Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “I don’t know,” Tret’yak said. “The KGB troops under my command have not been used to secure the fighter—they are using only Red Army troops. Who knows, perhaps they have made a bargain with the Americans for the return of the fighter . . He paused, staring at Maraklov. “Perhaps they do not trust you any longer.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, Colonel Maraklov, where were you when Sebaco was under attack? You had four missiles and extra fuel on board your fighter, and yet you stayed in Puerto Cabezas and hid in your concrete bunker while my airbase was being blown to hell by an American B-52 bomber. You—”

  “A B-52 bomber? You mean one B-52 bomber?”

  “Yes, one B-52,” Tret’yak said, “armed with air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons. Certainly your amazing fighter plane could have shot it down with ease—if you had bothered to join in the fight.”

  “Well how the hell was I supposed to know it was only one plane? We were expecting a major assault—I got into the bunker and shut down before they could track me. Besides, I was never informed—”

  “It was never your intention to help defend the base,” Tret’yak said. “One plane or a hundred—you were not going to come to our aid.” He rubbed his eyes irritably, then held up a hand before Maraklov could speak. “Your special metallic flight suit has been impounded—you will have no use for it. It will be sent with you when you leave for Moscow. Lieutenant Zaykov has asked to remain your aide until you leave, and her request has been granted. You are dismissed.”

  “I want to contact Moscow for clarification of instructions.” Tret’yak waved toward his office. “Do what you want. KGB headquarters wanted to speak with you when you arrived from Puerto Cabezas anyway. The channel has already been set up. But until I receive orders to the contrary, Lieutenant Zaykov is to escort you to Managua first thing in the morning and to see that you are on your way to Moscow. Good-bye, Colonel Maraklov.”

  Maraklov hurried into Tret’yak’s office and ordered the call be put through to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Things had gone to hell real fast, he thought. Tret’yak was naive if he thought Moscow would risk using DreamStar to defend his little jungle base. Hell, Sebaco, Puerto Cabezas, Bluefields, even Managua were going to be sacrificed—anything to get DreamStar off safely. Somebody changed their minds in Moscow. The B-52 must’ve really shaken them up. Kalinin must have screwed up. The responsibility of getting DreamStar out of Nicaragua was obviously his, and he slipped up—this was the first time anybody but KGB groops had had anything to do with DreamStar. Obviously there had been some sort of shake- up in Moscow and someone else was in charge now . . .

  So the question was—what could he do to get around this? How could he turn disaster to his advantage?

  The satellite transmission went through after several attempts—the American bomber attack had done extensive damage to the power transformers and underground communications cables, and they had only a patchwork setup still running. Maraklov shook his head as he thought of a single B-52 bomber attacking Sebaco. It had to be another of Elliott’s toys, he thought—another Megafortress Plus, or maybe the resurrection of the one he had shot down? Would he never be rid of Dreamland’s ghosts?

  “Tovarisch Polkovnik, dobriy vyechyer,” the voice on the other end of the line greeted him. “Ehtah General-Major Kalinin. Kahk dyela . . . ?”

  “You have to speak English, sir,” Maraklov said. “My Russian is still very poor. Vi gavaretye angleyskiP”

  “Of course, yes, I speak English,” the man replied. “I am Director Kalinin.”

  Damn ... it was the KGB director himself on the line.

  “I assume you have received your orders from General Tret’yak, vyehrna?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is your . . . kak gavaretye . . . how do you say, thoughts?”

  “My opinion? Of my orders, sir?”

  “Yes, your opinion.”

  What the hell was going on? The director of the KGB was asking him if he agreed with his orders? He was screwed either way he answered. Well, no use dodging this ... “I do not agree with them, sir. We must not give the aircraft to the Americans. We have already paid a very dear price for it—it is ours now . . .”

  To his surprise he heard Kalinin say he agreed with him.

  There was a long pause on the channel. What was going on? Was Kalinin going to disobey his own orders and bring Dream-

  Star back to Russia? Were they trying to set him up, use what he said against him in a trial once he returned to the Soviet Union?

