“Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you punch us out?”
“I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it wasn’t my job to waste Cheetah. Maybe I think we still have a chance to get DreamStar back. Maybe I thought it was a dumb idea all on its own. We are still alive, we haven’t been captured by the Russians, Cheetah is in one piece and we’ve accomplished our mission. So if you can stand it, let’s leave it at that.”
Sebaco Airbase, Nicaragua
“Where were your air-defense forces, General?” Maraklov said to General Tret’yak as the commander of the KGB airbase came over to the hangar.
“Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik. Calm yourself, was anyone hurt, was there damage?”
“Do you know what that was, General? It was an American fighter. It was carrying a camera pod or some kind of reconnaissance unit—but it could have just as easily been carrying a two-thousand-pound bomb. We’d all be dead now if it was.”
“I said calm yourself, Colonel. Our air-defense forces were dispatched in response to an intrusion northeast of here near the Nicaraguan radar site at Puerto Cabezas. Our interceptors destroyed two unmanned drones heading back out to sea. Obviously they were part of this attack, used to draw away our defense forces while this fighter staged its pass.”
“Well, the lightbulb has finally come on,” Maraklov said. Tret’yak obviously did not understand, but Maraklov’s tone of voice was clear. “While your interceptors were being suckered away you left DreamStar wide open for attack. Here’s another news flash for you, General—they’ll be back. They no doubt transmitted those pictures back to Washington, and they’re being analyzed right now. You can expect a second wave of fighters in a few hours—and this time they won’t just be carrying cameras. I know them. You have four MiG-29 fighters to counter a whole squadron of F-15 or F/A-18 fighter-bombers—”
“We will be ready for them, I assure you—”
“Never mind assurances, DreamStar is too vulnerable. We’re in real danger of losing it. After all I’ve done to get it here. It will take your workers another twelve hours to finish the refit, plus who knows how many to get her ready to fly.”
“We can transfer forces from Managua to Sebaco and other coastal bases to provide longer-range coverage—”
“You’re talking about the damned Nicaraguan air force as if it was a real defensive force.” Judging by the expression on Tret’yak’s face, Maraklov could tell the Soviet general agreed with him. “They might be good for providing a way for the Americans to deplete their missiles, but if you rely on the Nicaraguans to defend Sebaco . . .”
He did not need to finish the sentence—Tret’yak had finished it for him. They had MiG-29 fighters at Sebaco because Tret’yak did not trust the Nicaraguans to protect it. It would be a tactical nightmare to bring Nicaraguan pilots to Sebaco. Few of them spoke Russian, few spoke English, and few had trained for longer than a month or two with their Russian counterparts. Maraklov was right—they were good for little more than target practice for the Americans.
“I understand, Colonel,” Tret’yak said, “but if an attack comes we must deal with it with the resources we have. I will contact my headquarters and request additional defensive forces from Cuba. Perhaps some diplomatic pressure can be applied as well. Meanwhile, the refit of the aircraft will proceed. I will call in all shifts to increase our pace.”
KGB Headquarters, Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow
Friday, 19 June 1996, 1858 EET (1058 EDT)
Viktor Kalinin crumpled the dispatch in his hand. His senior aide, Kevi Molokov, stood by as the KGB chief swiveled in his chair and stared at a map of Central America that had been set up near his desk. “The Americans have just flown an F-15 fighter bomber aircraft over the exact spot where the experimental aircraft is being stored. Tret’yak believes the Americans now have detailed, incontrovertible evidence that their aircraft is in Nicaragua. Tret’yak ends his message with an observation from Maraklov that the Americans may attack at any time.”
“Sir, I think General Tret’yak is overreacting,” Molokov said. “The United States will not take direct military action.”
“You seem so sure. Yet they sent an F-15 fighter right into the Nicaraguan and General Tret’yak’s forces.”
