“We’re living in Las Vegas, a lot of people get married here every year, some even at nine o’clock on a Monday evening—”
“What about . . . ?”
“Family? My mother’s gone, and my brothers and sisters will be thrilled—relieved I finally got my act together and married you after all these years. What about your parents? You need to decide, Wendy. It’s up to you ...”
Her answer was to reach out to him and draw him to her ... all the answer he needed.
* * *
At eleven o’clock, Maraklov left the Silver Dollar casino on Las Vegas’ Fremont Street and made his way to the taxi stand down the block near a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. He searched up and down the long line of taxis, then carefully checked around him. Satisfied, he ambled down the line of taxis until he was beside one that had its roof light off, signifying that it was already hired.
Maraklov got into the front seat of the cab.
“Well, well, General Big-Shot,” Moffitt greeted him. “Do- briy vyechyer... looks like you have some sort of a problem—”
“Stuff it, Moffitt.” He turned toward Kramer, sitting in the back seat of the cab with a copy of the Wall Street Journal. “They’re deactivating the DreamStar project. In two days.” Kramer appeared not to have heard him. “Did you hear what I said?”
“I do not think he believes you, tovarisch, ” Moffitt said.
“Speak English, asshole. Better yet, keep your trap shut. Kramer, listen to me. We’ve got to get DreamStar out of Nevada.”
He did not look up from his paper.
Maraklov grabbed the newspaper away from Kramer and crumpled it up. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Kramer?”
“With me? Nothing is wrong, Captain—except I have just conveyed your previous message to Moscow, how you have countermanded their order. Now, you tell me that you were wrong and that the KGB’s original plan must be implemented. Am I now supposed to happily embrace your idea?”
“Hey, I just found out about this today. The damned project director was screwing around in the simulator and got himself hurt. He filed his report—”
“And the Joint Chiefs canceled the project,” Kramer interrupted, “overriding the Air Force’s recommendation for lower levels of activity.”
“You know about this?”
“We heard about the Pentagon’s recommendation over the weekend,” Kramer said. “Our superiors contacted us immediately, wanting us to explain the disparity between your contentions and the announcement. I could offer none.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“We needed time to evaluate the situation,” Kramer said. “Besides, your phone was not working.” He had had it off the hook all weekend, afraid of contact with anyone that might have seen Kramer and Moffitt at his apartment. “But it did not matter. We knew you would contact us tonight.”
“Well, this new development changes things, makes your original plan not only necessary but, if I can pull it off, one that will give us a significant advantage. They stop, we go on . . . I think it can be done. I’ll need refueling support, somewhere in Mexico. I won’t know exactly where or when, so you’ll have to be flexible. Arrange for a transport plane carrying fuel and supplies. You said you had some private company in Mexico, nothing connected with the KGB or anything governmental . . .”
“It can be done.”
“If I get a refueling I can fly either to Cuba or Nicaragua. I think Nicaragua would be safer, further from the U.S., less organized. After landing in Nicaragua we can make preparations to fly it to Russia with an escort.”
“So now you believe you can get this aircraft out of Nevada successfully,” Kramer said. “You were sure that you could not do this before.”
“They’re talking about mothballing my fighter. I’m not going to let them do that. No way. I’ll crash the thing before they take it away from me.” He immediately wished he could take back those last words.
Kramer was silent for a few moments, then: “The Command is concerned about you, about your motivation. They believe that you do not seem to care who has control of the fighter as long as you have it. This worries them—”
“They don’t have to worry about a damn thing. Just make sure they have a tanker in Mexico when I get there, and make sure they have a secure, protected place to keep it in Cuba or Nicaragua or any other damn place I make it to. I’ll get the fighter to Russia in one piece. You can bet on that ...”
CHAPTER3
High Technology Advanced Weapons Center (Dreamland), Nevada
Wednesday, 17 June 1996, 0400 PDT (0700 EDT)
“GOOD MORNING, ladies and gentlemen,” Brigadier General John Ormack, the deputy commander of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center, began. “This is the operational test flight briefing for Mission Three Sierra, first full-crew operational combat test flight of the B-52 M-model Megafortress Plus bomber.
