Day of the Cheetah

Over the B-52 crash site, Amargosa, Nevada

It resembled the aftermath of a fire bombing. Even from five hundred feet in the air, everything within sight was black — the rocky hills surrounding the crash site had been blackened by fires and debris. Huge craters in the earth contained burning sections of the mighty B-52 Megafortress Plus, the heat of the fireball hot enough to melt even the B-52’s thick carbon and fiberglass skeletal pieces. A mile away the center-wing junction-box and forward fuselage, the piece that joined the wings to the fuselage and the largest section of the B-52 still intact, was burning, so hot and so smoky that firefighters could not get within two hundred yards of it. Debris was scattered in a ten-square-mile area of devastation, and thick black smoke obscured half the sky.

The helicopter crossed perpendicular to the axis of impact, paralleling route 95 near the evacuated town of Amargosa. A large building, a restaurant-and-truck-stop complex, was burning fiercely — one fire truck was spraying surrounding fuel pumps with water to prevent any massive explosions. Several hundred feet from the edge of the area a knot of police cars and an ambulance had pulled off the highway and encircled several dark objects lying in the charred sand.

“That’s it,” McLanahan shouted, not bothering to use the helicopter’s interphone. “Set it down there.”

The chopper pilot nodded, spoke briefly on the radio, then turned to Brad Elliott. “Sir, I can’t touch down — I’ve got wheels instead of skids. I’d sink up to the fuselage in that mess—”

“Then hover and drop me off,” McLanahan shouted.

“The medevac helicopter is only a few seconds from—”

“I don’t give a damn; take me down there. Now. “ Elliott nodded to the pilot, and the chopper pilot reluctantly circled the area once, then set the helicopter in a gentle hover, wheels up, only a few inches from the ground. McLanahan leaped out the side door and ran through the burning debris and gasoline-fired desert to the patrol cars.

It was obvious that Wendy Tork McLanahan had been under her parachute only a few seconds before hitting ground; the ejection seat was just a few yards away. Wendy was lying on her side, seemingly buried in the dirt and blackened sand, her half-burned parachute trailing behind her. Her flight suit, gloves, face and hair were black from the heat and falling debris — from the air she had looked like another burnt piece of the dead B-52 bomber. Her helmet and one boot were nowhere to be seen — they were usually lost during ejection unless secured uncomfortably tight during the mission. Her left leg was twisted underneath her body, her left shoulder, half buried in the dirt, appeared to be broken or at least separated.

Two Nevada State Troopers were maneuvering a spine board into place when McLanahan ran over to them. He dropped to his knees in front of her.

“You from the base?” one of the troopers asked McLanahan. Their voices were muffled by surgical masks.

“Yes…”

“What the hell hit out here? A nuke?”

“An aircraft.”

They had dug a trench behind Wendy’s back and were moving the board along her back. Patrick carefully swept bits and pieces of metal off Wendy’s face. A few stuck fast, and pain shot through his own body, as if he was feeling the pain for her, with her.

“Get with it,” one of the troopers yelled, “grab those straps and pass them over.” They routed several thick straps under Wendy’s body, and Patrick carefully passed them back through the brackets on the side of the board. They tightened the straps until Wendy’s back was tight against the board. Several wider straps were secured over her forehead and chin, a cervical collar placed around her neck, her head immobilized on the board as well. The troopers began working to free and immobilize her legs as the medevac helicopter touched down a few yards away.

“Let the paramedics in there, pal,” the troopers told Patrick, pulling him up and away from Wendy. Three paramedics rushed over. In moments they had oxygen, a respirator and electronic vital-sign monitors in operation. They finished securing thick plastic splints on her legs, placed her on a gurney and carried her to the helicopter. Patrick ran over with the gurney but was pushed away.

“No room. We’ve got more injured to pick up from the truck stop.” The doors closed, the helicopter jumped skyward and was quickly out of sight.

Patrick’s leg felt ready to buckle … one survivor out of a crew of seven. He’d seen the entire crew alive and well not an hour earlier. Wendy … his last thought of her was the thumbs-up she’d given him before heading out to the crew bus. Piece of cake, she had said.

Another aircraft appeared out of the smoke-obscured sky, not another helicopter. Resembling a remodeled C-130 transport, the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport swooped down out of the sky barely a hundred feet above the ground. Suddenly, with a roar of turboprop engines, the engine pods on the wing-tips began to tilt upward until the blades were horizontal. The aircraft then began a soft helicopter-like vertical descent, landing only yards from Patrick.

The rear cargo doors on the Osprey popped out, disgorging a dozen heavily armed security troops in full combat gear and backpacks, along with an M113 armored combat vehicle. The M113 rolled off toward route 95, and the guards began to station themselves a hundred yards apart along the perimeter of the Megafortress’ impact area.

“Patrick … “ He turned at the sound of his name. Hal Briggs was standing over him, Uzi submachine gun in hand. He was wearing a Kevlar helmet with a one-piece communications headset in place. Now he dropped down beside Patrick and moved his face closer to his so they could talk over the roar of the Osprey’s rotor-props. “You okay?”

“Wendy …”

“I heard, I’m glad she made it out,” Briggs shouted. “They’re taking her downtown to the burn unit … she’ll be okay, they think.”

“Unbelievable … it was James,” Patrick muttered. “Stole DreamStar, shot down Old Dog …”

“We gotta get you out of here. I’m securing the crash site. The general is assembling an investigation unit. He wants you to help him set it up.”

“Investigation unit? What about DreamStar? James is getting away with DreamStar—”

“He’s heading south, right into the F-15 interceptor unit out of Tucson. They’ve got a squadron ready to shoot his ass down. Now let’s get going.”

He helped McLanahan to his feet and led him to the open cargo ramp at the rear of the Osprey. He was strapped in beside Briggs at the flight-engineer’s station.

“Headquarters building,” Briggs radioed to the pilot. “Helipad one should be big enough for the Osprey—”

“No,” Patrick said. “I want to go to the hangar ramp. Right now.”

“General Elliott is waiting—”

“I’m not going to supervise a bunch of guys crawling around in the mud, putting little flags on chunks of metal and body parts. We know what happened to the Megafortress — James shot her down, he killed six people, he damn near killed my wife … I want to go to the hangar ramp right now. That’s an order.”

Briggs shook off his immediate surprise at Patrick calling Wendy his wife. He pushed his boom microphone away from his lips and bent closer to Patrick. “You know me better than that. I take orders from Elliott, and sometimes not from him. It’s how I do my job. Tell me what you want and convince me it’s better than what the man with the four stars wants.”

“Hal, believe me, DreamStar will blow right past the F-15s out of Davis-Monthan.”

“Eight jockeys in Eagle Squadron won’t buy that.”

“Listen, I’ve flown against DreamStar for a year. If DreamStar has any more weapons on board, a whole air wing of F-15s won’t be able to bring him down. Even if he doesn’t, James has the skill and the hardware to evade them. Those pilots have never seen DreamStar in action. If the F-15s can’t bring him down before he enters Mexican airspace, he’ll lose them.”

“So what are you going to—?” Briggs cut himself off. It wasn’t hard to figure out what McLanahan wanted to do— “you’re gonna take Cheetah …?”

“It’s the only fighter that can take on DreamStar head-to-head. And J. C. Powell is the only pilot that can do it. I want Powell and Sergeant Butler to meet me at Hangar Four with a fuel truck. If he can, I want Butler to get MMS out there with missiles or at least some twenty-millimeter cannon shells.”

“And then what? Chase him down? He’s got a huge lead on you; you won’t stand a chance—”

“He’s only got two hours’ worth of fuel on board, maybe less,” Patrick said. “He’s got to land it somewhere.”

“How the hell are you supposed to know where?”

“Those air defense units will be tracking him. They’ll be able to pinpoint his location, even three or four hundred miles into Mexico. If he tries to land we’ll know about it. And unless he’s removed or deactivated them, Cheetah has telemetry and tracking equipment on board that can direct us toward him. But we need to act now, Hal. If we wait he could get clean away. The Mexicans aren’t going to be much help. They don’t exactly love us anymore.”

Briggs paused. McLanahan was obviously beside himself over the crash, and about Wendy — did he say his wife? — but what he was saying did make sense. If Dreamland’s security forces couldn’t stop DreamStar, there seemed little chance that a squadron of Air Force reservists from Arizona could do it.

Hal looked at Patrick. “You said your wife?”

“We were married two days ago. We were going to tell everybody tonight.” They were both silent for a moment, then Patrick asked: “How about it, Hal?”

Briggs thought about it a few moments longer, then nodded. “Hey, you’re a colonel, Colonel.” He reached over to the flight-engineer’s console, flicked a switch on the communications panel, dialed in channel eight — the discrete channel for the flight-line maintenance section. “I was told to deliver you a message from the general and assist you in complying with those orders. You can do anything you want. Talk on the radio, tell Butler to do something. Look here, this radio was even on Butler’s frequency, you can plug in and talk to him any time you want.”

Briggs swiveled his microphone back and hit the interphone button. “Pilot, looks like I might have miscalculated. This Osprey is too big to land on the Headquarters helipad.”

“No, Major,” the pilot radioed back. “It’s plenty big enough. I can—”

“I don’t think we can chance it. Some pretty strong gusts kicking up out there.”

“It’s clear and calm, Major Briggs.”

“Better not chance it. Drop us off at the hangar ramp.”

The pilot shrugged, keyed his radio button to request different landing instructions.

McLanahan clicked on the radio. “Delta, this is Charlie on channel eight. How copy?”

A few moments later Sergeant Ray Butler replied: “This is Delta mobile, sir. Go ahead.”

McLanahan glanced at the navigation readout on the flight engineer’s console. “I’m fifteen minutes from touchdown on the hangar ramp, Ray. Meet me at Hangar Four. Repeat, Hangar Four in fifteen mike. Urgent. Over.”

“Fifteen mike at Hangar Four. Copy that,” Butler replied. “Does this have to do with our recent fireworks here, sir?”

“It does, Delta. You may want to see that the ramp is clear in front of Hangar Four. Over.”

“I understand, Charlie. I’ll be ready. Delta out.”

Twelve minutes later the Osprey set down in the center of the hangar ramp and carefully taxied over to Hangar Four. McLanahan disembarked the cargo ramp and found an army of maintenance trucks surrounding the hangar. Cheetah had already been rolled out of the hangar and a fuel line had been hooked up to its single-point refueling receptacle on the left-side service panel.

Sergeant Butler trotted up to a surprised McLanahan with a sheaf of papers on a clipboard and a pen. “You must’ve forgotten to sign all these requests for maintenance support, sir,” he said with a straight face. “You made this request last week—don’t know how we missed getting all this signed off.” McLanahan nodded — obviously Butler wanted the same thing he did, but he was still going to make sure his paperwork was straight. “You wanted gas, long-range fuel tanks, five hundred rounds uploaded with the M61B2 cannon, two AIM-9R infrared short-range missiles and four AIM-120 medium-range active radar missiles. I got everything? Oh, you also wanted that video camera taken off, didn’t you? Good. Sign here.”

McLanahan signed all the blocks. “Thank you, sir,” Butler said. “Sorry about the paperwork shuffle, sir. My mistake. Won’t happen again … I trust you’ll take care of any problems General Elliott might have with my … procedures.”

“Nothing wrong with your procedures, Sergeant.”

