet supersonic bombers from Cuba. They will destroy one airfield, military or civilian, for every Nicaraguan base destroyed. The bombers are armed with supersonic cruise missiles that cannot be intercepted. If naval forces are encountered they have been ordered to attack them as well. Your new aircraft carrier George Washington is in the area, I believe — will you risk a three billion dollar vessel for one aircraft? Pride is a poor reason to go to war, sir.”

“Likewise stupidity,” the President said. “I don’t need to remind you what would happen if the Soviet Union tries to start a shooting war in the Caribbean.”

“We have two aircraft-carrier groups, three strategic air divisions and nine tactical air divisions ready to send into the area,” Stuart said. “That’s twenty capital ships and twelve hundred aircraft that can be deployed in less time than it will take you to get back to your office.”

“And all I need, mister, is one Russian cruise missile,” the President said. “Just one. It doesn’t even have to hit anything. One missile or one bomber aimed at American forces, and we end the Soviet presence in the Caribbean for good. I’ll wipe out everything with a red star on it.”

Vilizherchev stood in front of the President’s desk, virtually in shock. “You … you are talking a major war, Mr. President,” he said. “You are threatening war over this … this mere aircraft …”

“I’m threatening over your lies, your deceit. And your murdering. You stole our aircraft, murdered our soldiers, killed and destroyed and killed again all through Central America just to steal one fighter. What you’ve done is declare war on the United States. I’m going to start answering you by destroying Puerto Cabezas.” He picked up the telephone and punched two digits on the keypad.

“This is the President. Unlock file nine-six-zero-six bravo, authenticate with line charlie-charlie and execute immediately. Send reports to the Situation Room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone and pointed to Vilizherchev. “Good day, sir.”

“Will we not discuss this, Mr. President …?”

Just then two beepers went off — Vilizherchev spun around at the sound as if it had been a gunshot. Both Kemp and Curtis retrieved their tiny credit-card-sized pagers from jacket pockets and checked the message on its tiny liquid-crystal screen.

“Execution cross-checks, Mr. President,” Curtis said. “Crews are responding. I’d like to take it in the Situation Room.”

“You’re dismissed, John, Wilbur …”

“Wait, Mr. President, Secretary Curtis, Secretary Kemp, please,” Vilizherchev said. “We must discuss this …” Curtis and Kemp turned and headed for the door.

The President turned to his Secretary of State and his aide. “Dennis, Paul, escort the ambassador out of the White House. Deborah, I need you to call your staff down to the Situation Room in ten minutes to—”

“I am authorized to release the aircraft to you, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev shouted. Everyone in the room froze. The President pointed to the Secretary of the Navy.

“Get going, John. This sounds like a stall to me. Get your planes from the George Washington airborne. I want a prestrike briefing from the Navy when I get there. Wilbur, hang on for a minute.” Kemp opened his mouth, was about to say something, then decided against it and hurried out.

“I came here to organize a transfer of the aircraft back into your control, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev said, staring at the closed door of the Oval Office through which Kemp had just exited. He turned back to the President. “The General Secretary has directed that the aircraft be turned over to you immediately.”

“So what about all that garbage about retaliatory strikes, bombers and cruise missiles?” Deborah O’Day asked. “Was that a bluff?”

“The same as your bluff with the attack on Puerto Cabezas …”

“That is no bluff, Vilizherchev,” the President said. “I’ve got bombers from the George Washington lined up to attack that base, whether DreamStar is there or not. When the air attack is completed I’ve ordered a company of Marines to land, occupy that base and take control of the area. If they don’t find that aircraft, they’ll move down to Bluefields and level that base. After Bluefields they’ll move inland all the way to Managua.”

“This is not a bluff, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. “Once those planes are airborne, we’re committed.”

“The President has approval from Congress, sir,” Van Keller said. The Speaker of the House of Representatives and the congressional Majority Leader was sweating. “The plan was presented early this morning to the Senate and House committee chairmen. We stand behind the President.”

“All right,” Vilizherchev said. “The bombers, the cruise missiles, the attacks against Honduras … I invented them. I had to find a way to regain at least some of my bargaining position—”

“This is not the time for diplomatic face-saving, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “In five minutes those planes launch.”

“I have been ordered to negotiate a way to turn the fighter back to you,” Vilizherchev said. “No conditions. The General Secretary has directed it be done immediately.”

“Is the aircraft flyable?” Curtis asked.

“Yes. It is at Puerto Cabezas, as you already know. It was flown there to avoid the attack against Sebaco.”

“What about the pilot? What about James?”

“A KGB agent; the project was run by the KGB. The General Secretary learned of the theft of the aircraft only after it landed in Nicaragua. The General Secretary never agreed to keep the aircraft in Nicaragua — he never knew of the plan to move it out of your country. The whole affair was run by Vladimir Kalinin of the KGB.”

“So why should the KGB turn the aircraft over to us now?” Deborah O’Day asked. “If they control the aircraft …”

“The aircraft is now in the hands of the Soviet army, not the KGB. Colonel Maraklov has been ordered to return to Sebaco to await transportation to Moscow via Managua. The army has orders to make the aircraft ready to be flown out of Nicaragua.”

Deborah O’Day looked at the President. “Sir, it is over …”

“Not yet,” the President said. “I’ll cancel the air strike, but I’m keeping the George Washington on station. I don’t trust these people. Not any more. Wilbur, I want you in the Situation Room for a meeting. Postpone the air strikes for now.” Curtis nodded, a faint hint of a smile on his face not detectable by anyone, and departed.

“Then I suggest sending in a security force to guard the aircraft,” Stuart said, “until we can figure out how we can get the aircraft out of there.”

“General Elliott is in the Cayman Islands in control of the air forces,” O’Day said. “He has a man that can fly DreamStar — only specially trained pilots can fly it. He can send in a security unit with the pilot and some technicians that can inspect the aircraft. He can make the decision on how to get DreamStar out.”

The President nodded to O’Day, then looked at the Russian ambassador.

Vilizherchev understood that look. “I assure you, the General Secretary is anxious to be done with this … incident.”

“Bill, get down to the Situation Room, advise Mr. Kemp to hold the Second Fleet’s air raid but tell them to stay on the alert.” Stuart nodded and departed.

“Deborah, set up a satellite call in the conference room with General Elliott. We will plan this thing together so the ambassador knows what we’ll want from his people and the Nicaraguans. I’ll meet you all there in a minute.” Van Keller, Danahall and Vilizherchev filed out of the Oval Office, led by Cesare, but Deborah O’Day stayed behind.

“What is it, Debbie?”

“Did I hear all this correctly a minute ago? Did I hear you say you had elements of the Second Fleet ready to invade Nicaragua?”

“You must have heard it correctly,” the President said with the hint of a smile. “Kemp and Curtis heard it, too.”

O’Day said, “Strike aircraft with heavy bombs on board usually have to jettison their bombs before recovering back on the carrier. But I’m confused. I didn’t know anything about an invasion plan. Did you formulate a plan with John and—” She stopped, then stared at the President. “You made that up?”

“I thought Vilizherchev might be lying to me again,” the President said, “so I raised the stakes on him. He had nothing in his hand, but he wanted to challenge me. The guy has balls. Without authorization, without anything to back himself up with, the guy stood in front of me and threatened us with war if we didn’t back off.”

“So what will you do if the Russians won’t turn DreamStar over to us? Will you invade Nicaragua after all?”

“Yes. He forced my hand, whether he knew it or not. Now we both have to live with that threat. Hell, I wish we did have congressional authorization for an invasion. Van Keller makes a good poker player, too. He played right along, just like you and Wilbur.

“If the Russians don’t turn over DreamStar, I’m prepared to destroy Puerto Cabezas, then order the Marines to occupy it. We’ll have to make a decision on whether or not to go after those other airfields and bases after that.”

Sebaco, Nicaragua

“Am I under arrest?” Andrei Maraklov said, pulling himself away from the KGB Border Guards that had escorted him into Sebaco’s command post.

General Tret’yak turned toward him, waving at the guards to leave him. “Arrest? No, Colonel, you are not under arrest. Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because some Russian and Nicaraguan army bozos dragged me out of DreamStar and threw me into a helicopter to take me back here,” Maraklov said. “What the hell is going on? I can’t allow DreamStar to be left alone and unprotected like that. And I want my flight suit back. That’s a delicate piece of equipment—”

“It’s no longer your concern, Colonel. You don’t look so well, Colonel Maraklov. Apparently Central America does not agree with you.”