“Our landmark mission today consists of an AIM-120 air-to-air missile test engagement, AGM-132C Tacit Rainbow III antiradiation cruise missile test launch, and AGM-98 air-to-ground laser-guided missile weapon release.”
To an outsider it hardly seemed like something to cheer about. To those assembled in the briefing room, it was something to applaud. That was especially true for those seated at the place of honor in the front row—General Bradley Elliott, Patrick McLanahan, Wendy Tork, and Angelina Pereira, surviving members of the original Old Dog’s B-52 flight crew. Ormack himself had been the copilot aboard the first flight of the original Megafortress and the project director for the newly redesigned Megafortress Plus. He seemed to have grown younger since their amazing mission eight years earlier—many members of his Megafortress Plus project half his age had difficulty keeping up with him.
“The purpose of this mission is twofold,” Ormack went on. “First, it’s the final operational check flight for this B-52 after extensive repairs, and second, it’s an operational evaluation of the Megafortress Plus weapon system, pending development authorization. The Megafortress Plus system seeks to provide long-range strategic defense suppression and attack using heavily armed B-52 bombers. These B-52S would carry air-to- air missiles, anti-radar weapons, cruise missiles, shorter-range standoff missiles, gravity bombs, and a wide array of electronic jammers and countermeasures to destroy or disrupt all kinds of enemy defenses, thereby allowing other strategic or tactical attack aircraft to transit the forward edge of the battle area and complete their missions.
“HAWC has four B-52S undergoing modification to Megafortress, including one”—Ormack motioned to a tall officer in the rear of the conference room—“commanded by Major Kelvin Carter, that will act as backup aircraft for this test.” Carter’s copilot, a young female captain named Cheshire, gave Ormack a look. “You included, Captain Cheshire,” Ormack added quickly.
“Can it, Cheshire,” Carter whispered to his copilot.
“Then don’t you be hogging all the glory,” she whispered back, trying to keep a straight face.
“Roll call for Mission Three Sierra: aircraft commander will be myself,” Ormack went on. “Colonel Jeffrey Khan will be copilot, and in the instructor pilot’s seat upstairs will be Mr. George Wendelstat from the House Armed Service Committee, acting as safety observer. Welcome, Mr. Wendelstat.” Several in the room wondered how they’d manage to shoehorn Wendelstat in through the entrance hatch.
“Rounding out Dog Zero One’s flight crew is radar navigator Major Edward Frost, navigator Major Linda Evanston, electronic warfare officer Dr. Wendy Tork, and fire control officer Dr. Angelina Pereira. Good luck to us all.”
McLanahan had to choke down his feelings. It seemed so strange for him to be left out of the crew roster for the Megafortress’ first combat-exercise flight. But it was no longer his project. He had safely flown the Old Dog from Nome back to Dreamland eight years ago, and had not stepped inside her since. It was like being reunited with an old friend who didn’t recognize him any more.
The huge flat-screen l
iquid-crystal monitor behind Ormack changed to a digital time face. “Time hack, coming up on twelve-oh-four Zulu in fifteen seconds ... five, four, three, two, one, hack. One-two-zero-four Zulu.’’
This day had been years in the making—two years of redesigning and computer testing by the engineers after the plane had returned to Dreamland; three years of rebuilding by a battalion of workers, and three years of experimentation and testing by the engineers and test flight crews. Now, the first newly redesigned B-52 bomber called the Megafortress Plus was ready to break its cherry.
A weather map came up on the screen and Lieutenant Colonel Jacobsen, HAWC’s staff meterologist, stepped to the podium. “Good morning, General Elliott, General Ormack, ladies and gentlemen. You picked a wonderful day for this flight.” A regional surface weather map came on the screen. “Strong high pressure dominates the region. This high pressure dome has reduced visibilities in the restricted areas in the past few days, but some overnight breezes have pushed most of the gook out of the way. You can expect clear skies, perhaps some scattered thin stratus at twelve thousand feet.
