Elliott finally stopped his headlong briefing, then glanced at Secretary of the Air Force Curtis. Curtis nodded to Elliott and said to the President: “Sir, I’m recommending adoption of this plan. It’s low profile and at least the Air Force’s part is easily implemented. We’ll need to confer with Navy and the rest of the Joint Chiefs on the deployment of a carrier group, but I’m afraid this situation warrants an immediate go-ahead on the first phase.”
The President looked skeptical as he studied the chart. “How much danger will it be to our pilots?” he said, pointing to the map. “It looks like they’ll be overwater for a long time.”
Elliott nodded. “Unfortunately that’s true, sir. The fighters will have to cover eighteen-thousand square miles of open ocean. Tanker support can keep them in the air for as long as necessary, we’ll rotate another flight and another tanker in to take over every four hours.”
“Six-hour missions for them, refuelings every hour, plus the strain of visually identifying and possibly going into combat on each intercept they make,” Curtis summarized. “And all of it overwater—not exactly a fighter pilot’s favorite place to be.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of it, Wilbur,” the President said wryly. He held up a hand as the Secretary of the Air Force began to speak. “I know, I know, you’re just hitting me with the worst. Well, I think it’s a lousy plan, gentlemen.”
Curtis and Elliott felt their hearts drop.
“You’d be placing those pilots in great jeopardy because you don’t trust the Russians to keep their word in this thing. You act like Stalin or Khrushchev is still in charge there.” He did not try to curb his temper; exhaustion, tension, concern and frustration had all built to a point he had to let loose. “And all to stop one aircraft and one pilot from possibly being flown out of Nicaragua, and all because you two failed to uncover a Soviet agent in your own organizations. No. You’re asking me to place more men’s lives at risk because of your screwups. You’re asking me to put this presidency in jeopardy to satisfy your need for revenge.”
The President swiveled his chair around and stared at the Central American chart. Secretary of Defense Stuart had trouble hiding his satisfaction—there was little doubt that he was going to enjoy being Taylor’s hatchet man when the order came down to get rid of Elliott and Curtis. Cesare had motioned in a young steward with a pot of coffee, quietly telling him to keep the President’s cup far out of reach in case his temper exploded again.
Elliott glanced at Deborah O’Day, who, to his surprise, seemed to be wearing a confident expression. What did she know? After that tirade, the President wasn’t going to—
“General Elliott.” The President was pointing at the chart. “I want another option for those pilots. Six to seven hours overwater in a single-seat fighter is too much, especially if they have to keep it up for days. What else have you got?”
Elliott stepped quickly to the chart, finding the place he wanted and putting a finger on it. “I’m afraid there are few other options, sir. In the eastern Caribbean we have landing rights only in Puerto Rico and Grenada, and possibly in Montserrat or Anguilla, but it still requires long overwater periods. It’s worse in the western Caribbean. There are several other coastal airfields in Honduras, including Puerto Lempira here, thirty miles north of the Nicaraguan border, but they’ve been abandoned by the military and probably aren’t secure. I wouldn’t recommend landing fighters there—the drug traffickers control the area better than the militia. Honduras has a small island, the Santanilla, between Honduras and the Cayman Islands, but their airfield is very small. Nine U.S. fighters and their support teams would quickly overwhelm the place. La Cieba is the best option—”
“Maybe not,” Deborah O’Day said. “General Elliott, you’ve already mentioned the Cayman Islands. Your assessment of that government’s response to a request for landing rights may be a bit premature. Sir, I’d like to follow up on this. Allow General Elliott’s fighters to take up their stations in the Caribbean. We can get permission from Honduras for landing rights in La Cieba. While the planes are airborne I’ll get permission from the Cayman Islands and the Brits to land and service our fighters. The Navy goes in there all the time—I don’t think a few fighters will bother them too much. I’ll work on landing rights in Montserrat too.”