“That was foreseeable, sir. I would have expected a high- altitude reconnaissance aircraft, such as their SR-71 or TR-i aircraft, but I am sure they did that for show. If they were really serious about retrieving their aircraft, they have a carrier in Puerto Rico that could have been moved into the area by now. That carrier is still in port. They could have sent a squadron of fighter-bombers to destroy the aircraft on the ground, but they sent one aircraft, apparently only to take photographs. If they were going to mount an offensive it would have followed immediately.”
“I almost wish the damn plane had been bombed,” Kalinin said. “The XF-34 is slipping out of our grasp, Kevi. It’s fortunate that the American government is denying the entire incident—no pressure on our government has been applied yet.” Yet. . .
“We need Maraklov to fly the plane out of Nicaragua before real pressure begins,” Molokov said. “Once the aircraft is in our hands we can control events.”
“But I can’t stand by waiting for the dam to burst,” Kalinin said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. “I want a way to stop an American offensive before it begins. Never mind that you think they’re not going to start one.”
“That would mean exposing the Central Committee,” Molokov said. “Only they can initiate any direct dealings with the American government.”
Kalinin paused, considering his aide’s words. “We just may be able to bypass the Central Committee. To a degree, at least . . .”
“I am sure it is possible, sir, but can you take that chance? It would mean a major breach of procedure—”
“It’s time to reach out,” Kalinin said cryptically. “Be sure I have two secure communications lines open all evening.” “Yes, sir, they are open now. But who can you possibly contact that has the authority to act in so little time?”
“This government’s golden boy. He is in a perfect position to influence the Americans. Whether he will cooperate with us depends—if he has any skeletons in his closet. I believe a call from KGB headquarters will be enough to get his attention. It is time to see if this star performer also has reason for a guilty conscience.”
The White House Conference Room
Friday, 19 June 1996, 1605 EDT
General Elliott watched as the President, Deborah O’Day, Wilbur Curtis, William Stuart and Richard Benson viewed the replay of Cheetah’s sortie over Nicaragua. He had had an opportunity to see the tape as it was received via satellite from Dreamland after decoding, and it reminded Elliott of films shot from the first car on a roller-coaster. The viewers were twisting and squirming in their seats as it unfolded.
“This is the forward view,” Elliott explained, “as the aircraft approached Sebaco. The F-15’s under attack from an SA-10 surface-to-air missile site. There—you can just barely see the missile as it misses.” The huge missile could be seen easily, and Elliott watched the viewers cringe and even move to the left as the missile shot by, missing by only a few yards.
“The aircraft is now approaching Sebaco. As you can see, the base is not very large but its facilities are extensive. Here—you can see an anti-aircraft gun emplacement that we have identified as an older version of the standard S-60 air-defense weapon. Our aircraft has come up on the base so fast there wasn’t enough time for the Soviets to get this S-60 into position. Both the SA-10 and S-60 are fairly old systems. The Soviets throw nothing away.”
The scene shifted to a side-looking image, with forests and hills going by in a blur. “This imagery has been slowed down fifty percent—we’ll slow it down even more in a moment. Our aircraft is at Mach one—about seven hundred eighty miles an hour.” The trees thinned out as the first few signs of the runway environment came into view, but the most spectacular sight was the buildings and other structures
racing by—all towering over the F-15. Elliott slowed the imagery down by half again as he continued:
“We are now looking out the left-side camera of the F-15, at the rows of hangars and buildings just off the flight line at Sebaco. We will replay the image without magnification at first. Here—take a look at this hangar.”
Even without increased magnification the sight was obvious—it was the XF-34 parked inside the hangar. “It’s unmistakable—this is DreamStar. Notice the forward-swept wings, the canards with the trailing edges pointing downward, the chin intake, the slanted vertical stabilizers. This is what the crew saw on their first pass. Now I’ll let the film go for the rest of the pass.”