“For the air-to-air portion of your flight: no significant weather in R-4808 Pahute Mesa launch area. Possibly a few puffy clouds on the east side of mountain ranges but otherwise no restrictions to visibility. Winds forecast at twenty knots from the north at fifteen thousand feet. For the air-to-ground portion of your flight, excellent weather conditions will persist. Visibility may be as low as twenty miles on the surface, with winds light and variable. Bombing range area will be ‘severe clear,’ possibly some hazy conditions, temperature seventy- eight degrees. Good luck and good hunting.”
Ormack took over as the screen changed again. “Status of the chase aircraft are as shown. Everyone’s in the green as of this hour. Please report maintenance delays to job control on present channel eight. Colonel Towland is the operations controller in the command post and he will reassign backup aircraft as necessary.”
The screen changed to a detailed high-resolution map of the restricted areas around Dreamland. The map was put into motion by computer, drawing the flight path of the Megafortress as Ormack spoke: “Route of flight is as follows: we will launch via coded message and follow the Groom Victor One departure to Angel intersection. Once at Angel, we will orbit as necessary at thirty thousand feet until one-five hundred Zulu time, then proceed downrange toward the intercept area.
“Once in the intercept area two AQM-175 tactical dome aircraft launched from China Lake Naval Weapons Center will be directed by airborne controllers to engage the B-52. The Megafortress will carry two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles in wing pylon canisters and will engage the drone aircraft at will. The engagement will continue for one hour or until the drones are destroyed. Flight crew personnel and airborne controllers will follow standard rules of engagement for safe separation of aircraft. All flight crew personnel will take directions from the airborne controllers. If not destroyed, the drones will be recovered by parachute, and the Megafortress will proceed to the missile drop zone.”
The screen changed again. “The Tacit Rainbow anti-radiation loiter missile drop test will be at twelve thousand feet, in roughly the same area as the intercept zone. A simulated Soviet SA-14 surface-to-air missile site will engage the B-52... Dr. Tork?”
Wendy Tork came to the podium. She was wearing a bright orange flight suit and black leather zip-up flight boots—even the baggy flight suit looked dynamite on her.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Wendy began, her energy contagious even at the early hour. “We will be testing the new array of strategic and tactical pulse-Doppler electronic countermeasure jammers aboard the Megafortress Plus, as well as the Tacit Rainbow mod three anti-radar loiter missile. The purpose of this flight is to evaluate the Megafortress’ capability to penetrate sophisticated Soviet coastal defenses using its own assets, and at at the same time create penetration corridors for other aircraft using the Tacit Rainbow antiradiation missile. These will lay the groundwork for fleet modernization of existing B-52 aircraft as well as develop new capabilities for follow-on aircraft such as the B-i Excalibur and B-2 Panther Stealth bomber.”
A high-resolution photo of the anti-radar missile flashed on the screen. “First developed ten years ago, Tacit Rainbow is a small winged aircraft with a one-thousand-pound-thrust turbojet engine, a ring laser gyro inertial navigation unit and coupled autopilot, a broad-band programmable seeker head with multi-pulse and digital radiation capability, and a one-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead. The missile is released within fifty miles of a known or suspected enemy surface-to-air missile site. The missile orbits the area using its inertial autopilot until it detects emissions from the nearby enemy radar. The missile then leaves its orbit and homes in on the radar and destroys it. The missile can orbit for as long as four hours and has a small enough radar cross-section to avoid detection by hostile anti-air units. A B-52 bomber can carry as many as twenty-four of these missiles, although we see these Tacit Rainbow missiles carried with a mixed load of offensive missiles and gravity weapons aboard Navy and Air Force strike aircraft...”
Patrick realized how much he envied these men and women. And listening to these briefings and organization of the Megafortress Plus project tended to underscore his own apparent failure with the DreamStar project, now on hold mostly because he failed to keep tighter control on his test pilots and to recognize the need for more complete and useful test standards and security.