Actually Maraklov did look in poor health. Most of the men under Tret’yak’s command, because of bad water, stress, and the spicy food had lost weight after coming to Nicaragua, tut Maraklov had only been here a week and he looked emaciated. The elastic belt on his flight suit was drawn in so much that the ends overlapped halfway around his waist, and his eyes looked almost ghostly in the command center’s stark overhead lighting. He also seemed to be losing hair. Could he be on drugs? No — Maraklov was guarded night and day and observed through hidden cameras while in his room. If he was doing drugs he was being very crafty indeed to escape detection.

Maraklov’s anger flared. “Forget my waistline, General. What do you mean, DreamStar is no longer my concern?”

“The army has been ordered to take control of the aircraft, effective immediately.”

“And what are they going to do with it?”

“I don’t know or care. My job is to get this base operational again. Your fighter, or you for that matter, are no longer my concern.”

“My mission was to deliver that aircraft to Ramenskoye Test Center in Moscow,” Maraklov said. “I have authority to demand assistance from all Soviet or allied forces. That includes you—”

“Nyet. My last order concerning you was to see to it that you board an Aeroflot plane in Managua for Moscow when you are told to do so, which will be in the next two or three days. Meanwhile you are not to return to Puerto Cabezas or go anywhere near the DreamStar aircraft. You will not be placed under arrest, but I trust you will do as you are told.”

“This is nuts. Why is the KGB abandoning the project now? We can still get DreamStar to Russia — why are they giving up like this?”

“I don’t know,” Tret’yak said. “The KGB troops under my command have not been used to secure the fighter — they are using only Red Army troops. Who knows, perhaps they have made a bargain with the Americans for the return of the fighter …” He paused, staring at Maraklov. “Perhaps they do not trust you any longer.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, Colonel Maraklov, where were you when Sebaco was under attack? You had four missiles and extra fuel on board your fighter, and yet you stayed in Puerto Cabezas and hid in your concrete bunker while my airbase was being blown to hell by an American B-52 bomber. You—”

“A B-52 bomber? You mean one B-52 bomber?”

“Yes, one B-52,” Tret’yak said, “armed with air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons. Certainly your amazing fighter plane could have shot it down with ease — if you had bothered to join in the fight.”

“Well how the hell was I supposed to know it was only one plane? We were expecting a major assault — I got into the bunker and shut down before they could track me. Besides, I was never informed—”

“It was never your intention to help defend the base,” Tret’yak said. “One plane or a hundred — you were not going to come to our aid.” He rubbed his eyes irritably, then held up a hand before Maraklov could speak. “Your special metallic flight suit has been impounded — you will have no use for it. It will be sent with you when you leave for Moscow. Lieutenant Zaykov has asked to remain your aide until you leave, and her request has been granted. You are dismissed.”

“I want to contact Moscow for clarification of instructions.”

Tret’yak waved toward his office. “Do what you want. KGB headquarters wanted to speak with you when you arrived from Puerto Cabezas anyway. The channel has already been set up. But until I receive orders to the contrary, Lieutenant Zaykov is to escort you to Managua first thing in the morning and to see that you are on your way to Moscow. Good-bye, Colonel Maraklov.”

Maraklov hurried into Tret’yak’s office and ordered the call be put through to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Things had gone to hell real fast, he thought. Tret’yak was naive if he thought Moscow would risk using DreamStar to defend his little jungle base. Hell, Sebaco, Puerto Cabezas, Bluefields, even Managua were going to be sacrificed — anything to get DreamStar off safely. Somebody changed their minds in Moscow. The B-52 must’ve really shaken them up. Kalinin must have screwed up. The responsibility of getting DreamStar out of Nicaragua was obviously his, and he slipped up — this was the first time anybody but KGB troops had had anything to do with Dream-Star. Obviously there had been some sort of shakeup in Moscow, and someone else was in charge now …

So the question was — what could he do to get around this? How could he turn disaster to his advantage?

The satellite transmission went through after several attempts — the American bomber attack had done extensive damage to the power transformers and underground communications cables, and they had only a patchwork setup still running. Maraklov shook his head as he thought of a single B-52 bomber attacking Sebaco. It had to be another of Elliott’s toys, he thought — another Megafortress Plus, or maybe the resurrection of the one he had shot down? Would he never be rid of Dreamland’s ghosts?

“Tovarisch Polkovnik, dobriy vyechyer,” the voice on the other end of the line greeted him. “Ehtah General-Major Kalinin. Kahk dyela …?”

“You have to speak English, sir,” Maraklov said. “My Russian is still very poor. Vi gavaretye angleyski?”

“Of course, yes, I speak English,” the man replied. “I am Director Kalinin.”

Damn … it was the KGB director himself on the line.

“I assume you have received your orders from General Tret’yak, vyehrna?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your … kak gavaretye … how do you say, thoughts?”

“My opinion? Of my orders, sir?”

“Yes, your opinion.”

What the hell was going on? The director of the KGB was asking him if he agreed with his orders? He was screwed either way he answered. Well, no use dodging this … “I do not agree with them, sir. We must not give the aircraft to the Americans. We have already paid a very dear price for it — it is ours now …”

To his surprise he heard Kalinin say he agreed with him.

There was a long pause on the channel. What was going on? Was Kalinin going to disobey his own orders and bring DreamStar back to Russia? Were they trying to set him up, use what he said against him in a trial once he returned to the Soviet Union?

“Colonel, I will transmit message to you, in confidence, soon. It will be in English. The message for you only. Not Tret’yak. Vi pahnyemahyo? “

“No, I don’t understand, sir.”

“I will give you orders. New orders. Carry them out if you can. Etah sroch’nah. It is urgent. Da svedahneya.” And the line went dead.

Brooks Medical Center, Brooks AFB, San Antonio, Texas

“O God of heavenly powers, who, by the might of thy command, drivest away from men’s bodies all sickness and all infinity; be present in thy goodness with this thy servant, that her weakness may be banished and her strength recalled; that her health being thereupon restored, she may bless thy holy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Patrick and J.C., who had come back with him, then would return as needed, stood apart from the small circle of Wendy’s parents and relatives around her bed in the intensive care unit as the doctor checked Wendy’s eyes and skin. They had had no time to change out of their flight suits. After securing the still heavily armed Cheetah in a guarded hangar they had gone right from the aircraft parking ramp to a waiting Air Force sedan and on to the hospital. McLanahan had knelt beside his wife only briefly, then backed away when he noticed the number of relatives present and their faces. Now, with the minister and relatives crowded around her, he felt more excluded, more isolated than ever.

A minister had been there for the last twelve hours. When he first arrived the prayers were full of uplifting, optimistic words. Now the prayers had taken a sudden shift toward the irremediable.

The doctor finished his examination, took notes on the monitor readouts, changed an intravenous fluid bag, then moved away. McLanahan saw the minister touch the doctor’s arm, and they spoke briefly. Did he see the doctor shake his head? He drove murderous thoughts out of his mind and got the doctor’s attention.

“What’s the story, doctor?”

“The right lung sounds clear. I think we stopped the edema. But she’s very weak. I’m sorry, but we have to expect respiratory failure—”

“No…”

“The damage was massive. She’s a strong woman, Colonel. But for every step she takes forward, her body takes two backwards. She’s fought back bravely, but …”

McLanahan could not stand to look at the doctor any more. He sought his wife’s face from the foot of her bed. They had removed the larger tubes from her throat, leaving only the nasal cannula in place to feed her oxygen. Many of the bandages had also been removed, and the burns on her face and neck looked markedly better. Wendy’s mother had even brushed out her hair, “She looks better to me,” McLanahan said. The doctor made no comment. “Why isn’t she on a respirator? If you say her respiratory system can collapse, why can’t she be on life-support …?”

“We can keep her alive indefinitely, Colonel, but is that what you really want?”

“Yes. “

“Think of the pain you’d be subjecting her family to—”

“I’m her family too.” He ignored the faces around her bedside. “Stop trying to spare us pain and help her, dammit. Right now.” The doctor nodded, put his hand on McLanahan’s shoulder and turned away. The relatives and friends turned away; some filed out of the intensive care ward, not looking at him or saying anything. A few minutes later he felt a hand on his shoulder. Hal Briggs was standing beside him. “Man, I came as soon as I could … “

“Thanks for coming, Hal. I appreciate it. Is the general here?”

