He lit the left afterburner and pulled Cheetah up into a hard climb. Preston hung from the handlebars in the back seat, straining against the G-forces as she tried to keep DreamStar in sight over her right shoulder.
“Warning, missile launch, ” the computer threat-receiver blared. Then: “Warning, airspeed low. Stall warning. Stall warning. ”
“He’s turned inside us. Missile launch. Get out of here. ”
McLanahan hit the voice-command button: “ChaflF . . . Flares,” he grunted, forcing the words out from the pressure against his lungs. He saw the decoys-eject indications on the heads-up display.
“Where is he?” he called out to Preston.
“Five o’clock low, climbing with us. He’s still coming . . .”
McLanahan pulled back on the stick even harder, his neck and jaw muscles quivering against the pressure. He rolled inverted, ejected more chaflF and flares to decoy the missiles, then plunged Cheetah earthward. They were head-to-head once again, but this time they were fighting in the vertical, not the horizontal—Cheetah was in a full-power descent, rapidly building airspeed, and DreamStar was in a screaming climb, heading right at him . . .
* * *
ANTARES adjusted each flight control surface and every pound of two-dimensional vectored thrust to keep Cheetah centered in its crosshairs. Measuring by DreamStar’s precision millimeter-wave radar and calculating by computer several times a second, Maraklov commanded DreamStar to open fire seconds before McLanahan’s finger even closed on his trigger. They were still almost two miles apart when DreamStar opened fire, dead on target . . .
The cannon reported locked-on and firing—then stopped.
After several days of misuse, inexperienced handling, and lack of routine preventive maintenance, and because the Russian-made ammunition was not precisely compatible with its American counterpart, DreamStar’s twenty-millimeter cannon fired five rounds, then jammed solid. The M61A5 cannon’s automatic jam-clearing mechanism tried to reverse the cartridge belt-feed, spin past the portion of the belt where the jam occurred and refeed the belt through the firing chamber, but the jam could not be cleared in flight.
At the speed of thought, ANTARES transmitted several bits of data to Maraklov’s exhausted mind. The cannon jam was reported in minute detail—he knew exactly where the jam was, the status of the unsuccessful attempts to clear it and the changing status of all the attack options that had been computed using the cannon. He also knew the range to Cheetah, knew Cheetah’s Doppler-measured velocity, and knew that
Cheetah was within lethal gun range. And he knew to the nearest one-tenth of a knot his own decreasing airspeed and the position of his wings and canards to overcome his speed deficit. He commanded his last AA-11 missile to launch, but it was a desperate snap-shot, with only one or two seconds guidance time and launched with a much higher launch angle of attack than the Russian missile was designed for.
With the realization that a defensive turn and descent away from Cheetah was the last available option, the pain returned full-force to Maraklov’s already tortured nervous system. This time, the pain was unbearable . . . He never knew that ANTARES’ stabilization system automatically corrected the impending stall condition. He also was not conscious enough to realize that DreamStar had taken several direct hits all across its wings and upper fuselage as ANTARES pulled its nose back to the horizon.
Warning messages began flooding in from almost every system on board the fighter, but Maraklov was too dazed by exhaustion and too overloaded with pain to assimilate them all—now the ANTARES computer was forced to take over all safety and flight control functions. The computers aboard DreamStar detected a fire in the engine compartment, momentarily shut down the engine, put out the fire and restarted the engine all in a few seconds. Engine-fuel feed was rerouted to draw fuel from leaking tanks before they ran dry. The mission-adaptive wings reshaped themselves to compensate for hydraulic actuators damaged by gunfire.
But through it all, Maraklov hovered on the brink of unconsciousness. And without him, for all ANTARES’ capability, DreamStar was no longer capable of fighting.
* * *
McLanahan came out of military power and set the throttles to eighty percent. He saw the BINGO low fuel warning projected onto his windscreen—less than ten minutes of fuel remaining—but for now he ignored it. He clicked open the interphone. “He’s what?”