  “Colonel, I will transmit message to you, in confidence, soon. It will be in English. The message for you only. Not Tret’yak. Vi pahnyemahyo?”

  “No, I don’t understand, sir.”

  “I will give you orders. New orders. Carry them out if you can. Etah sroch’nah. It is urgent. Da svedahneya.” And the line went dead.

  Brooks Medical Center, Brooks AFB, San Antonio, Texas

  Sunday, 21 June 1996, 1305 CDT (1409 EDT)

  “O God of heavenly powers, who, by the might of thy command, drivest away from men’s bodies all sickness and all infinity; be present in thy goodness with this thy servant, that her weakness may be banished and her strength recalled; that her health being thereupon restored, she may bless thy holy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Patrick and J.C., who had come back with him, then would return as needed, stood apart from the small circle of Wendy’s parents and relatives around her bed in the intensive care unit as the doctor checked Wendy’s eyes and skin. They had had no time to change out of their flight suits. After securing the still heavily armed Cheetah in a guarded hangar they had gone right from the aircraft parking ramp to a waiting Air Force sedan and on to the hospital. McLanahan had knelt beside his wife only briefly, then backed away when he noticed the number of relatives present and their faces. Now, with the minister and relatives crowded around her, he felt more excluded, more isolated than ever.

  A minister had been there for the last twelve hours. When he first arrived the prayers were full of uplifting, optimistic words. Now the prayers had taken a sudden shift toward the irremediable.

  The doctor finished his examination, took notes on the monitor readouts, changed an intravenous fluid bag, then moved away. McLanahan saw the minister touch the doctor’s arm, and they spoke briefly. Did he see the doctor shake his head? He drove murderous thoughts out of his mind and got the doctor’s attention.

  “What’s the story, doctor?”

  “The right lung sounds clear. I think we stopped the edema. But she’s very weak. I’m sorry, but we have to expect respiratory failure—”

  “No ...”

  “The damage was massive. She’s a strong woman, Colonel. But for every step she takes forward, her body takes two backwards. She’s fought back bravely, but . . .”

  McLanahan could not stand to look at the doctor any more. He sought his wife’s face from the foot of her bed. They had removed the larger tubes from her throat, leaving only the nasal cannula in place to feed her oxygen. Many of the bandages had also been removed, and the burns on her face and neck looked markedly better. Wendy’s mother had even brushed out her hair. “She looks better to me,” McLanahan said. The doctor made no comment. “Why isn’t she on a respirator? If you say her respiratory system can collapse, why can’t she be on life-support . . . ?”

  “We can keep her alive indefinitely, Colonel, but is that what you really want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think of the pain you’d be subjecting her family to—”

  “I’m her family too.” He ignored the faces around her bedside. “Stop trying to spare us pain and help her, dammit. Right now. ” The doctor nodded, put his hand on McLanahan’s shoulder and turned away. The relatives and friends turned away; some filed out of the intensive care ward, not looking at him or saying anything. A few minutes later he felt a hand on his shoulder. Hal Briggs was standing beside him. “Man, I came as soon as I co
uld ...”

  “Thanks for coming, Hal. I appreciate it. Is the general here?”

  “He’s still... away,” Hal said. McLanahan knew that meant the Cayman Islands, as leader of the air cordon around Nicaragua. “There’s DOD investigators all over the Center, and they have authority to go any damn place they want. I got sick of them and took off.”

  “I’m really glad you guys are here,” he said to both Powell and Briggs. He noticed Briggs wearing his earpiece transceiver. He was also armed, his ever-present Uzi submachine pistol on his waist. Hal nodded, then motioned his eyes oflF toward the door, and all three men walked outside and found an isolated area in the hallway.

  “How is she?”

  “The doctor says she’s worse. Who the hell knows? What’s going on, Hal?”

  “J.C. might have to return to Puerto Lempira right away,” Briggs said. “They made a deal with the Russians. They’re going to turn DreamStar over to us—maybe tomorrow morning. They say it’s flyable, so the general wants J.C., Dr. Carmichael and Master Sergeant Butler to go out to Puerto Cabezas and inspect her. J.C. might be able to fly the thing back to Dreamland.”

