Day of the Cheetah

by Dale Brown

  the maintenance access panels to open automatically, and a crew

  began to attach fuel lines to the single-point refueling adapter.

  Other crewmen began stripping loose chunks of fibersteel off

  DreamStar's tail section, while some scurried over DreamStar's

  wings inspecting the damage from the Bulldog AAA gun. Amid

  it all two photographers were taking nonstop pictures of

  DrearnStar.

  Kramer, now on the top of the ladder beside the cockpit ledge,

  plugged a headset into a jack offered by a maintenance techni-

  cian. "Can you hear me, Maraklov?"

  "Yes, I can hear you," the ANTARES-synthesized voice re-

  plied. He did not move, nor did he attempt to remove his helmet

  or raise his visors.

  "Welcome, Andrei. What you have accomplished is incredi-

  ble. "

  "Thank you," the computer-synthesized voice replied.

  "Can you move? You must be tired. Can you get up?"

  "I won't disturb the ANTARES interface until we are safely

  in Nicaragua. The refueling can be accomplished with the en-

  gine running. I should launch without any delay."

  "I understand. We have begun refueling. We also have mis-

  siles and ammunition for your guns."

  "What kind of missiles?"

  "The best we have," Moffitt broke in on the interphone. He

  had climbed up the other side of DreamStar and was leaning

  inside the cockpit, watching with fascination as the multi-

  function screens flickered and changed at breathtaking speed

  while Maraklov monitored the refueling. "We have two hundred

  rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition plus two AA-" close-

  range dogfighting missiles and two AA-14 medium-range mis-

  siles. They-"'

  "Neither is enough," came Maraklov's ANTARES synthe-

  sizer voice. Moffitt tried to reach inside the cockpit to touch a

  button on one of the MFDs, and Maraklov immediately powered

  the monitor down until Moffitt withdrew his hand. "Without

  proper interface the missile needs to be able to lock onto a target

  212 DALE BROWN

  without carfier-aircraft guidance. Neither the AA- II or the AA-

  14 can do that."

  Moffitt's comment was predictable. "Your American friends

  always build the best of everything, don't they?"

  "Be quiet," Kramer told Moffitt, and then asked Maraklov, i

  "Can't you use the missiles as a decoy? Perhaps they could scare

  off-"

  "They'll only add additional drag, and they could cause dam-

  age. I have no intention of letting anyone that close to me.

  take the ammunition for the cannon-that's standard size Mar- I

  aklov ordered the cannon-bay door opened, and the twenty-

  millimeter cannon lowered itself out of its nose bay, where crew-

  men, along with the photographers, began to examine it in i

  I

  preparation for loading. "Another important item: remove the

  left access panel just forward of'the canard. There's a black box

  marked 'data transmitter.' That unit must be disconnected as

  soon as possible."

  "What is it?"

  "An automatic telemetry-data transmitter," Maraklov.told

  him. "It sends engine and flight data to any airborne receivers

  within a hundred miles, including the F-15F. They can decode

  the information and use it to track me. It can't be deactivated by

  ANTARES. Do it immediately."

  Kramer gave the order to the senior crew chief, then: "What

  is your plan for escaping to Nicaragua?"

  So he was going to Nicaragua, as he'd guessed. Okay, so be

  it . "I'll stay in the mountains as much as possible and avoid

  military bases." The main multi-function display screen flashed

  on, then scrolled through computer-generated charts of the route

  of flight as Maraklov continued: "I'll fly west of Durango and

  east of Culiacan to avoid those bases, through the interior to

  avoid Aguas Calientes and Guadalajara, then into the Sierra Ma-

  dre del Sur between San Mateo and Acapulco. I don't anticipate

  problems avoiding Tuxtla Gutierrez and Villahermosa military

  airfields, and crossing the border I should be unopposed through

  Guatemala. The problems may come crossing through Hondu-

  ras," the computer-altered voice of ANTARES said-the metal-

  lic voice did not reveal any hint of Maraklov's real apprehension

  or fear. "I may encounter large American forces from Llorango

  Airfield in El Salvador, and La Cieba and Tegucigalpa airfields

  in Honduras, but I believe resistance will not be major. There

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 213

  are only about two hundred miles to the Guatemalan border,

  through El Salvador and Honduras and into Augusto Cesar San-

  dino airfield-I can transit the entire distance in less than twenty

  minutes if necessary. I assume Sandino will be the final desti-

  nation? "

  "Ali . . . that reminds me," Kramer said. "The Nicaraguan

  government was adamant about not allowing DreamStar into

  Managua-those people actually believe the U. will send the

  New Jersey and shell the city if DreamStar shows up anywhere

  near it. However, we have been provided an alternate base of

  operations that you will find more than adequate-Sebaco Air-

  field, north of Managua.

  Maraklov immediately activated DreamStar's on-board data-

  base, and in an instant the computer had found the field and

  displayed a chart and airfield-infon-nation on Sebaco. "It's a

  mining town with a dirt runway?" "

  "Your information is dated," Kramer said, although to tell

  the truth, we have made our own modifications only recently.

