by Dale Brown
because of the F-15 fighters in pursuit. There was something
else at the southeast end of the main runway but he didn't have
time to make it out before-
AAA LOCK-ON, blared in Maraklov's mind. ANTARES reacted
first, banking hard right and pulling away as warning messages
flashed in his mind and streaks of black raced past his canopy.
It was an M173 Bulldog anti-aircraft artillery vehicle, a small
tank with two 40-millimeter radar-guided guns that fired pre-
fragmented tungsten-alloy shells out to a range of over four
miles. There were only a few Bulldog regiments in the United
States; Maraklov was unlucky enough to run into one. Without
jammers, the only defense against the Bulldog was to fly as far
and as fast away from it as possible-its twin cannons could
pump out two hundred rounds per minute per barrel. Maraklov
now had no choice but to kick in full afterburner.
ANTARES reported damage to several mini-actuators in the
wings. One Bulldog was not an effective weapon against high-
speed ground-hugging fighters, but even so it had been a narrow
escape. The Bulldog was quickly deactivated as the F-15s came
198 DALE BROWN
into range. Maraklov pulled his throttle out of afterburner as fast
as he could, but the damage had already been done. DreamStar
had no fuel reserves left. Every mile in any direction other than
toward the landing point meant one more mile Maraklov would
end up short of it.
Maraklov rolled DreamStar left and headed directly for La-
guna de Santiaguillo, staying at one hundred feet above ground,
flying directly over a small town. He activated the attack radar
and completed a three-second sweep of the sky . . . the F-15
fighters had turned around, and at another mental inquiry he
found out why-DrearnStar was in Mexico, two miles south of
the border, over the town of San Luis. He had made it.
Aboard the lead F-15 over southwest Arizona
"What the hell do you mean, turn back?" Colonel Jack Harrell,
the Eagle Squadron commander from Davis-Monthan AFB, said
over the scrambled radio channel. He lowered his oxygen visor
with an exasperated snap. His four remaining squadron members
were arranged in extended fingertip formation around him, two
on his left and two others about a half-mile farther off to his left.
"Tinsel, verify that last transmission. Over."
" Eagle flight, this is Tinsel," the senior controller aboard the
E-3B AWACS replied, "your orders are verified. Permission to
cross into Mazatlan Fighter Intercept Region sector one with live
weapons on board has not been received. You must comply with
International Aeronautics Organization chapter one-thirteen until
permission to cross has been received."
Harrell was livid. lie had watched one of his best fighter pilots
auger into the desert not two minutes earlier, and here he was
sitting by while their target was escaping-and there was nothing
between them but a lousy line on a map. Harrell made a deci-
sion-that line was not going to stop him.
"Copy, Tinsel," Harrell said. "Understand permission re-
ceived to cross into Mazatlan FIR sector one. Blue Flight and
Red Two and Three, report back to Goalie for refueling. Red
Flight is turning right in pursuit. Eagle leader out."
" Blue Flight copies," the leader of the second group of two
F-15s replied before the controller aboard Tinsel could interject.
As Harrell banked right, those two F-15s maintained their head-
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 199
ing northeast toward Goalie, their waiting KC-10 aerial-refueling
tanker. But the two F-15s accompanying Harrell stayed in fin-
gertip formation of their leader.
"Eagle Leader, this is Tinsel," the angry voice of the senior
controller aboard the AWACS finally said over the command
radio. "I repeat, you are not authorized to cross the ADIZ. Turn
left heading zero-three-zero and climb to-"
Harrell shut off the radio. Out of the comer of his eye he saw
the F-15 on his left wingtip raise and lower his airbrake to get
Harrell's attention. The pilot extended two fingers ahead of him,
visible to both Harrell and the third F-15. Harrell nodded that
he understood the signal and switched his second radio to the
scrambled Squadron-only frequency.
"I thought I ordered you characters to hook up with the
tanker," Harrell radioed.
"If you've got radio or navigation problems, sir," the pilot
of the second F-15, Lieutenant Colonel Downs, replied, "we
wouldn't leave you. If you're going after that stolen fighter,
we're sure as hell not leaving your wing."
"We are going after that guy, aren't we?" the third pilot,
Major Chan, asked. "I'd hate to think we're gonna lose our
wings for nothing."
"Tinsel sounds pretty pissed," Downs said. "Sure you want
to do this, sir? "
"We're doing it, aren't we?" Harrell checked his heads-up
display, which had been slaved to provide AWACS-generated
steering signals to the stolen fighter. He was pleased to find the
data-link still active. "I've still got a steer on the XF-34. Lead's
coming right ten degrees, descending to two thousand feet. Two,
take the mid-patrol at six thousand; three, take the high CAP at
twelve. Let's waste this guy."