Butler allowed a smile. “Have a good flight, and good hunting. We should be ready to go in twenty minutes, maybe less. Captain Powell is over there. I’m very sorry about the Megafortress, sir. Well, gotta go.” Butler handed Patrick his flight helmet, saluted and trotted back to the maintenance supervisor’s truck.

J. C. Powell met McLanahan halfway to Cheetah. He slapped his hands together. “We’re going hunting?”

“If I don’t my get ass court-martialed first, yes.”

“I heard Ken James stole the plane? I don’t believe it. I always suspected the guy was a little whacked out but not this …”

“He’s more than a little whacked out. He’s jumped head-first into the shallow end, or something a lot worse.”

“Such as?”

“Something Briggs said a few days ago … that his security problems started when James arrived at Dreamland about a year and a half ago. Briggs even suspected Wendy, who happened to get here at the same time.”

“You mean, you think Ken James was some kind of damn spy?”

“It would answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?”

“The guy’s an Academy grad, passed every security screening check I have — probably more. I’m only a ninety-day wonder and I had to jump through some pretty small hoops—”

“I didn’t say I had it all figured out. Maybe he was turned or recruited after he got here, or he’s being blackmailed. Maybe I’m all wrong. But one thing’s for sure — if the F-15s out of Davis-Monthan don’t get him, we will. I just hope I get a chance to ask him why the hell he did it”—Patrick glanced at the AIM-120 missiles being raised into position on Cheetah’s wings—”before we put one up his tailpipe.”

Over southwest Arizona

There were eight other pilots who wanted to put one up Ken James’ tailpipe, but he wasn’t going to give them the opportunity.

Ken James — that name now discarded by DreamStar’s pilot, Andrei Maraklov — could see waves of radars all around him, but they were all search radars. He was deep within the Colorado River valley just south of Parker Dam, following the rugged mountain ridges as closely as he could to avoid detection. Two longer-range F-16L cranked-arrow fighters were behind him, their radars probing deep within the valley, but they never got a solid lock-on and they were staying up high to try to scan as much ground as possible. With their present tactics they were never going to get a shot at him.

But they were no longer the main threats — they were the pushers, the drivers, there only to keep DreamStar headed south toward the real danger. Maraklov had caught bits and pieces of scrambled radio conversations between the F-16s and another aircraft. It was not hard to guess which: a Boeing 707 or 767 AWACS radar plane, stationed, Maraklov reasoned, between Gila Bend and Yuma over Sentinel Plain. From there the older 707 AWACS could scan over one hundred twenty thousand cubic miles of airspace, from San Diego to El Paso, and most of the way down the Gulf of California into Mexico. The radar aboard the improved 767 was even better. No doubt the AWACS would be accompanied by at least two F-15 fighters out of Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson for protective escort, plus at least two more F-15s to hunt down DreamStar.

The fuel situation was critical. Less than an hour’s worth of fuel, less than an hour from the hastily arranged landing site in Mexico. Staying at low altitude was badly sucking up fuel, but he had no choice — the AWACS could have picked him up as far north as Las Vegas if he was any higher.

Of course the maneuvering he did during the B-52 attack pushed him under the fuel curve. Especially that last maneuver, going from Mach one to one hundred knots one hundred feet off the ground, thereby putting DreamStar in a virtual hover. That took care of any reserve he’d had hopes of building up …

Well, the B-52 Megafortress was dead. They certainly nicknamed it right. It almost escaped, almost dodged away in time, almost managed to decoy the AIM-120 away. The Scorpion missile had to switch to home-on-jam guidance to finish the attack. Ironically the massive jamming power of the B-52 was probably what did it in — it must have been easy for the Scorpion missile to follow jamming power like that.

Who was on that plane? Ormack — good officer, better pilot, Elliott’s natural successor for the command of Dreamland. Khan — a desk jockey. Had no business in the cockpit. Maraklov didn’t know Frost. He had dated Evanston once but that was no more than an experiment that neither wanted to continue. Besides, nays had no information of any value to anybody.

Angelina Pereira was almost old enough to be his mother, but she liked to use men and she liked men to use her. No age limits. She was never a target for any information or recruitment, although the KGB’s standard profiles fitted her. She probably would have laughed at him, just before shooting him in the balls. She was an unexpected job bonus, nothing else.

He would miss Wendy Tork most of all. Or rather miss never having had a chance to try to fulfill his fantasies about her … take her away from McLanahan … Too bad he hadn’t tried to latch onto her sooner. If nothing else she had some highly useful information on electronic countermeasures research …

He made a slight altitude and course correction to avoid overflying a group of white-water rafters less than a hundred feet below. As he banked away to avoid them he could see several put hands over ears against the noise, but a few bikini-clad ladies waved. He had made that trip down the Colorado River several times, spending a weekend shooting the rapids, getting dumped into the swirling waters, laughing at a roaring campfire with a beer in one hand and a pretty young lieutenant from Nellis in the other.

Did they have rapids in Russia? Were the women pretty? Maraklov had forgotten more than remembered.

Things had, people said, changed over the years. Glasnost … the place was more open. But he doubted it would be to him.

Andrei Maraklov might truly be the deepest deep-cover agent ever produced by the KGB, but that didn’t mean he could go back to the USSR and enjoy the gratitude of his country. Would he ever be promoted to a leadership position in the KGB or the Mikoyan-Gureyvich Aircraft Design Bureau, the agency that designed and built the greatest fighter aircraft? No. He had been in the U.S. for nine years. Before that he had spent three years in a school that spoke more English and acted more American than parts of San Francisco and Chicago or L.A. They’d have to reteach him Russian, for God’s sake. If they ever trusted him after his return he’d probably be given some know-nothing job or a pension and watched for the rest of his life. He might be allowed to emigrate, but he’d be safer from the CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency in Russia. Which didn’t say much. If they didn’t trust him they’d pick his mind clean of every scrap of information he had, then discard him. Either way, would his life be better in his homeland? What he really felt attached to, more than anything or anyone, was this plane that he had become part of, that was part of him …

Up ahead, it seemed like the entire sky had turned green. Search radar — a big one. There was definitely an AWACS radar plane up there. He was in the radar shadow right now, but in only a few miles the Colorado River valley would flatten out into the Sonora Desert basin, and then he’d be trapped. The last hundred fifty miles to the border was going to turn into a gauntlet — an unknown number of F-15 fighters in front of him, waiting for him to emerge from the valley. He was also going toward Yuma Marine Corps Air Station just ahead on the border, a base for two squadrons of F/A-18 fighter bombers, and F-16 fighters from Luke AFB in Phoenix could join in. So he could be facing six squadrons of fighters from four military bases on this last hundred-mile leg.

Then, he saw it: the AWACS radar plane. DreamStar’s threat receiver pinpointed the aircraft about a hundred fifty miles away, orbiting over the center of the Papago Indian Reservation west of Tucson at twenty-five thousand feet. And if DreamStar could see the AWACS plane, he could see DreamStar. At a quick mental inquiry, Maraklov had the threat-warning computer analyze the radar transmissions from the plane and learned it was the older E-3B Sentry AWACS, almost twenty-five years old but still a formidable radar platform; it was probably a drug-interdiction aircraft based out of Davis-Monthan AFB.

Suddenly, like some eerie Martian fog, green sky descended and engulfed him, and then the sky turned yellow. The AWACS had found him, started to track him. Maraklov tried to dodge closer to the river-valley edges to hide in any available radar shadow. No use. Once he was spotted and identified — an aircraft at two hundred feet above ground traveling at six hundred miles an hour could hardly be mistaken for a civilian plane — the AWACS would change position farther west to maintain a solid track on him in the valley …

“Unidentified aircraft ten miles north of Blythe, altitude twelve hundred feet MSL, airspeed five hundred forty knots. This is the United States Air Force air intercept controller on GUARD.” The radio message was being broadcast “in the blind” on GUARD, the international emergency frequency, to prove to him that he had indeed been spotted. “You are ordered to climb to ten thousand feet MSL, reduce.speed and lower your landing gear immediately.” Military aircraft being intercepted were ordered to lower their landing gear because as a safety device the weapon systems on most fighters were automatically deactivated when the landing gear was down. “Contact me on two-three-three point zero immediately; repeat, contact me on frequency two-three-three point zero.”

DreamStar’s weapon system did not deactivate unless Maraklov deactivated it, gear up or down, but it was a moot point — DreamStar had only one AIM-120 missile left and very little fuel, not enough for any sort of engagement. The F-15 fighters would not have much chance of catching him on their own, but with the AWACS up and locked-on they could be vectored in with high precision and even process a missile launch, all without one watt of energy being transmitted from their own radars. So DreamStar would have to use its attack radar to find the F-15s, and that would give away DreamStar’s position to them.

Maraklov set one of his radios to the discrete frequency but did not reply — that would be suicidal. But he did hear: “DreamStar, this is Colonel Harrell, Eagle Squadron commander. We’re following vectors toward you. We’ll be all over you in a few seconds. Climb out of there, slow down and drop your gear or we’ll consider you a hostile and blow your shit away. Answer up. Over.”

A one-second burst of energy on the attack radar told Maraklov the story — six fighters, three pairs, all at different altitudes, arranged along the Colorado River and spaced about twenty miles apart. The closest was about thirty miles ahead, only two hundred feet above ground. The AWACS had moved northward a few miles to get a better look down the valley and to get away from the radar shadows from the Kofa Mountains.

“We’ve got lock-on, James,” Harrell said. “I got you at my twelve o’clock, twenty-eight miles. My wingmen know where you are. The Marines have set up a little surprise for you. Hiding down here in the mud ain’t going to help. Give it up before you get yourself smoked.”

That bit about Yuma Marine Corps Air Station was not exactly true, but it came close. The Marines could easily set up a surface-to-air missile blockade of the Colorado River mouth from Yuma Marine Corps Air Station. Harrell wouldn’t reveal that, though. But the odds were starting to pile up here, and they were all against him.

There was no way to even the odds, but Maraklov decided he wasn’t going to just surrender. Giving up DreamStar was unthinkable. It would make everything he’d done pointless. But if the F-15s didn’t get him, his lack of fuel reserves would. Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for the F-15s to bring him down. It was time to put his DreamStar through its paces.

Maraklov pushed DreamStar to full power, trimmed for max speed and put her right down on the deck — fifty feet above the river bed.

“That was stupid, James,” Harrell called over the radio. “Very damn stupid. We’ve got you all the way. You can’t get away…”

Maybe, maybe not. But he wasn’t about to drive right into their laps so they could take easy shots at him. If they wanted him, they’d have to work for a shot. He had been cruising at about two to three hundred feet above ground, popping up occasionally to pass over bridges and power lines strung across the Colorado River. Now, two hundred feet would seem like two thousand compared to his present altitude. Using his computer-enhanced responses and DreamStar’s powerful radar in terrain-avoidance mode, Maraklov kept DreamStar less than fifty feet above ground. He did not try to pop up over tall transmission lines — he went under them. He could clearly see rafters and campers lined up on the banks, plugging their ears against the sonic boom that rolled over them as he roared past at Mach one — if he could have seen behind him, he would have seen a huge plume of white exploding off the Colorado River as DreamStar’s sonic wake crashed against the water. Birds pinged and slammed into the canopy and fuselage, but Maraklov kept going, too close now to be brought down by a damned duck.

Near the town of Picacho the steep mountain ranges on either side of the Colorado disappeared. He was only forty miles to the border. He broke away from the river and headed directly south for Yuma.