“He’s still … away,” Hal said. McLanahan knew that meant the Cayman Islands, as leader of the air cordon around Nicaragua. “There’s DOD investigators all over the Center, and they have authority to go any damn place they want. I got sick of them and took off.”

“I’m really glad you guys are here,” he said to both Powell and Briggs. He noticed Briggs wearing his earpiece transceiver. He was also armed, his ever-present Uzi submachine pistol on his waist. Hal nodded, then motioned his eyes off toward the door, and all three men walked outside and found an isolated area in the hallway.

“How is she?”

“The doctor says she’s worse. Who the hell knows? What’s going on, Hal?”

“J.C. might have to return to Puerto Lempira right away,” Briggs said. “They made a deal with the Russians. They’re going to turn DreamStar over to us — maybe tomorrow morning. They say it’s flyable, so the general wants J.C., Dr. Carmichael and Master Sergeant Butler to go out to Puerto Cabezas and inspect her. J.C. might be able to fly the thing back to Dreamland.”

“That’s good, real good … What about Ken James?”

“You mean Colonel Andrei Maraklov. The Russians say the guy really is a KGB agent,” Briggs said. “Do you believe it? We had a damned KGB agent in Dreamland for almost two whole years. Heads are gonna roll for that — mine in particular.”

At the mention of James’ real Russian name, the old fury came back. “What’s supposed to happen to him?”

“The White House says he’s on his way back to Russia,” Briggs said. “The next time we see him will probably be on the podium beside the head man at the Great October military parade.”

Briggs suddenly touched the earphone. “Briggs. Go ahead.” The earpiece acted as a microphone as well as a speaker, picking up sinus- and osteo-vibrations and transmitting them like a conventional radio system. Briggs listened for a few moments, then replied, “Copy all. Briggs out.” He turned to McLanahan. “Word’s in, Colonel. The plane’s been sealed off in a concrete shelter on Puerto Cabezas airfield. Tomorrow morning at six A.M., we’ve been cleared to fly no more than four more people in to inspect DreamStar — that means Carmichael, Butler, J.C. and myself. If we can fly it out, they’ll let us. If we can’t, we’ll be able to sail a barge into the docks at Puerto Cabezas and ship it out. The general wants J.C. back immediately. I’ve got to get his gear together back at Dreamland.”

McLanahan glanced down the hallway and saw Wendy’s doctor and several nurses and technicians wheeling a large machine into Wendy’s ICU ward at a run. “Wait here,” he said, and ran down the hallway and followed the doctor back into the ward.

When he entered the room a low, high-speed electronic beeping was coming from Wendy’s body-monitor. The relatives were crowded around her bedside, blocking the doctors and technicians from reaching her. The minister was kneeling beside her …

“Get away from her,” McLanahan shouted and pushed his way through the knot of people. The doctor, after seemingly being paralyzed by the scene, rushed over to the monitor. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from her and let the doctors through …”

“Respiratory arrhythmia,” McLanahan heard the doctor say to one of the technicians, “but I’ve still got a heartbeat. She’s hanging in there. Put her on the respirator and take her to the CDV lab.” They began to insert the tracheal tube in her throat and worked to reinflate her lungs.

McLanahan pushed the minister aside and stood beside the doctor. “Can you help her?”

“I don’t know, dàmmit.” He was watching as the technicians quickly transferred the body-function leads from the wall unit to the portable device. “Her respiratory system has shut down.” He pointed to an electronic electrocardiogram readout on the portable respirator. “But that could be her saving grace. Strong as a horse. There may still be time.” He turned to the people surrounding the bed as a gurney was wheeled into the room. “All right, please move aside, everyone.” Wendy was transferred to the gurney, and the hospital technicians rushed out.

McLanahan saw Wendy’s parents staring at him as if he was crazy. “Wendy will be all right,” he told them.

“Why are you doing this, Patrick?” Betty Tort said in a low voice.

“I’m doing this because I want Wendy to live. You’re all waiting for her to die. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you.” He turned, pushed past the relatives still packing the small room and hurried out.

He was met by Powell and Briggs in the hallway. “I’m going with J.C. back to Honduras,” he told them. The two officers stared at him. “We’ll fly back in Cheetah. Hal, go back and get J.C.’s flight gear, and Carmichael and Butler and meet us in Puerto Lempira.”

J.C. said gently, “Do you think you should?”

“Wendy’s back on a respirator. I think she’s going to make it. I believe she’s going to pull out of it. I’ve got to be there when we get DreamStar … “

“Man, are you sure you’re all right?” Briggs asked. “Maybe you should stop and think about this …”

“Listen; I’ve got to do it this way. The more I stay around this place the more I feel like I’m on a death watch. I won’t do that. I got to believe she’s going to make it. Now let’s get going. Until DreamStar is out of Nicaragua, I won’t stop. And I want Cheetah there in case something goes wrong …”

“Nothing can go wrong,” Briggs said. “Maraklov is on his way to Russia. He’s the only one that could fly DreamStar. They can blow DreamStar up, destroy it, or disable it, but either way we’ve at least kept the Russians from getting their hands on it. We’ve won, man.”

“Not yet, we haven’t. As long as Wendy’s fighting, I’m fighting too. And I can’t fight wringing my hands in this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sebaco, Nicaragua

Out of some one hundred troops originally stationed at Sebaco, fewer than twenty were still there, all pressed into service in cleaning up and preparing the base for rebuilding. Since there were no aircraft at Sebaco, security had been cut back to only a couple of guards roving the base. With workers on the job from twelve to sixteen hours a day, the base was practically deserted by nine P.M.

It would be that much easier to get away from Sebaco. Maraklov had decided on a plan nobody would expect, he hoped — return to Puerto Cabezas and try to steal DreamStar again.

Earlier that day he had taken a military sedan that had a full tank of gas and hidden it, keeping the keys. It was less than two hundred miles to Puerto Cabezas, but the first one-third was on mountainous gravel roads, which were dangerous enough when driven by day — he would have to make the drive in the middle of the night. The first fifty miles would take at least two hours, maybe more. The rest would be easier — he could make the trip in five hours, maybe a little less. According to KGB director Kalinin, the Americans would be at Puerto Cabezas to get DreamStar shortly after dawn. He had to be there ahead of them.

There were only two things left to do: get back his metallic flight suit and helmet from Lieutenant Musi Zaykov, who was holding the equipment in preparation for sending it back with him to Moscow, and — what would be the hardest of all — subdue, or eliminate, Musi herself. She was scheduled to drive him to Managua at six A.M. the next morning and put him on a nine A.M. Aeroflot flight to Moscow. If he could keep Musi quiet, maybe tie her up and hide her in the jungle where she’d eventually be found, they would think they had left for Sandino International Airport as scheduled. They wouldn’t know until the Aeroflot’s departure time of nine A.M. that they never showed up — and by then he would be airborne once more in DreamStar.

That evening he dressed in a dark flight suit and spit-shined boots — into which he slipped a large hunting knife in a leather sheath — and left his room; he had, of course, already deactivated the surveillance camera set up in his room, and he was sure it had not been reactivated since the attack. He slipped outside through a back window, retrieved the sedan and drove it over to Musi’s barracks several buildings away — being an officer as well as one of the few women on the base, Musi had a cabin to herself.

He stopped the engine a few dozen yards from her cabin and coasted to a stop several yards from the back door. He considered trying to sneak into the cabin, but Zaykov would probably shoot him as an intruder. Instead he simply went to the front door and knocked.

“Kto tam? “

“Andrei.”

A slight pause, then, in a light, excited voice, Musi replied in English, “Come in, Andrei.”

She was standing in the middle of her small living room, wearing a T-shirt that outlined her breasts, a pair of tropical-weight shorts and French-made tennis shoes. She came over to him and kissed him lightly on the right cheek. “Come in, Andrei.” She tugged him into the living room and around toward the sofa. “Please, sit down. How do you feel?”

“Physically, great, emotionally, lousy … I can’t believe we’re just going to give up DreamStar. After all that’s happened.”

“Orders are orders, I suppose,” she said, curling up like some exotic cat on the loveseat beside the sofa. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”

“Doesn’t make me feel better.”

“No, but we are both soldiers,” she said. “Never mind, won’t you be glad to get back home? It’s been so long since you have been there …”

Maraklov had to work at his reaction. “Sure, but it would be better if you were going with me.”