"Two. I I
"Three.
The two wingmen began slow climbs to their assigned alti-
tudes. Harrell began a descent, following DreamStar's flight
path. Moments later he received a soft beep in his headset telling
him that one of his Scorpion missiles had followed the AWACS'
data-link instructions and had locked onto its target. Harrell
made sure his wingmen were clear, then radioed "Fox two"
once on the Squadron-only frequency, and pressed the launch
trigger . . .
200 DALE BROWN
Over northwest Mexico
The green "sky" surrounding DreamStar was still present,
meaning that the AWACS was still tracking him, but Maraklov
allowed himself a moment to relax. They had turned back. He
had overestimated these reservist weekend-warrior fighter-jocks.
They had a reputation for tenacity, for an itchy trigger finger,
for not following the rules. These guys had more to lose.
Maraklov commanded a thousand-foot climb to pad his safe
terrain-clearance altitude and began to retrim his engine from
best-speed to best-endurance mode. There was still a chance he
could make it. In best-endurance mode the fuel computer and
autopilot would work together to step-climb the aircraft to take
advantage of better flying conditions and greater endurance at
higher altitudes, without wasting fuel in the-
He was startled by a sudden MISSILE LAUNCH indication from
the tail sensor. Momentarily stunned into indecision, he called
on ANTARES to execute an evasive maneuver.
instead of diving for the ground ANTARES pitched DreamStar
up in a hard climb, lit the afterburner, leveled out, then activated
the attack radar. Instantly the ra
dar image of Harrell's F- 1 5 ap-
peared, dead ahead at five miles. ANTARES' radar locked on
and launched the last remaining AIM- 120 missile at the lone
pursuer. At only five miles and slightly above the F-15, the
Scorpion missile did not miss. DreamStar then flew directly to-
ward the flaming remains of Harrell's F-15, dodging away right
at the last moment. The moves were executed so quickly that
Harrell's Scorpion missile, which ha:d dutifully followed
DrearnStar in its wild Immelmann maneuver, now locked onto
Harrell's flaming F- 15 fighter and added its own destructive fury
to the already doomed plane.
"Sweet mother of God
Downs banked left away from the blossoming fireball that
erupted just below and in front of him. There were only a few
seconds between when he left Harrell's wing and when that fire-
ball appeared. One moment his squadron commander was lined
up for a perfect missile shot, at the closest possible range without
getting into an inner-range warhead arming inhabit, the target
straight and level in front of him; the next moment, the target
had leapt into the sky, evaded the missile, turned and launched
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 201
a missile of his own. Immediately after, Harrell was part of a
cloud of metal and exploding fuel.
"Eagle Three, this is Two. Lead's been hit. He's going
down-no 'chute, no 'chute . . . "
"I see him, Two, I see him ... Jesus Christ .
Downs took a firm grip on his stick and throttles. "I've got
the lead. Take the mid CAP and follow me in. This bastard's
not getting-"
"Eagle flight, this is TINSEL on malibu"-malibu, FM fre-
quency 660, was the Squadron's discrete scrambled channel.
Great, Downs thought, they found our so-called secret channel.
Eagle flight of two, we copy that Eagle Lead is down. Search
and rescue has been notified. You are to return across the ADIZ
immediately or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Ac-
knowledge and comply. Over."
"TINSEL, this is Eagle Two. That son of a bitch just shot
down Colonel Harrell. Are you ordering us to let him go? Over. "
"We don't have any damned choice, Downs." It was a new
voice on the radio-obviously the AWACS mission commander
cutting in over the senior controller. "We can't start a major
international incident by ignoring the rules. You'll get another
shot at him when we get permission to cross. Now get your asses
back over the border before you have to fight off the damned
Mexican Air Force-and then you and I get to tangle. That's an
order from Air Division. Over.
DreamStar was only a dozen feet above a rocky dry-river bed
snaking through the Pinacate Mountains. Occasional radar
sweeps showed the skies above him were clear, but that last
attack was so sudden and so close that Maraklov kept DrearnStar
in the dirt to avoid any more sneak attacks. He stayed in the
rugged mountains and dry desert valleys until he reached the
fringes of the AWACS cover-age zone, then slowly step-climbed
out of the rocky terrain, being careful to stay under detectable
radar emissions in the-area. After a few minutes, as he cruised
down the Magdalena River valley at five hundred feet, he was
finally out of range of all American surveillance radars. The
military radar nets from Hermosillo seventy miles south of his
position were searching for him as well, but they were high-
altitude-only surveillance radars and not capable of finding low-
altitude aircraft. As he approached the northern foothills of the
202 DALE BROWN
Sierra Madre Occidental mountains he was finally able to climb
above ten thousand feet for the first time and reestablish best-
endurance power.