Suddenly ANTARES screamed “missile tracking” in his brain. The threat receivers had detected that an AIM-120 Scorpion missile had activated its radar and was tracking him — more likely, the F-15 had fired two missiles, since he probably was carrying two more and had at least three other wingmen with missiles. They had a lot of firepower on their side; they could afford to be generous.

Maraklov commanded a hard seven-G climb, almost straight up. He gained altitude to about a thousand feet, then flipped over and pulled hard in a nine-G descent straight down. Fifty feet above ground he yanked his fighter upright and pulled hard to the left behind a hill. The missiles followed his turns but overshot on the climbout, and when they turned to follow he had disappeared. The missile’s computer brain allowed the radar seeker to attempt to reacquire a target for three seconds, then tried to lock-on to any jamming signals in the area. None was present. The missile then began following steering signals from the E-3 AWACS radar plane and turned back toward DreamStar, but by then it was too late. The Scorpion missiles, designed for medium-range engagements at higher altitudes, ran out of fuel and self-destructed seconds later.

Maraklov rolled hard right and found himself back in the Colorado River valley near Laguna Airfield. He commanded DreamStar back down on the deck just in time to fly under a transmission line. At that moment, the scanner on the aft fuselage detected a growing heat source and issued a MISSILE ATTACK warning. An F-15 had dived down from its patrol altitude right on top of DreamStar and had quickly closed in to IR missile range.

In the literal blink of an eye Maraklov commanded DreamStar from max speed mode to max alpha — the slowest speed DreamStar could sustain. Within seconds DreamStar’s wings went from nearly flat to steeply curled; the two-dimensional louvers shuttled forward to redirect thrust down instead of aft; and DreamStar’s canards snapped upward, holding the nose high while the plane decelerated. In ten seconds DreamStar went from Mach one to two hundred knots — only DreamStar’s composite structure, lighter than steel but a hundred times stronger, could withstand the strain.

The two F-15 fighters had closed to three miles behind DreamStar when suddenly their quarry seemed to freeze in midair. At only a hundred feet off the ground there was no room to maneuver, especially with two fighters together in close formation. The lead F-15 broke hard right to avoid DreamStar, then managed to pull up hard enough to escape crashing into the low hills north of Yuma. His wingman was not so lucky — not able to keep up with the five-G pull, the second F-15 fighter pancaked into the desert floor and exploded before the pilot could eject.

Twenty miles to go. Gradually, Maraklov applied power and began to transition back to max-speed, being careful not to use gas-guzzling afterburner. He was over Yuma now, skimming just above tall buildings and radio antennae. The F-15s were still behind him but they weren’t attacking until DreamStar passed clear of the city. He screamed over Yuma Marine Corps Air Station with his airspeed nearly back at Mach one and saw F/A-18 fighters at the end of the runway, probably being held because of the F-15 fighters in pursuit. There was something else at the southeast end of the main runway, but he didn’t have time to make it out before—

AAA LOCK-ON, blared in Maraklov’s mind. ANTARES reacted first, banking hard right and pulling away as warning messages flashed in his mind and streaks of black raced past his canopy. It was an M173 Bulldog anti-aircraft artillery vehicle, a small tank with two 40-millimeter radar-guided guns that fired pre-fragmented tungsten-alloy shells out to a range of over four miles. There were only a few Bulldog regiments in the United States; Maraklov was unlucky enough to run into one. Without jammers, the only defense against the Bulldog was to fly as far and as fast away from it as possible — its twin cannons could pump out two hundred rounds per minute per barrel. Maraklov now had no choice but to kick in full afterburner.

ANTARES reported damage to several mini-actuators in the wings. One Bulldog was not an effective weapon against highspeed ground-hugging fighters, but even so it had been a narrow escape. The Bulldog was quickly deactivated as the F-15s came into range. Maraklov pulled his throttle out of afterburner as fast as he could, but the damage had already been done. DreamStar had no fuel reserves left. Every mile in any direction other than toward the landing point meant one more mile Maraklov would end up short of it.

Maraklov rolled DreamStar left and headed directly for Laguna de Santiaguillo, staying at one hundred feet above ground, flying directly over a small town. He activated the attack radar and completed a three-second sweep of the sky … the F-15 fighters had turned around, and at another mental inquiry he found out why — DreamStar was in Mexico, two miles south of the border, over the town of San Luis. He had made it.

Aboard the lead F-15 over southwest Arizona

“What the hell do you mean, turn back?” Colonel Jack Harrell, the Eagle Squadron commander from Davis-Monthan AFB, said over the scrambled radio channel. He lowered his oxygen visor with an exasperated snap. His four remaining squadron members were arranged in extended fingertip formation around him, two on his left and two others about a half-mile farther off to his left. “Tinsel, verify that last transmission. Over.”

“Eagle flight, this is Tinsel,” the senior controller aboard the E-3B AWACS replied, “your orders are verified. Permission to cross into Mazatlan Fighter Intercept Region sector one with live weapons on board has not been received. You must comply with International Aeronautics Organization chapter one-thirteen until permission to cross has been received.”

Harrell was livid. He had watched one of his best fighter pilots auger into the desert not two minutes earlier, and here he was sitting by while their target was escaping — and there was nothing between them but a lousy line on a map. Harrell made a decision — that line was not going to stop him.

“Copy, Tinsel,” Harrell said. “Understand permission received to cross into Mazatlan FIR sector one. Blue Flight and Red Two and Three, report back to Goalie for refueling. Red Flight is turning right in pursuit. Eagle leader out.”

“Blue Flight copies,” the leader of the second group of two F-15s replied before the controller aboard Tinsel could interject. As Harrell banked right, those two F-15s maintained their heading northeast toward Goalie, their waiting KC-10 aerial-refueling tanker. But the two F-15s accompanying Harrell stayed in fingertip formation of their leader.

“Eagle Leader, this is Tinsel,” the angry voice of the senior controller aboard the AWACS finally said over the command radio. “I repeat, you are not authorized to cross the ADIZ. Turn left heading zero-three-zero and climb to—”

Harrell shut off the radio. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the F-15 on his left wingtip raise and lower his airbrake to get Harrell’s attention. The pilot extended two fingers ahead of him, visible to both Harrell and the third F-15. Harrell nodded that he understood the signal and switched his second radio to the scrambled Squadron-only frequency.

“I thought I ordered you characters to hook up with the tanker,” Harrell radioed.

“If you’ve got radio or navigation problems, sir,” the pilot of the second F-15, Lieutenant Colonel Downs, replied, “we wouldn’t leave you. If you’re going after that stolen fighter, we’re sure as hell not leaving your wing.”

“We are going after that guy, aren’t we?” the third pilot, Major Chan, asked. “I’d hate to think we’re gonna lose our wings for nothing.”

“Tinsel sounds pretty pissed,” Downs said. “Sure you want to do this, sir?”

“We’re doing it, aren’t we?” Harrell checked his heads-up display, which had been slaved to provide AWACS-generated steering signals to the stolen fighter. He was pleased to find the data-link still active. “I’ve still got a steer on the XF-34. Lead’s coming right ten degrees, descending to two thousand feet. Two, take the mid-patrol at six thousand; three, take the high CAP at twelve. Let’s waste this guy.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

The two wingmen began slow climbs to their assigned altitudes. Harrell began a descent, following DreamStar’s flight path. Moments later he received a soft beep in his headset telling him that one of his Scorpion missiles had followed the AWACS’ data-link instructions and had locked onto its target. Harrell made sure his wingmen were clear, then radioed “Fox two” once on the Squadron-only frequency, and pressed the launch trigger …

Over northwest Mexico

The green “sky” surrounding DreamStar was still present, meaning that the AWACS was still tracking him, but Maraklov allowed himself a moment to relax. They had turned back. He had overestimated these reservist weekend-warrior fighter-jocks. They had a reputation for tenacity, for an itchy trigger finger, for not following the rules. These guys had more to lose.

Maraklov commanded a thousand-foot climb to pad his safe terrain-clearance altitude and began to retrim his engine from best-speed to best-endurance mode. There was still a chance he could make it. In best-endurance mode the fuel computer and autopilot would work together to step-climb the aircraft to take advantage of better flying conditions and greater endurance at higher altitudes, without wasting fuel in the—

He was startled by a sudden MISSILE LAUNCH indication from the tail sensor. Momentarily stunned into indecision, he called on ANTARES to execute an evasive maneuver.

Instead of diving for the ground ANTARES pitched DreamStar up in a hard climb, lit the afterburner, leveled out, then activated the attack radar. Instantly the radar image of Harrell’s F-15 appeared, dead ahead at five miles. ANTARES’ radar locked on and launched the last remaining AIM-120 missile at the lone pursuer. At only five miles and slightly above the F-15, the Scorpion missile did not miss. DreamStar then flew directly toward the flaming remains of Harrell’s F-15, dodging away right at the last moment. The moves were executed so quickly that Harrell’s Scorpion missile, which had dutifully followed DreamStar in its wild Immelmann maneuver, now locked onto Harrell’s flaming F-15 fighter and added its own destructive fury to the already doomed plane.

“Sweet mother of God …”

Downs banked left away from the blossoming fireball that erupted just below and in front of him. There were only a few seconds between when he left Harrell’s wing and when that fireball appeared. One moment his squadron commander was lined up for a perfect missile shot, at the closest possible range without getting into an inner-range warhead arming inhabit, the target straight and level in front of him; the next moment, the target had leapt into the sky, evaded the missile, turned and launched a missile of his own. Immediately after, Harrell was part of a cloud of metal and exploding fuel.

“Eagle Three, this is Two. Lead’s been hit. He’s going down — no ‘chute, no ‘chute …”

“I see him, Two, I see him … Jesus Christ …”

Downs took a firm grip on his stick and throttles. “I’ve got the lead. Take the mid CAP and follow me in. This bastard’s not getting—”

“Eagle flight, this is TINSEL on malibu”—malibu, FM frequency 660, was the Squadron’s discrete scrambled channel. Great, Downs thought, they found our so-called secret channel. “Eagle flight of two, we copy that Eagle Lead is down. Search and rescue has been notified. You are to return across the ADIZ immediately, or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”

“TINSEL, this is Eagle Two. That son of a bitch just shot down Colonel Harrell. Are you ordering us to let him go? Over.”

“We don’t have any damned choice, Downs.” It was a new voice on the radio — obviously the AWACS mission commander cutting in over the senior controller. “We can’t start a major international incident by ignoring the rules. You’ll get another shot at him when we get permission to cross. Now get your asses back over the border before you have to fight off the damned Mexican Air Force — and then you and I get to tangle. That’s an order from Air Division. Over.”

DreamStar was only a dozen feet above a rocky dry-river bed snaking through the Pinacate Mountains. Occasional radar sweeps showed the skies above him were clear, but that last attack was so sudden and so close that Maraklov kept DreamStar in the dirt to avoid any more sneak attacks. He stayed in the rugged mountains and dry desert valleys until he reached the fringes of the AWACS coverage zone, then slowly step-climbed out of the rocky terrain, being careful to stay under detectable radar emissions in the area. After a few minutes, as he cruised down the Magdalena River valley at five hundred feet, he was finally out of range of all American surveillance radars. The military radar nets from Hermosillo seventy miles south of his position were searching for him as well, but they were high-altitude-only surveillance radars and not capable of finding low-altitude aircraft. As he approached the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains he was finally able to climb above ten thousand feet for the first time and reestablish best-endurance power.