“I will join you in Moscow before long,” she said. “We will see each other very soon.” She motioned to a small bar in the corner behind Maraklov. “Fix us some drinks? I think I have something interesting in there.”

He got up, found ice and glasses, then started checking out her stock. He picked up one especially fancy bottle. “Well, look at this! Glenkinchie single malt Scotch whiskey … 1 never expected to see this in this godforsaken place.”

“You can try some of that,” Musi said. “It is very special. It is my favorite.” As he dropped ice cubes into a couple of glasses she added, “It was Janet’s favorite, too.”

“Who?”

“Janet. Janet Larson. Her real name was Katrina Litkovka — the woman you murdered eleven years ago.”

He froze, then, willing his muscles to move, turned around. Musi Zaykov was standing in the center of the room holding a silenced nine-millimeter automatic pistol in her right hand. Her seductive smile had vanished, leaving a stone-cold murderous glare.

“What in hell is going on, Musi?” He put the glass down on the bar but kept the Scotch bottle in his left hand, sliding it down his leg to hide it as best he could. “Put that thing down.”

“You are under arrest, Colonel Maraklov,” Zaykov said, “for the act of murder.”

“What are you talking about? Is this some kind of sick joke?” Loosen up, he told himself. Find out what she knows and use the time to figure out something … He forced himself to put on a broad smile. “What’s going on, Musi? Put that thing away. Are you crazy? I’m no threat to you—”

“Stay where you are.” She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a sheet of paper. “A copy of a message transmitted to you from Moscow, directing you to go to Puerto Cabezas and steal the DreamStar aircraft. What is this about?”

“Just what it says, Musi. I’ve been ordered to steal the damn thing again and fly it to a secret base in Costa Rica.” As he said it he took the opportunity to take a half-step toward her. “They figured I did such a good job the first time, they wanted to see if I could do it again.”

“If that was meant to be humorous, Andrei, you failed,” Zaykov said. “My last orders from General Tret’yak were to see to it that you are confined to the base until morning.”

“Well, I have orders too, Musi. Given to me by Vladimir Kalinin. I’m sure you have ways of confirming that. I don’t have much time to waste.”

“I must check this with General Tret’yak. If what you say is true, this contradicts previous orders. Orders must be verified—”

“There’s no damn time to verify anything. DreamStar will be gone in ten hours, maybe less.”

“And you had to come here to get your flight suit and helmet,” Zaykov said. “Then you had to do one more thing — kill me. You could not make it appear that we had gone to Managua as scheduled unless I was out of your way.”

“I wasn’t going to kill you. I could never do that. I’m much too fond of you … you know that …” He searched her face, found little softening in it. “You can help me, Musi. You can get a helicopter to take me to Puerto Cabezas—”

“I can’t do that. Even if these orders were fully authorized, I would not do it.” Something else was wrong. “Musi, what is it?”

She let the first letter drop to the floor, then drew another one from her jacket. “Some research I did when you left Sebaco for Puerto Cabezas … The morning after your attempt to fly to Cuba you were delirious from dehydration. You called out a woman’s name — Janet.”

“Janet? You mentioned that name moments ago. I don’t know a Janet.”

“You did know a Janet, Andrei — or should I say, Kenneth James. I knew a Janet too. Janet Larson. We were good friends … back at the Connecticut Academy.”

Now the words hit Maraklov like a baseball bat against his skull. He had forgotten the name the minute he left the Soviet Union for Hawaii all those years ago. The delirium caused by the ANTARES interface somehow had unearthed it — unfortunately, in the presence of another Connecticut Academy graduate who knew her.

“Yes, I knew Janet. Janet Larson. What has she got to do with my orders?”

“Perhaps nothing — perhaps everything,” Zaykov said. “Janet Larson — Katrina Litkovka — was found dead in a car crash. They say she had been drinking, that her car went off the road. But Katrina was fond of having affairs with many of the students at the Academy. You were one of them.” She paused, then said, “I was one of them too.”

“You and Larson were lovers?”

“Those of us in courtesan training at the Academy were taught to … to please women as well as men,” she said. “It was all part of the game at the Academy. But mostly we were friends, damn it, friends … She apparently had been drinking an expensive Scotch whiskey. Even though she didn’t have much alcohol in her blood, drunk driving was blamed for the accident. But the whiskey was very suspicious. Under questioning, a truck driver that delivered supplies to the Academy admitted that he sold or traded bottles of contraband foreign liquor to students and employees. One of the students he sold the whiskey to was you.”

Zaykov took a tighter grip on the weapon. “All of Katrina’s lovers were suspects in the investigation. All of us were officially cleared — all but you. No investigation was started on you because you had just been inserted into the United States Air Force Academy training program. After a time interest in the case disappeared. Katrina Litkovka’s murderer was never found.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Maraklov said. “Are you accusing me of her murder? Now, after all these years, you’re on a manhunt for a murder that happened over a decade ago and ten thousand miles away?”

“There is no statute of limitations on murder.” She held up the paper. “I did some more checking, Mr. Kenneth James. A report done by a KGB agent that assisted you in killing the real Kenneth James in Hawaii during the substitution. He reported that the dying American admitted to two murders in his presence — the murder of his infant brother, and the murder of his high school girlfriend.”

Maraklov took a step forward. The gun did not waver. “Musi, I still don’t understand. What does this have to do with what’s going on here? Yes, the real Kenneth James killed his brother — he admitted that. He was seconds away from death when he said he killed his girlfriend. He was delirious—”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. My friend Katrina Litkovka used to tell me about you, about the stories you supposedly made up, about how realistic they were. She told me about how you told her about how James killed his girlfriend before he went to Hawaii. Katrina said you were close to killing her then. Strange, isn’t it — the real Kenneth James confessed to the very crime that you described to Katrina.”

That made Maraklov stop in hopeless confusion. The parallels between the real Ken James and what he thought was James’ life were indeed startling, but he had never thought of it as his thoughts versus James’ real life. At the very instant that he realized he had been left alone in that hotel room in Honolulu, he became the ultimate extreme of his training … he became Kenneth Francis James. He evaded the security checks, the encounters with James’ friends and lovers, even related intimate details about James’ childhood because he had ceased to be Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov and had become Ken James. Which was more than they wanted at the Academy.

Zaykov let the report fall to the floor and took out still another piece of paper from her jacket. “I am detaining you so we can speak with General Tret’yak, but I am also reopening the investigation of Katrina Litkovka’s murder.

“Motive: She told me you threatened to kill her if she exposed your behavior to Headmaster Roberts. That would have destroyed your chances to go to America, something you had spent half your life and every part of your peculiar mind training for. I recall the talk that your mission was to be canceled because you were unprepared emotionally for the role. Opportunity: The whiskey you bought two days before the accident. The security guards testified that Litkovka was not drunk before leaving the Academy. You arranged the accident, made it look like Katrina had been drinking, then killed her, Kenneth James …”

“I am not Kenneth James,” Maraklov said. “I am Colonel Andrei Maraklov, an officer in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, a trained deep-cover agent just like yourself. And I am not a murderer …”

Zaykov held up the last piece of paper in her hand. It was a photograph. She tossed it across to him. Maraklov stepped forward to pick it up; she moved backward to stay out of his reach. “Look at it.”

Sweat popped off his forehead as he studied the picture. It was an old photocopy of a picture of Kenneth James, the real Kenneth James, taken in Hawaii, obviously by a KGB hidden camera. It appeared to have been taken not long before he had arrived in Hawaii to make the switch — possibly it was the photo used by the plastic surgeons to give him his new face before replacing James.

Even though the photo was much enlarged and grainy, Maraklov could still make out the drawn features, the thinning hair, the sickly appearance. The guy had been tearing himself apart from the inside out for ten years over the murder of his infant brother. He had destroyed not only his own life but the life of his natural father as well. No wonder he had expressed such relief when he realized he was dying and had confessed the truth to Maraklov that evening.

“What about this, Musi? We’re wasting time … “

She motioned to a mirror on the living room wall. “Take a look.”

Maraklov dropped the photograph and moved over to the mirror. He stared at the face in the mirror. It was Kenneth Francis James — at least the face of James in the photograph. The plastic surgery Maraklov had undergone before coming to America kept most of his face looking like it was still seventeen years old, but it couldn’t hide the thinning hair, the hollow cheeks, the sunken eyes, the thin neck and protruding Adam’s apple … in his case, the strain of the ANTARES interface and the other attrition in the theft of DreamStar had chewed away at Maraklov’s body, much as the murders of his brother and girlfriend had eaten away at James.

