Day of the Cheetah

Sebaco Military Airbase, Nicaragua

Andrei Maraklov awoke with a start but didn’t try to get up — his muscles quivered with the slightest hint of exertion. He was incredibly thirsty. Beads of sweat rolled down from his eyebrows, and the dirt and salt stung his eyes.

He opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a firm mattress, his face buried in stiff white sheets. His arms were by his side. Judging by feel, he was only wearing a pair of briefs.

Suddenly he felt a cool sponge touch the back of his neck, and a young female voice said in a soft voice, “Dobrahye otrah, tovarisch Polkovnik.”

He had prepared himself for this, ever since deciding to take DreamStar out of the United States. In hesitant, poorly phrased Russian, he replied, “Vi gahvahretye pah angleyski? “

“Of course, Colonel. My mistake.” The sponge ran over his shoulders, across his back. He tried to look at the woman but couldn’t even manage that much energy. Now in a near-perfect midwestern American accent the woman said, “Good morning. Colonel.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Musi Zaykov. I am your aide and secretary.”

“Are you KGB?”

“Yes, sir. I am a starshiy leyt … I’m sorry — a lieutenant, Central American Command. I have been here in Nicaragua for almost a year.”

Nicaragua. Maraklov closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten. That explained the heat and the humidity. The events of his flight across Central America came back and invaded his thoughts. That explained his debilitation — he had flown DreamStar several hours longer than he had ever done before. He routinely lost four or five pounds on every one-hour sortie in the past, and this last flight, with ANTARES in combat conditions, had taken three hours. No wonder …

“I have been asked to notify the base commander when you awoke, sir,” she said, rinsing the sponge off in a pan on a stand by the bed, “but I’ll wait and let you go back to sleep if you want.”

“Thanks.” He made an effort and rolled onto his back, opening his eyes wide as he did so to help him regain his equilibrium. Musi Zaykov was sitting on the bed to his right. She looked about thirty, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a bright disarming smile. She wore a khaki bush shirt with the collar open several buttons from the top against the heat.

“Musi … Musi … very pretty name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About fifteen hours, Colonel.” He watched her eyes scan his body. “I’m sorry we could not provide you with better sleeping arrangements, sir. It was decided to leave you here in the hangar where the security units have been assembled. I’m sure air conditioning will be set up as soon as possible.”

Maraklov nodded. “Pass the water.” Zaykov quickly passed the pitcher of ice water over to him. He watched her over the rim of the plastic glass.

“They say you were close to death when they took you out of your aircraft,” she said, her eyes occasionally straying down to his abdomen and legs. “Dehydration and chemical depletion.”

“Ten pounds is unusual,” Maraklov said, “but dehydration and chemical imbalance isn’t. I have a megadose on vitamins and minerals every time I fly my plane.” She was fidgeting a bit on the edge of the bed, her breathing getting deeper.

She was beautiful, but was he imagining this as a come-on? If it was real, why?

“Leave me alone,” he said suddenly. “I want to get dressed.”

“I have been asked to stay with you—”

“I said get out.”

“I am a qualified nurse, sir, as well as an intelligence analyst and operative.” She leaned closer to him, inviting him to touch her body. “In your condition I do not think it wise to leave you alone.”

And he suddenly realized the real situation he was in. He was lucky the Central Command had only sent a “friendly” operative, an agent instructed to get close to him, become his confidante, including his sexual partner if necessary. Right out of Academy syllabus …

“You obviously didn’t place too well at Connecticut Academy,” Maraklov deadpanned.

Zaykov looked startled, but only for an instant. “I’m sorry, sir …?”

“You’re also bothering me, and I don’t want the KGB watching me on the john, even an agent with big tits.”

She didn’t blink. “Yes, Colonel, it’s true I am a KGB soldier, but right now I am here to help you in any way I can during your recovery phase. You have been through a remarkable ordeal, and you have an even more difficult one ahead of you. I think it important that you not go through this alone. All I ask is that you please let me help.”

So sincere, but she was using the exact hand gestures and body movements “Janet Larson” had practiced back at the Academy — her body, her mannerisms, even her accent were virtual duplicates of Janet Larson, who had tried to get him thrown out of the Academy and take away his chance to come to America…

“1 don’t need any help—”

“But—”

“That’s an order, Lieutenant. Now get your butt out of here.” Zaykov missed that bit of slang but got the idea, rolled off the bed and left.

The word was going to spread quickly that he was awake, so Maraklov went over to the tiny closet-sized bathroom, found toilet articles and towels and showered and shaved as fast as he could without making the room spin. He had finished and was on his seventh glass of water when the door of the small apartment opened and a man in the black battle-dress uniform of the KGB Border Guards moved aside, allowing an older officer in a dark green-and-brown camouflage flight suit to enter. The officer was tall and wiry — the flight suit, Maraklov decided, wasn’t just for show; this guy looked like a fighter pilot. He looked at Maraklov for a moment, then came to attention and made a slight bow.

“It is a pleasure to see you, Colonel Maraklov. I am General Major Aviatsii Pavel Tret’yak, commanding officer of Sebaco Military Airfield.” He walked over to Maraklov and extended a hand. “Welcome home.”

Maraklov shook his hand. “Thank you, General. But I think I’ve quite a way to go before I get home.”

“We consider this is a slice of Russia in the middle of Central America,” Tret’yak said with a smile. “You will be home soon. Until then, this base and all its personnel are at your disposal, and I will see to it that you are treated in recognition of your feat.” Tret’yak was bobbing around like a young flying cadet, showing his excitement at meeting Maraklov. “Tell me about your flight, and all about this magnificent aircraft. I took the liberty of inspecting it this morning. It seems a fantastic machine, no doubt the fighter of tomorrow … We must talk about your flight over breakfast.”

“Thank you, sir. I could go for some coffee and breakfast before we begin DreamStar’s preparations for the flight back—”

“Oh, we will see to that, Colonel. It is already being done.” Maraklov stared at Tret’yak. “What? You—?”

“Under orders from Moscow, we have already begun the process of dismantling the aircraft. In a few days it will be—”

“Dismantling DreamStar? What the hell do you mean?”

Tret’yak looked puzzled. “How else do you intend to get it out of Nicaragua? Do you intend to fly it back to Russia? It is sixteen thousand kilometers from here to Moscow, with North America on one side, the U.S. Navy in the center and all western Europe on the other side. I should think you would have found it dangerous enough flying a thousand kilometers across Central America.”

“But I don’t know how to take it apart,” Maraklov said. “I didn’t bring the tech manuals with me and besides, I don’t want to risk—”

“That is not out concern,” Tret’yak said. “We are pilots, not mechanics. When we are in the cockpit, we are in charge. But when we are on the ground the grease-monkeys and pencil-pushers are in charge.”

“That isn’t some rag-wing biplane out there, General. You can’t just take a few screws out of her and fold it up. DreamStar may be the world’s greatest jet fighter but it’s as delicate as an inertial guidance computer. If it’s taken apart, it will never fly again. Believe me …”

Tret’yak was obviously bored with the argument and anxious to hear about Maraklov’s escape from the-U.S. He shrugged. “There are tropical-weight flight suits in the closet. Get dressed. We’ll talk.”

“Sir, call off the dismantling until I can speak with Moscow. I don’t think—”

“It is already being done, Colonel. Now—”

“I said call it off, General.”

Tret’yak turned and looked with astonishment at Maraklov. He was, after all, a general. But then he softened, seeming to understand. “I know how you feel, Andrei,” he said, sounding like an older brother or father. “But these orders came directly from Kalinin himself. I must comply with them. It is an amazing war machine, I realize. You are afraid it will never fly again and I understand that — our scientists and engineers can get a little overzealous at times. They have little appreciation for what we do. But you did realize, Colonel, that they were going to get the XF-34, did you not? I cannot think of one instance where an aircraft stolen or delivered to another country in such circumstances was not used for study and research. It certainly never flies again. True, the MiG-25 that traitor Belyenko stole from Petropavlovsk and flew to Japan twenty years ago was flown a few times, but just for—”

“They can’t destroy DreamStar. It’s no damn lab rat. You of all people should appreciate that. DreamStar needs to be studied, true, but studied in one piece. We can train Russian pilots to fly her and develop an entire squadron of pilots who can fly her.” Maraklov paused, wondering how much of this he believed, how much was his attachment to DreamStar, his communion with it. “How would you, sir, like to be the first MiG-39 Zavtra squadron commander?”

Tret’yak broke out into a grin — he’d be dead meat in a poker game, Maraklov thought. “Zavtra? Has it been given a name?”

“Not officially, sir. But the 39 series is the next to be developed in both the Mikoyan-Gureyvich and Sukhoi design bureaus, and you suggested the name, sir. You said it was the fighter of tomorrow—zavtra means ‘tomorrow’ in English. So … the first fighter of tomorrow.”

“Zavtra,” Tret’yak said, nodding. “I like it.”

Thank God, Maraklov thought, for Tret’yak’s huge ego and the bits of elementary Russian that were coming back to him. “We can paint it on the XF-34 right away, sir — with your name as commander, of course.”

“This will have to be cleared through the engineer corps working on the XF-34—”

“MiG-39, sir.”

“Yes, the MiG-39. I will speak to people in Moscow. After breakfast.” He left with a pleased smile, and Maraklov hurriedly dressed and followed.

His apartment was in the back of a small administrative section next to the main hangar. He passed two guard posts, one outside his door and the other at the end of the corridor leading to the hangar. The last guard at the end of the corridor moved toward Maraklov and pinned a restricted area badge on his flight suit.

“Pazhallosta, vi mnyeh mozhitye pahkahzaht tvoye sahmahlyot, tovarisch?” the guard asked him as he pinned the badge on his suit.

Maraklov recognized that it was a question and made out the word for plane, but the guard’s stern voice also made it sound like a request to stay away from DreamStar. Maraklov ignored it, turned and walked away.

The guard looked at him. Another stuck-up pilot, he thought. All he did was ask him if he could take a closer look at his fighter. The hotshot didn’t even answer him. Maybe he really was more American than Russian now, like some were saying …

Maraklov had to strain to hold back his anger when he saw DreamStar. They had, indeed, wasted no time. Every access panel and maintenance door had been opened. External power was on the aircraft — and judging by the size and high-pitched whining sound of the power cart it was probably supplying the wrong frequency. DreamStar’s electrical system would kick off external power if there was any danger of damage, but if those engineers forced the circuit closed, it could do irreparable damage. Then they would have to ship it out of Nicaragua.

Tret’yak was returning from the administrative offices wearing a big smile. “Damn you, Colonel,” he said with mock irritation, “you have got to learn Russian again so I can stop with this damned English … I have a call in to Moscow outlining your concerns about dismantling the MiG-39. I expect an answer in an hour. Meanwhile I have no choice but to continue with my orders; the dismantling must proceed.”

Maraklov heard it like a stab in the heart, but there appeared nothing he could do — for now. “I understand. However, sir, in the future I would like to be present while any work at all is being done on Zavtra.”

“Granted. I understand how you feel. Having these cavemen tear into a pilot’s airplane is like watching your mistress out with another man — you want to tear the man’s eyes out, but there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Maraklov had to suppress a smile. Tret’yak was straight out of central casting, a real anachronism. But at least for now he was dazzled enough by Andrei Maraklov, his aircraft and his feat in flying to Nicaragua that he was being cooperative. But that wouldn’t last long if Moscow insisted on ripping DreamStar apart.