  Sebaco is now a functional airfield and military post, staffed by

  our people. The runway has been lengthened and paved and is

  protected by anti-aircraft missiles and artillery. The KGB Cen-

  tral Amefican Command is based there, along with a small

  squadron of Mikoyan-Gureyvich-29 fighters. It will be home

  away from home for you-your first taste of homeland in some

  time.

  "Yes," Maraklov replied curtly.

  Maraklov, sitting immobile in DreamStar's ejection seat, felt

  the life-giving flow of jet fuel into DreamStar, felt the energy

  and vitality as the precious liquid flowed into the fighter's tanks-

  and yet, watching the efficient Soviet plainclothes agents hunting

  down the villagers, he also felt cornered, trapped, alone. The

  Soviet KGB forces out there-his countrymen-were in a way as

  strange to him as men from Mars. He even felt a bit of the

  typical American response when seeing pictures or videotapes

  of Russian soldiers or airmen: curiosity, puzzlement, even a lit-

  tle fear. They were the enemy-no, they were his countrymen,

  his fellow Russians. So why did he feel this way?

  He looked back toward the nose of his fighter and noted the

  tall, beefy frame of Kramer's assistant and chief neck-crusher,

  Moffitt. No matter what he'd accomplished, guys like Moffitt

  would always suspect him, figuring that as valuable an asset as

  214 DALE BROWN

  he was to the Soviets he could be an even more valuable one for

  the Americans. Had he been turned
? Was he a double agent?

  What if the returning hero turned out to be an embarrassment?

  At least he hadn't forgotten how they thought, never mind glas-

  nost.

  At a mental command, Maraklov activated DreamStar's attack

  radar and concentrated the energy on the right-forward nose-

  sector antenna-arrays. But after a few moments he turned the

  radar off. He would have enjoyed barbecuing Moffitt with mi-

  crowaves-or at least scaring him.

  He would have to deal with Moffitt, and the other Moffitts in

  Russia, very soon. Even being a hero could be dangerous. But

  he was getting ahead of himself. He was no hero. Not yet. So

  far he was nothing more, or less, than an uncommon traitor to

  the U.

  "Tinsel, this is Storm One. Refueling completed with Goalie

  Three-Zero, squawking normal."

  "Storm One, roger. Strangle mode two and four for IFF

  check.

  "Roger, Storm One." JC. Powell issued commands to de-

  activate the two military-only data channels that would help Tin-

  sel, the E-313 AWACS radar plane, locate and identify Cheetah.

  One by one, Tinsel ordered JC. to turn each transmitter on until

  all were activated.

  McLanahan lowered his oxygen visor. The waiting was the

  worst part . . . waiting for special clearance for takeoff, clear-

  e to use the KC-10 refueling tanker, clearance to join up with

  anc

  Tinsel and the rest of the interceptor pursuers, and now they had

  to wait for permission to cross into Mexican airspace. He was

  itching to get on with the chase. DreamStar had such a long

  head start . . . He continued to check his equipment and thought

  about Ken James. It was nearly unbelievable. Apparently a So-

  viet agent had gotten an assignment into the most highly clas-

  sified research facility in the United States and had gotten to be

  chief test pilot-hell, the only test pilot-of the hottest tactical

  jet fighter in the world. And had now managed to steal that

  fighter out from under the noses of a large security force and

  escape with it out of the United States right past four interceptor

  squadrons.

  And the son of a bitch had shot down the Old Dog, killed all

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 215

  but three on board-they had found Major Edward Frost, the

  radar navigator, badly broken up but somehow alive a mile from

  the impact area; his parachute never had time to open before he

  hit the ground, they said. Colonel Jeffrey Khan, the copilot,

  ended up at the edge of the scorched earth in critical condition

  but alive. And Wendy . . . she was alive, clinging to life. The

  investigators said there was no way she could have gotten out by

  herself-Angelina Pereira must have sacrificed herself to save

  Wenily.

  One man had caused more damage, more destruction and

  more death than McLanahan could have ever imagined, not to

  mention the military secrets he must already have turned over to

  the Soviet Union. And if this . . . this Maraklov had replaced

  the real Kenneth James before his assignment to Dreamland, he

  would have done even more damage. The real Ken James was a

  B- I commander for three years. The phony one could have turned

  over enough data on the B-1, its mission, its routes of flight, its

  weapons and other top-secret information to destroy the strategic

  bombardment mission of the Strategic Air Command for years.

  And now, James-it was still hard to think of him as anyone else

  but Ken James-had DreamStar . . .

  "Storm Zero One, data-link checks completed," the control-

  ler aboard the AWACS reported. "Clearance not yet received to

  proceed through the Monterrey FIR sector one. You can join

  Eagle Zero Two flight of four over Luke Range Complex Seven,

  or orbit within three-zero miles of REEBO intersection at flight

  level two-five zero until clearance is received. Over."