“I’m arresting you for the murder of Katrina Litkovka,” Musi Zaykov said. “You come with—”

Ignoring the weapon pointed at his chest, he reared back and hurled the Scotch bottle at the mirror. The bottle hit the glass and exploded. Instinctively Zaykov turned at the sound, the gun still pointed at Maraklov, but her head turned toward the shattered mirror. It was the opening Maraklov needed. Forgetting the pistol she still held, he covered the few steps between him and Zaykov, and with the skill and precision developed from years of training, turned the pistol away from his left hand and delivered a solid roundhouse kick with his right foot. Zaykov collapsed to the floor, but Maraklov could not take control of the gun. As she doubled over and fell, she swung the gun back up and squeezed the trigger.

The gun exploded, he felt his left shoulder yanked backward, there was a loud buzzing in his ears, and the blood drained from his head. His knees buckled, and he dropped backward, clutching his shoulder. There was no pain — yet — only a steady rivulet of blood leaking from between his fingers, and the disorienting reeling of confusion mixed with fear. The room began to spin. He felt lightheaded, almost intoxicated.

Gasping, Musi crawled up to her hands and knees, reaching for the pistol. Maraklov caught it first. Musi dug her nails into the back of his left hand, raked the nails of her right hand across his face. He let go of the gun. She tried to grab the gun but the hot silencer-barrel burned her fingers, and before she could grab the stock he had tumbled on top of her. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on top of her, trying to pin her arms down.

“Musi, don’t …”

Blood ran down from his shoulder over her T-shirt, covering her chest, her face and hands. He put one hand over her mouth, ignoring the pain as she bit into it. With his other hand he pulled the hunting knife out of his boot. “Musi, all I want is the flight suit …”

Zaykov freed her right arm, punched Maraklov in the left shoulder, then on the jaw. He toppled off her, and she rolled to her right away from him, reached out and grabbed the pistol. She swung it up and fired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, Ray.”

“Sorry about Dr. Tork,” he mumbled.

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

“Me too. Thanks for the news, Alan.”

There were a few extra security guards along, plus several cases of supplies that were hauled out. The last man off the chopper was Major Hal Briggs. “Patrick, J.C., things are looking better,” he said. “Wendy’s gonna do okay, and we’re gonna get our baby back.” He checked his watch. “It’ll take us less than an hour to get to Puerto Cabezas. We should plan to leave in about forty-five minutes, right?”

“Wrong,” McLanahan said. “I want the chopper fueled and ready to go fifteen minutes max.”

“But they said we can’t be there any earlier than eight A.M.”

“Push them. Ask for immediate clearance into Nicaraguan airspace and clearance onto Puerto Cabezas. If they won’t let us near the plane until eight, fine — but I want to get on the base as fast as possible.”

“You’re the colonel, Colonel.” Briggs stuck his head back in the helicopter cockpit to talk to the Dolphin’s pilot and have him arrange for clearances.

McLanahan turned to Butler. “Got everything you need? I know this was short notice.”

“I could’ve brought half my shop if Briggs had let me,” Butler said. “I’ve got two portable logic test units, assorted toolkits and supplies, about a thousand pounds worth. The best test unit we have, though, will be Captain Powell. Once he’s interfaced with ANTARES, we can diagnose and fix any problems.”

“Good.” McLanahan found Carmichael alone with J. C. Powell in one of the nearby tents. Powell was leaning back against a tent pole, his head bent down as if he was napping; Carmichael was just a few inches from his ear, saying something to him. As McLanahan approached, Carmichael held up his hand to keep him away. A few moments later Carmichael pulled a stethoscope from a jacket pocket and placed the electronic pickup against Powell’s chest, then stood and walked over to Patrick.

“I saw it right away,” Carmichael said. “He was jumpy as hell.”

“J.C.? I didn’t notice anything. He seemed himself.”

“He’s like that. He’s the most laid-back guy I’ve ever met. The differences were subtle, but after working with him for eight months on the early ANTARES project I can tell when he’s nervous. I put him in a mild hypnotic state to help him relax — actually he took my suggestion and put himself in a hypnotic state.”

“Will he be able to interface with ANTARES?”

“We won’t be able to tell until he tries it, but I’d say yes. He put himself right into alpha-state as if he had been doing it for years. He should be able to go into theta-alpha. Whether or not he can maintain it during the interfacing — well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Sooner than you thought,” Briggs said as he came over to McLanahan and Carmichael. “We’ve got clearance to cross the border and into the Puerto Cabezas control zone. Final clearance onto the base will be issued through the control tower. The Dolphin will be topped off in five minutes.”

“Then tell everyone to get back on board,” McLanahan told Briggs. “Let’s go get our fighter back.”

Puerto Cabezas Airbase, Nicaragua

This was the one of the hardest jobs General Tret’yak had ever performed in peacetime, rivaling the unpleasant duty of telling mothers or young wives of their son’s or husband’s death in some training accident. To be ordered by the Kollegiya, the senior political-military staff in Moscow, to give back the DreamStar aircraft was one thing — to have the Americans land here and take it from him was doubly embarrassing.

The DreamStar aircraft was right where Maraklov had left it two nights ago. The airfield at Puerto Cabezas, originally built in 1987 as a combined air force and navy base, was designed as the primary air-defense base in Nicaragua besides Managua itself. A series of semi-underground aircraft shelters had been constructed to house Nicaragua’s alert fighter-interceptors. The shelters, six in all, were concrete pads with six-foot-high walls and concrete roofs. They were located one hundred meters north of the west end of Puerto Cabezas’ single east-west runway, well distanced from the rest of the base.

But as the strategic importance of Nicaragua had tended to diminish over the years, fewer and fewer shelters were used until all alert air-interceptor operations were relocated to Managua. These revetments had been unoccupied for years, used only for annual Soviet-Nicaraguan exercises. Until now.

Tret’yak and two armed KGB Border Guards waited outside the revetment where DreamStar had been parked. All of the Nicaraguan troops on the base were kept away from the alert shelters — that was as much to avoid the embarrassment of the Nicaraguans finding out that they were turning over DreamStar to the Americans as it was for security. A landing pad had been prepared just inside the alert area fence on the throat or exit-taxiway from the alert area. A three-meter-high fence surrounded the entire alert area. Tret’yak’s men had checked the perimeter and found the fence in disrepair but intact.

“Why must we even be here, sir?” one of the guards asked Tret’yak. “Let the Americans get their own plane.”

“We are here because I personally want to meet the men who built this incredible machine,” Tret’yak told him. He studied the amazing shape of DreamStar for at least the tenth time since arriving on the base. “She’s a masterpiece of aeronautical design.” The guard looked disgusted. Tret’yak shook his head. “It may be hard for you to understand, but building a machine like this is an art. And sometimes art can transcend politics.” But don’t quote me, he added to himself.

A few moments later Tret’yak heard the rhythmic beating of helicopter blades. They looked up to find an American HH-65 transport helicopter flying down the runway. It slowed to just a few miles per hour as it approached the west end of the runway, then barely to walking speed as it flew up the throat and over the security fence. Tret’yak signaled to one of his men, who pulled a flare from his belt, popped it and set it on the edge of their prepared landing area. The HH-65 dropped its landing gear and settled in for a landing.

The first man out of the helicopter was a tall, thin black man. One of the Border Guards smiled. “There is your artist, sir,” he said to Tret’yak.

“Quiet,” the KGB general said. “He’s carrying a weapon, obviously a security guard.” The others quickly moved off the helicopter — one civilian, a non-commissioned officer in dark green fatigues, and two U.S. Air Force officers in light green flight suits. As the rotor blades slowly moved to a halt and the turbine noise subsided, the five men walked toward Tret’yak. The short, thickly muscled officer in the flight suit headed over to Tret’yak while the others stopped about ten paces behind.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force,” the man said in slow English. In hesitant but obviously pre-rehearsed Russian, he asked, “Vi gavaretye angleskiy? “

“Yes, I speak English,” Tret’yak said. “I am General-Major Pavel Tret’yak, senior KGB field commander in Nicaragua.” He looked over McLanahan’s shoulder at the other men. “I was told there would only be four persons coming here.”