If orders came to go on dismantling DreamStar, Maraklov thought, as Tret’yak led him away to the chow hall, he would have to think of something else. Something drastic. He didn’t rescue DreamStar from mothballs in the U.S. to have it become heaps of fibersteel and electronics scattered around laboratories all across eastern Europe. DreamStar didn’t deserve to die. At least not without a fight …

Washington, D.C

“All our ground security units and anti-air missile units were at full readiness and responded properly,” General Brad Elliott was saying. “The XF-34A was able to elude all of our area defenses, which is what the aircraft was designed to do, and it evaded or defended itself against all other airborne interceptor units …

“The responsibility for the loss of the XF-34 is mine. It was my responsibility to make sure that personnel assigned to HAWC had the proper background investigations and security checks; it was my responsibility to secure our aircraft against attack, sabotage or theft. And it was my responsibility to do everything in my dower to repel any attacks or hostile actions against personnel and resources in my center …”

The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office, listening to Elliott’s mea culpa. With him was the Attorney General, Richard Benson, his brother-in-law and, it was said, closest adviser; Paul Cesare, the President’s Chief of Staff; Army General William Kane, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; General Martin Board, Air Force Chief of Staff; William Stuart, Secretary of Defense; Deborah O’Day, the National Security Adviser; and Speaker of the House and ranking congressional Democrat Christopher Van Keller, another close adviser and personal friend of President Lloyd Taylor.

“Your ground forces — you said you had two armed combat vehicles on the ramp at the time,” Attorney General Benson said, “and you still couldn’t stop that aircraft?”

“That’s correct.”

“What are these vehicles armed with?”

“Twelve-point-three-millimeter — half-inch — heavy machine guns. They also carry two armed security troops. They’re armed with standard M-16 rifles. Some have M-203 infantry grenade launchers as well.”

“And with all that they were ineffective?”

“Yes.” It was the n-th time he had heard the word “ineffective” during this half-hour briefing, along with “incompetent” and “irresponsible.” … “But the infiltrators set up remote-controlled mortars with concussion grenade rounds,” Elliott added. “They were relatively light ordnance, but at close range and against soldiers on foot they were very effective. It gave James enough time to taxi away and take off.”

“Kenneth James?” Defense Secretary Stuart said. “You mean Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov.” Stuart fixed an angry stare at Elliott. “Well, at least this happened out in Dreamland, we have a chance of keeping it out of the press. I’ve had my staff scan James’ record, and they’re squeaky-clean as far back as we can go. But that’s the bad news. We didn’t start keeping close personal records on him until he applied for admission to the Air Force Academy. It’s hard to believe, but I think this Maraklov was inserted then, as a cadet. He apparently worked his way through the system and found himself in Dreamland—”

“And as the test pilot for our most high-tech aircraft,” Benson added. “A goddamned Russian spy flying our best fighter for two years…”

“And you take responsibility for this James, or Maraklov, being in your organization, General Elliott?” the President said.

“Yes, sir.” Elliott had rehearsed a series of explanations in his mind — the fact that Maraklov had eluded ten years of Department of Defense security investigations before coming to Dreamland being the chief argument — but instead he said, “If I had uncovered Maraklov’s infiltration earlier, the XF-34 wouldn’t be in Soviet hands now.”

“I agree,” the President said. “Although the problem obviously began well before Maraklov entered your organization, Dreamland is the most sensitive research installation we have. You have security measures and procedures available to you that are not available to other commanders. But even with all these measures, you failed to present this. And that resulted in the deaths of eleven military and civilian personnel, the loss of two fighter aircraft and one B-52 bomber, millions of dollars of damage and the theft of a hugely valuable experimental fighter.”

Taylor paused, made a note in his desk book. “But my predecessor here held you in very high regard, General. He made a point of recommending that I allow Dreamland to remain in operation and under your command, even after your injury following that … mission to Russia. I took his advice because I knew he meant it and not because he needed a favor. I kept Dreamland open despite your enormous budget. And I kept you in charge despite numerous calls for your mandatory retirement. You’ve been doing some remarkable work and up to now have a fine record, even though much of it can’t be publicized … Well, Dreamland and the Advanced Weapons Center is to stop operations immediately until a full investigation can be conducted. General Elliott, you will see to it that your unit is properly closed and secured so that any evidence is kept intact. When the investigation is convened you will provide any and all assistance asked for. When the investigation is finished … I’m sorry to say I will accept your request for retirement.”

Elliott said nothing.

“The Mexican government was demanding I hand over your head on a platter for sending that F-15 into their airspace without permission. You can thank the Speaker here for defusing that one.”

“Deborah O’Day did the legwork,” Speaker Van Keller said. Elliott turned to look at the fiftyish, very attractive National Security Adviser. Deborah O’Day … she’d had a career that Elliott had always found amazing for a woman, even in the eighties and nineties — a former professor at the Center for Strategic Studies in Washington, former Ambassador to the United Nations during the previous administration, and the first woman to hold the position as special assistant to the President on national security matters. It had been rumored that her appointment had been made only because of political expediency — Taylor was still a chauvinist of the fifties and figured he needed a woman on his White House staff for show — but O’Day had surprised him with her talent, insight and take-charge attitude. She nodded slightly to Elliott, who was surprised to see a friendly reaction in that place.

“I thought the Mexican government was dragging their heels in allowing us permission to pursue the XF-34 into their airspace,” O’Day said. “I reminded the commander of Mexican air defense forces of the times their pilots have crossed into our airspace and even landed in our airports, supposedly by mistake.”

Chief of Staff Cesare broke in: “But it made the President look bad, not only in their eyes but in the eyes of the world. One hotshot Reserve fighter pilot was bad enough, and he got himself killed. Then we send another plane, and he almost gets killed. The whole incident makes the Air Force look like Keystone Kops in flight suits, and it made the White House look like we weren’t in control.”

“Not to mention that relations are bad enough between us and Mexico,” Secretary of Defense Stuart said, “without us shooting missiles all over their territory.”

General Kane, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, turned to General Board. “I expect to see the discharge papers on those crewmen that violated Mexican airspace.”

Board nodded unhappily.

“That would be unwise, sir,” Elliott said to the President. What the hell, he might as well speak up … “The first two F-15 pilots were following orders by going along with their formation leader. They’re trained not to leave their leader’s wing under any circumstances, and especially if they’re involved in a hostile situation. They turned back as soon as they lost their leader, as ordered. The crew of Cheetah was following my orders. After DreamStar downed the F-15s, I knew that the advanced-technology F-15 from Dreamland was the only fighter capable of going head-to-head with the XF-34, so I ordered Cheetah armed to pursue DreamStar at best speed.”

“General Elliott,” Secretary Stuart said, “do you think you have your own private air force out there? You don’t order an attack on an enemy airfield; the President of the United States does that. You don’t authorize military forces to cross a foreign border; the President does.”

“There wasn’t time to get permission, Mr. Secretary. If we wanted DreamStar back, Cheetah was our best hope. There wasn’t time to debate the question—”

“ ‘Wasn’t time’? That’s bullshit, General. You don’t ignore the military chain of command because you think you don’t have the time. What was next — bomb Mexico for letting that plane get away? Nuke Mexico City?”

Deborah O’Day spoke up. “I’m familiar with General Elliott’s record, and I think he acted at least understandably. If his crewmen could have stopped. DreamStar, they and he would have been called heroes. He took a risk; it almost paid off … The question is, what do we do about DreamStar now?”

“Do we even know precisely where this DreamStar is right now?” the President asked.

“We tracked it almost its entire flight,” General Board said, “via the Reserve 707 AWACS at first, then by an advanced 767 AWACS launched from Oklahoma and patrolling off-shore over the Gulf. The XF-34 successfully evaded attack by Mexican and Honduran fighter patrols, with a little help from Nicaraguan interceptors, and it landed in Nicaragua.”

Board nodded to an assistant who put a mounted chart of Central America up on an easel in the center of the Oval Office. “The fighter was last seen on radar somewhere north of Managua. We believe it’s being kept at a small, isolated valley airbase fifty miles north of Managua called Sebaco. The base is run by the Soviet military — more specifically, by the KGB.”

He turned to the President. “Sir, I’ve ordered satellite reconnaissance of the area. Photo observation by aircraft would be a good idea too, perhaps by the old SR-71 Blackbird still operated by the CIA, but Managua is heavily defended by anti-aircraft artillery and missiles and is a riskier operation. A soft probe is also recommended.”

“A ‘soft probe.’ You mean agents?”

“CIA has assets in Managua that can possibly get close enough to verify that the XF-34 is at Sebaco,” Board said.

“And if they do? Let’s say they have it at Sebaco, or in Managua. We’re sure as hell not going to go in with the Eighty-second Airborne or the Atlantic Second Fleet and start a war to retrieve a jet fighter …”

“Excuse me, sir,” Elliott said, “but it’s not just another jet fighter.”

“Hold it. Hold on one minute, General,” the President said. “I was waiting for you to say that. Let me tell you right now, General, and all of you in this room — that XF-34 is just another jet fighter in the large scheme of things. It’s not some magical war machine, no matter how advanced it is. It’s very important, damn right, but the United States won’t start a shooting war with the Soviets or anybody else over this aircraft. Sure, the sonofabitches infiltrated our base, stole that plane, killed our people. We’ll lodge protests; we’ll demand the plane back; we’ll coerce and threaten as much as possible. I’m betting they’ll deny having it. They can stall forever by denying everything we say. Even if we have pictures, they can say the photos were faked. And if we do produce irrefutable evidence, they’ll have a propaganda field day … ‘Soviet agent infiltrates top-secret American military base, steals top-secret experimental aircraft.’ The condemnation of them will be more than drowned out by the laughing aimed at us.”

Elliott hoped he never needed to look at that much of the so-called big picture. God … “We can’t let them get away with it,” he persisted.

“They have gotten away with it, General Elliott,” the President said. “For all we know they could be taking it apart right now and shipping it off to Moscow. What would you have us do? Intercept every ship, every aircraft, every submarine that leaves Nicaragua, board it and search for a component to a fighter plane? Face it, Elliott — you lost it. We lost it.”

The President glared at Elliott’s taut face, shook his head. “I’ll ask Dennis Danahall at State to lodge a stiff protest with the Soviets. We do have that tape of that agent — what’s his name? Maraklov …? admitting he was a KGB agent.”

“The KGB will say he was just a nut-case American soldier,” General Kane said, “claiming to be a Russian spy. We’ve had our share …”

“I’m still going to order Dennis to protest this incident in the strongest language. I’ll ask for the return of the aircraft and compensation to the families of the crew on that B-52 and the fighters that were shot down during the chase. I want some options we can use in case when they give us the runaround. We can threaten to cancel our participation in that joint trip to Mars in 1998 … I was never in favor of that cockeyed idea anyway. And we can—”

“We’ve already made a substantial commitment to the Mars project, Lloyd,” Richard Benson said.

“Well, State has got to think of something to back up our protest. Kick out some of their embassy staff: raid one of their consulates …”

“Sir, those are all positive steps …” Elliott began, steaming. “But—”

“Glad you think so, General.” The President motioned to his chief of staff, Cesare, who quickly rose and moved across to open the inner door to the Oval Office; to the generals in the room, opening a door was a cue to stop talking, part of their fear of being overheard outside. To the others it was word that the meeting was over. Both messages were lost on Elliott.

“Mr. President, none of these actions will help us get DreamStar hack. We could use some very low-level activities that can send a clear message that we mean business. I have some suggestions—”

“You have your orders, General. Good morning.” Cesare, a large, ex-football player, stepped casually in front of Elliott, physically shutting off the conversation.

Elliott turned and left the Oval Office. He was heading for the main hallway to the rear portico when he spotted Deborah O’Day ahead and called out to her.

She turned and waited as he walked up to her. She was a bit younger than Elliott, with long dark hair flecked with gray, bright blue eyes, and an athletic figure. Interesting about her eyes, Elliott thought — there were men and women he had worked with for years but still had no idea what color their eyes were. Now he met this woman for the first time and noticed her eyes right away.

“Mrs. O’Day …”

“Miss O’Day, General,” she said, taking his hand and returning a firm grip. “But that’s the Oval Office name. In the halls it’s Debbie.”

Elliott smiled. He hadn’t done this kind of byplay maneuvering in years. “And I’m Brad.”

They walked along the corridor until they came to an open doorway with a female Marine Corps officer behind a computer terminal and a male secretary leafing through some files inside the office. The secretaries’ desks flanked a pair of closed oaken doors.