Not time to celebrate, though. Maraklov was starting to search for places to crash-land DreamStar, taking seriously the fuel-endurance figures he was receiving. He was three hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo with five thousand pounds of fuel. His best endurance speed was only fifty-five percent of full power — idle power, barely enough to maintain altitude and control. He was slightly over eleven thousand feet, which put him right at the minimum safe altitude for the region — he could see Cerrro Chorreras, one of the highest peaks of the Sierra Madre, looming off to his right and looking like an impenetrable wall, a fist ready to reach out and pull him out of the sky.

He didn’t have the fuel to climb any higher; in fact, the best routine would command a descent soon to prevent DreamStar from stalling at such slow airspeeds. The high terrain would then force him further eastward toward the Mexican fighter base at Torreon only two hundred miles away. After successfully evading four squadrons of high-tech American fighters, Maraklov thought ruefully, he might end up dropping himself right into the very appreciative laps of the Mexican government.

ANTARES needed to search its own database for landing sites within range. Not easy. DreamStar was well within the Sierra Madre mountains now. Below were hundreds of grass-and-dirt strips — every plantation owner, every mining town, every timber mill, every drug dealer had his own airstrip. Most were simply cleared sections of land or dirt roads. Many were on high plateaus far from any usable roads or towns — if Kramer and Moffitt, his two KGB contacts from Los Angeles, were bringing a fuel truck it would take days for them to arrive.

After a few moments Maraklov was presented with a chart of north-central Mexico with landing-site choices depicted. He quickly discarded the unimproved runways of San Pablo Balleza and Rancho Las Aojuntas. Likewise the paved airport of Parral — the computerized chart showed the airport had a rotating beacon and even runway lights, which meant it probably was used by the militia or local police. Too active to maintain any secrecy.

The last choice seemed the best, a paved sixty-four-hundred-foot-long runway named Ojito. Detail of the runway showed it to be like the valley road nearby, which meant it probably was the road, just widened and strengthened some to serve as a runway. Several of such quasi-runways dotted central Mexico, where air access was occasionally desired/ but there wasn’t enough room to build an airport. Ojito was a hundred miles northwest of the original landing site, and in these rugged foothills that meant at least a four-hour wait.

Once that decision had been made, Maraklov commanded radio two to a special UHF frequency. “Kramer, this is Maraklov. Come in. Over.”

The radio crackled, and the pilot filtered out the noise, careful not to decrease the radio’s effective range. No response. He was over two hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to hear him in the mountains …

“Maraklov, this is Kramer. We read you. Welcome; you made it.”

For the first time, Maraklov allowed himself to feel the exhilaration he’d not thought possible. “Kramer, listen. Change of plans. New runway is at grid coordinates kilo-victor-five-one-five, lima-alpha one-three-seven. Situation critical. Over.”

“We understand. We have been monitoring your progress. We are airborne and will meet you at your designated landing point. You are almost home. Kramer out.”

The official blue sedan screeched to a halt not four feet in front of Cheetah’s nose gear. General Elliott jumped up from behind the wheel, threw the door open and stood behind it, drawing a thumb across his throat. He looked mad enough to hold down Cheetah even if they used full afterburner. At the same time Hal Briggs got out of the passenger’s side, wearing a set of ear protectors, and holding aloft his Uzi submachine gun in an obvious warning. Patrick could see him shrug and shake his head. He had no doubt that Briggs would use that SMG on Cheetah’s tires.

“Shut ‘em down, J.C.,” Patrick said.

J.C. muttered to himself as he touched the voice-interface switch on the stick. “Engine shutdown, power on.”

“Engine shutdown. Brakes set. External power on. Clear to scavenge,” the computer replied.

“Clear to scavenge,” J.C. said. One by one the engines revved up to eighty percent power for ten seconds, then shut themselves down. Patrick did not shut down any of his equipment but left it on standby to have it ready when — or, looking at Elliott’s angry face, if — they received takeoff clearance. Soon the only noise left was the sound of the external power cart. Briggs holstered his Uzi as Elliott walked over to the crew ladder being put up on Cheetah’s left side, pushed Sergeant Ray Butler out of the way and painfully hauled himself up the ladder.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Have you gone crazy?”

“You know where I’m going,” McLanahan said quietly. “You ordered this?”

“Yes.”

Elliott stared at Patrick, then at the external power cart and the screaming its turbine engine was making. “Shut that damned thing off.”

“Leave it on, Sergeant,” Patrick told Butler.

Elliott jabbed a finger first at Powell, then at McLanahan. “You, I knew you were crazy, but Patrick, you’ve gone round the bend. James steals a jet so you guys want to steal one too? All even up—?”

“Don’t give me that, General. Don’t tell me you don’t understand what I’m trying to do.”

“DreamStar is long gone, Patrick,” Elliott said. “It’s up to Air Defense to force it down or shoot it down. There’s nothing we can do—”

“Like hell, Brad. We’re gonna bring down that sonofabitch.”

The change that came over McLanahan was startling but somehow familiar. This was the McLanahan, “Mac” not Patrick, that he remembered from Bomb Comp and from the Old Dog mission eight years earlier — cocky, headstrong, defiant. All part of what had attracted him to the young navigator from the very beginning. The guy was also a pro. He knew it and everyone else knew it — he didn’t sugarcoat with politics or bravado or fake expertise. Some of that in his role as a project commander had been kept under wraps, but the crash of the Old Dog and seeing Wendy Tork — or rather as Hal had told him just moments ago, Wendy Tork McLanahan — lying half-dead in the ruins of the Megafortress, had transformed him back to what he’d always been …

“At max endurance the whole way he only had enough fuel on board to go as far as Mexico City,” McLanahan was saying. “With that max alpha takeoff he made, plus all that combat maneuvering, his range has to be much less. I say he’s gotta be on the ground somewhere …”

“So what can you do about it?” Elliott asked. “If he’s on the ground—”

“Why steal DreamStar, knowing that he can fly for only a few hundred miles before he has to abandon it? Unless he’s getting help, unless he planned to fly DreamStar somewhere where it can be refueled. And the nearest place obviously is Mexico, where he was chased.”

“You don’t know that. What if he’s just flipped out? What if he just wanted to steal DreamStar for a damned joy ride? He’s gotten to be so close to that plane, he thinks he owns it.”

“He shoots down the Megafortress for a joy ride?”

“ANTARES could have attacked the B-52,” Powell broke in. “It’s possible for ANTARES to press an attack right after an evasive maneuver — as part of an evasive maneuver. It could have happened without James ever knowing about it—”

“Look, all this argument isn’t getting us any closer to DreamStar,” McLanahan snapped. “Old Dog got shot down — it happened. James has got DreamStar, that’s a fact. And Cheetah is the jet that has any chance of bringing him down. We’ve seen what’s happened to the others. The instruments on Cheetah can locate DreamStar, on the ground or in the air. If he’s on the ground, I can direct our forces in on him. The Mexicans can yell, but I don’t think they’d really try to stop us. If he’s airborne we can engage him. Either way we need to get our asses in the air. Right now.”

Elliott hesitated. McLanahan might be upset but he was also thinking pretty damn clearly. The question was: what would the Joint Chiefs believe? Would they agree to let Cheetah, with McLanahan on board, try to chase down DreamStar? Obviously they had several squadrons of fighters out after him already, and Cheetah was almost as unique and as classified as DreamStar — too valuable to risk in a major fur-ball dogfight. Would they decide that everyone at Dreamland was nuts and close down the place?

“I need authorization first,” Elliott said. “I have to call Washington—”

“There isn’t time for that. Every minute we delay DreamStar slips further away from us.”

“You can authorize Cheetah to launch at any time, sir,” Powell suggested. “Let us get airborne and headed south. When you get authorization we’ll continue the pursuit. If we stay on the ground until you get the word we’ll never catch him.”

“This is an unauthorized mission. I don’t own these airframes — the Joint Chiefs and the Pentagon own them. They’re experimental aircraft, not operational interceptors. It’s illegal as hell for me to authorize you to take off and hunt down DreamStar or any other aircraft. Can’t you understand that?”

“Sure, and now let me try to make you understand, General. I’m just not going to let any of that stop me from bringing down DreamStar. James is a thief, a killer and either a spy or a traitor. I have the plane to bring him down. As far as I’m concerned all the rest is bureaucratic horseshit that can wait until after DreamStar has been destroyed or recaptured. Now, you can give me authorization to launch, and you can get permission for us to pursue DreamStar after we take off. You can play political games if you want. But we’re leaving, sir, with or without your blessing.”

Which brought matters to Hal Briggs. Would he support his commanding officer or his best friend?

“Don’t even think about it, Patrick,” he said. “I can’t let you go against the general’s orders. Not now …” But then he turned to Elliott: “Sir, I’m a member of this organization, and I agree with Colonel McLanahan. Let him take off and chase down that sonofabitch. It’s the best plan we have.”

“If I get authorization …”

Briggs took a deep breath. “Sir, you’ve never requested authorization for half the plans you cook up. Building that Old Dog ten years ago was unauthorized — you took a B-52 air-frame, ripped off the parts and put the thing together in secret. That whole B-1 bomber mission to Kavaznya was unauthorized. Launching the Old Dog was unauthorized. Continuing the mission was technically unauthorized, and so was penetrating Soviet airspace and attacking that laser installation. You did it, sir, because it had to be done and you had the people and the equipment to do it.”

“This is different—”

“Why? Because it’s the colonel doin’ the rule-breaking and not you? Let me make a wild guess here, sir — Colonel McLanahan here is sort of a carbon copy of Bradley J. Elliott about twenty years ago. He’s ready to go out there and kick some butt, just like you did more than once in your career. I read your bio, General …” He rushed on, afraid if he stopped he’d lose his nerve. “They stick a hot-shot ex-test squadron commander out in some abandoned Air Force test base in Nowheresville, Nevada. They tossed you out, right? You pissed someone off and they stuck you in a hole in the wall in Nevada to get you d t of the way—”

“Hal, I’m trying to be patient, but this isn’t getting us anywhere—”

“But you wouldn’t roll over and play dead, would you? You turned Nowheresville into Dreamland. The Pentagon started tossing iffy projects your way. What the hell, sir, if the projects failed you’d get the blame. You proved them wrong. You made the projects work — and not always by following the book and getting authorization — and you got the credit. Pretty soon every new piece of military hardware went through Dreamland … Okay, now you’re the man, General, and you’re lookin’ at the new Bradley James Elliott — Patrick S. McLanahan. He’s pullin’ the same shit you did twenty years ago.”

Elliott knew that was right. He had been drawn to Mac McLanahan from the start, not just because the guy was the best navigator in the Air Force, but because they seemed so much alike. He also knew he got a kick out of watching the transformation of Mac McLanahan — it was almost as if he was watching a videotape of what had happened with him. It had taken a disaster for Patrick to come alive, to rise above the bureaucratic morass. Now the real McLanahan had resurfaced, the one that once treated a bomb run in Russia like nothing much more than a late-night training flight in Idaho.

Elliott turned to McLanahan. “Mac, smoke that bastard. Whatever it takes, do it.”

Elliott barely had time to lower himself off the crew ladder before Cheetah’s left engine began to spin up to idle power. When Briggs reached up to pull the ladder off, McLanahan grabbed it.

“That was quite a speech, Hal,” he said over the rising whine of the engines.

