The rains began coming down again, lightly at first, then in virtual sheets with big fat rain droplets that threatened to shred their canvas roof. The rain rattled the metal roof of Cheetah’s hangar. Cheetah had been rearmed for air combat with both long- and short-range missiles, but intelligence had been received that DreamStar might have been moved to Puerto Cabezas in Nicaragua less than a hundred miles away, and a crew was standing by to arm Cheetah with its photoreconnaissance pod again—as well as an array of air-to-ground weapons.
The sound of the rain almost drowned out the gentle beeping of the satellite communications transceiver. McLanahan picked up the receiver, laying his finger on the SCRAMBLE/ DESCRAMBLE button. When he heard the snaps and whine on the other end he hit the button. The static disappeared, replaced by a faint hiss.
“McLanahan.”
“Patrick, this is Brad Elliott.” His heart began pounding—
Elliott rarely used his first name, even to his closest friends and most senior officers, unless something was wrong.
“Go ahead, sir.”
“I’ve sent a F-15E down to pick you up. It should arrive in about an hour from now.”
“Wendy . . . ?”
“They’ve asked you to come back.”
Suddenly, in the heat and humidity, he felt very, very cold. He forced himself to ask, “What about DreamStar?”
A slight pause, then: “No word yet. We’re bringing your replacement on the F-15, a guy from the tactical bomb squadron at Luke Air Force Base. He’ll fly Cheetah if DreamStar tries to make a break. The F-15E will fly you directly back to Brooks AFB.”
This time he did not try to rationalize staying with Cheetah in Honduras. She had spent hours in surgery and a full day in post-operative intensive care. Now even General Elliott was telling him to come back . . .
Or maybe he finally realized that it was time for him to start facing up to reality. He had flown three missions in Cheetah since she was hurt, tearing himself away—no, running away— from her agony, claiming that he was the only one who could do the job, the only one who could defeat James in DreamStar. In fact, a young F-15E back-seater in Cheetah could probably do a better job than a forty-year-old desk jockey. His responsibility was with his wife and her family—not hiding behind an oxygen mask and a radar scope.
“How’s J.C. and your bird?” Elliott asked.
“Okay. Ready to go.”
“Okay. We’ve scheduled Cheetah for a photo-recon run over Puerto Cabezas—we’d like to pinpoint DreamStar’s location but that’s unlikely. But they well might think it’s another prelude to an attack, help convince them to turn DreamStar over to us intact. ”
Silence.
“Patrick, about Wendy. What can I say? I wish to God she hadn’t been on that plane—”
“General, I’m sick and tired of everyone giving Wendy up for dead. And as far as I’m concerned we should stop pussyfooting around with the damned Russians. No more damn messages, no more warnings. If we think DreamStar is in Puerto Cabezas let’s go in and get it. Right now. If we send Cheetah up to take pictures they’ll just move DreamStar somewhere else. Bring the carrier George Washington in with a naval bombardment squadron, level Puerto Cabezas and let’s stop jacking around.”
When there was no response from the other end he thought the connection had been broken. Then Elliott said: “Keep us advised on Wendy’s condition, Patrick. Elliott out.”
He dropped the phone back on its cradle. J.C. was looking at him carefully. “I’m leaving as soon as my plane gets here,” McLanahan told him.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 21 June 1996, 0815 EDT
“All I want to know from you, Vilizherchev,” President Taylor said as the Russian ambassador entered the Oval Office, “is where our aircraft is and when it will be returned to us.”
Sergei Vilizherchev was taken off guard but shrugged it off and continued inside the office. He was followed by Secretary of State Danahall, who had met the ambassador at the rear entrance to the White House. Secretary of Defense Stuart, Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, Secretary of the Navy John Kemp, National Security Adviser Chairperson Deborah O’Day, Speaker Van Keller and Attorney General Benson were already in the Oval Office, summoned there immediately after learning of the Russian’s hurried request for a meeting. The President’s advisers formed a semi-circle around Vilizherchev as the ambassador approached the President’s desk. Taylor ignored Vilizherchev’s offered hand; he did not stand to greet the ambassador.