The Marine moved quickly to her feet when O’Day entered the office, but her eyes were on Elliott. “Good morning,” she said. “Intelligence digest is on your terminal, ma’am. Coffee’s fresh. Good morning, General Elliott.”

“Thank you, Major. General Bradley Elliott, Major Marcia Preston, my operations officer. General Elliott is the director of—”

“The High-Technology Advanced Weapons Center. I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Major.”

The male secretary stood, ignored Elliott and handed O’Day a folder full of papers. “For your signature. I need them ASAP.”

“General Elliott, Matt Conkle, my secretary.” Preston hit the remote door unlock switch, and Elliott followed O’Day into her office and immediately heard the door lock behind him.

“Your secretary isn’t exactly a friendly type,” Elliott said.

“He hates the idea of being a secretary to a woman, even if she’s the National Security Adviser. He’s fine in his job, though. Marcia Preston is a rising star. Was the Marine Corps’ first female F/A-18 fighter pilot. She was good. Very good. But she got so much heat from being a female pilot that she was bounced out for allegedly trying to seduce her squadron commander. Some things never change. I discovered her filing memos in San Diego, still wearing her flight suit, and brought her to Washington. She’d rather be in the cockpit — she flies my helicopter and jet — and deserves whatever she wants. She just might be giving you a call some time.”

“I’m probably not going to be around — and maybe Dreamland won’t be there.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” O’Day said, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and Elliott and seating herself behind her desk. Elliott eased himself into a leather-covered armchair and rebent his right leg under the chair.

O’Day noticed. “That’s from your mysterious mission into the Soviet Union eight years ago?” Elliott nodded. “You know, I can’t find any real information on that mission in our records. It’s like it never happened.”

“It’s better that way. It also took the lives of some fine men.”

“That was the B-52 that the Russian spy shot down, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. We called it the Old Dog. We had rebuilt and upgraded it after the mission over Russia. It was the prototype of a new escort aircraft for strategic bombers. It was on its first operational flight … Did you know that two crewmen from my Old Dog mission died in that crash yesterday?”

“My God.” She sat silent for a long moment.

“The nav on that flight was one of the Great Experiment female combat flyers, in the same group as Marcia Preston — the first female B-52 navigator. There was one other female on that B-52,” Elliott continued. “A civilian. She was also on my Old Dog crew back in 1988. She’s in critical condition at Brooks Medical Center in San Antonio. Her husband was on my Old Dog crew too. He was one of the F-15 crew that went into Mexican airspace and tried to get the XF-34—as a matter of fact he’s the DreamStar project director, Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan.”

“Jesus. Was McLanahan one of the men killed in the dogfights with DreamStar?”

“No. He was chased away by the Mexican Air Force, missed his chance to try to even the score … I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me in there, and for your help with the Mexican government. I think you see how important this is to me. Maybe this sounds too dramatic, but those men and women are my life. I have to watch out for them — now more than ever.”

“Well, now that I know that McLanahan was one of the men in those F-15s, I’m glad I stuck up for him and you. I don’t think General Kane will push for any official action against McLanahan or anyone else involved.”

“I appreciate it just the same … Look, I’m not trying to start a palace revolt here, but I just can’t stand the idea of sitting by while DreamStar is chopped up into pieces and shipped off to Moscow. The President wasn’t interested in my idea, but maybe you would be …”

“I’m interested,” O’Day said. Elliott couldn’t be sure she meant it or was just defusing him, but he had little choice right now, he realized. “It’s true, Brad, the President isn’t interested … But what’s your idea?”

Elliott spread his hands. “Simple. Make the Nicaraguans, and the Russians, think we’re going to strike at Managua … Look, I’m not suggesting that we send the Second Fleet over to shell Managua, but we could send it out into the Gulf, on one of the Pentagon’s famous ‘previously scheduled’ exercises. We could land the Eighty-second Airborne next door in Honduras. That could shake them up enough at least to start dealing with us—”

“And what if? The bad old ‘what if’ … it doesn’t work?”

“Then we have no choice. Mount a surgical strike. Photo intelligence would be invaluable. If we can pinpoint where DreamStar is being kept, we can plan a discreet attack—”

“To destroy it?”

Elliott nodded. “Afraid so. We sure as hell couldn’t fly it out of Nicaragua—”

“Why not?”

Elliott stopped, looked at her. He had no ready answer to that one. “Well, first of all, it would be nearly impossible to get near it anywhere on that KGB base. Second, we’ve no one qualified to fly it. James — Maraklov — was the only pilot …”

“The only one?”

Elliott’s mind was racing now — Deborah O’Day seemed to be opening up possibilities he hadn’t imagined. “We’ve had several men fly DreamStar’s simulator, but only one man has actually flown DreamStar before. And no one has been able to control it as well as James.”

“Well, you could use him then, couldn’t you? If all he’d have to do is take off and land …?”

“True, if we could provide him enough air cover during his escape … steal DreamStar back … There are a lot of ‘ifs’ here. If DreamStar is still flyable, if we can pinpoint DreamStar’s location, if we can get J. C. Powell on that base …”

“J. C. Powell?”

“My chief test pilot. He checked out in DreamStar in the early phase but was replaced by James. He just might do it. He can’t dogfight in DreamStar like James, but he could get DreamStar off the ground and land it again.”

“So if we knew exactly where DreamStar was, and if it wasn’t already taken apart,” O’Day said, “we’d need a plan to get this Powell on Sebaco and into DreamStar’s cockpit. Then we’d have to arrange air cover for him after takeoff since he wouldn’t be able to defend himself …”

“Right … put Powell in under some sort of diversionary cover,” Elliott said. “Hit Sebaco with a small air strike or guerrilla force and insert Powell. Get him into DreamStar’s cockpit. Use the guerrillas to blow a path for him out to the airstrip. With a carrier from the Second Fleet sitting in the Gulf of Mexico we could provide enough air cover to fight off the Nicaraguan air force. A short flight to Texas and we’d be home free.”

“Sounds like a plan, General. Now you have just one problem…”

“I know. The President. It’s what he doesn’t want to do. That’s where I need your help. You have access to the man. Can you talk to him? Try to convince him?”

She sank back in her chair. “I’m not sure how much help I can be. The truth is, I’m not a member of the President’s inner sanctum. His brother-in-law Benson and Speaker Van Keller have his ear, not me. I’m a political appointee, damn near a figurehead. Except I also happen to be qualified. He lucked out. I was put here before the primaries to make the public think that Lloyd Taylor supports women in government. I was good for a jump in the polls, or so they say, but I’m not sure what else there is.”

“You’ve got to try,” Elliott said. “Bring it up in staff meetings. Talk to the other Cabinet members. Schedule a meeting with Van Keller or Danahall. They have got to realize that we just can’t let the Russians get away with espionage and murder. We can yell and threaten all we want, but it doesn’t work. It didn’t eight years ago with Kavaznya, and it won’t work now, even with glasnost and perestroika and all the other peaceful coexistence stuff the Soviets have been feeding us. If the President doesn’t want to authorize it, he can make it a blind operation — let me loose. and I’ll do it, and he can deny knowing or authorizing everything.”

“You can’t do that with this President,” O’Day said. “That might have worked with Iran-Contra but this Democrat has a very good memory for such screwups, especially by a Republican President. No …” O’Day stared at the ceiling. “Taylor is as hard-nosed as they come, and he rarely changes his mind … This plan … this operation to get DreamStar. Do you really think you can put it together?”

“I can get my staff on it—”

“No. I mean right now. Yes or no — can this J. C. Powell get in and get DreamStar?”

Elliott hesitated only a moment. “If I get the support from the White House I can get Powell into DreamStar’s cockpit. And I believe he can get DreamStar out.”

“Okay. I’m on the case. I’ve a plan to shake things up around here. After that I don’t know what will happen. It could blow up in our faces. But I’ll bet it’ll cause the White House at least to rethink its position on letting the Soviets get away with the XF-34.”

“What are you—?”

“No questions. Just be ready with a dog-and-pony show for the boss within twenty-four hours, and you better knock his socks off, or it’ll be too late for your XF-34. I can’t promise anything except some noise, but like Yogi said, it ain’t over till it’s over. That might even be true for President Lloyd Emerson Taylor the Third.”

Elliott straightened his right leg, locked it, and eased himself to his feet. He extended his hand, O’Day came around her desk and took it. “I bet the woman and the plan are much alike.”

“Don’t be so sure — about either one, General,” she said. “I’m expecting a few sparks around here. I’m just hoping they don’t hit any vital parts.”

“Actually,” Elliott said as he turned for the door, “I’m hoping they come too close for comfort.”

After he left, O’Day returned to her chair and felt a very rare grin on her face. Forget that, she told herself sternly. He may have this domineering presence that seems to fill the room when he enters, but does he really have all his facts together when it comes to this DreamStar business? Sure he wants the XF-34 back — that’s understandable. But is he acting like a man with little to lose, who’ll risk a major international incident to get his own way?

Having asked herself the tough questions, the answers came easy. Elliott wanted DreamStar back because a goddamn mole stole it, because his people got killed. He was willing to fight to get it back, even if his own government disowned him or worse.

She dialed a number on a private phone that could not be picked up or used by her outer office. “Marty, this is your racquetball partner … yes, I know it’s been awhile since we’ve played. It’s been busy … give me a break. I was appointed by your President, remember? Listen, can we meet for a game? Today, if we can get a court … better make it early. You may have a late evening … you heard me. Can you make it? Good. See you at seven, then … no, we can’t count this one. That’s right … you’ll find out why. See you.”

Brooks Medical Facility, San Antonio

“Edema in her right lung, possibly from inhaling fire or burning debris. We didn’t catch it right away …” the doctor was saying as McLanahan and Powell entered the intensive care unit.

Wendy Tork’s parents were on either side of her. Her hands were heavily bandaged. She had been on a respirator ever since she was found in the crash area, but now there was a different one in place, one to keep her lungs clear of fluid and help her keep breathing. Most of her facial bandages had been removed, exposing ugly burn marks and cuts. Intravenous tubes were feeding glucose and whole blood into her arms. One small vase of flowers rested on a nightstand — ICU would tolerate no more — but Wendy had not yet been conscious to see them or her parents.

Betty and Joseph Tork glanced at Patrick and J.C. as they came into the room, quickly turned their eyes back to their daughter.

“Doctor?” McLanahan couldn’t get out the obvious question.

“She’s a strong woman, Colonel, but her injuries are massive …” He paused, moved closer to Patrick and lowered his voice. “Did you know she was pregnant?” Wendy’s parents heard the words anyway. “Oh, my God,” Betty Tork said, turned away from Wendy’s bedside and gave in to the tears she’d been fighting back.

McLanahan could only nod and clench his fists.

“She suffered severe abdominal injuries …”

Powell stepped firmly between McLanahan and the doctor. “I think that’s enough, doctor. I think we ought to leave,” and he took the doctor’s arm and led him out of the room.

Patrick, Wendy’s parents and an ICU nurse stood in silence for a long time watching Wendy, listening to the beeps of the body function monitor and the hissing of the respirator. Several times Patrick could see muscles in Wendy’s face or shoulders twitch, and for a brief instant thought that she might be about to wake up.

Betty Tork noticed her daughter’s movements too. “I wish they’d give her something … something to help her relax. It’s so awful seeing her suffer. My daughter is in pain, Colonel. Can’t anybody around here do something for her? What kind of hospital is this, anyway?”

Should he tell her it happened to be the best bum-and-trauma facility in the country? That as long as Wendy kept fighting for her life there was at least hope …? He said nothing.

“How did this happen, Patrick?” Joe Tork asked. “She was flying the B-52, I know, but how did the crash happen?”