“I don’t like this,” the President said. “We’re risking dozens of lives to guard against a breach of a legitimate deal with the Soviets. But like Reagan once said, ‘Trust, but cut the cards.’ All right, the operation is approved, General Elliott. Provided that we get landing rights in the Cayman Islands and Montserrat. If we don’t get authorization, your western fighters will refuel with their tanker, recover in Honduras for crew rest, then return to Panama, and the eastern fighters will stay in Puerto Rico. I’m not going to authorize extended overwater patrols. If they’re allowed to recover in Georgetown on Grand Cayman, or Plymouth on Montserrat, I want no more than four-hour patrols over water. I’ll reserve judgment about follow-on naval operations until I get a briefing from the Navy. Understood?” Curtis and Elliott quickly said it was.
“Brief your pilots that I want no interference with normal air traffic in the area,” the President said. “It’s probably full of high-speed jets. I don’t want your people scaring any airliners or, much worse, pulling the trigger on the wrong target. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Curtis replied.
“I’ll be on board the AWACS and take on-scene control of the situation,” Elliott said.
“I’ve heard that one before. Wilbur, I want briefings every hour once this thing kicks off, beginning first thing in the morning. And be prepared to stand down your fighters if we get the right answer back from the Soviets.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President stood and walked out of the conference room without another word. Deborah O’Day went up to Elliott, a smile on her face.
“Thanks for the assist,” Elliott said quietly.
She stepped closer. “You owe me one, Bradley Elliott. And I expect prompt repayment, in full.”
Elliott studied her bright eyes, nodded.
“Plan on your fighters recovering in the Cayman Islands,” she said. “The deputy governor of the Caymans happens to be an old family friend. I hope you can bring a two-seat fighter with you—he and members of his family will probably ask for a ride. He’s a nut about fighters.”
“I doubt this mission will turn out to be a joy-ride,” Elliott said, and shut up as Wilbur Curtis joined them and they all walked down the hall from the Oval Office to O’Day’s office. Major Preston served coffee as the three took seats.
“We need to get our staffs together and fine-tune this thing,” Curtis said. “Briefing the Old Man is one thing—getting two squadrons of interceptors together for an extended deployment is another.” He looked at Elliott. “Problem, Brad?” “Something doesn’t make sense.” Elliott walked over to a large map of the southern United States and Central America. “Between naval units normally on-station and our airbase in Puerto Rico, we’ve got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty well right now. It’s the western Caribbean where we don’t have enough coverage. Yet we’re assuming the Russians would fly DreamStar east toward Russia.”
“Naturally,” Curtis replied. “Where else?”
He pointed at the map. “Cuba. Cuba is only six hundred miles from Sebaco. Once DreamStar is in Cuba . . . hell, it might as well be in Russia. We couldn’t touch it there. Cuba is no Nicaragua ...”
“But why put those external tanks on DreamStar?” O’Day asked. “Why spend the extra time and bother?”
“I think they still intend to fly it to Russia,” Elliott said. But we caught them red-handed preparing for a long flight. They know we can close off the eastern Caribbean. For now, Cuba is a more logical destination.”
“It doesn’t make sense to go to Cuba, Brad,” Curtis insisted. “Sure, they can protect it better, but Cuba is right on our back doorstep. We have round-the-c
lock surveillance on Cuba. If we could get the President to buy off on it, we could blockade that island by sea and air. DreamStar could never get out. Besides, we saw those extra tanks on DreamStar. Why would they waste the time putting those things on if they only intended to take it to Cuba?”
“I disagree with your assessment of Cuba’s security,” Elliott said. “We don’t have the same military superiority we did back in the sixties—a cordon would be much more difficult. And I think the Russians realize that we aren’t going to use a lot of military force to get DreamStar back. This is an election year— they figure Taylor won’t hang it out over one fighter.” He paused, then rapped his knuckles on the long, thin island south of Florida. “Nope, I’m convinced—they’ll take DreamStar to Cuba instead of flying it east.”