The Russian smiled and made a slight bow. “Very nice to see you again, sir ...”
“I asked you a question, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “I want that fighter. Immediately.”
“Mr. President, I am here to deliver my government’s most emphatic protest of the attack on our military installation last night,” Vilizherchev said, as if ignoring the President’s outburst. “That attack cost the lives of three pilots, four men on the ground, and millions of dollars worth of equipment and property destroyed. The attack was inexcusable—”
Taylor interrupted: “Mr. Curtis.”
Wilbur Curtis flicked on a high-resolution video monitor and began rolling a tape. “This was transmitted to us less than ten minutes ago, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. The monitor showed a concrete bunker, open at both ends, inside a depressed rain-soaked aircraft parking area. Soldiers surrounded the structure. A few could be seen pointing rifles in the air, obviously taking aim at the aircraft taking the photographs. Inside one open end of the hangar the unmistakable forward- swept wings of DreamStar could clearly be seen in the early- morning sunlight.
“You moved our aircraft to a different base and we found it,” the President said. “If I don’t get the answer I’m looking for I pick up this phone and I order the Navy to level that base like they leveled Sebaco. In fifteen minutes this whole thing will be over—I guarantee it.”
“The attack will fail,” Vilizherchev said quickly. “Such an offensive has been anticipated. We have strengthened the coastal defenses and are ready for such an assault—”
“The crew of this recon jet reported no defenses anywhere,” Curtis said. “We have pictures of the destroyed SA-15 missile sites—want to see them, Mr. Ambassador?”
“I must also tell you, sir, that Soviet forces in the region are prepared to retaliate. If American bombers cross the border again, orders have been issued to attack Honduran airfields with Soviet supersonic bombers from Cuba. They will destroy one airfield, military or civilian, for every Nicaraguan base destroyed. The bombers are armed with supersonic cruise missiles that cannot be intercepted. If naval forces are encountered they have been ordered to attack them as well. Your new aircraft carrier George Washington is in the area, I believe— will you risk a three billion dollar vessel for one aircraft? Pride is a poor reason to go to war, sir.”
“Likewise stupidity,” the President said. “I don’t need to remind you what would happen if the Soviet Union tries to start a shooting war in the Caribbean.”
“We have two aircraft-carrier groups, three strategic air divisions and nine tactical air divisions ready to send into the area,” Stuart said. “That’s twenty capital ships and twelve hundred aircraft that can be deployed in less time than it will take you to get back to your office.”
“And all I need, mister, is one Russian cruise missile,” the
President said. “Just one. It doesn’t even have to hit anything. One missile or one bomber aimed at American forces and we end the Soviet presence in the Caribbean for good. I’ll wipe out everything with a red star on it.”
Vilizherchev stood in front of the President’s desk, virtually in shock. “You ... you are talking a major war, Mr. President,” he said. “You are threatening war over this . . . this mere aircraft ...”
“I’m threatening over your lies, your deceit. And your murdering. You stole our aircraft, murdered our soldiers, killed and destroyed and killed again all through Central America just
to steal one fighter. What you’ve done is declare war on the United States. I’m going to start answering you by destroying Puerto Cabezas.” He picked up the telephone and punched two digits on the keypad.
“This is the President. Unlock file nine-six-zero-six bravo, authenticate with line charlie-charlie and execute immediately. Send reports to the Situation Room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone and pointed to Vilizherchev. “Good day, sir.”
“Will we not discuss this, Mr. President . . . ?”
Just then two beepers went oflF—Vilizherchev spun around at the sound as if it had been a gunshot. Both Kemp and Curtis retrieved their tiny credit-card-sized pagers from jacket pockets and checked the message on its tiny liquid-crystal screen.
“Execution cross-checks, Mr. President,” Curtis said. “Crews are responding. I’d like to take it in the Situation Room.”
“You’re dismissed, John, Wilbur . . .”