“I see smoke coming out of his exhaust,” Preston said. “Not heavy but I can see it. He’s flying straight and level, not maneuvering. You got him . . .”
McLanahan looked over far to his right and spotted DreamStar. He turned toward him. Preston said, “You’ve got two-hundred rounds remaining and two missiles. Take the shot. We’re low on fuel.”
He lined up on DreamStar, selected an AIM-132 infrared missile, aligned it, hit the voice-command button: “Safe all missiles. Safe cannon.”
“Caution, all weapons safe. ”
“Patrick, what are you doing? You got to bring this guy down. There’s no other choice. He can turn on us . .
McLanahan’s reply was to click open the emergency frequency: “DreamStar, this is Cheetah. I’m at your six, five miles. I’m joining on your right side. Do you hear me?”
“Stay away ...” The pain in his voice was obvious, even through the computerized distortion. “Do not come any closer ...”
“It’s over, I’m joining on your wing. When you see me stay on my wing. We’re landing. Do you understand?”
He maneuvered Cheetah closer to DreamStar, finally overtaking him. “I’ve got the lead, coming right. You’re on the wing, stay there.” He began a shallow right turn.
“I am not giving up this aircraft. . .” the computer-synthesized voice said. “I am not. . . not going to surrender DreamStar . . .”
“It’s over. Listen to me. DreamStar is damaged, you’re hurt bad. You’ll destroy DreamStar or force me to destroy you. You’ve got a chance to live. Take it—”
Suddenly Marcia called out, “He’s turning behind us ... !
But it was only a momentary deviation. A moment later DreamStar moved into perfect fingertip formation with Cheetah. “That’s it, stay in position.” On interphone McLanahan said, “Marcia, get on the radio to any air traffic facility you can reach. Tell them we need vectors to a hard-surface runway ASAP.”
He paused, taking his first real deep breath, then added: “Two American military aircraft landing, both require assistance.”
EPILOGUE
Brooks AFB Hospital, San Antonio, Texas
Thursday, 23 June 1996, 2037 PDT (2337 EDT)
“SHE’S A remarkable woman,” the doctor told him. “You were right. She just refused to give up.”
He bent over and kissed her. “She’s a tough broad.” Wendy returned the kiss, reached up and touched his face, ran her fingers across his temples. “You’ve gotten a few gray hairs in the past few days, Colonel.” Her smile dimmed as she saw his eyes, remembering. “I’m sorry I won’t be there for J.C.’s service tomorrow. I’m going to miss him . .
He nodded. “I’ve never felt as secure, or as happy in an aircraft until I started flying with J.C. And he was a friend.” McLanahan was silent a few moments. “But seeing you like this again, it overwhelms everything . . . How do you feel?” “Like they say, lucky to be alive. Also tired as hell. The doctor says I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, then a few months’ convalescent leave. I think that’s too much. Four, five weeks should do it.” She took his hand, squeezed it tight. “I ... I heard about what you did before you left for Honduras again. I heard everyone was ready to let me go. I—”
Patrick put a finger on her lips. “I did it because I’m selfish. What the hell would I do without you?”
He knelt down beside her bed and she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close to her. They didn’t say a word. Even one would have been superfluous.
They heard a polite cough behind them. Joe and Betty Tork were standing in the doorway. “May we com
e in?” Betty asked.
McLanahan moved aside. Wendy’s parents gave their daughter a hug and spoke in low whispers. Then Joe Tork stood and faced Patrick.
“Congratulations, Patrick,” he said in a low voice. “Thank God Wendy is doing all right.”
“Yeah, well, I have to be going.” Joe put a big hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, McLanahan, I’m trying to apologize.”
“Colonel, it’s not so bad for an ex-Marine. Okay?”
“Okay. All even.”
* * *
There was one spot in the thousand-square-mile Dreamland complex not classified top-secret or restricted access, although it was one of the most difficult places to get in to visit. Surrounded by a simple picket fence and a grove of trees, a green oasis in the middle of miles of desert and rocks, was a cemetery dedicated to the most extraordinary aircrewmen and support personnel in the world.