“I’m sorry, Joe, I can’t—”

“Don’t give me that crap, McLanahan.” He stood up suddenly, filling the room with his size, but Patrick was immediately drawn to the lines of dried tears in the corners of his eyes. “For the past ten years, Colonel, that’s all I’ve been hearing from her, from you, from everyone at that damn place. When she moved to Vegas it was as if she’d moved to Mars. Now she’d lying in a hospital in Texas probably dying from these horrible injuries and you’re still playing hush-hush games with me? Goddamn, I want some answers—”

“For God’s sake, Joe, that’s my wife lying there—”

“She’s your wife? Where’s your ring? Where’s her ring? You got a marriage certificate? We weren’t invited to any wedding …”

“Joe, please …”

“The last we heard, you two weren’t hitting it off all that well. You know what I think? I think you didn’t marry my daughter. I think you’re saying you’re married so we can’t sue the damned Air Force for the accident. The spouse of a military member can’t sue the government, right?”

Betty Tork was staring at her husband.

“This is a rip-off. I was in the Marine Corps for six years, I know about this crap.” Joe Tork moved closer and wrapped his big hands around the lapel of McLanahan’s flight suit. “Answer me, you lying sack of mick shit. Answer me …”

Patrick held Joe’s wrists gently as he could. The big ex-Marine could have taken his frustrations out on Patrick, and for a moment it looked like he might actually swing on him. But at the very moment Patrick thought he might do it, Tork’s big shoulders began to shake. His narrow, angry eyes closed, and his grip began to loosen.

“Damn it, goddamn it all to hell … Wendy … she’s been so all-fired independent ever since she was a kid. I’d get letters from Betty when I was in Vietnam telling me how smart and grown up she was. When I got back she wasn’t a kid any more. I never saw her that way … Now she’s lying there helpless as a baby and I still can’t do anything for her …”

Patrick, feeling the same sense of anger and helplessness, could say nothing. It was Betty who broke the silence. “Patrick, when were you married?”.

“What? Oh, the day before yesterday.” He looked up. “Did they bring in Wendy’s things?”

“In the closet.”

He went to the closet and retrieved a cardboard box, took something from the box and returned to Wendy’s bedside. “We’re not allowed to wear rings on the flight line,” he said. “Too dangerous, they say. So we started keeping each other’s ring until we saw each other again.” He opened his hand and revealed a tiny purple velvet bag, loosened a thin gold drawstring, dropped a hammered gold band into his palm, then slipped the ring on his left ring-finger. He then got an identical bag from a flight-suit pocket and took out another hammered-gold band, this one with a gold engagement ring fused to it. He slipped it on Wendy’s finger.

The three were silent for a while. The ICU nurse came by, checked and recorded the monitor readings and left. Finally, Joe said, “Patrick, I have to know what happened out them. Can’t you tell us anything?”

“Joe, you know I can’t.”

“But I’m a vet. I wouldn’t tell anyone …”

“I know, but I still can’t.”

Tork ran his hands through what little hair was left on his head. “All right. But tell me this, just this one thing, because I’m Wendy’s father. Just promise me you’re going to nail whoever’s responsible for doing this to my daughter.”

Patrick’s eyes were fixed on Wendy’s scars and burns, he saw her muscles convulse, heard the sucking sounds as machines drew fluid from her lungs to keep her from drowning.

“Yes, Joe,” he said in a low voice. “That I can promise you …”

The Kremlin, Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

Vladimir Kalinin walked briskly into the General Secretary’s office to find several members of the Kollegiya already assembled there, all nervously pacing the floor or circling the conference table. They began to take seats immediately — obviously they had all been waiting for KGB chief Kalinin’s arrival. Boris Mischelevka, the Foreign Minister, sat at the head of the conference table and presided over the meeting.

“The General Secretary is en route from West Germany,” Mischelevka began. “He has directed me to begin this meeting and assemble the entire Kollegiya at ten A.M. tomorrow morning when he arrives. He will expect a briefing on our meeting first thing in the morning.

“This deals, of course, with the incident that took place yesterday morning in the United States. A fighter aircraft was stolen from a top-secret research center and flown through Central America to Nicaragua after a stop in Mexico. Apart from that information we have no details.” Mischelevka turned immediately to Kalinin and asked if he could explain what had happened.

“I believe this should wait for the General Secretary,” Kalinin said. “I see no reason for three separate meetings.”

“The reason is simply that the General Secretary wants it,” Mischelevka told him. “Obviously he intends that we be able to explain to the various governments involved what is going on.”

Kalinin said nothing at first. The Americans called it “damage control”—everyone get their story straight and coordinated before going outside the government. With foreign journalists flooding Moscow and a press center set up in the Kremlin itself, “damage control” was more and more important nowadays … “All I can tell you is that the incident involved a Soviet helicopter and a Soviet airbase in Nicaragua. That is all I can discuss here until I brief the General Secretary.”

“We need more than that, Kalinin,” Mischelevka said. “I have received a dozen demands for explanations from several countries, including, naturally, the United States. It is important that we respond—”

“You will respond when the General Secretary decides you will respond. I will not release any information until the classification of that information is determined—”

“But we must brief—”

“Brief no one. Is that clear enough?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mischelevka asked. “What’s going on? Is this a special KGB operation in Central America? What …?”

“You will please not discuss your opinions of the incident either,” Kalinin snapped. “Say nothing. Glasnost does not apply here.” With that, Kalinin got up and walked out.

They’re like sheep, Kalinin thought as he quickly exited the dark halls of the Kremlin. They have been lulled into complacency by the garbage that has been fed to them over the years, that openness was good, that secret information is free to all for the asking. They were going to be this government’s downfall…

And when it had fallen, with a little help from patriots like himself, he was going to be the leader of a return to the old, traditional ways, to the future world eminence of the Soviet Union.

Arlington, Virginia

The Barrel Factory Racquet Club used to be just that — an old factory and warehouse that, in pre-Prohibition days, made casks and barrels for beer and wine. It was one of the worst eyesores in the Washington, D.C., area for decades until Arlington’s renaissance in the late 1980s and early nineties, when it was remodeled into a first-class tennis, racquetball and health club. But the area kept its old slum reputation, so the Barrel Factory was having a tough time attracting members.

But for National Security Adviser Deborah O’Day, the place was perfect for many reasons. The dues were modest, it was easy to get a racquetball court — especially during the week after seven P.M. — and the usual D.C. crowd avoided the place. She could take off the White House senior-staff facade and act like a normal human being, and as such was rarely recognized — all of which made the place ideal for an occasional surreptitious meeting.

She tossed a couple of the soft blue rubber balls out into the court and chased them, jogging up and down the court to loosen her ankles. She was pleased with how flexible and fit her body was, even at fifty-one. Exercise was never important to her until just before learning that she was being considered for the NSC position. No one much cared what you looked like as U.N. ambassador, but as part of the White House staff her image had to merge much better with that of the President, and that image was relatively young, lean and mean.

She crash-dieted during her last few weeks in New York, begging off all the bon voyage parties that she could. During the confirmation hearings, she had no time for any meals anyway, so dieting was very easy then. The same was true for her first few months in Washington. Now that the dust had settled a bit, she found that her once-a-week trips to the gym were invaluable and at times virtual life-savers. She enjoyed the challenges. relished the appreciative glances of the men in the club (some less than half her age), and felt good when she looked around the room during the White House staff meetings and knew that she could probably whip half the men in that room on the tennis or squash courts.

These late-night trips also had other valuable uses — such as tonight.

She had finished stretching out and had begun hitting the ball around when she heard a tap behind her. A tall, dark-haired, pear-shaped man in an old gray sweatsuit, elbow and knee pads, brand-new Reebok tennis shoes, wearing eye protectors and carrying an old aluminum-framed racquet, was tapping on the back Plexiglas wall of her court.

Just as he began tapping again, from seemingly out of nowhere Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston moved behind him. She was dressed in a red jogging suit, a towel wrapped around her neck and carrying an open gym bag — which, Deborah O’Day knew, contained a Browning PM-40B automatic machine pistol with a twenty-round clip and laser sight. The pear-shaped fellow seemed to sense someone behind him and turned to face Marcia. If he made the wrong move, Marcia could disable him in a few seconds or kill him in less time. They exchanged glances, and Marcia Preston never got closer than a few feet from him, but there was no doubt that the man knew he had been efficiently intercepted.

But at a slight hand motion from O’Day, Marcia moved on past as if she hadn’t noticed he was there. O’Day could see the man nervously swallow, then open the half-size door to the court and step inside. Major Preston went over to the drinking fountain nearby, wandered around looking in the other courts, then disappeared back into her previous unobtrusive hiding place.

“Marcia is her usual charming self, I see,” the man deadpanned, watching the major’s retreating figure. He was already sweating, and they hadn’t played one point yet. He turned and checked out Deborah O’Day in the same way he had just appraised Marcia Preston. “You’re looking pretty foxy yourself, kid.”

“Cool it, Marty, let’s play. You warmed up?”

“For this ridiculous sport, no,” Marty Donatelli said. “For some information, yes.”

“We can chat while we play. At least pretend to be trying,” she said, gently hitting a ball off the front wall toward Donatelli. “Besides, it’ll do you some good. You could stand to lose a few inches off that middle.”

He took a huge roundhouse swipe at the ball, caroming it off three walls, but he placed it right back in the center of the court. O’Day chased it down easily and sent it back right to Donatelli. “The front page goes to bed in two hours, lover. Can we make this quick?”

“I don’t care about the front page, and I’m sure as hell not your lover.” O’Day hit the ball back perfectly in the left corner; it bounded off the left wall, the front wall, then promptly hit the floor and died. “Okay. You serve. We’ll talk.”

As Donatelli moved to the center serve line, O’Day began: “Wasn’t it terrible about the B-52 crash in Nevada the other day?”

Donatelli bounced the ball experimentally a few times, bounced it once more, then hit it with all his might against the front wall. She was waiting for it and returned it up the right alley into the corner. Donatelli did not have time to move from where he had served the ball. “My serve,” she said, and smiled a pretty smile.

“Yeah, I heard of it,” Donatelli said. “So? I don’t do aircraft accidents.”

“There’s some scuttlebutt around,” she said, and stepped to the service line, “something about it not being an accident.”

The reporter was getting impatient. “It was out in the Red Flag range, right? There’s hundreds of planes out there shooting missiles. The Air Force loses a plane almost every day out there.”

O’Day bounced the ball, took one glance back at Donatelli, then swung the racquet as she said, “If I only had the time, I’d look into that. Some strange stories coming out of southern Nevada. There was even this weird report about a KGB agent stealing a fighter.”

The blue rubber ball rebounded hard off the front wall, came straight back and hit Donatelli in the right leg. He scarcely noticed it. “Did you say, a Russian KGB agent?”

“That’s just scuttlebutt. One serving zero. Still my serve.”

“Hold on. Who says a Russian agent?”

“It’s an unconfirmed rumor,” O’Day said, getting ready for the serve. “Some stuff about a stolen fighter, some fighters shot down, about the stolen fighter heading for some pro-Soviet Central American country.”

She served the ball. Donatelli knocked it into a corner.

“Two serving …”

“All this happened yesterday?”

“Yep. So they say.”

“How can I verify this?”

O’Day walked over to pick up the ball. “Hey, I’m not a reporter. You don’t tell me how to do my job and I don’t tell you how to do yours. But like I said, if I had the time I’d call, say, a General Elliott through the Nellis AFB operator — he’s in charge of some of the ranges down there. I might also contact the Mexican government, especially the Monterrey Air Defense Zone headquarters about those rumors about unauthorized airspace violations and dogfights over their—”

“Jesus Christ …” Donatelli worked to unravel the racquet’s wrist strap that had wound itself tightly around his right arm. “I’ve got less than two hours to make these calls … Mexico — that’ll take forever …”

“Remember the routine, Marty — unnamed government sources, maybe unnamed military sources. There’s enough of a shake-up over there that a leak is bound to develop.”

“You mean someone else might get this story …?”

“I doubt it, but you never know. I heard General Elliott got his butt chewed pretty good by the President and the senior staff today. He might be in a talkative mood.”

Donatelli whipped off his eye protectors, reprising what O’Day had just told him. “Elliott … Nellis … Mexico … what was that …?”