“I got a confession, buddy. I never read the old man’s bio. But I guess I hit pretty close to home. You hang around the guy long enough, you learn a little about what goes on behind the brass. Now get outta here and bring us back some rattlesnake hide.”

Over Ojito Airfield, central Mexico

DreamStar’s database on Ojito was accurate, except it failed to account for at least a year’s worth of unchecked vegetation. Maraklov had set up a computerized instrument landing system in Ojito, which used the database’s field location, elevation and information on surrounding terrain to draw a glidescope and localizer beam into the runway.

But Maraklov had to yank DreamStar away from tall strands of dense trees off the approach end of the runway, and when he reached the airport’s coordinates themselves he could barely see the runway through the weeds and junk scattered around. He had no choice but to ignore the low fuel warnings and go missed-approach on the field; then he adjusted his ILS for the obstructions and tried again. To use every available inch of pavement he had to drop DreamStar over a stand of trees at almost a full stall, applying power at the last moment to avoid crashing.

After touchdown he discovered that Ojito was nowhere near seven thousand feet long — another dense stand of trees and several buildings rushed up to meet him from less than two thousand feet away. Apparently a small corral and farm had been built on the little-used runway to make it easier to load livestock onto trucks, and the surrounding forest had been allowed to grow over the rest of the airstrip.

Maraklov threw the vectored-thrust nozzles and louvers into full reverse power, then hit the brakes. The left brake locked, its anti-skid system failed; it overheated and was quickly deactivated by computer just before it fused to the wheel. DreamStar skidded hard right, and only the lightning-fast application of thrust in the right directions kept the fighter on the narrow weed-covered runway. The left wing crashed into several small, rickety wooden buildings, sending chickens and pigs scattering in all directions. One of the small buildings burst into flames, ignited by the heat from DreamStar’s exhaust.

Maraklov gunned the engine. DreamStar leapt forward away from the burning building seconds before the fire reached the left wingtip. Scattering buildings in his jet exhaust, Maraklov taxied back down the runway to the opposite end, turned and aligned himself with the runway centerline, his engine idling. If troops or police came, he would have enough fuel to take off and get two or three hundred feet before flame-out — enough to nose over and crash DreamStar.

He activated the radio on Kramer’s frequency. “Kramer, what’s your position?” he thought, and ANTARES transmitted the query.

“Vstryetyemsah zahv dvah menootah, tovarisch,” Moffitt, Kramer’s assistant, replied. Maraklov wished there was a Russian-translation computer in DreamStar — once again he didn’t understand enough of what Moffitt said.

This was going to be a major problem, Maraklov thought to himself. They weren’t in Russia yet, but even in Mexico they were a hell of a lot closer to Moffitt’s turf than Maraklov was. He would have to deal with Moffitt and all the other Moffitts that he’d meet up with — the ones that didn’t trust him, the ones who’d think he might have turned, the ones who envied his life in the United States. He’d have to try to begin the transformation back to being a Russian right now.

“Yah … yah nye pahnyemahyo,” Maraklov thought haltingly. Like many before him, he thought, Russian is hard. But ANTARES did not transmit the Russian phrase, so Maraklov had to answer, “Say again.”

“Oh, excuse me, Captain James”—Moffitt was his usual charming self—”I forgot you do not speak Russian any more. Our ETA is two minutes.”

Maraklov had no time to think about Moffitt. Several villagers had begun to appear at the opposite end of the airstrip. Some went to work putting out the fires to their outbuildings; others pointed at DreamStar. Maraklov couldn’t tell if any were carrying weapons but the safe assumption would be that they were armed and shouldn’t be allowed to approach, even though they looked like backwoods villagers …

Now a large dark-green truck rumbled up the road leading to the tiny airstrip, about a dozen men piled in and slowly started down the runway toward DreamStar. So much for timid villagers,

Maraklov locked the right and the emergency brakes, set the engine louvers on full reverse, and advanced the throttle. A huge cloud of dust rolled up from the airstrip and almost covered the advancing truck. The truck stopped, then several villagers jumped out and ran over to the sides of the runway. This time Maraklov could see rifles and shotguns. The truck then began advancing slowly toward him, the villagers with rifles advancing on both sides.

Maraklov created another dust cloud to warn them away. It wasn’t working. He moved the louvers back to takeoff position. The truck was closer than a thousand feet now — he wouldn’t make it if he attempted a takeoff over the truck even if his wings weren’t damaged. There was no way in hell he’d risk losing control of DreamStar to these characters. If these guys came any closer … well, he’d survived fighters, surface-to-air missiles, anti-aircraft artillery, the best of America’s defense arsenals. Damned if he and his plane were going to give up to a bunch of peasants in Mexico armed with shotguns.

The villagers were about a hundred yards away when a thunderous roar echoed through the mountainous valley, drowning out the sound of DreamStar’s engines. Suddenly the airfield erupted in clouds of dust and the crackle of machine-gun fire. The tree-line on either side of the strip was strafed with heavy-caliber machine-gun fire, whipping the trees and branches as if they were in the grip of a hurricane. Not surprisingly the armed villagers bolted from the airstrip, and soon the source of the uproar hove into view in the center of the airstrip.

Maraklov was impressed. It was a huge Boeing CH-47 Chinook transport helicopter, an old American twin-rotor job that had to be at least forty years old. This veteran chopper, belching smoke that could be seen for miles, was ready for action — with a door-gunner on each side of the helicopter firing a gyro-stabilized twenty-millimeter gun, it was more a gunship than a trash-hauler. Its huge eight-bladed rotors, each some one hundred feet in diameter, barely made it through the trees and brush. The KGB had at least pulled out all stops to make sure DreamStar got out of the U.S. intact — no sooner had the monster landed than twelve heavily armed men rushed out of the rear-cargo ramp. Two hit the area where the burning buildings smoldered, the fires extinguished by the downwash of the chopper’s huge rotors; the rest split up on either side of the chopper and began to secure the perimeter of the airstrip. And then from the cargo hold of the chopper came Kramer and Moffitt riding aboard a small black-and-green fuel truck.

As Maraklov opened the canopy, a crew from the chopper brought a ladder up to the side for Kramer. Maraklov ordered the maintenance access panels to open automatically, and a crew began to attach fuel lines to the single-point refueling adapter. Other crewmen began stripping loose chunks of fibersteel off DreamStar’s tail section, while some scurried over DreamStar’s wings inspecting the damage from the Bulldog AAA gun. Amid it all two photographers were taking nonstop pictures of DreamStar.

Kramer, now on the top of the ladder beside the cockpit ledge, plugged a headset into a jack offered by a maintenance technician. “Can you hear me, Maraklov?”

“Yes, I can hear you,” the ANTARES-synthesized voice replied. He did not move, nor did he attempt to remove his helmet or raise his visors.

“Welcome, Andrei. What you have accomplished is incredible.”

“Thank you,” the computer-synthesized voice replied.

“Can you move? You must be tired. Can you get up?”

“I won’t disturb the ANTARES interface until we are safely in Nicaragua. The refueling can be accomplished with the engine running. I should launch without any delay.”

“I understand. We have begun refueling. We also have missiles and ammunition for your guns.”

“What kind of missiles?”

“The best we have,” Moffitt broke in on the interphone. He had climbed up the other side of DreamStar and was leaning inside the cockpit, watching with fascination as the multifunction screens flickered and changed at breathtaking speed while Maraklov monitored the refueling. “We have two hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition plus two AA-11 close-range dogfighting missiles and two AA-14 medium-range missiles. They—”

“Neither is enough,” came Maraklov’s ANTARES synthesizer voice. Moffitt tried to reach inside the cockpit to touch a button on one of the MFDs, and Maraklov immediately powered the monitor down until Moffitt withdrew his hand. “Without proper interface the missile needs to be able to lock onto a target without carrier-aircraft guidance. Neither the AA- 11 or the AA-14 can do that.”

Moffitt’s comment was predictable. “Your American friends always build the best of everything, don’t they?”

“Be quiet,” Kramer told Moffitt, and then asked Maraklov, “Can’t you use the missiles as a decoy? Perhaps they could scare off—”

“They’ll only add additional drag, and they could cause damage. I have no intention of letting anyone that close to me. I’ll take the ammunition for the cannon — that’s standard size.” Maraklov ordered the cannon-bay door opened, and the twenty-millimeter cannon lowered itself out of its nose bay, where crewmen, along with the photographers, began to examine it in preparation for loading. “Another important item: remove the left access panel just forward of the canard. There’s a black box marked ‘data transmitter.’ That unit must be disconnected as soon as possible.”

“What is it?”

“An automatic telemetry-data transmitter,” Maraklov told him. “It sends engine and flight data to any airborne receivers within a hundred miles, including the F-15F. They can decode the information and use it to track me. It can’t be deactivated by ANTARES. Do it immediately.”

Kramer gave the order to the senior crew chief, then: “What is your plan for escaping to Nicaragua?”

So he was going to Nicaragua, as he’d guessed. Okay, so be it … “I’ll stay in the mountains as much as possible and avoid military bases.” The main multi-function display screen flashed on, then scrolled through computer-generated charts of the route of flight as Maraklov continued: “I’ll fly west of Durango and east of Culiacan to avoid those bases, through the interior to avoid Aguas Calientes and Guadalajara, then into the Sierra Madre del Sur between San Mateo and Acapulco. I don’t anticipate problems avoiding Tuxtla Gutierrez and Villahermosa military airfields, and crossing the border I should be unopposed through Guatemala. The problems may come crossing through Honduras,” the computer-altered voice of ANTARES said — the metallic voice did not reveal any hint of Maraklov’s real apprehension or fear. “I may encounter large American forces from Llorango Airfield in El Salvador, and La Cieba and Tegucigalpa airfields in Honduras, but I believe resistance will not be major. There are only about two hundred miles to the Guatemalan border, through El Salvador and Honduras and into Augusto Cesar Sandino airfield — I can transit the entire distance in less than twenty minutes if necessary. I assume Sandino will be the final destination?”

“Ah … that reminds me,” Kramer said. “The Nicaraguan government was adamant about not allowing DreamStar into Managua — those people actually believe the U.S. will send the New Jersey and shell the city if DreamStar shows up anywhere near it. However, we have been provided an alternate base of operations that you will find more than adequate — Sebaco Airfield, north of Managua.”

Maraklov immediately activated DreamStar’s on-board database, and in an instant the computer had found the field and displayed a chart and airfield-information on Sebaco. “It’s a mining town with a dirt runway?”

“Your information is dated,” Kramer said, “although to tell the truth, we have made our own modifications only recently. Sebaco is now a functional airfield and military post, staffed by our people. The runway has been lengthened and paved and is protected by anti-aircraft missiles and artillery. The KGB Central American Command is based there, along with a small squadron of Mikoyan-Gureyvich-29 fighters. It will be home away from home for you — your first taste of homeland in some time.”

“Yes,” Maraklov replied curtly.

Maraklov, sitting immobile in DreamStar’s ejection seat, felt the life-giving flow of jet fuel into DreamStar, felt the energy and vitality as the precious liquid flowed into the fighter’s tanks — and yet, watching the efficient Soviet plainclothes agents hunting down the villagers, he also felt cornered, trapped, alone. The Soviet KGB forces out there — his countrymen — were in a way as strange to him as men from Mars. He even felt a bit of the typical American response when seeing pictures or videotapes of Russian soldiers or airmen: curiosity, puzzlement, even a little fear. They were the enemy — no, they were his countrymen, his fellow Russians. So why did he feel this way?