In normal speed the scene suddenly swung down out of view, revealing only sky and treetops—mostly treetops, since the fighter was still very low. The scene then shifted back to the forward camera, and Elliott could see Benson grabbing his chair’s armrests as treetops skittered past the bottom half of the screen. The image then centered on the hangar again— and remained centered on it. They did not see the top of the hangar. The field of view was centered precisely on the aircraft inside. Their eyes widened as the mouth of the hangar raced forward. It seemed to engulf the entire screen. The needle nose of the XF-34 was aimed right at them. It seemed impossible that the fighter could turn away in time—
The hangar disappeared, to be replaced by a rearward shot as the F-15 sped a few feet above the hangar—they could see antennae and even birds’ nests on the hangar roof. The image revolved once, and trees rushed up again, snapping and whipping around in the fury of the fighter’s wingtip vortices.
Attorney General Benson was the first to get out a word. “That was unbelievable. Who was that pilot?”
“One of my best test pilots. He flies photographic chase missions against the XF-34. He was the one who almost shot down DreamStar over Mexico.”
“He must have a death wish,” William Stuart said. “Or else he’s completely nuts. How could you let him fly this mission? Wasn’t he reprimanded by General Kane?”
“I needed the best pilot for this job. There was no final decision on a reprimand, and I needed him. Considering his performance today I believe he’s in line for a commendation.” The President was still blinking from what he had just seen. “I’m very impressed, General Elliott. It certainly sent a message to the Soviets . . . There’s no doubt that your DreamStar fighter is in Nicaragua. What do you think they’re going to do with it?”
Elliott pressed a button on his remote control. The recon- pod imagery rewound to a clear view inside the hangar, just before Cheetah dodged skyward. “That’s clear in this picture, sir. You can see access panels on the sides open, and these objects here are fuel tanks. We believe they’re modifying DreamStar with long-range fuel tanks. I believe their objective is to fly it out of Nicaragua as soon as possible, maybe to Cuba, maybe even to Russia.”
The President nodded. “Well, for damn sure they obviously aren’t about to give it back ... I will call a meeting later this evening with the Russian ambassador and Secretary Danahall. Debbie, Richard, I’d like you to be there. We need to make an official protest. Let’s set it for eight P.M. That’ll get the ambassador’s attention.”
“But Mr. President,” Elliott cut in, “that won’t stop the Russians. By the time that meeting is over DreamStar could be on a Soviet-controlled airbase. We have got to keep it from leaving Nicaragua.”
“And exactly how am I supposed to manage that? Load up your F-15 fighter with bombs and destroy that base? Send in the Marines? Think, General. I can’t attack a country that’s barely the size of Arkansas and five times poorer without a damn good overwhelming reason.”
“This has very little to do with Nicaragua, sir. It—”
Stuart, still smarting from not being included in the plans on Cheetah’s recon mission over Sebaco, said: “The world won’t care if we say we’re really after Russians. All they’ll know is that we attacked Nicaragua. Your strong-arm tactics would get this government into deep trouble—”
“All right, enough,” the President said. “It’s late. General Elliott, I’ll expect you at the staff meeting tomorrow morning at eight A.M. We’ll go over the situation then and decide what next.” As Elliott stood, tight-lipped, and headed for the door, the intercom phone on the President’s communications panel beside his desk buzzed and he picked it up.
“Hold it, General,” the President called out. His eyes widened with delight. “You’re kidding . . . and he’s here? Right now? You bet, Paul. Send him up.” The President scanned the faces around him in the room. “Rewind your tape there, General. Sergei Vilizherchev just arrived. He wants to speak with us.”
“The Russian ambassador is here?” Benson said.
“It’s just got to be about DreamStar,” Deborah O’Day said. “But I never expected them to react first. I was figuring on a world-class stall job if we tried to see him tonight. What are you going to do, Mr. President?”
“Listen to what he has to say. I assume he wants to talk about a way out of this. If he tries to deny that they have the aircraft we’ll show him this tape.” He picked up his intercom button again. “Paul, see if Dennis Danahall is available. If he can be here, we’ll ask Vilizherchev to wait until he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President put the phone down. “I hate to admit it, Wilbur,” he said to Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, “but it looks like sending that F-15 over Sebaco wasn’t such a bad idea. We seemed to have gotten the Soviets’ attention without getting anyone killed.”