“My fault and my responsibility,” McLanahan said, and turned toward them. “Major Briggs, my security chief. Dr. Alan Carmichael, chief engineer. Sergeant Butler, senior maintenance non-commissioned officer. And Captain Powell, senior test pilot.”

“And your function, Colonel?”

“Officer in charge of the DreamStar project.”

“Ah. Captain Kenneth James’ senior officer.” McLanahan’s only reaction was to narrow his eyes, his mouth tightening.

Tret’yak nodded toward the four men. “Well, you are here, and I would prefer to get this business over with as quickly as possible. You are cleared to enter.” McLanahan nodded, then waved the four men behind him to follow.

Butler was the first to react when he saw the XF-34. “Oh, boy,” he muttered, ran ahead and into the shelter. Carmichael and Powell followed. McLanahan studied the two Lluyka tanks and the missiles hung on the fighter. “I see you made a few modifications.”

“Modifying a fighter for external ferry tanks, in-flight refueling and foreign-made weapons is a major task. Our devices worked very well.”

“You didn’t need extra tanks to fly to Cuba.”

“But to fly to Russia, our original and eventual destination …”

“This plane and its pilot shot down two American fighters—after you stole it.”

“Come now, Colonel, the theft, the air battles, all part of the game. We both played it.”

McLanahan shook his head. Get on with it, he told himself.

Butler finished a cursory inspection and came back to McLanahan. “Looks like they used two pylon hardpoints on each wing to stick those tanks on. Simple electronic pyrotechnical jettison squibs. Same with the missiles. We can punch ‘em off here, but there’s no telling what damage it might cause.”

“Leave them on, then,” McLanahan told him. “I want DreamStar out of here fast as possible.” Butler nodded and trotted back to the helicopter to get his gear. McLanahan turned back to Tret’yak. “Where is Maraklov?”

“On his way to Moscow. He will be debriefed. Even though he was not given the opportunity to bring this aircraft back with him, he carries a great deal of information. His talks with our intelligence people should be revealing.”

“And after that?”

“After that, I cannot say. He is a difficult man, but if I were the General Secretary of the Kollegiya I would make Colonel Maraklov a Hero of the Soviet Union. We like to reward loyalty, courage and initiative,” Tret’yak said.

“Thanks for the compliments, General,” a voice behind them said. Tret’yak and McLanahan turned. And saw Andrei Maraklov emerging from behind the concrete walls of the revetment. Tret’yak and McLanahan saw the man, but the two KGB Border Guards accompanying Tret’yak saw the pistol he held. They lifted their rifles and swung them toward Maraklov. With two muffled puffs of the nine-millimeter automatic pistol, they were dead as fast as they had reacted.

Maraklov then turned the pistol toward Hal Briggs, who had only gotten as far as reaching for the Uzi at his hip. “Don’t do it, Hal. Left hand, unbuckle your holster and toss your gun over here.” Briggs hesitated, his hand still poised near the Uzi. “I’ll kill you otherwise.” Briggs had no choice; did as he was told. Maraklov picked up the Uzi and took its safety off.

“You had a detour on your way to Moscow,” McLanahan said.

“There’s been a change in plans, Colonel. It happens.”

“Where is Lieutenant Zaykov?” Tret’yak said.

At that, Maraklov’s attention seemed to wander, but only for a moment. “She found out about our plan.”

“ ‘Our’ plan?’ “ McLanahan said, turning to Tret’yak. “You never intended to turn DreamStar over to us.”

“I know absolutely nothing about this,” Tret’yak told him. “He obviously has killed the officer I ordered to escort him to Managua.”

“What counts,” Maraklov said, “is that DreamStar is mine. It always has been. I decide what to do with it.” Not quite the ease, he realized, but by now it felt like it was … “It’s not going back to the United States, and it’s not going to be hacked up in the Soviet Union. I’m flying it out of here to a place where it’ll be safe.” He stuck the automatic pistol in his pocket, cocked the Uzi, raised it and aimed at them—

Out from behind the Dolphin helicopter, Sergeant Butler appeared holding one of the computer logic test devices, a large suitcase-sized object, up before his body like some huge heavy shield. And proceeded to run full speed at Maraklov, who whirled, dropped to one knee — more out of surprise than to help his aim — and fired at Butler.

The Uzi had been set for single-shot. Maraklov squeezed off two, three rounds, swore and reached down to move the action lever. Butler had eaten up all but a few yards of the distance between them before Maraklov switched the weapon to full automatic and sprayed the charging man. But Butler had finally reached Maraklov and crashed into him before one of the bullets found Butler’s unprotected legs and cut him down. Butler drove the test device into Maraklov’s face, then used his body weight to haul him to the ground.

Lying on top of Maraklov, Butler tried to raise the test device over his head and drive it into Maraklov’s skull. But he was too late. Maraklov put the muzzle of the Uzi into Butler’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The senior NCO’s gut exploded, he dropped over backward, dead before he hit the ground.

McLanahan yelled, “Run for cover,” and made a dash for the helicopter. The pilot immediately started the engines in the Dolphin, and Powell and Carmichael, both inside DreamStar’s shelter, ran for the helicopter.

Briggs made his run at Maraklov, but to his surprise, General Tret’yak turned, blocked his path, then pushed him back toward the helicopter. As Briggs stumbled backward and fell to the concrete taxiway, Tret’yak turned on Maraklov. “Ehtat yah svenyena mo sahm. This pig is mine.”

Tret’yak never had a chance. He’d take no more than three steps when Maraklov raised the Uzi and emptied its magazine into the KGB general.

“Hal, run for it,” Patrick called out. The Dolphin’s rotor blades were spinning up to takeoff RPMs. Hal got to his feet and sprinted for the open door.

Maraklov got to his knees, took aim at Briggs, squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He had emptied out the magazine on Tret’yak. He’ tossed the machine pistol aside and pulled out the nine-millimeter silenced pistol. Briggs had just gotten to the Dolphin’s starboard side-door and jumped inside, so Maraklov swung his aim left to the two running figures and squeezed off a shot.

Alan Carmichael grabbed the right side of his chest and pitched forward. J. C. Powell skidded to a halt, knelt down and began to drag Carmichael toward the helicopter. Maraklov took aim once again, and before McLanahan or Briggs could react, fired. Powell flew backward away from Carmichael’s inert form, and lay still.

You bastard. “ McLanahan was screaming, rushing out of the helicopter and heading toward Maraklov. He had just cleared the Dolphin’s right door when the Dolphin pilot yanked the chopper off the ground, hovering less than three feet above ground, and aimed the helicopter at Maraklov. McLanahan, knocked aside, crawled on hands and knees toward Powell and Carmichael, trying to shield his eyes from the flying gravel and sand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing from the Nicaraguan military?” McLanahan asked. “It’s like they all disappeared off the face of the earth,” the pilot said. “When we crossed the border into Nicaragua, they were all over us every second. Now they don’t even answer a distress call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Following the road as best they could, they glided in over the forests, searching for a clearing. They found a bend in the road, and the pilot headed for it. He had timed it well. The Dolphin hit the road, hard, just as the overspeed safety system in the chopper’s transmission automatically uncoupled the rotor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should be.”

“You think you can set up a patch with General Elliott through Puerto Lempira? He can get the air cordon put back up around Nicaragua — at least get the AWACS back up there to watch for DreamStar when it heads out.”

“I can try. Reception is pretty poor from here, but at least I can get the ball rolling.” He began another call to Puerto Lempira as they walked. When they got to the Dolphin, McLanahan and the chopper pilot locked up the helicopter while Briggs stayed in as much clearing as he could find to maintain radio contact with the Honduran military base.

“No good,” Briggs said as McLanahan and the chopper pilot joined him on the road heading toward Auka. “Can’t raise the base any more. We’ll have to wait until we get to Auka and find a telephone, or just get to a clearing where we’ve got a straight shot to Puerto Lempira.”

McLanahan muttered as they set off on a fast walk. “After everything … J.C. … Maraklov is still going to get away with DreamStar? And there’s nothing we can do to stop him?”

Over the Caribbean Sea

“What the hell was that?” General Elliott said into his earset microphone. He was on a C-21B military Learjet en route from Georgetown in the Cayman Islands to La Cieba, where he would pick up a helicopter from there to Puerto Lempira. The relief he’d felt as he left Grand Cayman to see DreamStar safe and sound in U.S. hands was shattered once again. “Say again that last transmission.”