“Just replay your tape recorder and listen,” Deborah said. “My tape recorder?” Donatelli looked surprised. “Our deal was no tapes. You think I’d welsh on that deal?”

O’Day tossed the blue ball at Donatelli’s chest. “In a heartbeat, Marty. Just protect your sources like your life depended on it, and we’ll both be okay.”

Donatelli lifted up his sweatshirt to reveal nothing but a very hairy, very sweaty chest. “I don’t have a recorder. See? I’ve shown you mine — now you show me yours.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“With pleasure.” They stood looking at each other.

“You’re a fox, no doubt about that. Ms. National Security Adviser. But tell me — why are you doing this? Were you authorized by the White House to leak this? If so, why are they doing it?”

She began to bat the ball around the court. “I’ve got reasons. That’s enough.”

“Care to state them for the record?”

“No. This is off the record, Donatelli. The President is too busy to concern himself about this incident. But the time line is very tight. There are people in the military that believe some immediate action is important.”

“And the President disagrees?”

“He believes in open negotiations, compromise.”

“So the President isn’t prepared to respond with military force. I take it there is someone—”

“This isn’t a damned interview, Marty. I’ve gone too far with you as it is. I think you’ve got everything you need.” She chased the ball toward the back wall, then casually opened the door. Marcia Preston immediately appeared, her racquet in one hand and her gym bag in the other. She took a towel out of the gym bag, tossed it to her boss, then went to the Plexiglas-covered lockers in the left wall of the court, opened one, and stood there watching Donatelli. The threat of the machine pistol in her bag was beyond Donatelli, but the look on her face was not.

“Marcia, you’re beautiful,” Marty said with a contrived leer. “We have to get together some time.” Marcia gave him nothing.

“Better put your paper to bed, Marty,” O’Day said, holding the door open for him. Donatelli nodded and moved toward the door. Just before he exited he turned to her: “Any chance of us putting something else to bed?”

“I think we use each other enough as it is, Marty. Goodbye.”

“Sounds to me like you may need a friend in the fourth estate soon, Ms. O’Day,” he said.

“Marty, watch your middle and your blood pressure. ‘Bye.”

After he left, she closed the door and began to bat the ball around again. As she did, Preston reached into her gym bag and flicked the OFF switch on a micro-tape recorder with a high-power directional microphone installed in the bag.

“Did you get everything?” O’Day asked as she returned a tricky corner bounce.

“Yes, but what good is it if anything about this conversation gets out? You lose your career, it will enhance his.”

“If it gets out that Marty Donatelli can’t protect his sources, his sources will dry up, and he knows it. And there goes his Pulitzer Prize career. That tape proves that I gave him stuff only off the record and not for attribution. If he violates that, he’s dead in this town.”

“You’re still taking some awfully big risks.”

“I believe it’s necessary, Marcia. The Taylor administration only reacts to situations. He wants to put his DreamStar incident on the back burner, take the easy way until it’s too late … he and his New York buddies need a push to get them going. I just hope to hell it’s in time.”

The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR

“I assure you,” Kalinin said to the General Secretary, “events occurred so quickly in this operation that there was no time to inform you.”

Kalinin had already spent the better part of an hour in the General Secretary’s office, telling the weary leader about the DreamStar operation. Now the General Secretary was clenching and unclenching his hands, shaking his head as he reviewed what Kalinin had told him.

“There were only two days between when we learned of the cancellation of the DreamStar project and when our man took the fighter,” Kalinin continued. “It was as much Colonel Maraklov’s initiative as it was a directive from my office—”

“Be silent, Kalinin. Just be quiet. I do not want to hear your excuses for irresponsible behavior. I need to think about how this will be explained and handled.”

“I am, of course, entirely to blame for these events, sir,” Kalinin said — perhaps a complete admission of guilt, he thought, could smooth things over— “but now that it has been dealt, we should play this hand to its conclusion. We must see to it that the fighter is brought here as quickly as possible.”

“I see. Have you gone completely crazy? Do you think the U.S. will not perhaps object to having the KGB steal one of their top-secret fighters?”

“Sir, I am not thinking of the Americans,” Kalinin said. “I am thinking of Russia. We had the opportunity to take the aircraft, and we did. Now we must capitalize on our achievement. The technology we gain will be—”

“Will be useless if they attack and kill a hundred of our people and destroy that base in Nicaragua to get their fighter back,” the General Secretary said. “I will not risk a shooting war with the Americans over one damn plane!”

“If the Americans were going to attack, they would have done so,” Kalinin said. “They know where the fighter is — their radar planes tracked the XF-34 throughout its entire flight. So the point is, they will not attack. They will not risk war over the fighter—”

“You underestimate them,” the General Secretary said. “I do not.”

“Sir, this whole incident is part of a game,” Kalinin said. “A game. Military secrets are stolen every day by both sides. Messages of protest are sent by both sides daily. I lose one or two operatives a month, sometimes more, to espionage or counter-espionage activities. Wars aren’t started over such matters.”

“We lost six men! The Americans lost a B-52 bomber, two fighters, and six of their people. This is a game?”

“But, sir, none of it affects the strategic balance,” Kalinin said. “It is simple maneuvering, part of the give-and-take between our governments. I say the Americans will not take action or retrieve their fighter. We will open secret negotiations, perhaps eventually trade captured agents or information for the aircraft after we have learned what we want from it. We may even lose something important to us in the near future, but we should not, sir, panic. As I say, we will eventually return the aircraft — after we study it. Please remember, this fighter is the most advanced aircraft in the world, sir. It is controlled by thought. Everything — flight control, weapons, every system is activated at the speed of light, all by thought commands.”

The General Secretary paused. Actually he had very little exposure to this side of his government. It was, indeed, he realized, a coup to obtain such an aircraft intact, a unique opportunity to study the best of American military technology … But Kalinin’s apparent success also posed a danger. Kalinin’s prestige and popularity would rise with the recognition of such an achievement, and the fact that he had done it all behind the General Secretary’s back would make matters worse. Kalinin had to be carefully reined in. Right now …

“Very well,” the General Secretary said, “I am opposed to this operation, but because of the unusual nature of the aircraft and the benefits of having such a machine to study, I will allow you to continue with your plans — after I review your project files. I will assign a member of the senior Politburo Central Committee to oversee your operation. He will contact your Colonel Maraklov in Nicaragua and speak with him, as well as with members of your staff, and report back to me. Control of this operation reverts to me. Is that clear?”

“Of course, sir.” Kalinin’s response was automatic — but he was thinking about who the General Secretary’s representative could be. Cherkov? Tovorin? Some unknown? He would have to deal with him as he came along.

“Meanwhile, I want all activity on the American aircraft to stop. The aircraft will not be moved from Nicaragua until I give the order. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a small setback — he would, of course, have to contend with an informant in his own Office. But in effect, so far as he was concerned, his coup was intact. And the future was brighter than ever.

Sebaco Military Airfield, Nicaragua

Maraklov was startled out of a deep sleep by a ringing telephone. He took a few moments to collect himself — the feelings of imbalance, of disorientation, were still plaguing him — before he touched the speaker-phone switch.

“What?”

“Vash vrizeveahyota peho tehyehlfono, tovarisch, “ a woman’s voice replied — Musi Zaykov, he guessed. “Moskva. “ There was no apology for speaking Russian this time, he noted. Never mind. He had been studying a bit of Russian all day; because of that, plus listening to it spoken between the technicians and soldiers in Sebaco, he was able to understand more and more of it as time went on. His own vocabulary, however, was still very limited, and his reading comprehension was almost nil. Cyrillic characters were almost impossible to understand. Luckily, most of the machinery and matters relating to the flight line were the Russian export versions, which had instructions and labels printed in — of all languages — English.

“Da,” he replied. “Sechyahs.” He had gotten very good at saying “wait a minute” in Sebaco, because everyone seemed to want him at once. Maraklov slipped on a flight suit and a pair of boots and opened the door to his apartment. It was indeed Musi Zaykov, now without her seductive bush shirt but wearing a KGB casual uniform, pants and black riding boots.

“Kahtoriy chyahs? What time is it?” Maraklov asked, as he emerged from the apartment.

“Your Russian is improving, sir,” Musi said as she led him out of the hangar. “Byehz dvahtsatye pyetye pyaht. “ Maraklov was expecting Musi to answer in English, since she’d begun in English, and her Russian escaped him. No matter. It had to be some time before five A.M., because the guards he could see all looked bored and tired; guard-post changeover was at five.

They walked across the flight-line ramp, had their badges checked by a gruff, sleepy KGB Border Guard, then walked down a dark, mossy path toward a grove of mangrove trees. The trees disguised a twenty-foot-diameter satellite dish and other communications antennae, the only visible landmarks of the Soviet Air Force command post and KGB detachment headquarters nearby. They were stopped by still another guard post, then proceeded down a short flight of steps in the semi-underground facility.

Unlike the rest of the camp, this building was well ventilated and air conditioned — much like most of the buildings in Dreamland. They signed in, punched codes into an electronic door lock and entered the communications facility. On the right was the main communications console, with two Air Force non-commissioned officers manning it and a KGB officer supervising them; on the left was a radar console with one Air Force NCO in charge. The rest of the room was filled with smelly transformers, old teletypewriters and storage lockers.

“Ah. Tovarisch Polkovnik Maraklov. Zdyehs.” General Tret’yak motioned to Maraklov and Zaykov, who followed him into a small conference room. The general looked a bit nervous as he closed the door to the conference room.

“Vsyo tovarisch Vorotnikov, Andrei,” Tret’yak said, motioning to a telephone on the desk at the front of the room. “Sta Politischeskoye Buro. Yah khatyehl …”

“Hold on … er, prastiti, sir,” Maraklov said. “I don’t understand you. Damn it, yah nyee pahnyemahyo …”

“All right, Polkovnik, pryekrasna. It is Comrade Luscev Vorotnikov, a member of the Politburo, representative to General Secretary for Central and South America,” Tret’yak said in awkward English. “He wishes to speak with you.” Maraklov reached for the phone. “I would like to know what you will say about the dismantling of the MiG-39,” Tret’yak said.

“Don’t worry, General. As pilot of the aircraft I have authority to decide what happens to it. It was my decision and my responsibility to recommend the halt.” Tret’yak looked relieved but immediately disguised the expression and motioned to the telephone. Maraklov picked it up. “This is Colonel Maraklov.”

“Dobrayeh otrah, tovarisch Polkovnik,” the voice on the other end began. The satellite connection was remarkably clear. “Yah—”

“Please speak English, sir.”

There were some sounds of anger and confusion at the other end, then a much younger voice came on line: “Sir, this is Yegor Ryzhkov, an aide to Chairman Vorotnikov. Can you understand me, Colonel?”

“Yes.”

His accent was British — quite possibly an exchange student or maybe a Connecticut Academy graduate; a favorite target for Academy-trained men and women was Great Britain. “I will translate for the chairman. He welcomes you back and congratulates you on your heroic work.”

The congratulatory message when translated did not match the angry voices he heard in the background, but Maraldov ignored them.

“Chairman Vorotnikov has been advised by routine message traffic from Sebaco that you have recommended that the process of preparing the aircraft for shipment to the Soviet Union be halted. Can you explain this?”

“I stopped the workers from taking the aircraft apart because they were destroying it,” Maraklov said. “I will not deliver a nonfunctional aircraft to Ramenskoye.”

There was a pause at the other end; then Maraklov could hear the voice of Vorotnikov rising in irritation.

“The Chairman wishes to know what you recommend be done with the aircraft now,” the interpreter said.

“I intend to add long-range fuel tanks to it,” Maraklov told him. “I estimate that two Lluyka in-flight refueling drop-tanks can be added to the wings of the XF-34—these are tanks with a retractable refueling probe built into them. The tanks will increase the effective range of the XF-34 aircraft and provide an in-flight refueling capacity. In this way, the aircraft can be delivered intact.”

“Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik,” one of the radio operators said. “Telefoniya eahnyateh.” Maraklov did not understand and turned to Zaykov.