“Wait, Mr. President, Secretary Curtis, Secretary Kemp, please,” Vilizherchev said. “We must discuss this ...” Curtis and Kemp turned and headed for the door.
The President turned to his Secretary of State and his aide. “Dennis, Paul, escort the ambassador out of the White House. Deborah, I need you to call your staff down to the Situation Room in ten minutes to—”
“I am authorized to release the aircraft to you, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev shouted. Everyone in the room froze. The President pointed to the Secretary of the Navy.
“Get going, John. This sounds like a stall to me. Get your planes from the George Washington airborne. I want a prestrike briefing from the Navy when I get there. Wilbur, hang on for a minute.” Kemp opened his mouth, was about to say something, then decided against it and hurried out.
“I came here to organize a transfer of the aircraft back into your control, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev said, staring at the closed door of the Oval Office through which Kemp had just exited. He turned back to the President. “The General Secretary has directed that the aircraft be turned over to you immediately.”
“So what about all that garbage about retaliatory strikes, bombers and cruise missiles?” Deborah O’Day asked. “Was that a bluff?”
“The same as your bluff with the attack on Puerto Cabezas . . .”
“That is no bluff, Vilizherchev,” the President said. “I’ve got bombers from the George Washington lined up to attack that base, whether DreamStar is there or not. When the air attack is completed I’ve ordered a company of Marines to land, occupy that base and take control of the area. If they don’t find that aircraft they’ll move down to Bluefields and level that base. After Bluefields they’ll move inland all the way to Managua.”
“This is not a bluff, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. “Once those planes are airborne, we’re committed.”
“The President has approval from Congress, sir,” Van Keller said. The Speaker of the House of Representatives and the congressional Majority Leader was sweating. “The plan was presented early this morning to the Senate and House committee chairmen. We stand behind the President.”
“All right, ” Vilizherchev said. “The bombers, the cruise missiles, the attacks against Honduras ... I invented them. I had to find a way to regain at least some of my bargaining position—”
“This is not the time for diplomatic face-saving, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “In five minutes those planes launch.”
“I have been ordered to negotiate a way to turn the fighter back to you,” Vilizherchev said. “No conditions. The General Secretary has directed it be done immediately.”
“Is the aircraft flyable?” Curtis asked.
“Yes. It is at Puerto Cabezas, as you already know. It was flown there to avoid the attack against Sebaco.”
“What about the pilot? What about James?”
“A KGB agent, the project was run by the KGB. The General Secretary learned of the theft of the aircraft only after it landed in Nicaragua. The General Secretary never agreed to keep the aircraft in Nicaragua—he never knew of the plan to move it out of your country. The whole affair was run by Vladimir Kalinin of the KGB.”
“So why should the KGB turn the aircraft over to us now?” Deborah O’Day asked. “If they control the aircraft . . .”
“The aircraft is now in the hands of the Soviet army, not the KGB. Colonel Maraklov has been ordered to return to Sebaco to await transportation to Moscow via Managua. The army has orders to make the aircraft ready to be flown out of Nicaragua.”
Deborah O’Day looked at the President. “Sir, it is over . . .”
“Not yet,” the President said. “I’ll cancel the air strike, but I’m keeping the George Washington on station. I don’t trust these people. Not any more. Wilbur, I want you in the Situation Room for a meeting. Postpone the air strikes for now.” Curtis nodded, a faint hint of a smile on his face not detectable by anyone, and departed.
“Then I suggest sending in a security force to guard the aircraft,” Stuart said, “until we can figure out how we can get the aircraft out of there.”
“General Elliott is in the Cayman Islands in control of the air forces,” O’Day said. “He has a man that can fly DreamStar— only specially trained pilots can fly it. He can send in a security unit with the pilot and some technicians that can inspect the aircraft. He can make the decision on how to get DreamStar out.”
The President nodded to O’Day, then looked at the Russian ambassador.
Vilizherchev understood that look. “I assure you, the General Secretary is anxious to be done with this . . . incident.”