“What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, Brad,” Curtis argued. “I think we should concentrate our forces on the southern and eastern Caribbean. It would be stupid to fly to Cuba— that wouldn’t get them anywhere.”
Elliott was silent for a few moments, then: “All right, sir. But we’ve got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty well. I’ll take command of the western task force.”
“The Old Man expects you to take the east.”
“I only told him I’d be airborne in an AWACS—I didn’t say which one. I’ll be in real-time contact with the eastern forces at all times from the AWACS out of Honduras. I’ll bet my pension they try to pull a fast one on us.”
“Let me assure you, Brad,” Curtis said, “you are betting your pension on this one.”
The Consulate of the Soviet Socialist Republics, Washington, D.C.
Friday, 19 June 1996, 2015 EDT (Saturday, 0415 EET)
The voice and data-scrambler system was experiencing severe distortion from solar-flare activity, but the elation in the KGB chiefs voice was obvious.
“That is very good news,” Kalinin said. He was sitting in the Kremlin communications center in Moscow, sipping tea and waiting impatiently for his aide, Molokov, to finish buttering a plate of pirozhoks, his favorite small turnover pastries, with fruit and creme fillings. “The Americans are obviously anxious to avoid an embarrassing conflict so close to their national elections.”
“The Americans may have extended their waiting period, comrade Kalinin,” Vilizherchev said from Washington, sipping a snifter of brandy, “but they have certainly not relented. They are expecting a message from Moscow in no more than twelve hours agreeing not to move their aircraft out of Sebaco and agreeing to turn the aircraft over to them in five days. If you do not comply they have well-supported and vocal elements of their military that are ready to invade Sebaco and take their property back. They’re led by General Bradley Elliott of their air force.”
“Elliott ... a paper tiger, an anachronism,” Kalinin said. “Too hawkish for the current government. I estimate he will be forced to retire soon. After all, we removed the XF-34 from his base.”
“Elliott was at the White House tonight,” Vilizherchev said. “Apparently he was the one who staged the overflight at Sebaco today. If he has fallen from grace in the eyes of Taylor’s government, they are hiding it very well.”
“Don’t worry about Elliott—”
“I am not worried about him,” Vilizherchev said. “I am concerned about you, sir. On your behalf I agreed to take their message to my government. The Americans are expecting a reply. But I sense that you are unconcerned about any possible agreements and that you plan to take that aircraft out of Nicaragua regardless of any tentative agreements . . .”
“You will be vindicated in this, Sergei,” Kalinin said. “The aircraft will be gone from Nicaragua long before the Americans expect a reply from the Kremlin. The KGB will accept the responsibility for the aircraft, and you can tell the Americans that the rotten KGB ignored your agreement and acted on their own. There’s nothing they can do once we have the aircraft except protest. And they will get their aircraft back— after we finish studying it, of course. I understand it is a fabulous machine.”
“I agree, it must be a fantastic machine,” Vilizherchev said, “because I believe the United States will retaliate in ways other than just protest.” There was a pause, with both men listening to the crackles and snaps of solar-generated electrons interfering with the satellite transmission. Then: “About my report to the Foreign Minister . . .”
“Delay it for twenty-four hours.”
Vilizherchev had been expecting this. “That is impossible,” he said. “I went to the White House. I spoke with the President. I left the Consulate at night without escort, without leaving an itinerary or contact log. What shall I report—I went on a drive around Washington to see the sights? What if someone in the White House mentions my visit to someone in Moscow and they find out I did not report it? What if this whole incident ends up in the newspapers—the media is behind every lamppost in this city.”
“Calm yourself,” Kalinin said. “The missing report will not surface for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps more. By then this incident will be concluded and I will explain everything to the General Secretary and the Politburo.”
“I expect it,” Vilizherchev said. “Unauthorized contact with the American government by a member of our government is still punishable, as you know, by life at hard labor. I have a desire to retire to warmer climates than Siberia.”