“He said be careful,” Musi said. “The line is not secure. Do not mention the name of the aircraft.”

The translation from Moscow took a long time, interspersed as it was with comments and questions in the background. General Tret’yak, who was listening in on another phone, was becoming more nervous — Maraklov was sure he had just lost the general as an ally. Then: “Colonel Maraklov, Comrade Vorotnikov has ordered that no further actions be taken on the aircraft until further ordered. We shall transmit orders from the Kremlin through the KGB Central Command.”

“I understand,” Maraklov said. “But understand, it will take two or three days for technicians here to saw the aircraft up into pieces, a half day to load it on a ship, at least a week for that ship to arrive in a Russian port and another one to two days for it to be transported to Ramenskoye. And when it arrives there it will be of no use to anyone — it will be nothing but piles of circuit boards and plastic. If I am allowed to proceed it will take two days or less to modify the aircraft for Lluyka tanks. Then, once fighter escort and tanker support has been arranged, it will take only ten hours to fly from here directly to Ramenskoye Research Center. When the aircraft arrives it will be in flyable condition and ready for operational inspection, with its computer memory and structural integrity functional.”

This explanation took even longer, but this time there were fewer interruptions and outbursts from Vorotnikov and whoever was with him in his office. But a few moments later the translator came back with “Colonel, Chairman Vorotnikov has some reservations about your plan, but he would like time to confer with his advisers. He orders you to continue your plans for mounting the aerial refueling tanks on the aircraft and preparing it for flight. He reminds you of the danger of remaining in Central America and orders you to do everything in your power to bring the aircraft home intact. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Maraklov said. General Tret’yak seemed happier. “Tell the chairman that he can assure the Politburo that their orders will be carried out.” But the satellite link had gone dead by then.

“Ochin prekrahsna, “ Tret’yak said, slapping him on the shoulder. “It looks like the pilots have beat the ribniys once again.”

Maraklov erased the relieved expression on his face as Tret’yak led him out of the communications center. Well, he had made Tret’yak a buddy once again — at least until the next crisis blew in.

In Vladimir Kalinin’s office at KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Vorotnikov threw the phone back on its cradle. “I did not understand most of what was going on,” he said. He waved a hand, dismissing Ryzhkov, waited until his assistant had left, then reached for the bottle of fine Viennese cognac on the desk and poured himself a glass. He took a sip, then drained the glass in one loud gulp. “But the pilot, your Colonel Maraklov, appears to be in charge.”

Kalinin nodded, moving the silver tray with the cognac decanter closer to Vorotnikov. “An extraordinary man. His loyalty is firmly to the Party and to his country.”

Vorotnikov shrugged, lifted his thick body far enough up off the chair to pour himself another cognac. “Excellent cognac, Vladimir.”

“If you enjoy this, Luscev, I will see to it that you will have a bottle.” He buzzed his outer desk, and a young, blonde woman in a red low-cut dress entered the office. “Anna, would you please see to it that Comrade Vorotnikov is given a bottle of this cognac … at his convenience?”

Anna favored the old bureaucrat with a dazzling smile, folded her hands behind her back, which served to accent her breasts, and bowed slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you very much, Vladimir,” Vorotnikov said. “Very kind of you. Back to business — this Maraklov, can he be trusted?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Yet he countermanded your orders that the aircraft be dismantled and shipped back to Russia.”

“He … what …?”

Vorotnikov was too busy enjoying his cognac to notice Kalinin’s confusion. “He wants to fly the thing all the way from Nicaragua to Russia, under the very noses of the Americans. Foolish. You should get that straightened out.”

What was this Maraklov thinking? Kalinin was furious. Fly DreamStar to Russia? If he screwed up this mission now, everything he was trying to accomplish would be destroyed.

To Vorotnikov, Kalinin said, calmly as possible, “Yes, sir. Now, if you would like to review my files on the project …?”

“Not necessary at the moment, Kalinin.” Vorotnikov glanced at the door for a few moments, then hauled himself to his feet and straightened his tie. “I think I have heard enough to report to the General Secretary.” He held out his hand, and Kalinin grasped it. “I believe the operation is being run in a satisfactory manner and I shall so report to the General Secretary in the morning. I must leave.” Kalinin buzzed his outer office, and Anna arrived to escort the smiling Vorotnikov outside.

When the two had left, Kalinin hit the outer office buzzer again. “I want another secure voice-line set up to Sebaco immediately.” Suddenly Kalinin realized how little he really knew about Andrei Maraklov. Vorotnikov, the General Secretary’s fat spy, was easy to take care of — this Maraklov, who had spent eleven years in the United States, was a loose cannon. More than anyone else, Andrei Maraklov was now the greatest threat to his plan for ultimate power.

The White House, Washington, D.C

The secret, Lloyd Taylor had discovered, of staying on top of things as President of the United States was information, information, and more information. Gather as much as possible from as many sources as possible, and as quickly as possible. Moreover, although he had a capable and trustworthy staff, the information should not be diluted or encapsulated by his staff. Interestingly, he found that if he got his information from the same sources that served most of the American people, he was able to stay on top of events that the people were most concerned about. He rarely found himself caught up in events in the Persian Gulf, for example, if most Americans were really concerned about the economy.

It was not a foolproof system, but it had served him well during his first three and a half years in office and, with luck, would serve him well in a second term.

Taylor’s predecessor was a fanatic about daily exercise the way Taylor was about information, and so Taylor combined the two shortly after arriving in the White House. After rising at five-thirty every morning, the President would change into shorts and sneakers and make his way into the well-equipped exercise room in the back west corner of the White House.

There, in the middle of the room, sat a walking/jogging treadmill, a self-contained physical fitness evaluation device that measured and recorded two dozen different vital signs from pulse to weight to blood pressure’ as he walked. That was his predecessor’s contribution. In front of the treadmill was Taylor’s — a large-screen voice-command computer monitor and terminal.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Paul Cesare, the Chief of Staff, greeted him. Cesare set a glass of orange juice and a fresh towel on a table near the treadmill. “How do you feel this morning?”

“Just fine, Paul.” The President stepped onto the treadmill. The pre-programmed machine beeped five times in warning, then automatically started. Taylor slipped his hand into a glovelike device on the handlebar that had sensors in it that would feed information to the body function monitors. As the President started walking, the computer terminal came to life.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” the terminal said in a quiet feminine voice. On the screen was a recorded view of the Potomac and the Jefferson Memorial. The screen changed to several columns of information in large letters showing the weather, date, important holidays and the day’s appointments. “The following is an encapsulation of your morning appointments:

“You have a Cabinet meeting at eight o’clock. At ten o’clock, a meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations committee. At noon, the luncheon with the International Kiwanas at the Ambassador Hotel. There are five desk flags.” Desk flags were items left on his desk that would require some study or consultation. A brief description of each flashed on the screen; none seemed too important. “Would you like to review them now?”

“No.”

“Would you like to review the afternoon appointments?”

“No.”

“What would you like, Mr. President?”

The treadmill had sped up to about three miles per hour as it automatically sought to raise Taylor’s heart rate to its optimum aerobic exercise rate. “Go back to bed,” he said, stepping up the pace.

The computer thought about it for a moment, then, “Please make another choice, Mr. President.”

“Thanks,” he said, and Cesare grinned. “How about wire-service headlines?”

“Please select a keyword, or select ‘All.’ “ The keywords were phrases used to narrow down the huge selection of news items.

“ ‘White House,’ ” the President requested.

A long list of news bulletins flashed on the screen, all containing the words “White House.” The computer-synthesized voice continued: “Selected headlines as of five A.M. Eastern Standard Time: ‘White House may announce decision on Korean trade bill today.’ ‘Foreign Relations Chairman Myers travels to White House to break impasse.’ ‘Russian KGB spy disaster stymies White House advisers.’ ‘First Lady will receive veteran’s group in White House ceremony …’ “

Taylor pounded a fist on the treadmill STOP button. “What the hell …? Stop. Read item three.”

“Headlines Stop,” the computer acknowledged. “Review. Item three. Washington Post Wire Service, date twenty-one June, nineteen hundred and ninety-six. Washington desk, first paragraph: ‘A Russian KGB deep-cover agent may have caused the crash of an experimental B-52 bomber in the southern Nevada desert on Tuesday, an unnamed military source said today. He may also have been responsible for the downing of an F-15 fighter over Mexico and the crash of a second F-15 over southern Arizona, with loss of life as high as six. Second paragraph: Despite the attacks, the White House has apparently decided to take no action that may provoke the Soviet Union until more evidence has been received and analyzed. Third paragraph: Sources confirm—’ “

“Stop, dammit. Who the hell authorized that news release? I didn’t—”

“It sounds like it came from the Pentagon, sir …”

“The Pentagon? Get General Kane on the phone.”

Cesare hit the auto-dial button for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I’ll get hold of Walters, too,” Cesare said. Ted Walters was the White House Press Secretary. “He might be able to keep that story from going out on the morning news shows if we catch it in time.”

“The morning news …Goddamn, get on it, Paul. Of all the things to leak out …”

“General Kane on your speakerphone, sir,” Cesare said a few moments later. The President punched the flashing button.

“Bill, there’s an article on the Washington Post wire service that mentions our discussion yesterday about the—”

“Open line, Mr. President,” Cesare interrupted, his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.

“—the aircraft incident. Know anything about it?”

“No, sir. I certainly authorized no release about that at all.”

“Better get over here, Bill.”

“On my way, sir.”

“Ted’s on his way too, sir. He can make some calls from his car.”

“When I catch the sonofabitch who leaked this, I’ll kick his butt out of Washington, out of the country …”

Cesare, always protective of the Boss and concerned about his blood pressure, tried to soft-pedal the news. “It sounds a little sketchy. Maybe an imaginative reporter heard about the B-52 crash and just kept on digging until he found—”

“There’s no way any reporter could start from a B-52 crash and end up with KGB deep-cover agents without help from this office. We’ve got to assume Walters can’t stop the media from picking up on this and spreading it all over the country. So what are we going to say about it?”

“The story is so far out,” Cesare said, “that if we deny the whole thing, people will believe us. A Russian KGB agent shooting down a B-52 bomber over Nevada? Who’s going to believe that?”

“Eyewitnesses. They could have interviewed someone from Dreamland. They could confirm the fact that the B-52 was shot down deliberately. There could be eyewitnesses to the plane being shot down over Mexico or the crash in Arizona. There—”

The phone rang beside Cesare. “Cesare here … Edward Drury? … Hold on.” Cesare put the phone on hold. “It’s Drury from CNN, Mr. President. He’s asking for White House comment about a so-called KGB spy incident …”

So much for keeping it out of the press, the President thought. “All right, the comment is that the story about a KGB agent is false, and the cause of the crash in Nevada is still under investigation.”

“I’d advise against it, Mr. President,” Cesare said. “How about ‘unsubstantiated,’ or ‘rumors only’? If we say the story is false, and someone digs up some hard evidence …”

“All right, all right.” A headache was already spreading from his sinuses. “The information about a Russian agent is an unsubstantiated rumor, and the cause of the B-52 crash under investigation by the Air Force has not yet been determined. Any speculation would be detrimental and injurious to the personnel involved and the best interests of the country. Got all that?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure Walters gets a copy.”

“Have Ted hold a press conference as soon as possible and get out a release. No one on the staff goes in front of the media, except Ted, until we get together on a statement, and Ted’s only statement will either be what we just said there or ‘No comment.’ Got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Cesare flipped through his notes. “Speaker Van Keller is scheduled to be on ABC this morning. He’s the only one in on our meeting yesterday who could be pinned down on it.”

“Better get that statement out to him as soon as possible,” the President said. “Have him call me or Ted so we can brief him.”

“This could be a problem, sir,” Cesare continued, scanning his notes. “The first fifteen minutes of the meeting with the Foreign Relations Committee was supposed to be a photo opportunity.”

The President shook his head in frustration. “Great. In that case we’ll keep it a photos-only session and cut it down to five minutes.”

