“Cardinal, Storm One is approximately one hundred miles southwest of Chihuahua. Fuel situation critical. We were about to divert to Chihuahua for emergency refueling. Over.” “Copy that, Storm. I guess your boss wants you back real bad. We’ve been ordered to . . . how should I put it? . . . have a catastrophic navigation failure and come and get you. As I speak, our autopilot is mysteriously taking us south across the border.” A pause, then: “Air-to-air TACAN shows two hundred miles, Storm. Can you make it?”
“It’ll be close,” McLanahan said.
“We may have visitors,” J.C. added. “We left a couple sorehead Mexican F-20S in our dust.”
“They should have gotten the word by now that you’re on an authorized sortie,” the crewman replied. “Your boss tells us that they finally authorized your overflight. But that’s not going to help you much. I hope you got what you came for, boys—I doubt there are going to be any high fives waiting for you.”
“No,” McLanahan said, “we didn’t get what we came for. Not this time ...”
CHAPTER 5
Sebaco Military Airbase, Nicaragua
Thursday, 18 June 1996, 0645 CDT (0745 EDT)
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 stiflF 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 mid western 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 . . .
“I 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.”
Maraklo
v 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 our 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 Be- lyenko 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 sah- mahlyot, 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 it 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-34 A 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 power 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 persona
l 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’ records 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.”
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