  “That’s good, real good . . . What about Ken James?”

  “You mean Colonel Andrei Maraklov. The Russians say the guy really is a KGB agent,” Briggs said. “Do you believe it? We had a damned KGB agent in Dreamland for almost two whole years. Heads are gonna roll for that—mine in particular.”

  At the mention of James’ real Russian name, the old fury came back. “What’s supposed to happen to him?”

  “The White House says he’s on his way back to Russia,” Briggs said. “The next time we see him will probably be on the podium beside the head man at the Great October military parade.”

  Briggs suddenly touched the earphone. “Briggs. Go ahead.” The earpiece acted as a microphone as well as a speaker, picking up sinus- and osteo-vibrations and transmitting them like a conventional radio system. Briggs listened for a few moments, then replied, “Copy all. Briggs out.” He turned to McLanahan. “Word’s in, Colonel. The plane’s been sealed oflF in a concrete shelter on Puerto Cabezas airfield. Tomorrow morning at six A.M., we’ve been cleared to fly no more than four more people in to inspect DreamStar—that means Carmichael, Butler, J.C. and myself. If we can fly it out, they’ll let us. If we can’t, we’ll be able to sail a barge into the docks at Puerto Cabezas and ship it out. The general wants J.C. back immediately. I’ve got to get his gear together back at Dreamland.”

  McLanahan glanced down the hallway and saw Wendy’s doctor and several nurses and technicians wheeling a large machine into Wendy’s ICU ward at a run. “Wait here,” he said, and ran down the hallway and followed the doctor back into the ward.

  When he entered the room a low, high-speed electronic beeping was coming from Wendy’s body-monitor. The relatives were crowded around her bedside, blocking the doctors and technicians from reaching her. The minister was kneeling beside her . . .

  “Get away from her,” McLanahan shouted and pushed his way through the knot of people. The doctor, after seemingly being paralyzed by the scene, rushed over to the monitor. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from her and let the doctors through ...”

  “Respiratory arrhythmia,” McLanahan heard the doctor say to one of the technicians, “but I’ve still got a heartbeat. She’s hanging in there. Put her on the respirator and take her to the CDV lab.” They began to insert the tracheal tube in her throat and worked to reinflate her lungs.

  McLanahan pushed the minister aside and stood beside the doctor. “Can you help her?”

  “I don’t know, dammit.” He was watching as the technicians quickly transferred the body-function leads from the wall unit to the portable device. “Her respiratory system has shut down.” He pointed to an electronic electrocardiogram readout on the portable respirator. “But that could be her saving grace. Strong as a horse. There may still be time.” He turned to the people surrounding the bed as a gurney was wheeled into the room. “All right, please move aside, everyone.” Wendy was transferred to the gurney, and the hospital technicians rushed out.

  McLanahan saw Wendy’s parents staring at him as if he was crazy. “Wendy will be all right,” he told them.

  “Why are you doing this, Patrick?” Betty Tork said in low voice.

  “I’m doing this because I want Wendy to live. You’re all waiting for her to die. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you. ” He turned, pushed past the relatives still packing the small room and hurried out.

  He was met by Powell and Briggs in the hallway. “I’m going with J.C. back to Honduras,” he told them. The two officers stared at him. “We’ll fly back in Cheetah. Hal, go back and get J.C.’s flight gear and Carmichael and Butler and meet us in Puerto Lempira.”

  J.C. said gently, “Do you think you should?”

  “Wendy’s back on a respirator. I think she’s going to make it. I believe she’s going to pull out of it. I’ve got to be there when we get DreamStar . . .”

  “Man, are you sure you’re all right?” Briggs asked. “Maybe you should stop and think about this ...”

  “Listen, I’ve got to do it this way. The more I stay around this place the more I feel like I’m on a death watch. I won’t do that. I got to believe she’s going to make it. Now let’s get going. Until DreamStar is out of Nicaragua I won’t stop. And I want Cheetah there in case something goes wrong ...”