“Senator Myers and the committee members might have some questions about the incident—”

“We’ll give them what we give the press — the crash is under investigation, we have no information on any KGB agents being involved.”

Cesare finished writing. “One more thing, sir — the Russians. That wire story said we weren’t going to do anything. Should we make a comment about that?”

“To hell with them.” The President massaged his temples, then added, “They can think what they want. If we come out with any comment directed at the Russians, we’d be admitting that they had something to do with the B-52 crash—”

The phone rang again. “Cesare here … Ted, what’s up? … what? … any details? … all right. You’re ten minutes away? All right; I’ll pass it on.”

“What now?”

“Ted just got off the phone with the Post. They’re now saying that they have a tape of the conversation between the B-52 and the XF-34 aircraft during their engagement. The radio conversation was on a channel called GUARD, an international emergency frequency used by planes, ships … They have the whole thing — including the pilot of the XF-34 saying that he’s a colonel in the KGB. He said the guy from the Post even said, ‘XF-34.’ That designation was top secret — until now.”

“Dammit all to hell, less than twenty-four hours after our meeting and the whole country, whole world, knows about it. All right, all right,” the President said. “Cancel the Cabinet meeting agenda, get the NSC and CIA and have everybody in the conference room no later than seven-thirty, briefed and ready to discuss this, but for Christ’s sake do it quietly — don’t make it look like we’re circling any wagons. This is a routine Cabinet meeting. Make sure we get tapes of any news broadcasts about this thing.”

“We should change the press statement,” Cesare said. “I suggest—”

“The change is easy. The word now is ‘No comment.’ That’s it, and it goes for Ed Drury and the networks and everybody. We’ve got to get a handle on this thing before it. gets completely away from us …”

Cesare got on the phone again and while he was waiting, the President turned to him and said, “Paul, I want General Elliott at the meeting, too. Has he left Washington?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Then we’ll set up a secure teleconference and … no, I want him here. He had some ideas about this DreamStar thing that I want to hear. Wherever he is, have him back here soonest.”

“Yes, sir.” Cesare dialed the office of the military communications liaison and issued the President’s orders, then turned back to President Taylor, who was standing near the treadmill, staring at the news item on the big screen.

“Any idea who leaked this, Paul?”

“Well, that news item mentions a military source.” He paused, then asked: “Do you think it could be Elliott? Is that why you’re bringing him back to Washington?”

“A guy that’s just been stripped of his command and being forced to retire can do some very strange things, but no, not Elliott. He’s by-the-book. I want him back in Washington to hear what he has to say about this DreamStar thing. It’s been his baby.”

“Are you considering a military response?”

“Maybe I won’t have any choice. If we can’t get control of this leak, we may have to do more than just protest to the Russians—”

The phone rang. Cesare picked it up. “Military communications, sir,” Cesare said. “General Elliott had made a stopover at the Air Force Aeronautical Laboratories in Dayton. He can be here for the staff meeting.”

“That’s very good of him. I can’t wait to talk to him.”

“This was a deliberate information leak on someone’s part,” President Taylor said. “I want someone’s butt, and I want it now.”

He paused, scanning the faces of his Cabinet and senior White House staff members. “I expect whoever did this will have the courage to come to me later and explain why he or she felt it was necessary to reveal classified information like this. I will not tolerate this in my staff. I’ll shit-can the lot of you, and senior staff, if I have to.”

He let his words linger on the wide cherry conference table for a few moments. No one appeared ready to confess or throw themselves on the sword. He also saw a few faces that allowed themselves to appear skeptical when he had mentioned dismissals. But he had no choice, the President thought — someone had to get fired over this. Someone had to take a fall if for no other reason than credibility, or deniability, as in Iran-scam.

“The official word on this incident is ‘No comment,’ “ the President said. “And 1 don’t mean any of that ‘Neither confirm nor deny’ stuff. I mean ‘No comment.’ You’re not authorized to discuss anything dealing with Dreamland, the B-52 crash, experimental aircraft, or any military or civilian personnel. Is that clear?” A few nodding heads. “If you have any difficulty with that order, tell me now. I won’t hold any questions against you, and I won’t think that anyone who has a question has to be the guilty party. Speak up.”

Silence.

“All right. If any problems come up, refer them to Ted Walters, Paul Cesare or myself. But I want a lid on this. And I want it on tight. We’ve got news about the Summer Olympics and the elections to take the media pressure off this incident, and that’s what I want to happen.”

The President turned to General Kane. “Update on that DreamStar aircraft, General?”

“Very little, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs told him. “Increase in message traffic on the Soviet satellite-net out of Sebaco Airbase near Managua. We haven’t been able to decode it yet, but our analysts believe this reinforces our estimation that DreamStar is at Sebaco.”

“How long would it take them to take that aircraft apart, General?”

Kane was anxious to get out of the sudden glare of attention and have the spotlight focus on the principal of this incident. He said, “I can’t give you an- accurate answer, Mr. President.” He turned to General Bradley Elliott sitting beside him. “Brad?”

“It’s hard to say, Mr. President.” All eyes were on Elliott, but not because they were waiting to hear what he said — they all believed he was the one who had leaked the information on DreamStar to the press in the first place. “If they wanted to, they could have DreamStar in pieces in hours — it could already be crated up and ready to ship. But I don’t think they would just hack it up. The XF-34 is the most advanced aircraft in the world. The Soviets will want it intact.”

“Then why take it apart at all?” William Stuart, the Secretary of Defense asked. “Why not just fly it to Managua and load it onto a large freighter?”

“That can be done, sir,” Elliott replied. “But they know that it would be easy to spot once it arrived in Managua, and very difficult to conceal. We could detect which ship it was loaded onto and intercept or destroy—”

“Destroy a Russian freighter?” from Attorney General Richard Benson. “In peacetime? That’s crazy!”

“Mr. Benson,” Elliott said, “that is one thing we should never reveal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sir, many other military powers in the world would kill to keep an aircraft like DreamStar from falling into enemy hands. To the Russians, the Chinese, the French, the Israelis, the British, destroying a freighter with a torpedo from several miles away to keep that freighter from escaping with their country’s most valuable military aircraft would be no big deal. They wouldn’t hesitate—”

“That’s them, not us.”

“Mr. Benson, if we really want our fighter back, we must at least appear ready at any time to commit such an act. We must convince the Russians that we are ready to do anything necessary to get our aircraft back. If we announce we will never shoot at a Russian freighter in peacetime, we invite them to load DreamStar on that freighter and sail it right under our noses back to Russia. If we tell them we’ll blow your ass out of the water if we find out our plane is on board, and we convince them and the world that we mean it, well, they may just look for a different way to get it out of Nicaragua.” He was also thinking about the Cuban missile crisis but didn’t bring it up.

Heads nodded around the conference table; Elliott had apparently gotten through to most of them, at least enough to see the logic of what he was saying. And the President was at least attentive if perhaps not convinced.

“If they don’t want to risk discovery by loading the entire aircraft onto a ship,” Elliott pressed on, “and they don’t just quickly chop it up into pieces, they have two other options: they can take their time dismantling it, making careful records and notations about how to put it back together, or they can fly it out of Nicaragua. It wouldn’t take long to dismantle DreamStar — a day or two, pull the engine and the black boxes, dissect and discard the rest. If they choose to fly it out, it may take them a few days, three at the most, to configure it for overwater flight with extra fuel tanks.”

“What’s keeping them from just flying the thing onto one of their new aircraft carriers?” Deborah O’Day asked. “From what I understand DreamStar can land on a carrier without an arresting hook and take off again without a catapult.”

“All true,” Elliott said, surprised that she knew so much, careful to use the same tone of voice with her as with the President and Stuart and the other members of the staff. He had to fight himself to keep from smiling at her. He was all but convinced that she was the one who had leaked information about DreamStar to the press to force the President’s hand. He knew her feelings and those of the NSC. It was a risky maneuver, but it could pay off — and it could also result in both of them being sent to Leavenworth or Eglin for ten years for conspiracy … “Again, they’d be exposing themselves to a great degree of danger if they tried to fly DreamStar onto a carrier. It’s a tricky operation under the best conditions; for James in DreamStar it would be that much more difficult, even with his advanced flight-control system. And the Soviets know they would risk attack if it was discovered that they had DreamStar on board. They would not, I feel, risk one of only six Moscow-class aircraft carriers for one fighter plane, even this one.”

“These are all conjectures on your part, Elliott,” the President said. “Sheer speculation not surprisingly biased in favor of a military response.”

“Yes, sir, I agree. I am speculating on all of this, and I am leaning in favor of a swift, decisive, direct response — but only for the sake of time. If we could count on the Russians taking weeks to carefully dismantle DreamStar I would not even consider a direct military response. Certainly not at this point. If you recall back in 1976, when Viktor Belyenko flew his then-top-secret MiG-25 to Japan, one of the first reactions by the Ford administration was to guarantee that we would turn the MiG over to the Russians intact immediately after our investigation of the matter was completed — which, of course, gave us time to study the thing. We made that guarantee, sir, because the Russians had one-fifth of their navy within five hours’ sailing time of the MiG’s landing spot, and the administration was convinced that the Russians would militarily intervene in Japan to get their MiG25 back. I’m saying, sir, that is the threat we need to project to the Soviets in Nicaragua. It comes down to how badly we want DreamStar back.”

The President was silent, staring at Elliott. “Did we give the MiG-25 back?”

“Yes, after we determined that the MiG-25 wasn’t all our intelligence and their propaganda said it was. The MiG-25 was simply two huge jet engines with wings, built for speed at any cost. Our F-15 was operational by then, and the F-16 was in production. Both those aircraft could fly rings around the MiG-25. But DreamStar is different, sir. DreamStar is our only flying model of that concept of aircraft. It would be a huge loss for us and a quantum leap in technology for the Soviets. It would take two years to build another XF-34, and we’d be right back where we are now. Meanwhile, the Soviets would take several giant steps forward in their technology, and with their advantage in military budget and production could field a squadron of XF-34 aircraft before we could—”

“Excuse me, Mr. President,” William Stuart broke in. “General Elliott has made several broad statements that Defense doesn’t find supportable. He’s making DreamStar seem like the ultimate weapon, when in fact it’s nothing more than an advanced technology demonstration aircraft. Congress hasn’t voted to deploy the XF-34, nor will DreamStar even be ready for deployment for another five years. Agreed, it’s an extraordinary machine, but it is not our next fighter aircraft. Far away from it”

“So you’re saying that it’s not worth going after?”

“My point is simply that DreamStar in the hands of the Russians is not the terrible threat that General Elliott is making it out to be. It is a setback, true, but no more of a setback than if DreamStar had crashed on a test flight or if the program had run out of funds and was canceled.”

“General Elliott?”

“I disagree with Secretary Stuart, sir. Seriously disagree. The technology transfer alone in the DreamStar theft is enormous. It’s certainly of such great military importance to us that its return, or if it comes to it, destruction, is of the highest priority—”

“Not my highest priority,” Stuart interrupted.

“It may be true that we were several years from deploying DreamStar, Mr. President,” Elliott said, “but the Soviets could follow an entirely different timetable. We have the F-32 fighter in preproduction that will be out front-line fighter for the next five to ten years. The Soviets have their MiG-33 and Sukhoi-35 fighters operational or in production that will serve them for the next decade. Neither of those fighters can match our F-32—and that is a DOD assessment, not mine. With the XF-34 fighter in production in the Soviet Union, they will easily have the capability to counter our front-line fighters for the next ten years unti! we redevelop our own XF-34—and then we will only be matching the Soviets’ capability. We will instantly be five years behind the Soviets if we don’t react.”

“General, you’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion—”

“All right, enough,” the President said. “We don’t need to get into arguments about the future. The fact is, they got the damn plane. What do we do about it now?”

“I think we need to examine this problem from another perspective, Lloyd,” Attorney General Benson said, “the political side. This thing’s about to be splashed all over TV, newspapers and videotext terminals around the world. We can avoid feeding fuel to the fire by not providing any details, and it may indeed fizzle out over time, but the opposition is going to use this against us when their convention opens in Seattle next month. We need a strong, positive step to show the voters that we’re in charge—”

“So you favor a military response?”

