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. Good-bye.”
“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
Friday, 19 June 1996, 0600 EET (Thursday, 2200 EDT)
“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 nee
d 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 counterespionage 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
Friday, 19 June 1996, 0445 CTD (1345 EET)
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 chyahsP 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 Polkovnikthe voice on the other end began. The satellite connection was remarka
bly 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 the 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 Maraklov 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.”
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