He looked back toward the nose of his fighter and noted the tall, beefy frame of Kramer’s assistant and chief neck-crusher, Moffitt. No matter what he’d accomplished, guys like Moffitt would always suspect him, figuring that as valuable an asset as he was to the Soviets he could be an even more valuable one for the Americans. Had he been turned? Was he a double agent? What if the returning hero turned out to be an embarrassment? At least he hadn’t forgotten how they thought; never mind glasnost.

At a mental command, Maraklov activated DreamStar’s attack radar and concentrated the energy on the right-forward nose-sector antenna-arrays. But after a few moments he turned the radar off. He would have enjoyed barbecuing Moffitt with microwaves — or at least scaring him.

He would have to deal with Moffitt, and the other Moffitts in Russia, very soon. Even being a hero could be dangerous. But he was getting ahead of himself. He was no hero. Not yet. So far he was nothing more, or less, than an uncommon traitor to the U.S.A.

“Tinsel, this is Storm One. Refueling completed with Goalie Three-Zero; squawking normal.”

“Storm One, roger. Strangle mode two and four for IFF check.”

“Roger, Storm One.” J. C. Powell issued commands to deactivate the two military-only data channels that would help Tinsel, the E-3B AWACS radar plane, locate and identify Cheetah. One by one, Tinsel ordered J.C. to turn each transmitter on until all were activated.

McLanahan lowered his oxygen visor. The waiting was the worst part … waiting for special clearance for takeoff, clearance to use the KC-10 refueling tanker, clearance to join up with Tinsel and the rest of the interceptor pursuers, and now they had to wait for permission to cross into Mexican airspace. He was itching to get on with the chase. DreamStar had such a long head start … He continued to check his equipment and thought about Ken James. It was nearly unbelievable. Apparently a Soviet agent had gotten an assignment into the most highly classified research facility in the United States and had gotten to be chief test pilot — hell, the only test pilot — of the hottest tactical jet fighter in the world. And had now managed to steal that fighter out from under the noses of a large security force and escape with it out of the United States right past four interceptor squadrons.

And the son of a bitch had shot down the Old Dog, killed all but three on board — they had found Major Edward Frost, the radar navigator, badly broken up but somehow alive a mile from the impact area; his parachute never had time to open before he hit the ground, they said. Colonel Jeffrey Khan, the copilot, ended up at the edge of the scorched earth in critical condition but alive. And Wendy … she was alive, clinging to life. The investigators said there was no way she could have gotten out by herself — Angelina Pereira must have sacrificed herself to save Wendy.

One man had caused more damage, more destruction and more death than McLanahan could have ever imagined, not to mention the military secrets he must already have turned over to the Soviet Union. And if this … this Maraklov had replaced the real Kenneth James before his assignment to Dreamland, he would have done even more damage. The real Ken James was a B-1 commander for three years. The phony one could have turned over enough data on the B-1, its mission, its routes of flight, its weapons and other top-secret information to destroy the strategic bombardment mission of the Strategic Air Command for years. And now, James — it was still hard to think of him as anyone else but Ken James — had DreamStar …

“Storm Zero One, data-link checks completed,” the controller aboard the AWACS reported. “Clearance not yet received to proceed through the Monterrey FIR sector one. You can join Eagle Zero Two flight of four over Luke Range Complex Seven, or orbit within three-zero miles of REEBO intersection at flight level two-five zero until clearance is received. Over.”

“When do you expect clearance through the sector, Tinsel?” J.C. asked.

“No idea, Storm. Our request had to be forwarded through Air Force to the Pentagon. Pentagon will probably pass it on to State. We lost it from there.”

Patrick checked his charts. REEBO was just east of Yuma, very close to the border; Luke Complex Seven was farther north, closer to the tanker’s orbit point. “Take the orbit at REEBO, J.C.,” Patrick told Powell.

“Tinsel, we’ll take the orbit point at REEBO at two-five-oh.”

“Roger, Storm One, cleared to orbit as required at REEBO. Climb and maintain flight level two-five-zero. Orbit within three-zero miles, stay five miles north of the southern domestic ADZ until given a Mexican controller freq and squawk and cleared to proceed.”

“Storm One copies clearance.” J.C. switched his outside radios to standby and said on interphone to McLanahan: “Now let me guess — this air machine ain’t gonna do no orbiting.”

“You got that right. Take two-five-zero, maintain five-zero-zero knots. When we reach REEBO start a climb to three-niner-zero and switch to max speed power settings.”

“We’ll be sucking fuel like crazy,” J.C. reminded McLanahan. “It’ll be real tight if we don’t have tanker support on the way back.”

“We need to catch this Maraklov and get a shot at him. What counts is nailing that bastards Right now I don’t really much care if I make it back.”

General Brad Elliott sat alone in the small battle-staff operations center of HAWC’s command post. A wall-size gas-plasma screen was on the far wall, depicting the southern Nevada Red Flag bombing and aerial-gunnery ranges in which the Old Dog was located. The airspace was empty except for the cluster of aircraft, mostly security helicopters and shuttles for the investigation team, around the Megafortress’ impact area.

Hal Briggs entered the conference room. He was carrying his automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and wearing a communications transceiver with a wireless earpiece to allow him to stay in contact with his command center wherever he went.

He studied General Elliott for a moment before disturbing him. More than ever, the sixty-year-old commander of Dreamland looked exhausted, physically and emotionally. Working out here in the Nevada wastelands was demanding for even the healthiest, but for Elliott it was especially tough. Briggs had seen the strain on him during day-to-day activities — increased isolation, moodiness. But this disaster looked as if it might push him right to the edge. He needed some close observation from here on, Briggs decided. Very close.

Briggs dropped a piece of paper on the desk in front of Elliott. “Preliminary report from the investigation team, crew-member disposition analysis.” Elliott said nothing. Briggs paused a moment, then decided to read on: “Two members of the crew never tried to get out; Wendelstat in the I.P. seat and Major Evanston, the nav. Right side of the crew compartment was badly chewed up; Evanston may have already been dead.” Elliott winced as if struck in the face. Evanston was part of the “great experiment” of the early 1990s, the project exploring the possibility of military women assigned to combat duties. A graduate of the Air Force Academy, she was easily the best qualified for the program, and she was accepted and soon became the first woman crewmember in a B-52 bomber squadron. Because of her engineering background, she had been temporarily assigned to HAWC to participate in the Megafortress Plus project — obviously headed for promotion. What a terrible waste.

Hal hurried on through the report to spare Elliott as much as possible: “I guess Wendelstat in the I.P.’s seat didn’t have a chance for manual bailout unless he was at high altitude.” Elliott nodded numbly. “Gunner’s seat was fired but apparently malfunctioned. Remains still strapped in place — I guess Dr. Pereira never tried manual bailout. Didn’t have a chance … Remains found in the debris believed to be of General Ormack; he ejected but landed in the fireball.”

“My God …”

“Khan might be okay, some bad cuts and lacerations, a broken arm but that’s it. Wendy Tork is in critical condition. She’s on her way to the burn unit at Brooks Medical Center in San Antonio. Her progress is not favorable. Ed Frost … died, sir. They said he never got a ‘chute …”

Elliott rubbed his eyes. “I want Tork’s progress monitored hourly. I want to make sure she’s getting the best treatment possible.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“What about the families?”

“Being assembled at the base chapel at Nellis, as you ordered,” Briggs said. “Dr. Pereira listed no next of kin. All the rest are on their way.”

Elliott shook his head, stunned. “This is the worst since the fall of Saigon.” He stared at the chart on the screen. “What the hell can I tell the families?”

“Tell them what you just told me, sir.”

“But they’ll never understand, and why should they?”

“They understood the sort of job those crewmembers did, even if they weren’t told specifics. What they need is every bit of support you can give them. They’ll want to know their husbands or friends or sons or daughters didn’t die for nothing.”

Elliott turned to Briggs. “How the hell did you get so smart?”

“Watchin’ you, General. I—” Briggs stopped and listened intently on his communications earpiece. “Message coming in from the Joint Chiefs. AWACS and the Mexican government are reporting another unauthorized airspace intrusion by Powell and McLanahan in Storm Zero One. JCS want you to stand by for a secure video conference at five past the hour.”

“Here’s where it hits the fan, Hal,” Elliott said. “The Pentagon probably thinks I’ve flipped out; they’ll relieve me from command—”

“There was nothing you could have done—”

“There was everything I could have done. Like I could have screened our test pilots better; I could have secured the flight line better; I could have forbidden Ormack to engage DreamStar. It’ll probably turn out I never should have let Cheetah go after DreamStar.”

“They can’t hang you for something you had no control over.”

Elliott sat quietly for a few moments, then: “As long as I’ve got control, I’m going to use it.” He picked up the direct line to the command post controller. “It’s something I should have done from the beginning.”

“You’re going to recall McLanahan and Powell?”

“I’ve made too many mistakes. I’ve got a responsibility here, and I’m taking charge right now.”

J. C. Powell had taken Cheetah down from forty thousand feet to one thousand feet and just below the speed of sound as they approached the area where DreamStar’s data-signal indicated its position.

“Showing thirty miles to intercept,” McLanahan said, reading the telemetry data being received from DreamStar’s automatic encoders. “Still showing him on the ground but with engines running.”

“Can you get a fix on his positon?”

“Already got it,” McLanahan said. “I don’t show any Mexican airfields on my charts, but there’re probably a lot of them around here. He … goddamn, just lost the data-signal.”

“Which means he’s got help,” J.C. said. “Someone must have deactivated the data-transmitter for him.” J.C. took a firm grip on his stick and throttles, experimentally shaking the stick to help himself concentrate — he was amazed at the extra amount of agility Cheetah demonstrated without the heavy camera on the spine. “Twenty miles. Stand by. Throttles coming to eighty percent.” Slowly Powell brought the throttles out of military power and to the lower power setting.

“Give me a good clearing turn in each direction so I can get a look,” Patrick said. “I’ll call the target, then we’ll come back around and try for a strafing run.”

“Guns coming on,” said J.C. He hit the voice-recognition computer button: “Arm cannon.”

“Warning; cannon armed, six hundred rounds remaining,” the computer replied.

“Set attack mode strafe,” J.C. ordered.

“Strafe mode enabled.” A laser-drawn crosshair reticle appeared on J.C.’s windscreen, and weapon- and altitude-warning readouts appeared near the reticle. Adjusted for airspeed, wind and drift by the computer and attack radar, the reticle would position itself where the bullets from Cheetah’s cannon would impact, no matter how Cheetah moved through the air. In strafe mode J.C. could select a ground target and the computer would direct the pilot which way to fly to keep the reticle centered on the target. It would also warn of terrain or other obstacles and warn when the ammunition count was getting low.

“Cannon’s on-line,” J.C. told McLanahan.

“Ten miles out.” McLanahan now began to transition to visual, looking out the canopy as he could, scanning the rocks and scrub-forested hills ahead for an airfield. The inertial navigator and flight director could fly Cheetah to within sixty feet of a waypoint, but if the airstrip’s coordinates in the database were not perfect they could miss the field. And in this dense, hilly terrain it was very possible to fly as close as a few hundred yards of the airstrip and not see it.

“Five miles.” J.C. made S-turns around the flight path, banking sharply up without turning so Patrick and he could get a clear look all around the aircraft for the airfield, including under the belly. There were lots of clearings, even several that looked like airstrips, but in the few moments they had at each, they saw no aircraft.