The cemetary, belonging to the men and women who died in the service of the top-secret weapons and aircraft laboratory in the high desert of southern Nevada, had seen a lot of use in the past few days. The services for the dead security guards and the crew of the Old Dog had already taken place here; their grave sites, only a few yards away, still bore fresh flowers. Granite walls had been erected near the plots, telling who these men and women were and how they died; the walls were concealed by black plastic covers because the incident was still classified and under investigation. Now three more burial places and another granite wall, covered with secretive black as well, had been prepared for Alan Carmichael, Raymond Butler and Roland Powell.
No matter how much he prepared, the sound of the shots from the seven rifles over the graves of his friends stung McLanahan right to the heart. The echoes of the twenty-one shots reverberated off the surrounding Groom Mountains, seemingly rolling oflF the hills and echoing on forever.
As taps were played by a lone bugler, McLanahan heard the roar of jet engines passing overhead. At first he had no desire to watch the planes—the realization that he would never see these three men again had hit him with full force. They were such an important part of his life that their loss made him feel weak, completely drained. Then he looked across to the grave site, and the further realization of the deaths of Ormack, Pereira and the other members of the Old Dog’s crew made it especially hard. There seemed to be no future beyond this place . . . his future seemed to be lying at his feet . . .
He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned and saw Brad Elliott. Standing on one side of Elliott was Deborah O’Day, and on his other side was Hal Briggs. Elliott motioned skyward with his eyes, and McLanahan looked up and saw the astonishing formation passing overhead.
The sky seemed to be filled with planes. The lead formation was composed of some of the most high-tech machines in the world, led by a B-52 Megafortress. The formation also had a “flying-wing” B-2 stealth bombers, a B-i Excalibur bomber, one of the new stretched FB-111 bombers and a large aircraft that looked a lot like a smaller version of the B-i, with its wings pulled back to its fully swept high-speed setting. The second formation was composed of five F-15F fighter-bombers, and it was from this formation where one aircraft, J.C.’s Cheetah—he recognized it immediately, its right vertical stabilizer was still missing—peeled oflF from the rest to form the “missing man” formation.
Among the onlookers was a man who had had more than a little to do with this ceremony. Ken James . . . Maraklov. He had been allowed, over protests of some members of HAWC, to attend the service, handcuffed and surrounded by two security guards. Eventually he was taken away by the security agents.
Elliott and McLanahan turned back toward the three grave sites as the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed. “I feel like everything’s come to an end here, General.”
“Not quite.” Elliott motioned skyward again, and McLanahan followed his lead. The unusual B-1 lookalike had moved its wings up from its full aft-sweep position to a forward-swept position like the XF-29 fighter’s high-maneuverability wings. The amazing hybrid plane then pulled up out of the formation, lit its twin afterburners with a rolling boom and did a spectacular climbing roll, accelerating quickly out of sight.
“The new XFB-5 Tracer,” Elliott said in a low voice. “First generation, designed for strategic escort-duties like the Megafortress. We combined the technology of the F-29 and the B-i and came up with a plane that’s twice as good as the sum of its parts. It’s as fast and agile as a fighter, but with almost the same payload and power as a supersonic bomber.”
The officer in charge of the ceremony handed the folded American flags to Secretary of the Air Force Wilbur Curtis, who in turn handed them to the widows and families. Elliott said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock,” and walked off with Deborah O’Day and Briggs to join Curtis and pay his respects to the families.
* * *
The next day McLanahan walked into Elliott’s office in the heart of the HAWC complex. Elliott, O’Day, Preston and Briggs all had snifters of brandy, and Hal offered one to McLanahan.
“To our friends,” Elliott said, raising the glass. He took a sip, then set the snifter down on his desk. “I never realized how young Powell was. His parents still look like college graduates.”