“Message received from a Major Briggs, crewmember aboard Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four,” the communications man said. “Briggs requested immediate emergency assistance. He said his helicopter was down four miles south of Auka, approximately thirty miles south of Puerto Lempira. He reported three survivors and three fatalities.”

“Oh, God,” Elliot muttered. Over the radio he said, “When did the rescue chopper depart?”

“We dispatched your HH-3 from La Cieba immediately after receiving the call,” the operator replied. “ETA to Auka is 0815 local.”

“From La Cieba? That was the only chopper available?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

Elliott slammed a fist against the C-21’s front instrument console, then keyed his mike button. “Control, did Briggs report what happened?”

“We lost contact shortly afterward, sir,” the operator reported. “He was calling in on a rescue channel, apparently using a hand-held survival radio. I think he’s been trying to call us, but we can’t pick him up.”

Elliott clicked on the C-21’s interphone and turned to Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston, National Security Adviser Deborah O’Day’s aide, and the C-21’s pilot. “Major, head toward Puerto Lempira airbase instead of La Cieba at best possible speed. We’ll fly near where Briggs went down and try to find out what’s going on.”

“Yes, General.” The C-21 jet banked left as Preston took up a rough heading to the Honduran airbase, then began calling up the base’s coordinates on the inertial navigation unit and calling La Cieba air traffic control for a change in her flight plan.

Elliott left his seat and went back to sit with Curtis and O’Day. They had flown from Washington to the Cayman Islands after the deal had, they thought, been set to recover the XF-34, and Elliott had gone along with them in the C-21 for the flight to Honduras. “We’ve got a big problem,” Elliott told them. “My security chief Briggs is on the ground in Honduras with two other survivors and three casualties from our recovery party. No other information. There’s a chopper on the way. but it won’t arrive for another forty-five minutes—”

“What are we going to do, Brad?” O’Day asked.

“I want to get in contact with Briggs soonest — he’s on a survival radio and our people at Puerto Lempira lost contact. I’ve told Marcia to head over to where the pickup point will be, and we’ll try to contact Briggs ourself.”

“What the hell do you make of it?” Curtis said.

“Not enough information to tell, but we’ll act on what you guys like to call worst-case scenario … they tried to make the swap for DreamStar, the Russians reneged, shot up our chopper and our people. Major Briggs and whoever’s with him managed to get away across the border but not all the way back to base.”

“So that means the Russians still have DreamStar,” O’Day said. “And if they reneged on the deal and went so far as to attack our people, they’ll probably be trying to get it out of the country as fast as they can.”

“And there’s very damned little we can do about it,” Elliott said. “We’ve got no assets close enough to stop them. We’ve still got the AWACS and some of the F-16s in the Cayman Islands, but we’d have to get a tanker from Puerto Rico or Florida down here to support us — that’ll take a few hours at least. The two F-15E ground-attack fighters we brought to Honduras are on their way back to Arizona. We’ve got some Honduran ground-attack planes, but if the Honduran air force gets into the act we’ll start a war in Central America. The President will never go for it …” Elliott paused for a moment, then: “Cheetah …”

“What?”

“Cheetah. My modified F-15F fighter. It’s down in Puerto Lempira — Powell and McLanahan flew it back to the States and then back to Honduras. It can do both air-to-air and ground attack.”

“But you said that McLanahan and Powell went on this mission into Nicaragua. That means—”

“That means that one or both of them may be dead,” O’Day said. “Can’t anyone else fly it?”

Elliott rubbed his throbbing right leg — the developing headache he had was starting to rival the pain in his leg. “It’s like asking if anyone can race in the Indianapolis 500. Sure, anyone can drive the cars, and you might even survive the race without killing yourself. But only a very few can really race in it … Only a few people can fly Cheetah well enough even to have a chance of getting DreamStar,” Elliott said gloomily. “Most of them, my senior test pilots, are two thousand miles away in Dreamland right now. Two may be lying dead in the jungle in Honduras — Powell and McLanahan. And another turned out to be a goddamned Russian spy—”

“General Elliott, this is Major Preston,” the pilot said over the cabin intercom. “We’re crossing the coast now, ETA to Puerto Lempira nine minutes. We’ve got clearance to fly near the Nicaraguan border, but we’ll only have enough fuel to loiter about ten minutes before we need to head back to Puerto Lempira for fuel.”

“Thanks, Major. Take us down to two thousand feet and head south of Puerto Lempira, then ask Storm Control on what frequency they talked to Major Briggs. We’ll scan that frequency plus GUARD and hope he comes back.” Preston gave General Elliott enough time to strap himself in back in the right cockpit seat before descending quickly to five thousand feet and getting on the radio to Puerto Lempira. A few minutes later she had set up the radios on UHF and VHF GUARD and Air Force discrete emergency channel alpha. Elliott put on his earset and keyed the microphone:

“Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four, this is Storm Commander on alpha. How do you read?”

The three crewmen of the mission to bring DreamStar out of Nicaragua reached Auka in less than an hour, but all hope of finding a telephone was quickly squelched — Auka was little more than a group of abandoned old shacks, half flooded and long overgrown by jungle. The road was still wide and paved — it was part of the main coastal highway running through Central America — but there was almost no traffic anywhere except for a few horseback riders and some youngsters herding a small knot of uncooperative goats through the streets. They had no intention of talking to a group of dirty-looking strangers, and as fast as the children appeared, they were gone.

The road through Auka branched out just on the north side of town off to the west — the fork in the road was on a small cleared-away rise with a shrine to the virgin Mary in the intersection. From that spot they could see for about five miles in any direction before the trees shrouded the horizon. “This looks like the best vantage point,” McLanahan said. “Hal, go ahead and—”

“Wait,” Briggs said. He held the survival radio up to his ear, then hit the TRANSMIT button. “Storm Commander, this is Hal Briggs. I read you loud and clear. Over.” To McLanahan: “It’s General Elliott! He’s coming this way!”

“All right.”

Briggs handed McLanahan the survival radio. “General, Colonel McLanahan.”

“Patrick, damn good to hear you.” Then he realized — the third survivor must be the chopper pilot … “Who did you lose?”

“J.C., Carmichael and Ray Butler …”

Elliott slumped back in his seat. Powell dead — that was their last hope, the man who could fly Cheetah well enough to take on DreamStar in air-to-air combat. He keyed the microphone: “How did it happen? Were they killed in the crash?”

“No. They were killed by Andrei Maraklov — Ken James.”

“James? He’s supposed to be in Moscow … “

“He’s alive and he’s got DreamStar.”

“But what about the deal? The transfer?”

“I had the impression that James came out of nowhere, completely unexpected. Even by the local Russian general. He killed the KGB general and two Russian soldiers and who knows who else to get DreamStar? He might be working for himself, or for someone else. General, DreamStar is flyable. We’ve got less than fifteen minutes to put together an attack package and take it out before he gets away.”

“I see Elliott’s jet,” Briggs shouted, pointing skyward.

“General, we’ve got a visual on you. Range about three miles. Come right twenty degrees. There’ll be an east-west road off your right wing. Follow the road until it ends. We’re right at the intersection in the clearing.”

Aboard the C-21 Marcia Preston made the correction and immediately spotted the intersection. “I’ve got it,” she said.

Elliott turned to her. “Major, can you …?”

“Tell everyone to hang on. Speed brakes coming out …”

The three men watched as the blue-and-white Air Force C-21 made a sudden hard-left bank. They heard the turbine whine decrease to a whisper as the C-21 turned in the opposite direction, paralleling the east-west road out of Auka. McLanahan could hear the loud, angry sound of rumbling air. “It’s slowing down,” he said.

“Landing gear,” the Dolphin pilot shouted. “He’s gonna land.”

The C-21 made the turn to final approach only a few feet above the trees at the edge of the clearing, its nose high in the air, flying just above the stall. As soon as it cleared the last row of trees, the jet dropped almost straight down, touching down precisely and firmly in the center of the asphalt road. The speed brakes stayed up and the flaps were retracted to put as much weight as possible on the main landing-gear brakes. This jet did not have thrust reversers but the short-field approach technique was executed so well by Marcia Preston that they were not needed — with only a few hard taps on the brake, the C-21 Learjet-35 slowed and came to a stop right at the road intersection. Engines running, the left side airstair door opened and Briggs, McLanahan and the Dolphin pilot climbed on board.

Deborah O’Day gasped as she saw Briggs and McLanahan. Blood covered their bodies. Quickly they found seats in the back of the eight-passenger jet.