“DreamStar could be hidden,” J.C. said. “They’ve had time—”

“We’ll find it.”

“We’ll be able to loiter only a few minutes before we have to start back—”

“Just look for the damned — there it is, eleven o’clock low …”

Cheetah was in a steep left bank when Patrick called the airstrip. Powell saw it immediately. It was a narrow clearing on top of a small plateau, but it was wide enough through the trees so that the edges of the tarmac could be seen. It was also difficult to miss the huge black-and-green helicopter sitting in the middle of the clearing.

“A chopper. They brought in a chopper,” McLanahan called out. “If we can hit that Chinook, keep it from taking off—”

“Hang on.” J.C. pulled hard, using Cheetah’s large canards to pull the nose hard-left over to the helicopter in the clearing.

“Target lock.” The aiming reticle began to rotate. As the helicopter moved into the center of the reticle Powell said “—now!” to complete the command.

“Target locked,” the computer answered. A small square appeared in the center of the reticle indicating that the firing computer was now aimed and locked onto the helicopter, and a large cross, resembling the glideslope-azimuth flight director of an instrument landing system, interposed itself on the screen. “Fifteen seconds to firing range, six hundred rounds remaining … caution; search radar, twelve o’clock.”

“DreamStar,” Powell said. “His search radar.” As he finished saying it the search symbol on the widescreen changed to a batwing symbol.

“Warning; radar weapon track, twelve o’clock,” the computer announced.

“He’s got us,” McLanahan said. “But we got him first …”

“Disconnect.” The computer-synthesized voice of Maraklov boomed in Kramer’s headset. “Clear the area. We’ve been spotted. Aircraft to the east!”

Kramer, still standing on top of the crew ladder during the refueling and rearming procedure, turned and searched the horizon behind him. He saw it immediately, bearing down on them. A single F-15 fighter, dark gray, larger than DreamStar. Even from this distance he could see the missiles hanging on the wings.

“Skaryehyeh,” Kramer shouted to the ground crewmen. “Disconnect the fuel lines; move that fuel truck aside; launch the helicopter, move!” He jumped off the ladder, pulled it free and threw it into the bushes beside the airstrip. The canopy closed with a bang. A crewman had disconnected the fuel line from the single-point refueling receptacle before the truck’s pump was shut off, and a geyser of jet fuel erupted near DreamStar’s front landing gear.

Cheetah. As Maraklov issued the mental command to begin the start-sequence and prepare DreamStar for flight he knew it had to be Cheetah. He didn’t need to analyze the radar emissions or flight parameters. He could even guess who was on board: Powell and McLanahan. Only those two would be crazy enough to go on a search-and-destroy mission alone — but that matched Powell’s cowboy attitude and McLanahan’s emotional approach. They should have brought a dozen F-15 Strike Eagles or FB-111 bombers along for ground attack and carpet-bomb the area, plus another dozen fighters for backup. They were probably acting against orders — hell, they might be in as much trouble right now as he was. But he still had a chance to escape if he could get off the ground in time.

Maraklov closed the service panel and began to retract the cannon back into its bay at the same time that he activated the cannon and checked the system. The Soviet-make ammunition fed through the chamber — then suddenly jammed. It might have been the same caliber ammunition but the feed mechanisms were barely compatible. Immediately the cannon performed an auto-clear, which reversed the belt feed, ejected the cartridges where the jam had occurred and re-fed the belt, and this time the one-inch-diameter cartridges fed properly.

One last check as the engines quickly revved to full power. Two hundred rounds of ammunition had been loaded. They also had managed to onload full fuel in the body tanks and three-quarter fuel in the wings, about forty thousand pounds of it. It was enough for the seven-hundred-mile flight to Nicaragua at normal cruise speeds but not enough if he had to mix it up with Cheetah. This was not the time or place to make a stand — the order of the day was Run Like Hell; Fight Only If Cornered …

The huge blades of the supply helicopter began to turn just as several loud sharp cracks reverberated off the canopy. Dust and concrete flew near the aft-empennage of the chopper, and smoke began to billow out of the aft rotor. But the main rotor continued to spool up. The fuel truck originally high-tailing it for the cargo ramp was waved aside and ordered into the tree line out of the way.

Maraklov set DreamStar’s wings to their maximum high-lift, then had the computers check the takeoff performance. Barely enough. The computer said two thousand three hundred feet to clear the seventy-foot trees; there were only about fifteen hundred available. Maraklov activated the UHF radio on the discrete KGB frequency: “Kramer, this is DreamStar. Order your men to clear those buildings off the end of the airstrip. I need more runway for takeoff.”

There was no reply, but soon several soldiers ran out of the chopper’s cargo bay toward the end of the airstrip, and a few moments later the fuel truck followed. They used the fuel truck to push the burned-out buildings into the tree line. Several of the Soviet soldiers fell, and others began firing into the trees — apparently there were still Mexican villagers in the forest surrounding the airstrip. The KGB soldiers would take care of them. …

“Five hundred fifty rounds remaining,” the computer announced. Cheetah swooped over the trees, so close Patrick thought they had flown between a few of them. “Low altitude warning…

Thanks for nothing, J.C. thought. I only had the shot for a few seconds.

“Looks like that Chinook has some heavy guns on the side,” McLanahan said. “Better hit ‘ern from a different angle.”

J.C. banked sharply left, started a hard left turn, steering to put himself at a ninety-degree angle to his first strafing run to hit the helicopter from the tail. “Did you see DreamStar?”

“Behind the helicopter about a hundred yards,” McLanahan said. “He’s right at the north end of the airstrip, almost under the trees.”

“Had a fifty-fifty chance and blew it,” J.C. said angrily. “I won’t be able to hit him from this direction but if I can get another good shot at that helicopter while it’s on the ground, it at least should block the runway enough to keep DreamStar from lifting off.”

Powell shallowed out his bank angle to allow himself more time to extend his distance from the airstrip. But by the time he had rolled out on the flight director they saw a dark, massive apparition slowly rise out of the trees, trailing thick clouds of smoke.

“It’s the damn helicopter—”

J.C. hit the voice-command button, forced his voice to be steady: “Set attack mode infrared missile. Arm one missile.” The Sidewinder missile’s aiming reticle appeared on the windscreen centered on the slow-moving helicopter, and almost immediately the missile signaled that its infrared seeker-head had locked onto the helicopter’s huge jet engines. Before the computer could acknowledge his commands Powell had punched the missile-launch button on his control stick.

“Infrared missile launch. “ Less than three miles away, the Sidewinder could hardly miss … the entire rotor and top half of the huge helicopter disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire as the hulking machine rolled hard to the left and dropped into the trees. Powell and McLanahan were so close to the helicopter on impact that they could see the men inside …

But the helicopter crashed clear of the tiny airstrip. The runway was open.

“Damn it. Set attack mode strafe. Arm cannon.” McLanahan grabbed hold of the handlebars as J.C. rolled Cheetah hard up and right, struggling to get back into firing position. They rolled into a wings-level steep descent on the attack flight director, which was still locked in strafing mode onto the spot where DreamStar had been parked. It took a few precious seconds for Powell to readjust his eyes. When he did he saw DreamStar rolling down the runway. He tried to push Cheetah’s nose down and get off a few quick bursts, but his rate of descent was too steep and the flight director was ordering him to climb before he got too low. The few rounds he did get off impacted on the spot DreamStar had vacated just seconds earlier.

“I missed; he’s getting away.”

The instant the hulking transport helicopter lifted off, Maraklov forgot about the fuel truck, the buildings on the runway, everything except the takeoff. He saw the Sidewinder plow into the chopper, saw the machine explode and crash into the forest. But his attention was on the takeoff — until he saw Cheetah bearing straight down at him, the F-15 fighter so large it cast a shadow on Maraklov’s cockpit. How could he miss?

The feeling of imminent death was so strong that the ANTARES interface almost shut down out of sheer panic. But Maraklov’s last commands were executed, and DreamStar’s turbofan engine was at full afterburning thrust and the brakes were off. He expected the rounds from Cheetah’s M61 B2 gun to tear through his canopy any second — then, almost as quickly, he realized that Cheetah had overshot. His guns were firing but his nose was coming up too fast and so the shells were hitting behind him. He also caught a glimpse of KGB soldiers firing into the sky, futilely trying to shoot down Cheetah with AK-47 rifles.

Maraklov considered using the same takeoff trick he had used back at Dreamland, but the wings would not respond to the wingtip back-twisting that had worked so well before. The pile of broken and burning buildings at the end of the runway rushed forward. Smoke from the destroyed cargo helicopter obscured his vision, so that he could not watch the wall of green heading straight at him …

… DreamStar’s landing gear left the runway less than a hundred feet from the hastily cleared end of the runway, and the wheels were just tucking themselves into their wells when DreamStar cleared the trees. Airborne once again, Maraklov made a hard turn to the southeast, stayed in full afterburner, pushed DreamStar’s nose down to build airspeed and hugged the rugged mountain ridges as close as possible. ANTARES had computed several attack scenarios, but Maraklov overrode all of them. For now escape was his best defense.

McLanahan was holding onto the canopy sill, straining against the crushing G-forces to look between Cheetah’s twin vertical stabilizers.

“I see him,” he called out. “He made it off; he’s staying low …”

Powell continued his hard turn, executing a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and thrusting his nose toward the rugged mountain foothills. Once they were rolled in McLanahan checked his radar screen. “Radar contact, J.C., twelve o’clock low — I’ve got radar lock. Get him!”

Powell hit the voice-recognition computer-button. “Set attack mode radar missile. Arm one radar missile.”

“Radar missile armed.”

“Launch radar missile … now.”

Once again the radar-threat warning blared in Maraklov’s head but this time he was ready for it. It said that Cheetah was above and behind him approximately six miles — a poor position to launch an attack at low altitude. The threat-warning receiver also did not indicate that the Scorpion missile’s own seeker-head was tracking — which meant that the missile was getting its guidance information only from Cheetah’s radar. A significant disadvantage in the milliseconds game they were now playing.

Maraklov began a hard four-G inverted climb directly back toward Cheetah, presenting his smallest radar cross-section to the oncoming Scorpion missile, which corrected for the sudden climb but could not complete the turn in time to avoid plowing into the Sierra Madre mountains. ANTARES immediately brought its cannon on-line and activated its attack radar to track Cheetah in as it sped toward it.

J.C. watched in frustration as DreamStar dodged away from the AIM-120 missile, but he was ready for the move. “Set attack-mode air cannon. Arm cannon.”

“Cannon armed … Warning; radar weapon tracking, twelve o’clock. “

Powell touched the voice-command button. “All trackbreakers on and transmit.”

“Trackbreakers on and transmitting, “ the computer acknowledged as Cheetah’s powerful internal jammers activated — the jammers would keep DreamStar’s cannon from maintaining a lock-on. “I can’t believe how fast he can get his guns on-line. But he’s gotta be out of smash … Hang on.”

McLanahan needed no encouragement. J.C. pulled up into a tight climb, rolled inverted only five hundred feet above ground and again tried to line up on DreamStar.

DreamStar had easily locked onto Cheetah with the attack radar, and Maraklov could now track it through its sudden climb. But when DreamStar tried to follow Cheetah around to keep the guns on him, ANTARES warned that he was approaching stall-speed. DreamStar, which had not yet reached optimal flying speed so early after takeoff, had used all its energy in its tight evasive turn and its pitch-up to track Cheetah and had no power left to continue to track him with the nose high in the air. DreamStar’s canards pushed the nose down, and with that the guns were pulled off Cheetah.