“Not necessarily, Lloyd,” Benson said, leaning sideways toward the President and scarcely making himself heard in the conference room. As the President’s brother-in-law (he’d taken plenty of heat for that), he was one of the few Cabinet members who called the President by his first name; when he did it usually meant he was separating himself from the Cabinet to make an especially strong point. “But we’re playing catch-up ball here — the press has the advantage and we can’t let that situation continue. You’ve got to make a move that shows that you’re ready to handle the situation. We don’t have to decide on an offensive against Nicaragua right now — I think it would be a bad move anyway. But you do have to make a move, and something stronger than a diplomatic protest. Five months from now when the voters ask what you did about this, you want to be able to point to something substantial, positive.”

Benson decided after the meeting he would tell the President that the first step would be to get rid of Elliott. After all, he was the one who lost the damn plane …

The President held up his hand, indicating that he was going to reserve judgment, and turned to William Stuart. “Outline our responses, Bill.”

“I think it’s a problem for State or CIA, Mr. President,” Stuart said. “We can’t attack Nicaragua. It’s just not an option for us. CIA might be able to suggest something, a covert operation maybe, but in my opinion it’s out of DOD’s hands. We can’t put out a candle with a fire hose.”

“That’s it, Bill?”

Defense Secretary Stuart looked at Elliott. “If I may say so, the problem should have been handled long ago by General Elliott and his unit, and the aircraft should have been properly secured. We lost the aircraft. Now General Elliott wants to go in, as usual, with six-guns blazing. But if we confront the Soviets, they will probably agree to turn the aircraft over to us. It may take a few weeks, or months, but we will get the aircraft back from them. And if we do, well, that’s the bottom line.”

“So you’d just let them have it? They kill four of my flyers, two security guards and two interceptor pilots, and you’re saying that we should let them alone until they’ve done what they want with it?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, General Elliott.” Stuart’s voice had risen. “What I’m saying is that we can’t go off and start a war over our screwups or — rather, your screwups. I agree with the President. The X-34 is great, but it isn’t worth—”

“Isn’t worth what? That aircraft is the most advanced in the world. We can’t just build a thing like that and then hand it over to the Soviets to study, for God’s sake. I don’t care if they only have it for a few days; it is still too damn long.”

“DreamStar, as I understand it, is twenty-first-century technology. The Soviets are having their problems with 1980s technology—”

“And that is a 1960s stereotype, sir,” Elliott shot back. “We all learned, or I thought we did, what a fallacy that was. Ever hear of Kavaznya, Mr. Secretary? Sary Shagan? Since the late seventies the Russians have repeatedly proved that they can keep pace with any other western nation in technology, and that includes the United States. And don’t forget Sputnik …”

“My recommendation stands, Mr. President,” Stuart said.

“I’m surprised by Bill’s position on this matter,” Dennis Danahall, the Secretary of State, said during the pause that followed Stuart’s remarks. Danahall was considerably younger than others on the Cabinet and, like Deborah O’Day, a recent White House appointee — widely thought of as a political asset to attract the support of younger voters. “I thought he’d opt for a stronger stand. But until I heard some better options I must agree with him, Mr. President. I think a strongly worded letter, perhaps from the Oval Office itself, combined with some face-to-face between myself and the Soviet Foreign Minister or their ambassador could expedite things.”

“As I said, Secretary Danahall,” Elliott interrupted, “in any other circumstance I would not favor a military response. But time really is of the essence here. We must act quickly.”

“I agree,” Deborah O’Day said. “My staff is working on an interagency report, sir, but I’m forced to go by what little General Elliott has told us about the XF-34. We can’t allow the Russians to walk off with it … A small-scale military response just may be necessary.”

The President looked briefly at O’Day, then turned away. “Any other inputs?” When he heard none he summarized: “Two suggestions to take the diplomatic route only, confront the Soviets and demand our property back. One to intervene directly. Frankly, I don’t see how far a military response would get us. As I said before, the damage has already been done here. Whether or not the Soviets give our jet back or even admit they have it is a moot point — the fact is, we lost it and this government — and I believe the Congress — is not about to start a fight to get it back … Therefore I am directing Secretary Danahall to draft a letter for my signature, using the strongest diplomatic language possible, demanding the return of our aircraft immediately. I’ll follow this up with more direct communications with the Soviet government, if necessary.”

The President now looked at Elliott. “Our business in this matter is closed. I want to reopen the previous agenda in the time remaining. General Elliott, our business is concluded. Please wait for me in my outer office.”

“Yes, sir.” Elliott stood, masking his disappointment with an expressionless stare. The Cabinet watched as the tall, thin veteran of two wars and a mission to Russia that was still only spoken of in whispers limped out of the conference room.

Cesare had alerted the President’s receptionist that Elliott was on his way, and he was quickly and politely shown into the waiting area outside the Oval Office, given a cup of coffee and asked to wait.

Never, Elliott thought, had he felt so damn helpless. He was getting no support from the Air Force Chief of Staff, he had just been in an argument with the Secretary of Defense, and the President of the United States apparently thought he was some nut-case hawk. Even Deborah O’Day, who must have been the one who leaked the information about DreamStar and Maraklov to the press, didn’t act supportive. Well, she said be ready with a presentation to knock the President’s socks off, and he had clearly failed to do that. And if he couldn’t support his own cause, he could hardly expect her or anyone else to do it for him.

He sat in the outer office for nearly an hour, jotting down occasional notes to himself on how to best organize HAWC for the upcoming investigation. There was a telephone in the outer office, and he considered using it to find out how Wendy Tork … now McLanahan … was doing, but decided against it. He’d do it on his way out. He had made a note to stop by San Antonio and Brooks Medical Center on his way back to Dreamland when the door to the Oval Office opened and Paul Cesare, wearing a grim face, opened the door for Elliott. “This way, General.”

When he was shown into the Oval Office he was surprised at the people assembled there. Deborah O’Day was standing beside the President, hands folded in front of her. Secretary of the Air Force Wilbur Curtis, the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was there along with generals Kane and Board; only Curtis had a welcoming smile for his old friend. The other surprise addition was Speaker of the House Van Keller, the ranking Democrat in Congress. All but Curtis and O’Day were tight-faced as he made his way into the Oval Office.

“Great to see you, Brad, you old throttle jockey,” Curtis said. “Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier; they had me in Europe inspecting some old Russian missile silos.”

“Good to see you too, sir.”

“Can the ‘sir’ stuff, Brad. I’m wearing a suit now, and it’s not a blue suit, either. And don’t look so down in the mouth. We’ve just begun to fight.”

The President took a seat at the big cherry desk, and the others found seats around him. Curtis sat beside Elliott, arranged so that he could watch both him and the President.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” the President said. He turned to his National Security Adviser. “Deborah, go ahead.”

“As you know, Mr. President, the story broke a few hours ago. Along with questions aimed at this administration and myself, the media focused in on the Soviet Union. It was very well prepared — they had statements from our own FAA air traffic controllers, Mexican controllers, a few of our low-level military sources and local police authorities dealing with the F-15 crash near Yuma. They even got statements from air traffic controllers at Managua. The press has damn near re-created the whole sequence of events, and in very short order.

“But when asked directly, the Soviet Union still denies any involvement in the incident, denies that they have an American plane, denies they had a secret agent working in Dreamland, denies everything about James … Maraklov. But I’ve just received the preliminary report from Rutledge. His CIA confirms that the aircraft that flew through Honduras into Nicaraguan airspace did land at Sebaco Airbase.”

“So we’ve traced it from Dreamland to a KGB airfield in Nicaragua,” Curtis said, “and the Russians are denying it ever happened.”

“It’s not going to be another Belyenko incident,” O’Day said. “The Russians aren’t going to admit they have it.”

“I agree,” Speaker Van Keller said. “This is no disillusioned young pilot flying his jet out of the country. If they admit they have the XF-34, they admit to an international criminal act, an act of war, in effect …”

“It looks to me like we have no choice anymore, Mr. President,” Curtis said. “It would be a political and military disaster to allow them to get away with this. Even if they should later admit it, we must do something now. “

“Never mind the politics, Wilbur; that’s my business. As for the military, what were the Air Force and the DIA doing when this Soviet agent was planted, then allowed to exist so long in a place he gets to be the top pilot in our most advanced experimental aircraft? All right, I need a plan of action.” He looked at Elliott. “General?”

“Yes, sir … we need to do two things immediately: first, verify exactly where DreamStar is at Sebaco, and second, show the Russians that we know that DreamStar is there and that we’re prepared to do something strong about it. I propose a flyby of Sebaco by a single high-performance reconnaissance aircraft. No weapons except for self-protection. No ground-attack arsenal. It—”

“I want no weapons at all,” the President said. “Unarmed. If the thing crashes in Nicaragua I don’t want to see pictures of Nicaraguan fishermen dragging American missiles out of the water with their nets. Can you do it without weapons?”

“It’ll be more difficult, but it can be done.”

The President looked skeptical and irritable. This thing was more and more taking on the risks and implications of the Cuban missile crisis … “How? A high-altitude jet? I want one aircraft, remember — no escorts, no waves of aircraft—”

“One aircraft,” Elliott said. “And it will be at low altitude. We want there to be no question that the Soviets know we mean business.”

“Not another damned B-52?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Elliott admitted, “but Managua is very heavily protected, and this would have to be a daylight mission. We would probably lose a B-1 or even a B-2 Stealth aircraft. No, no bomber aircraft.”

“How do you expect one aircraft to do the job and still survive?” Van Keller asked. “Use an unmanned aircraft? A drone? A satellite?”

“No, a single aircraft but a very special one,” Elliott said. “Twice through Sebaco on photo runs, in and out, perhaps sixty seconds over the base and five minutes in Nicaraguan airspace. We’ll have what we need.”

Paul Cesare moved closer to the President: “Mr. President, our meeting with the Foreign Relations Committee …”

“All right, Paul,” the President said. “Wilbur, General Elliott, this is what I want: a single aircraft, unarmed, not more than five minutes over Nicaragua. This will be the only chance you’ll get, so it had better be done right the first time. Wilbur, you have command authority. Brief me tonight.

“One more thing. If you people screw this up, I won’t wait until after the election to clean house.”

As Curtis and Elliott left the Oval Office for the elevators down to the White House garage, Curtis turned to Elliott and said, “I knew the Old Man couldn’t ignore you, Brad.”

“Thanks for the support. I haven’t seen much from the White House lately.”

“There’s more than you think,” Curtis said. “And I’m not just talking about the National Security Adviser.”

Elliott looked at Curtis. “What about her?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. The lady is quite taken with you, personally and professionally. Don’t ask me why — anyone who’d get involved with a pilot can’t have all their marbles. I wouldn’t be surprised if she cooked up this morning’s bombshell in the press. Am I close?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Elliott replied with a straight face.

“Okay, we’ll leave it that way — it’s safer for her too. Besides, everyone around this place has a pipeline to some reporter. There’d be more double-dealing and backstabbing in this place than in the Kremlin if there wasn’t the occasional leak. But get caught at it, suddenly you’re a leper.”

In the garage they moved into waiting sedans. “I assume you’ll want to use the command center to run this operation, Brad,” Curtis said as they drove off. Elliott gave him a surprised long look.

Curtis returned it. “Let me guess … you’re not going to use a bomber — that was my first guess. What’s the hottest machine on your flight line right now? Cheetah. And McLanahan and Powell go with it. How’m I doing? Don’t answer that … You had Cheetah in mind from the start. You’ve got some sort of camera pod rigged up on it, self-protection devices up the ying-yang — you’re going to have to take the missiles off: the President said no.” Elliott allowed a smile. The Secretary had hit it right on the mark. “Cheetah’s been ready to go ever since last night … Ever since O’Day agreed to help you. Right?”

“No comment, sir.”

“I like it, General: I like it. You want to send a message — Cheetah will do it.”