“The crew of the Old Dog,” Elliott said quietly.
“I accept the reminder,” the President said, “but this isn’t the time to be settling a score, General. Right now, we want your airplane back. Period.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I think they owe more than DreamStar,” Elliott said. “A dozen good people are dead, plus the destruction of the B-52 and the fighters.”
“What I want is an end to this whole business,” the President said. “We’ll still negotiate for reparations, but to tell the damned truth I’ll settle for getting back what belongs to us and having the parties move back to their corners and call this one a draw.”
Elliott considered pressing his argument further, but there seemed no point to it now. He had spent much of the day on the carpet with the President of the United States after an exhausting twenty-four hours the day before. He had organized a daylight recon mission through a heavily defended Soviet base with no losses, which apparently had forced the Russians to the bargaining table. He had been at it for eighteen hours. He was beat. All right, maybe it was time to let the big-shots do their thing.
The phone rang again. Vilizherchev had just arrived. Surprisingly, none of the few straggling members of the White House press corps had picked up on the early evening visit— since Friday was now considered the first day of the three-day weekend, few reporters hung around in the evening. Secretary of State Danahall was enroute; they would make the ambassador wait about fifteen minutes until Danahall arrived and could be briefed on what was going on.
Danahall, partially briefed in his car on the way to the White House, arrived ten minutes later—Cesare had to give him a jacket and tie from the contingency closet—the Secretary of State, working late in his office, looked rumpled. Cesare handed him the coat as he finished with the tie.
“I was wondering where my jacket had disappeared to,” Danahall deadpanned. “. . . So Vilizherchev just called the White House and requested a conference?”
“We figure it has to do with DreamStar,” Richard Benson said. “General Elliott’s group found the aircraft in Nicaragua. We got photos.”
“Brad Elliott’s group, eh?” Danahall said with a shake of his head. “That explains why Vilizherchev is coming out here at this time of night. What did you do, General—create a new Lake Nicaragua with some Star Wars neutrino bomb?”
There wasn’t time for a reply. The President gave a nod to Cesare, who
went to the formal waiting area and asked the Soviet ambassador inside.
Sergei Vilizherchev didn’t fit the image of the stereotypical Russian bureaucrat. Young as career diplomats went, in his early fifties, dark haired, tall and athletic, he wore an Italian- tailored suit, spoke with a slight, well-trained British accent. Altogether as polite and correct as could be. A Soviet cookie- duster, or so it seemed. It was common knowledge that this man would be the next Soviet foreign minister, in a few years, and possibly could become General Secretary.
Vilizherchev strode up to the head of the conference table, where the President was seated. Taylor stood just as Vilizherchev approached him. The Russian ambassador made a slight bow before extending his hand.
“Good evening, Mr. President, very nice to see you again, sir.”
“Dobriy vyechyeer, Mr. Vilizherchev,” the President said in awkward Russian. If Vilizherchev was amused by the President’s attempt, he was careful not to show it.
“Thank you very much, Mr. President. Your Russian is excellent. You will soon be able to dismiss all your interpreters.” The ambassador shook hands all around and seemed quite at home in the White House conference room—until he saw General Elliott. Then, for the first time, Vilizherchev looked genuinely surprised.
“Good evening, Ambassador Vilizherchev,” Elliott said, extending his hand. “I am—”
Vilizherchev took his hand as if he was accepting a delicate china cup. “General Bradley Elliott. It is a pleasure,” he said.
He shook hands with Elliott, clasping it firmly as he spoke. “It is an honor.”
“Have we met before, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Your name and reputation are well known in the Soviet Union, General. I must admit, not always in a friendly fashion, but they are the short-sighted ones. I assure you, sir, many hold you in very high regard in my country. We recognize military genius and patriotism no matter what the nation or politics.”
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