Powell pushed Cheetah’s nose earthward and on the downside of the loop found himself lined up on DreamStar. He pushed on the right rudder to slew Cheetah’s nose to the right … no time to get a radar lock … just squeeze the trigger, hoping for a lucky hit.

“Altitude,” Patrick shouted. “Pull up.”

J.C. went to max afterburner and hauled back on the stick with both hands. He was so fixed on the image of DreamStar dead in his sights that he ignored the rocks and trees rushing up at him. Then he had to roll hard left to fly behind DreamStar to avoid hitting him. After that hard turn Powell found himself perilously close to stall speed and had no choice but to roll wingslevel at max afterburner and wait until he had regained speed.

“Dammit,” McLanahan shouted, “you had him, J.C. You could have nailed him—”

“This isn’t no Cessna 152 we’re fooling with, Patrick. He can turn and attack faster than we can. He could have launched a missile by now but he was only tracking us with guns — he never got off a missile-track signal. Maybe that means he doesn’t have any missiles.”

“Well, we’re below half-fuel right now. We need to tag him and head back, or we’ll be walking to Nevada.”

J.C. started a right turn back toward DreamStar. “Safe radar missiles,” he spoke into the voice-command computer. “Set attack mode infrared missile.”

“Infrared missile selected, warning; one missile remaining.”

“I got a visual on him,” Powell said. He touched the voice-command button. “Attack radar standby. Infrared scanner operate.”

“Attack radar standby. infrared scanner on.” Immediately the heat-seeking scanner locked onto DreamStar.

“He’s just running,” Powell said. “He’s not jinking and jiving anymore.” To the voice-command computer he ordered, “Slave infrared missile to infrared scanner.”

The Sidewinder missile’s seeker-head followed the azimuth directions of Cheetah’s scanner, but the missile did not indicate a lock-on. “We need to get in closer …”

“No,” McLanahan said. “His tail IR scanner has a greater range than our Sidewinder. Launch the Sidewinder in boresight mode — it should lock onto him after launch.”

“It’s worth a try.” It was easier than before for Powell to align himself with DreamStar’s tailpipe — Maraklov was indeed driving straight and level, accelerating as fast as possible. When he was aligned with DreamStar’s rectangular exhaust Powell commanded: “Infrared missile boresight.”

“Infrared missile boresight: caution; no target lock.” The missile would normally not launch unless it was tracking a target, but in boresight mode the missile could be launched straight ahead and the infrared seeker could attempt to lock onto a target while flight; it also was a tricky technique used against slow-moving targets to hit them outside the missile’s optimal range. It was not reliable because of the missile-seeker’s narrow field of view, but against hot targets that weren’t maneuvering it was at least a valid attack.

Powell hit the command button. “Launch.”

“Warning; radar target lock, seven o’clock.”

McLanahan strained again to search behind Cheetah’s twin tails. “Two … no, four fighters, two flights of two, right behind us. I can’t see what they are but they’re coming on fast—”

“I gotta break it off, Patrick—”

“No, stay on him; nail him—”

But even then it was too late. DreamStar had picked up the same radar indications as Cheetah, and the advanced fighter had made a hard break to the right and an even harder one up and down to shake off the radar-lock by the advancing strangers. A boresight missile-launch was impossible.

“Infrared missiles to safe. Set attack-mode radar missiles,” Powell ordered.

“Two jets going high, two coming in,” McLanahan said. “I can’t tell for sure, but they look like … they’re F-20s, Mexican F-20s … “

“Warning; radar target lock, six o’clock …”

J.C. yanked the stick hard right to stay with DreamStar, but it had regained its lost speed and was pulling away, staying at boulder level.

“They’re still with us,” McLanahan said. “Can you get a shot off anyway?”

“I think so … here we go …”

“Warning; radar missile lock. “ A missile was in flight, heading for them …

J.C. hit the voice-command button on his stick. “Chaff right.” The computer ejected two bundles of radar-decoying chaff from the right ejector rack as J.C. yanked Cheetah into a hard left bank, pulling on the stick until the computer issued a stall-warning message.

“No missile,” McLanahan called out, straining his head up out of the cockpit against the G-forces pushing him into his seat. “Didn’t see a missile …”

“They faked us out,” J.C. said, “they wanted to get our attention—”

“Damn it, get back on DreamStar.”

Powell began a hard right turn back toward DreamStar, but as he rolled out of the turn they heard: “American F-15 fighter, this is Mexican Air Force. You are directed to follow me at once.”

“Goddamn; there he is, left wing.” The F-20 Tigershark, the single-engine, high-tech version of the American F-5F Tiger fighter, was in loose route formation off Cheetah’s left wingtip.

“Number two is behind us,” McLanahan said. “Stay on DreamStar.” He switched to the VHF GUARD international emergency frequency. “Mexican Air Force, this is the F-15 Storm One. We are on an authorized search mission for Storm Two, which is at our one o’clock position. We have permission from your government to pursue and destroy this aircraft. Over.” So he lied a little.

“We have been advised that no foreign aircraft has permission to enter Mexican airspace. We will destroy both if you do not follow us immediately.”

“The XF-34 Storm Two is an experimental aircraft. It’s also lethal as hell. We will pursue and destroy it. Stay clear.”

“No. Follow me or you will be shot down.” The F-20 on Cheetah’s left wing dropped back a few yards and began a climbing left turn.

“Warning, radar target lock, six o’clock. “ The F-20 following behind them had activated its tracking radar again. At this distance he could hardly miss …

“I’m open to suggestions, Colonel,” J.C. deadpanned.

“DreamStar’s moved out to ten miles,” McLanahan said, checking his radar. “Those other two Mexicans are chasing him; but it’s no contest; he’s pulling away—”

“I’ve got to follow,” J.C. said, gently easing into a left bank. “That guy behind me will hose us if I don’t.”

“Damn it, we had him … he was so close … can you get away from these guys?”

“Sure. This guy ahead of us is so sloppy I can fill him full of holes right now, and I think I can get away from the guy on our tail. But then what? We’re into our fuel reserves as it is. After we lose these guys we’ll need afterburner the whole way back just to get within missile range of DreamStar, and then the best we get is a tail-chase until we run out of gas.”

“So do it …”

“If that’s what you really want …”

“What the hell does that mean …?”

“That I think you better think pretty damn hard about it. If you try to chase down DreamStar from here, we won’t make it home. You’ll risk Cheetah for a fifty-fifty chance of downing DreamStar. You’ve already violated Mexican air space and will take heat for that but if you don’t bring back Cheetah, you’re guaranteeing yourself a Big Chicken Dinner—”

“Cheetah was my responsibility. If I let James get away … we all go down the tubes. As long as there’s a chance, I’m not going to let this guy go.”

“You’ve done everything you could. Like they say, there’s a time to chase and a time to get the hell out of Dodge. I suggest we boogie.”

McLanahan hesitated. J.C. rolled out behind the lead F-20 and reduced power slightly. The leader reduced his power to move beside Cheetah.

J.C. tried the last gambit he could think of to get Patrick back to reality … “I don’t love chasing DreamStar over Mexico with two chilibeans on my tail and sucking fumes, but I can live with it. But you … you have something worth more than DreamStar back in a hospital in Vegas. Let’s get back and go after him another day.”

It worked. Watching the Mexican F-20 off their left wing, with one speedbrake raised to slow himself down, McLanahan realized J.C. was right. He’d taken an incredible chance and violated a few dozen rules by coming this far. He and J.C. had almost got James … they’d done everything they could … “There’s going to be a next time,” he muttered. “Bet on it.”

J.C. added: “The Russians don’t have DreamStar yet — a Russian has it and he’s still ten thousand miles from home.”

“So we’ve still got these Mexican guys.” He strained to search behind Cheetah. “Number two’s back there right between the tails “

“No offense to the Mexican Air Force,” J.C. said, “but I’ll bet these bozos never intercepted anything but a soccer ball. The lead’s got his power way back waiting for us, and his wingman’s right in our jet-wash. They’re both out of position. Hang on.”

J.C. jerked the throttles to idle and popped Cheetah’s big speedbreak. The lead F-20 noticed the sudden power reduction and, not realizing how slow he was already going, pulled back his power even more. On the verge of a stall, he had no choice but to scissor left and fall away to regain his lost airspeed. Meanwhile, the number two F-20, not watching Cheetah and distracted by his leader’s sudden departure, never tried to slow down. He yanked his stick hard-right just in time to avoid slamming into Cheetah’s tail, and had to spin away. At that moment J.C. retracted the speedbrake, went into full power and began to accelerate and climb away from the Mexican interceptors.

McLanahan was staring out the back of the large bubble canopy. “They’re still below us … not climbing yet …”

“Warning; radar search, six o ‘clock,” from the computer.

“They dropped from radar track to search,” J.C. said. “Are they getting closer?”

“I can’t see them, they’ve dropped back.”

“American F-15, this is Mexican Air Force. Follow us to base immediately. Acknowledge.”

J.C. shut off the VHF GUARD channel.

“I don’t think we can make it,” McLanahan said a few minutes later, using the computer to check their fuel status. “We’ll have to divert to a Mexican airport after all.”

“We’ll start a climb and then use an idle descent into a diversion base,” J.C. said, gently pulling back on the stick and starting a shallow climb. “Oh, well,” he sighed, “I haven’t been in a Mexican jail since high school. It’ll be like old times.”

“Sorry I got you into this, J.C. I’m going to waste that sonofabitch if I have to walk back to Nicaragua or Colombia or Bolivia or wherever he’s headed—”

Suddenly the number one radio, still set to the refueling tanker’s operating frequency, crackled to life: “Storm One, this is Cardinal Three-Seven. Over.”

“I got it,” McLanahan said. On the radio he replied: “Cardinal Three-Seven, this is Storm One. Over.”

“Storm One, this is Cardinal. We’re Sun Devil KC-135 out of Phoenix-Sky Harbor Airport, one hundred and sixty-first Air Refueling Group, Arizona Air National Guard. Set beacon code seventy-four; we’ve got thirty-one. We’re at flight level two-niner zero, orbiting fifty miles south of Tucson near Nogales. What’s your situation? Over.”

“Air-to-air TACAN beacon? I haven’t used that since I was a butter-bar.” J.C. checked the distance readout. “He’s still out of range, not picking him up yet.”

“Cardinal, Storm One is approximately one hundred miles southwest of Chihuahua. Fuel situation critical. We were about to divert to Chihuahua for emergency refueling. Over.”

“Copy that, Storm. I guess your boss wants you back real bad. We’ve been ordered to … how should I put it? … have a catastrophic navigation failure and come and get you. As I speak, our autopilot is mysteriously taking us south across the border.” A pause, then: “Air-to-air TACAN shows two hundred miles, Storm. Can you make it?”

“It’ll be close,” McLanahan said.

“We may have visitors,” J.C. added. “We left a couple sorehead Mexican F-20s in our dust.”

“They should have gotten word by now that you’re on an authorized sortie,” the crewman replied. “Your boss tells us that they finally authorized your overflight. But that’s not going to help you much. I hope you got what you came for, boys — I doubt there are going to be any high fives waiting for you.”

“No,” McLanahan said, “we didn’t get what we came for. Not this time …”