Day of the Cheetah

Brooks AFB Hospital, San Antonio, Texas

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

He bent over and kissed her. “She’s a tough broad.”

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

He nodded. “I’ve never felt as secure, or as happy in an aircraft until I started flying with J.C. And he was a friend.” McLanahan was silent a few moments. “But seeing you like this again, it overwhelms everything … How do you feel?”

“Like, they say, lucky to be alive. Also tired as hell. The doctor says I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, then a few months’ convalescent leave. I think that’s too much. Four, five weeks should do it.” She took his hand, squeezed it tight. “I … I heard about what you did before you left for Honduras again. I heard everyone was ready to let me go. I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. All even.”

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

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

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

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

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

The sky seemed to be filled with planes. The lead formation was composed of some of the most high-tech machines in the world, led by a B-52 Megafortress. The formation also had “flying-wing” B-2 stealth bombers, a B-1 Excalibur bomber, one of the new stretched FB-111 bombers and a large aircraft that looked a lot like a smaller version of the B-1, with its wings pulled back to its fully swept high-speed setting. The second formation was composed of five F-15F fighter-bombers, and it was from this formation where one aircraft, J.C.’s Cheetah — he recognized it immediately, its right vertical stabilizer was still missing — peeled off from the rest to form the “missing man” formation.

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

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

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

“The new XFB-5 Tracer,” Elliott said in a low voice. “First generation, designed for strategic escort-duties like the Megafortress. We combined the technology of the F-29 and the B-1 and came up with a plane that’s twice as good as the sum of its parts. It’s as fast and agile as a fighter, but with almost the same payload and power as a supersonic bomber.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Very,” Briggs said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ayes had it. Unanimous.

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

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

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

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

“No gun?” the Air Force soldier asked. “Doesn’t the DIA carry guns?”

“I don’t chase bad guys,” Scorcelli told him. “I wait until they’re in custody, surrounded by blue-shirts. What do I need a gun for?”

“He checks,” another guard said. The pat-search revealed a few pens — the guards even pushed the plungers on them and scribbled circles on a sheet of paper to make sure they worked — a small notebook, an appointment book with a credit-card-sized computer inside, wallet with seven dollars in it and a set of car keys from a rental car agency. “He’s okay.”

“What are you doing here this late?” the second guard asked, taking a sip of coffee as Scorcelli retrieved his belongings.

“First opportunity the DIA’s had to interview him,” Scorcelli said. The first guard consulted his log to double-check that fact — he was the first DIA representative here today. “This is the CIA’s and the Air Force’s bailgame. We just want to see what the guy has to say. I understand he wants to make a deal.”

“Go ahead,” the guard said. “Twenty minutes, max. Doctor’s orders.”

Scorcelli entered Maraklov’s room and closed the door — and was immediately grabbed from behind by another guard. “You scared the crap out of me,” Scorcelli said.

“Sorry,” was all the guard said, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Scorcelli then heard two beeps on a walkie-talkie the guard carried on his belt, and the guard replied with two beeps of his own. Finally the guard released him. “Go ahead, sir.”

“Man, with all these searches I forgot what I was going to ask this guy,” Scorcelli said. The guard smiled and walked back to his seat on the far side of the room.

“Where’s our friend?”

“Taking a leak,” the guard said. He got up and knocked on the door to the adjacent bathroom. “Someone to see you.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Maraklov called from inside the bathroom.

“He doesn’t sound like a Russian to me,” Scorcelli said.

“He’s a Russian, all right. He says he’s been trained to act like an American. Can you believe it?”

“Sounds weird.” Scorcelli unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled out the small notebook and a pen. He was about to write something when he looked up at the floor beside a sofa near the wall. “You got rats in here.”

When the guard walked in front of Scorcelli to check for rats, Scorcelli jabbed the point of the pen into his neck. The guard was conscious just long enough to reach up to his neck, then instantly fell asleep. Scorcelli lowered him to the floor, dragged him out of sight, then took his sidearm from his holster. Hiding behind the bathroom door, Scorcelli took the second pen from his shirt pocket, twisted the cap and pressed the pocket-clip.

When Maraklov emerged from the bathroom, Scorcelli reached around behind him, grabbed his chin with his left hand, pulled his head over to the left to expose his neck and pressed in the point of the pen. When he depressed a plunger, a one-inch long needle shot out and injected its contents directly into Maraklov’s carotid artery.

Maraklov managed to push Scorcelli away, but the poison was already starting to take effect. He sagged to his knees, trying but unable to call for help. He strained to focus his eyes on Scorcelli. “What … who are you?”

“Don’t you remember, buddy?” Scorcelli said. “C’mon, you remember.”

Maraklov shook his head.

“You’re a smart guy, Ken. You remember. I’ll give you a hint. We went to school together.” Maraldov’s eyes suddenly opened, and he struggled to get to his feet. Scorcelli put a hand on his shoulder, and in Maraldov’s weakened condition it was easy to hold him steady.

“I’m your old buddy, Tony Scorcelli,” the DIA “agent” said. “Remember? We played softball together. I’ll never forget that last game we played, Ken, the one we played just before you went to Hawaii. You got me busted back after that little scuffle, did you know that? I wanted to go to law school in the United States. But after that fight, Roberts busted me back and I ended up in a nowhere little job in the DIA pushing papers.”

Maraklov tried to rise again but was too weak. “But I got an interesting call from my handler the other day, and guess what? The KGB wants my old buddy Ken James dead. It seems he began spilling his guts to the Americans. Actually wanted to defect or something like that. Fell in love with an airplane; can you beat it? There was word that he was responsible for killing that nympho secretary back at the Academy. When I heard all this, I just had to run right over from Washington, get myself clearance to enter your little condo here … “

Scorcelli pulled Maraklov up and sat him on the chair. “Sorry I can’t stay and shoot the breeze, old buddy, as us Americans say, but you’ve got a date in hell, and I’m on my way back to my Black Sea condo. It’s beautiful there this time of year.”

Just then the door opened behind Scorcelli and McLanahan and Briggs walked in. “Hey,” McLanahan called out when he saw Scorcelli standing over Maraklov. “What the hell are you doing?”

Briggs drew his sidearm just as Scorcelli reached for the gun he had taken from the drugged guard. He pushed McLanahan aside, fired one shot into Scorcelli’s chest, and dropped him. Briggs checked over Scorcelli and the Air Force guard as more security agents ran into the room. McLanahan went over to Maraklov.

“Ammonium cyanide,” Maraklov got out, barley strong enough to draw breath. “Standard KGB issue. Scorcelli’s KGB. Deep cover, like me…”

McLanahan found the doctor’s call button and pressed it. “Easy…”

“No, listen. Wall safe in my apartment … behind the bookcase. Careful … I wired it. Names of KGB handlers and Academy grads. Not many, but it’ll help …” Dying, he looked as if he was falling asleep.