Kalinin broke the connection without replying. The signal, in any case, was deteriorating rapidly; so was Vilizherchev’s resolve. He was not a stupid man but he had not been in government long enough to represent a danger to Kalinin’s power. Unless everything came completely unraveled, Vilizherchev could be trusted to keep silent—after all, having the director of the KGB as a co-conspirator was not such a bad position.
But now it was up to Maraklov to get that aircraft safely out of Nicaragua. All of their futures now rode on him.
Sebaco, Nicaragua
Saturday, 20 June 1996, 0451 CDT
Andrei Maraklov awoke to bedlam. Dozens of faults were being reported to him at once, ranging in severity from complete system short-circuits to oil leaks. But the familiar rush of power and energy that always accompanied a successful interface with ANTARES was a welcome feeling, in spite of the faults being reported.
DreamStar had undergone a major transformation. Her newest additions were two large cigar-shaped stainless-steel fuel tanks, one suspended under each wing. Two of the four weapon hardpoints on each wing were combined to hold the Lluyka tank’s pylon; that, plus the size of the tanks themselves, left DreamStar with the capability to carry only two missiles instead of eight. Inside each tank pylon, the fuel tank’s pressurization line was spliced to the wing tank’s bleed air-pressurization system, which allowed fuel to flow from the tanks and feed the engines before wing-tank fuel was used. The hard- point’s jettison-circuitry was spliced into jettison-squibs in the pylon, which would blow the pylon off the wing.
There was no time to test the aerodynamic qualities of the fuel tank with DreamStar—no way to determine if DreamStar could even fly with the tanks installed. The tanks could fail to feed properly, feed unevenly, rupture the wing tanks, hit the aircraft on jettison, or flutter so badly that even a normal takeoff would result in a crash. There just was no time to test it. The flight would have to go as scheduled in spite of the risks.
DreamStar’s anterior fins were replaced, and the aircraft put back together as best they could after being partially dismantled shortly after landing. The plan was to use DreamStar’s own self-diagnostic computer routines to check the aircraft and direct the aircraft maintenance technicians to the problems.
As always, Maraklov activated the radios first. “How do you read, General?”
General Tret’yak stared at Musi Zaykov as the machine like words came over his headphone. He keyed his microphone: “Kto dyela?”
“This is Maraklov, General.”
“Colonel, are you all right? Your voice sounds different.”
“My voice is altered by computer. I don’t t
hink I can speak in Russian. I have several faults that need inspection. The most serious is a left primary-bus short-circuit. The technicians will have to open the left number-four access panel. The bus-module is on the center electronics rack. I will deactivate the system when the panel is open.”
“Azhidan’yahTret’yak said. “Wait, Colonel, I do not understand you.” There was a slight pause as Tret’yak passed the headphones to Zaykov.
“Andrei?”
“Yes, Musi.”
Zaykov stared in surprise when she heard the voice. “Andrei, is that you . . . ?”
“No time to talk,” Maraklov said. “Relay these instructions exactly to the chief of maintenance. I can’t start my engine until this problem is corrected.”
Zaykov copied Maraklov’s instructions down on a clipboard, read them back to verify them, then gave the clipboard to the chief of aircraft maintenance. He read the instructions several times, then finally called to his assistant to get someone to begin removing the left access panel.
“They are removing the wrong panel,” the computer-synthesized voice told Zaykov. Musi called to the workers to stop, then directed them to the correct panel. She had to repeat the instructions to the assistant crew chief, who told the crew chief, who issued the same orders back down the chain to the workers. They did not begin the job of removing the fasteners until told by their superior.
“Left primary bus-power is off,” Maraklov said after issuing the mental command to redirect the power from the external power cart away from the left primary circuit. “That maintenance chief would be out on his ass in the States. Five minutes to open one access panel—we’ll be here all morning.”
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