Not time to celebrate, though. Maraklov was starting to search
for places to crash-land DrearnStar, taking seriously the fuel-
endurance figures he was receiving. He was three hundred miles
from Laguna de Santiaguillo with five thousand pounds of fuel.
His best endurance speed was only fifty-five percent of full
power-idle power, barely enough to maintain altitude and con-
trol. He was slightly over eleven thousand feet, which put him
right at the minimum safe altitude for the region-he could see
Cerrro Chorreras, one of the highest peaks of the Sierra Madre,
looming off to his right and looking like an impenetrable wall,
a fist ready to reach out and pull him out of the sky.
He didn't have the fuel to climb any higher; in fact, the best
routine would command a descent soon to prevent DreamStar
from stalling at such slow airspeeds. The high terrain would then
force him further eastward toward the Mexican fighter base at
Torreon only two hundred miles away. After successfully evad-
ing four squadrons of high-tech American fighters, Maraklov
thought ruefully, he might end up dropping himself right into
the very appreciative laps of the Mexican government.
ANTARES needed to search its own database for landing sites
within range. Not easy. DreamStar was well within the Sierra
Madre mountains now. Below were hundreds of grass-and-dirt
strips-every plantation owner, every mining town, every timber
mill, every drug dealer had his own airstrip. Most were simply
cleared sections of land or dirt roads. Many were on high pla-
teaus far from any usable roads or towns-if Kramer and Moffitt,
his two KGB contacts from Los Angeles, were bringing a fuel
truck it would take days for them to arrive.
After a few moments Maraklov was presented with a chart of
north-central Mexico with landing-site choices depicted. He
quickly discarded the unimproved runways of San Pablo Balleza
and Rancho Las Aojuntas. Likewise the paved airport of Par-
ral-the computerized chart showed the airport had a rotating
beacon and even runway lights, which meant it probably was
used by the militia or local police. Too active to maintain any
secrecy.
The last choice seemed the best, a paved sixty-four-hundred-
foot-long runway named Ojito. Detail of the runway showed it
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 203
to be like the valley road nearby, which meant it probably was
the road, just widened and strengthened some to serve as a run-
way. Several of such quasi-runways dotted central Mexico,
where air access was occasionally desired but there wasn't
enough room to build an airport. Ojito was a hundred miles
northwest of the original landing site, and in these rugged foot-
hills that meant at least a four-hour wait.
Once that decision had been made, Maraklov commanded ra-
dio two to a special UHF frequency. "Kramer, this is Maraklov.
Come in. Over."
The radio crackled, and the pilot filtered out the noise, careful
not to decrease the radio's effective range. No response. He was
over two hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo. Maybe
they wouldn't be able to hear him in the mountains . . .
"Maraklov, this is Kramer. We read you. Welcome, you made
; it.
For the first time, Maraklov allowed himself to feel the ex-
hilaration he'd not thought possible. "Kramer, listen. Change
of plans. New runway is at grid coordinates kilo-victor-five-one-
five, lima-alpha one-three-seven. Situation critical. Over."
"We understand. We have been monitoring your progress.
We are airborne and will meet you at your designated landing
point. You are almost home. Kramer out."
The official blue sedan screeched to a halt not four feet in front
of Cheetah's nose gear. General Elliott jumped up from behind
the wheel, threw the door open and stood behind it, drawing a
thumb across his throat. He looked mad enough to hold down
Cheetah even if they used full afterburner. At the same time Hal
Briggs got out of the passenger's side, wearing a set of ear pro-
tectors, and holding aloft his Uzi submachine gun in an obvious
warning. Patrick could see him shrug and shake his head. He
had no doubt that Briggs would use that SMG on Cheetah's tires.
"Shut 'em down, ," Patrick said.
muttered to himself as he touched the 'Voice-interface
switch on the stick. "Engine shutdown, power on."
"Engine shutdown. Brakes set. External power on. Clear to
scavenge, " the computer replied.
"Clear to scavenge," said. One by one the engines
revved up to eighty percent power for ten seconds, then shut
themselves down. Patrick did not shut down any of his equip-
204 DALE BROWN
ment but left it on standby to have it ready when-or, looking
at Elliott's angry face, if-they received takeoff clearance. Soon
the only noise left was the sound of the external power cart.
Briggs bolstered his Uzi as Elliott walked over to the crew ladder
being put up on Cheetah's left side, pushed Sergeant Ray Butler
out of the way and painfully hauled himself up the ladder.
"
Where the hell do you think you're going? Have you gone
crazy?"
:'You know where I'm going," McLanahan said quietly-
'You ordered this?"
"Yes.-
Elliott stared at Patrick, then at the external power cart and