  “Nothing can go wrong,” Briggs said. “Maraklov is on his way to Russia. He’s the only one that could fly DreamStar. They can blow DreamStar up, destroy it or disable it, but either way we’ve at least kept the Russians from getting their hands on it. We’ve won, man.”

  “Not yet, we haven’t. As long as Wendy’s fighting, I’m fighting too. And I can’t fight wringing my hands in this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Sebaco, Nicaragua

  Sunday 21 June 1996, 2141 CDT (2241 EDT)

  Out of some one hundred troops originally stationed at Sebaco, fewer than twenty were still there, all pressed into service in cleaning up and preparing the base for rebuilding. Since there were no aircraft at Sebaco, security had been cut back to only a couple of guards roving the base. With workers on the job from twelve to sixteen hours a day, the base was practically deserted by nine P.M.

  It would be that much easier to get away from Sebaco. Maraklov had decided on a plan nobody would expect, he hoped—return to Puerto Cabezas and try to steal DreamStar again.

  Earlier that day he had taken a military sedan that had a full tank of gas and hidden it, keeping the keys. It was less than two hundred miles to Puerto Cabezas, but the first one-third was on mountainous gravel roads, which were dangerous enough when driven by day—he would have to make the drive in the middle of the night. The first fifty miles would take at least two hours, maybe more. The rest would be easier—he could make the trip in five hours, maybe a little less. According to KGB director Kalinin, the Americans would be at Puerto Cabezas to get DreamStar shortly after dawn. He had to be there ahead of them.

  There were only two things left to do: get back his metallic flight suit and helmet from Lieutenant Musi Zaykov, who was holding the equipment in preparation for sending it back with him to Moscow, and—what would be the hardest of all—subdue, or eliminate, Musi herself. She was scheduled to drive him to Managua at six A.M. the next morning and put him on a nine A.M. Aeroflot flight to Moscow. If he could keep Musi quiet, maybe tie her up and hide her in the jungle where she’d eventually be found, they would think they had left for Sandino International Airport as scheduled. They wouldn’t know until the Aeroflot’s departure time of nine A.M. that they never showed up—and by then he would be airborne once more in DreamStar.

  That evening he dressed in a dark flight suit and spit-shined boots—into which he slipped a large hunting knife in a leather sheath—and left his room; he had, of course, already deactivated the surveillance camera set up in his room, and he was sure it had not been reactivated
since the attack. He slipped outside through a back window, retrieved the sedan and drove it over to Musi’s barracks several buildings away—being an officer as well as one of the few women on the base, Musi had a cabin to herself.

  He stopped the engine a few dozen yards from her cabin and coasted to a stop several yards from the back door. He considered trying to sneak into the cabin, but Zaykov would probably shoot him as an intruder. Instead he simply went to the front door and knocked.

  "Kto tarn?”

  “Andrei.”

  A slight pause, then, in a light, excited voice, Musi replied in English, “Come in, Andrei.”

  She was standing in the middle of her small living room, wearing a T-shirt that outlined her breasts, a pair of tropical- weight shorts and French-made tennis shoes. She came over to him and kissed him lightly on the right cheek. “Come in, Andrei.” She tugged him into the living room and around toward the sofa. “Please, sit down. How do you feel?”

  “Physically, great, emotionally, lousy ... I can’t believe we’re just going to give up DreamStar. After all that’s happened.”

  “Orders are orders, I suppose,” she said, curling up like some exotic cat on the loveseat beside the sofa. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”

  “Doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “No, but we are both soldiers,” she said. “Never mind, won’t you be glad to get back home? It’s been so long since you have been there . . .”

  Maraklov had to work at his reaction. “Sure, but it would be better if you were going with me.”

  “I will join you in Moscow before long,” she said. “We will see each other very soon.” She motioned to a small bar in the corner behind Maraklov. “Fix us some drinks? I think I have something interesting in there.”

  He got up, found ice and glasses, then started checking out her stock. He picked up one especially fancy bottle. “Well, look at this! Glenkinchie single malt Scotch whiskey ... I never expected to see this in this godforsaken place.”