He was in charge of nothing right now except cleanup. Sure, he had been given the Cheetah program, but that was already a thriving project nearing operational deployment. He was just another caretaker, marking time.
His eyes automatically sought out Wendy’s, and he found her looking in his direction. They exchanged faint smiles. She had been watching him off and on the whole time. Better snap out of it, you stupid mick, he told himself. She’ll have enough on her mind without worrying about you.
The briefing ended and the flight crew moved toward the exits and the bus ready to take them to the flight line. McLanahan went to each crewmember and wished him or her a good flight.
“You should be going with us, Patrick,” Angelina Pereira said, giving him a very unmilitary hug. “This is your plane. You belong on her. You and General Elliott too.”
She was wearing the same orange flight suit as Wendy, and she too looked dynamite in it despite being fifteen years older than Wendy. Her hair was more gray then he remembered, but her eyes still sparkled. Angie would always be a handful for any man—she had married and divorced twice since the Old
Dog’s first mission. He could still see her in the denim jacket she had worn when she climbed aboard the Old Dog eight years earlier, and he could remember her gratitude when the Russian caretaker at Anadyr Airbase in Siberia gave her a full-length sealskin coat in exchange for her denim jacket, even though at the time the jacket was covered with General Elliott’s blood. That coat today had to be worth at least five thousand. She would not have parted with it for five million.
He could also remember her dropping into marksman’s crouch as she fired on that same Russian airbase caretaker after he discovered who they were and ran off to warn the militia. One minute she was eternally grateful to the guy; the next she was trying to blow him away. She was one tough lady, all right.
“Not this time, Angelina,” Patrick said with a half-hearted smile. “But I’ll have the fire trucks and the champagne ready to hose you guys off when you land.”
“It’s your project as well as ours.”
“Not any more. Besides, you guys did all the work ...”
“No, you did. Back over Russia.” Like him, she had been thinking back to the Old Dog’s first mission. “Even though you won’t fly with us your name’s still on the Old Dog, on the crew nameplate. It’ll be there as it’s flying.”
“But I’m not the radar nav any more—”
“No, you’re not, you’re the seventh man, Patrick. Sorry to sound corny, but you’re the so
ul of the Old Dog.”
She squeezed his hand, picked up her helmet bag, and walked off. He saw Wendy then, watching him once again from the back of the conference room. He went over to her. “How do you feel, Mrs. McLanahan?”
“Wonderful. Happy. Nervous. Excited. I’ve got butterflies the size of B-52S in my stomach ... Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure.”
“Wish you were going with us. You deserve it more than anyone else.” She could tell he was unconvinced. She smiled at him. “When should we break the news?”
“At the post-flight reception tonight.”
“Can’t wait.” She gave him a kiss and hurried off to join her crew.
He called out behind her. “Good luck. See you on the ground.”
Wendy flashed him an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Piece of cake,” she called out as she rushed off to catch the crew bus.
* * *
As the crew of the new Megafortress Plus headed off to begin their mission, StaflP Sergeant Rey Jacinto was nearing the end of his tour of duty on the graveyard shift, on patrol guarding Hangar Number Five at the flight line at Dreamland. It was the absolute pits.
He had done everything wrong. After four years as an Air Force security guard he knew how to prepare himself for a change in shifts—plenty of exercise, the right amount of rest, not too much food, no caffeine or alcohol twelve hours before the shift. But this time everything had gone to hell. His wife had car trouble Monday afternoon and so he was up all morning towing it to his brother-in-law’s place. It had been hot, dusty work and he couldn’t resist a couple of beers at two o’clock in the afternoon—that only violated the eight-hour rule by two hours. No big deal.
His body began asking him for sleep at three o’clock, but the car needed a new water pump and his brother-in-law insisted they could do it before he had to leave. Then, to top it all off, he sat down at six o’clock for homemade pizza. Knowing that he hadn’t had any sleep in twelve hours and he wasn’t going to get any in the next twelve, he downed nearly a whole pot of coffee after polishing off four huge, thick slices of pizza.
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