“Bill, get down to the Situation Room, advise Mr. Kemp to hold the Second Fleet’s air raid but tell them to stay on the alert.” Stuart nodded and departed.
“Deborah, set up a satellite call in the conference room with General Elliott. We will plan this thing together so the ambassador knows what we’ll want from his people and the Nicaraguans. I’ll meet you all there in a minute.” Van Keller, Danahall and Vilizherchev filed out of the Oval Office, led by Cesare, but Deborah O’Day stayed behind.
“What is it, Debbie?”
“Did I hear all this correctly a minute ago? Did I hear you say you had elements of the Second Fleet ready to invade Nicaragua?”
“You must have heard it correctly,” the President said with the hint of a smile. “Kemp and Curtis heard it, too.”
O’Day said, “Strike aircraft with heavy bombs on board usually have to jettison their bombs before recovering back on the carrier. But I’m confused. I didn’t know anything about an invasion plan. Did you formulate a plan with John and—” She stopped, then stared at the President. “You made that up?”
“I thought Vilizherchev might be lying to me again,” the President said, “so I raised the stakes on him. He had nothing in his hand but he wanted to challenge me. The guy has balls. Without authorization, without anything to back himself up with, the guy stood in front of me and threatened us with war if we didn’t back off.”
“So what will you do if the Russians won’t turn DreamStar over to us? Will you invade Nicaragua after all?”
“Yes. He forced my hand, whether he knew it or not. Now we both have to live with that threat. Hell, I wish we did have congressional authorization for an invasion. Van Keller makes a good poker player, too. He played right along, just like you and Wilbur.
“If the Russians don’t turn over DreamStar, I’m prepared to destroy Puerto Cabezas, then order the Marines to occupy it. We’ll have to make a decision on whether or not to go after those other airfields and bases after that.”
Sebaco, Nicaragua
Sunday, 21 June 1996, 1192 CDT (1092 EDT)
“Am I under arrest?” Andrei Maraklov said, pulling himself away from the KGB Border Guards that had escorted him into Sebaco’s command post.
General Tret’yak turned toward him, waving at the guards to leave him. “Arrest? No, Colonel, you are not under arrest. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because
some Russian and Nicaraguan army bozos dragged me out of DreamStar and threw me into a helicopter to take me back here,” Maraklov said. “What the hell is going on? I can’t allow DreamStar to be left alone and unprotected like that. And I want my flight suit back. That’s a delicate piece of equipment—”
“It’s no longer your concern, Colonel. You don’t look so well, Colonel Maraklov. Apparently Central America does not agree with you.”
Actually Maraklov did look in poor health. Most of the men under Tret’yak’s command, because of bad water, stress and the spicy food had lost weight after coming to Nicaragua, but Maraklov had only been here a week and he looked emaciated. The elastic belt on his flight suit was drawn in so much that the ends overlapped halfway around his waist, and his eyes looked almost ghostly in the command center’s stark overhead lighting. He also seemed to be losing hair. Could he be on drugs? No—Maraklov was guarded night and day and observed through hidden cameras while in his room. If he was doing drugs he was being very crafty indeed to escape detection.
Maraklov’s anger flared. “Forget my waistline, General. What do you mean, DreamStar is no longer my concern?”
“The army has been ordered to take control of the aircraft, effective immediately.”
“And what are they going to do with it?”
“I don’t know or care. My job is to get this base operational again. Your fighter, or you for that matter, are no longer my concern.”
“My mission was to deliver that aircraft to Ramenskoye Test Center in Moscow,” Maraklov said. “I have authority to demand assistance from all Soviet or allied forces. That includes you—”
“Nyet. My last order concerning you was to see to it that you board an Aeroflot plane in Managua for Moscow when you are told to do so, which will be in the next two or three days. Meanwhile you are not to return to Puerto Cabezas or go anywhere near the DreamStar aircraft. You will not be placed under arrest but I trust you will do as you are told.”
“This is nuts. Why is the KGB abandoning the project now? We can still get DreamStar to Russia—why are they giving up like this?”
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