  "When do you expect clearance through the sector, Tinsel?"

  JC. asked.

  "No idea, Storm. Our request had to be forwarded through

  Air Force to the Pentagon. Pentagon will probably pass it on to

  State. We lost it from there."

  Patrick checked his charts. REEBO was just east of Yuma,

  very close to the border; Luke Complex Seven was farther

  north, closer to the tanker's orbit point. "Take the orbit at

  REEBO, ," Patrick told Powell.

  "Tinsel, we'll take the orbit point at REEBO at two-five-oh.

  "Roger, Storm One, cleared to orbit as required at REEBO.

  Climb and maintain flight level two-five-zero. Orbit within three-

  zero miles, stay five miles north of the southern domestic ADZ

  216 DALE BROWN

  until given a Mexican controller freq and squawk and cleared to

  proceed. "

  "Storm One copies clearance." switched his outside ra-

  dios to standby and said on interphone to McLanahan: "Now

  let me guess-this air machine ain't gonna do no orbiting."

  "You got that right. Take two-five-zero, maintain five-zero-zero

  knots. When we reach REEBO start a climb to three-niner-zero

  and switch to max speed power settings.

  "We'll be sucking fuel like crazy," reminded Mc-

  Lanahan. "It'll be real tight if we don't have tanker support on

  the way back."

  "We need to catch this Maraklov and get a shot at him. What

  counts is nailing that bastard. Right now I don't really much

  care if I make it back."

  General Brad Elliott sat alone in the small battle-staff operations

  center of HAWCs command post. A wall-size gas-plasma screen

  was on the far wall, depicting the southern Nevada Red Flag

  bombing and aerial-gunnery ranges in which the Old Dog was

  located. The airspace was empty except for the cluster of air-

  craft, mostly security helicopters and shuttles for the investiga-

  tion team, around the Megafortress' impact area.

  Hal Briggs entered the conference room. He was carrying his

  automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and wearing a communi-

  cations transceiver with a wireless earpiece to allow him to stay

  in contact with his command center wherever he went.

  He studied General Elliott for a moment before disturbing

  him. More than ever, the sixty-year-old commander of Dream-

  land looked exhausted, physically and emotionally. Working out

  here in the Nevada wastelands was demanding for even the

  healthiest, but for Elliott it was especially tough., Briggs had

  seen the strain on him during day-to-day activities-increased

  isolation, moodiness. But this disaster looked as if it might push

  him fight to the edge. He needed some close observation from

  here on, Briggs decided. Very close.

  Briggs dropped a piece of paper on the desk in front of Elliott.

  "Preliminary report from the investigation team, crew-member

  disposition analysis." Elliott said nothing. Briggs paused a mo-

  ment, then decided to read on: "Two members of the crew never

  tried to get out; Wendelstat in the I. P. seat and Major Evanston,

  the nav. Right side of the crew compartment was badly chewed

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 217

&nb
sp; up; Evanston may have already been dead. " Elliott winced as if

  struck in the face. Evanston was part of the "great experiment"

  of the early 1990s, the project exploring the possibility of mili-

  tary women assigned to combat duties. A graduate of the Air

  Force Academy, she was easily the best qualified for the pro-

  gram, and she was accepted and soon became the first woman

  crewmember in a B-52 bomber squadron. Because of her

  engineering background, she had been temporarily assigned

  to HAWC to participate in the Megafortress Plus project-

  obviously headed for promotion. What a terrible waste.

  Hal hurried on through the report to spare Elliott as much as

  possible: "I guess Wendelstat in the I.'s seat didn't have a

  chance for manual bailout unless he was at high altitude." El-

  liott nodded numbly. "Gunner's seat was fired but a parently

  malfunctioned. Remains still strapped in placer guess Dr. Pe-

  reira never tried manual bailout. Didn't have a chance . . .

  Remains found in the debris believed to be of General Ormack;

  he ejected but landed in the fireball."

  "My God . . .

  "Khan might be okay, some bad cuts and lacerations, a bro-

  ken arm but that's it. Wendy Tork is in critical condition. She's

  on her way to the bum unit at Brooks Medical Center in San

  Antonio. Her progress is not favorable. Ed Frost . . . died, sir.

  They said he never got a 'chute .

  Elliott rubbed his eyes. "I want Tork's progress monitored

  hourly. I want to make sure she's getting the best treatment pos-

  sible.

  "I'll see to it, sir.

  "What about the families?"

  "Being assembled at the base chapel at Nellis, as you or-

  dered, " Briggs said. "Dr. Pereira listed no next of kin. All the

  rest are on their way."

  Elliott shook his head, stunned. "This is the worst since the

  fall of Saigon. " He stared at the chart on the screen. "What

  the hell can I tell the families?

  "Tell them what you just told me, sir.

  "But they'll never understand, and why should they?"

  "They understood the sort of job those crewmembers did,

  even if they weren't told specifics. What they need is every bit