“Powell was the one who made it happen,” McLanahan said. “He gave me the key to beating DreamStar ... no matter how advanced a system is, human unpredictability and flexibility can overcome it. Funny, the very thing that made DreamStar supposedly unbeatable actually led to its defeat—its singleminded command to attack meant it didn’t know what retreat or caution were. J.C. had the intelligence and insight to discover that.”
“Well, he gave you the key just in time,” Elliott said. He turned to O’Day. “It was very . . . generous of you also to recommend that James be allowed to attend the ceremony.”
“Very, ” Briggs said.
McLanahan said nothing. His sentiments were obvious. This was his buddy.
“My lieutenant says Maraklov wants to make a deal—asylum for information,” Briggs said. “I’m going to talk with him. Frankly, I’d just as soon turn his butt over to the Russian government. I’m sure they'd show him a good time.”
“I have some bad news, people,” Elliott said. “As you know, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the CIA, and the Pentagon are all conducting investigations at HAWC. I don’t know what the future of the Center will be. But we do know some of the first casualties. As expected, Hal and I have been relieved of our assignments, effective at the end of the year.”
“That’s lousy,” McLanahan said. “Neither of you deserve it—”
“There will be another casualty.” He looked at McLanahan. “Sorry, Patrick. I think the housecleaning will be total.” McLanahan looked neither shocked nor even surprised. “If anyone didn’t deserve this, it’s you. Your actions during this whole business have been above and beyond.”
“So were J.C.’s. So were General Ormack’s. Maybe I deserve what I got—they sure as hell didn’t.”
“It’s not the end, though,” Elliott said. He turned to Deborah O’Day, who took another sip of brandy and got to her feet.
“No, it is not the end. The fact is, in this room right now is the heart of an entirely new outfit. We have groups that can specialize in many different types of operations, all working directly for the President, and all supervised to various degrees by Congress. This group, including Marcia Preston, will carry on with the type of work you’ve been doing for the past few years, except now you’ll be doing it directly and accountably for the White House.”
She picked up her brandy snifter. “Of course, all of this might come to a crashing halt if Lloyd Taylor doesn’t get reelected. But that’s not up to us.” She held up her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, all those here present interested in working more long hours for low pay and probably lower recognition, but having the absolute time of their lives, signify by saying ‘aye.’ ”
The ayes had it. Unanimous.
“Here’s to
the charter members of Future Flight. And may heaven have mercy on the bad guys.”
* * *
The whole second floor of Dreamland’s small detention facility had been turned into a huge high-security area. Guards were posted on the stairways and in every hallway. All personnel were screened and checked any time they came in or out of the building.
Andrei Maraklov was the floor’s only occupant. He had a room to himself in the center of the second floor, guarded inside and out by armed soldiers and undercover CIA operatives. All in all, twenty soldiers and agents were assigned to him round-the-clock.
Even for other agents, it was tough to get near him. From the time he came onto the grounds of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center, Defense Intelligence Agency operative Anthony Scorcelli, Jr., was searched, had his I.D. checked and was electronically scanned for weapons as well as by teams of bomb dogs. He went through one metal detector at the entrance, one before getting into the elevator and one before getting near Maraklov’s room. After the last machine he was carefully pat-searched and sniffed over by an explosives dog as his name and I.D. were checked once again.
“No gun?” the Air Force soldier asked. “Doesn’t the DIA carry guns?”
“I don’t chase bad guys,” Scorcelli told him. “I wait until they’re in custody, surrounded by blue-shirts. What do I need a gun for?”
“He checks,” another guard said. The pat-search revealed a few pens—the guards even pushed the plungers on them and scribbled circles on a sheet of paper to make sure they worked—a small notebook, an appointment book with a credit-card-sized computer inside, wallet with seven dollars in it and a set of car keys from a rental car agency. “He’s okay.”
“What are you doing here this late?” the second guard asked, taking a sip of coffee as Scorcelli retrieved his belongings.
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