Elliott moved past her in the narrow center aisle, blocking her view of the three newcomers. “Deborah, sit up front, would you?” The NSA chief nodded and quickly changed places. Elliott took her seat and strapped himself in, waited until Secretary Curtis had the airsiair door closed, then touched the intercom button. “Ready for takeoff, Major Preston. Best possible speed for Puerto Lempira. Call for medical assistance on arrival.”

The C-21 executed a tight left turn as Preston lined up again on the road for takeoff. Sixty seconds later they were airborne.

“We don’t need medical assistance: what we need is an attack against Puerto Cabezas. Right now or it may be too late.” McLanahan turned and recognized the Secretary of the Air Force. “Secretary Curtis, I think Ken James — Andrei Maraklov — will try to fly DreamStar out of Puerto Cabezas as soon as possible. He killed J.C. and five other men out there. He’s gotta be stopped.”

“Colonel, we’re trying to work out something, but we don’t have any assets out here. We withdrew everything when the Soviets agreed to this turnover.”

“We’ve got Cheetah,” McLanahan said. “I want to fly Cheetah out there and get him.” Curtis and Elliott said nothing, sat back in their seats. “I can fly it, I know I can. I’ve flown it in the simulator, and I’ve had lots of stick time—”

“I’ve flown in the F-15F’s simulator,” Curtis said, “but that doesn’t mean I can take it into combat, especially against a plane like the XF-34. We’d be risking you and Cheetah against impossible odds.”

“Wilbur is right,” Elliott said. “Even J.C. couldn’t beat DreamStar and James half the time in flight-test exercises. You would have no chance. I just can’t endorse it—”

“And I won’t authorize it,” Curtis added.

“J.C. told me the key to beating DreamStar; he had it figured out, and he taught it to me.”

“It takes more than a second-hand theory to—”

“Besides, James himself has changed. You should have seen him — he looks like he’s lost thirty pounds and aged twenty years. I know how it can eat at you from the inside, from the brain. It’s been eating at James for almost two years. ANTARES has changed him into … into something else—”

Hal Briggs broke in. “The man has become a cold-blooded murderer. He gunned down those KGB soldiers, and J.C. and Dr. Carmichael, like he was shooting at paper targets.

“He’s gotten compulsive — acts like DreamStar is his. I think that may be our chance … His entire being is centered around that machine. But one thing he isn’t — he’s not a cool-headed fighter pilot any more. He’s changed into something else.”

“But you’re not a fighter pilot either, Colonel …” Curtis pointed out.

“No, I’m not, but what I am is the only chance we’ve got to keep DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians or an obsessed type like Maraklov. We don’t have any choice, we’ve got to do it.”

Elliott looked at Curtis. “What about it? He makes sense.”

“We’d be throwing Cheetah and McLanahan away. We’d have another dead officer on our hands and lose both our advanced fighters all in one morning.”

“That’s bull, General Curtis, and you know it,” McLanahan snapped. “There’s only one thing we know for certain here — if I don’t go, Ken James, Maraklov, gets away with DreamStar. Sure, if James gets away we still might get DreamStar back from the Russians, but only after they’ve copied all our technology and duplicated the ANTARES interface. After that, we’d be forced to build the F-34 fighter because we’d know that the Russians would build and deploy their own DreamStar — but we’d be building the F-34 knowing that it would be a trillion-dollar waste of money because the Russians would have developed defenses and countermeasures against it and its weapons … Worse than surrendering DreamStar is letting James get away. He’s killed a dozen Americans to get his hands on DreamStar. He blew away three of his own people right in front of us. He’s gone round the bend. I want him, General Curtis.”

There was silence again in the C-21 cabin. Marcia Preston made an announcement that they were about to land in Puerto Lempira, but no one reacted. As they touched down and taxied to the parking area, Elliott said quietly, “I’ll fly as your weapon-systems officer.”

“Out of the question,” Curtis said.

“I’ll go alone,” McLanahan said. “Cheetah is designed to fly air combat with one pilot—”

“I won’t allow any of you to fly this mission,” Curtis said as the C-21’s engines were shut down. “It’s suicide, a major breach of regulations—”

“I’ll go,” a voice said behind Curtis. They turned and saw Major Marcia Preston standing in the Aisle behind Curtis and Elliott. “It’ll solve your problems, General Curtis. I’m high-performance twin-turbine qualified, also a qualified military instructor pilot. If General Elliott makes me part of his unit it’ll at least be a legal flight. All nice and by the book.”

‘Done,” Elliott said. He turned to Briggs and said something to him in a low voice.

“And as senior project officer I can sign you off as qualified in the F-15F — judging by the way you handle this C-21, the F-15 should be a piece of cake,” McLanahan said. “I can also make you air-weapons qualified. And as a flight instructor qualified in the F-15F I can then legally fly front seat in Cheetah. Like you say, by the book.”

“McLanahan’s not a pilot, he’s not qualified to fly in combat—”

“I’ve got a hundred hours of stick time in Cheetah, including air combat maneuvers, General.”

“And I’ve got two hundred hours flying time in the F/A-18 Hornet — air-to-air, air-to-ground, carrier ops, and even Red Flag, sir,” Marcia put in. “You’ll have the experience up there. But what Colonel McLanahan needs more than anything is a pair of air-combat-experienced eyes in his back seat. You’ve got the people you need, sir.”

“It’s still a suicide mission, damn it … I still at least need to get authorization from the White House—”

McLanahan stood and motioned to Preston. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.” Preston pushed open the airstair door and exited the C-21. McLanahan followed her out, along with Hal Briggs and the Dolphin helicopter pilot, and together they ran for the portable hangar in which Cheetah was tied down, yelling orders to the crew chiefs.

“McLanahan, get your butt back here,” Curtis called out. “That’s an—” But Brad Elliott had put a hand on his shoulder. “The decision’s been made, Wilbur.”

“Like hell.” Deborah O’Day joined the two men in the C-21 cabin. “I’m in charge of this operation. It’s my butt on the line. Yours too, Brad.”

“My butt’s been chewed off long ago. I don’t really care what the suits in Washington say. I say let them go.”

“And as one of the suits, I agree with General Elliott,” Deborah said. “You’re outvoted.”

“Don’t give me this,” Curtis said. “You two can stand side by side in the Oval Office and explain to the President why you authorized this mission. But I’m going to call for authorization from the top. And I don’t want those planes to launch until I get it.” He moved toward the airstair door, only to find Hal Briggs rearmed with an M-16B2 automatic rifle slung on his shoulder, blocking the stairs. Curtis turned back toward Elliott, fixing him with a disbelieving look. He then turned on Briggs. “You have a problem, Major?”

Briggs looked at Elliott with a silent request for an order. Elliott paused until Curtis turned back toward him again. “Brad, don’t do this … “

Elliott met Curtis’ stare. He had stepped up to the very edge of insubordination, something he had never quite done. He nodded, abruptly. “The Secretary has a call to make, Hal. Let him by “

“Just wanted to pass along to you, sir,” Briggs said straight-faced. “We can’t seem to make contact with La Cieba. They’re saying another two hours to fix the problem with the radio, maybe longer.”

“Don’t hand me that crap, Major.”

“Wilbur,” Elliott said, “the radio works fine. I told him to rig it. But you know what we’re facing. We need a decision now. You have to make it. Launch Cheetah.”

Curtis hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. Outside he heard a low whine and the whine of a turbine — the sound of an external power-cart being started.

“You made a decision eight years ago that changed my life,” Elliott said. “You sent another crew and another machine on what was considered a no-win mission. You could have ignored the Old Dog, brought back the B-1 bombers and let the politicians handle things. You didn’t. You took over and did what had to be done, and it worked. Do it again. Launch Cheetah.”

Curtis said nothing. Out the starboard windows of the C-21 he could see Preston already in Cheetah’s aft-cockpit seat, strapping in and familiarizing herself with the layout. McLanahan was standing on the top of the boarding ladder, helmet and flight gloves on, hand on the edge of the front windscreen — but he had not yet entered the cockpit.

“He’s gone through a lot of hell, Wilbur,” Elliott said when he saw what Curtis was looking at. “He’s seen more blood, more death in eight years than a dozen men will in their lifetime. He’s also got a score to settle — a blood-score — but he’ll stand on that ladder until you give the word. 1 think you’ve known that all along.”

Curtis nodded, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Major Briggs, launch Cheetah. Now.”