Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (72 page)

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Orbiting
at five thousand feet over the marshy northeast coast of
Nicaragua
, Maraklov watched as, one by one, crewmen
bailed out of the stricken Ilyushin-76 AWACS transport. Because the aircraft
was no longer structurally sound, ditching was not recommended; instead, they
decided to crash the air- craft in the peat bogs of the
Mosquito Coast
after the crew bailed out. The Ilyushin had
been trimmed for a shallow leftturning descent to allow time for the pilot to
run back to the cargo door and jump out. Maraklov watched each crewman bail
out, electronically measuring and recording the location of each man as he hit
the marshy ground, then watched as the huge transport, still streaming smoke
from its mangled tail and ruptured fuselage, continued its left turn, pointed
itself toward the ocean and pancaked in just a half-mile offshore.

 
          
They
had hoped to retrieve the aircraft relatively intact and salvage as much of the
expensive electronic gear on board as possible, but their estimates of the
aircraft’s poor structural integrity were on-target. Even though the plane made
a rather gentle belly-flop into the warm
Caribbean
, the weakened fuselage cracked and tore
apart as if made of balsa wood. The last Maraklov saw was the huge wings of the
Ilyushin flying and spinning in the air; then the sea swallowed the plane and
it quickly disappeared from sight.

 
          
“Control,
this is Zavtra,” Maraklov reported as he electronically recorded the impact
point and the point at which the fuselage disappeared from view. “Ilyushin is
down and submerged. Stand by for transmission of impact coordinates for
possible naval salvage. Requesting immediate clearance to land.”

 
          
“Request
approved, Zavtra,” the controller replied in English, then added: “Plenty of
parking space available now.”

 
          
The
reply, a bitter one, underscored the fast-worsening situation Maraklov faced.
Sebaco was virtually defenseless. All four of the MiG-2gs assigned to Sebaco
had been destroyed—the only aircraft available were borrowed MiG-23 fighters
from the Nicaraguan Air Force at
Managua
and possibly some of
Nicaragua
’s Sukhoi-24 swing-wing fighter-bombers to
counter any naval forces that might threaten Sebaco. Sebaco did not even have
Russian pilots to man these twenty- to thirty-year- old aircraft—they’d have to
rely on poorly trained Nicaraguan or Cuban pilots until Russian pilots could be
flown in.

 
          
As
Maraklov approached Sebaco he noticed the small antiaircraft artillery guns at
the end of the runway. They had piled up more sandbags and scrap-armor plates
around the gun’s bunker to protect the gunners, but the extra buttresses
decreased the gunner’s visibility and reaction time. Those too would be useless
in a fight.

 
          
Tretyak
and his men, isolated for so long in this damned never-never land, had no
conception of what was about to be unleashed on them.

 
          
Whatever,
Maraklov was determined not to allow their shortsightedness spell the end of
DreamStar.

Brooks
Medical
Center
,
San
Antonio
,
Texas

Saturday, 20 June 1996
, 1730 CDT (1830 EDT)

 
          
MCLANAHAN WAS
awakened from a fitful
sleep
by
a hand shaking his
shoulder. “Colonel McLanahan? Colonel?”

           
It was Wendy’s doctor. His face
looked weary. Patrick’s heart began to race and he leapt to his feet. A nurse
was removing the plastic airway in Wendy’s throat, and aides were wheeling in a
gurney. “Wendy . . . ?”

 
          
The
doctor immediately held up his hands. “She’s all right, Colonel, at least for
the time being.” He paused, referring to a chart he had brought with him. “She
has some extensive damage in her lung tissues ... pneumonectomy may be necessary.
I doubt we can wait any longer.”

 
          
Patrick
watched as the orderlies moved his wife onto the gurney and began attaching a
portable respirator. “How long will it be?”

 
          
“Several
hours. I suggest you go home and get some rest. We won’t know until morning.”

 
          
“Call
if there’s any news.”

 
          
“I
will.” The doctor followed Wendy’s gurney and the technicians out of the
intensive care unit.

 
          
It
had been an exhausting two-day vigil over Wendy’s bedside, waiting to see if
she would ever regain consciousness. He wandered in a near-daze out of
intensive care and down the silent corridor toward the exit.

 
          
Usually
victims of an airplane crash were assumed to be dead—the human body was simply
not designed to survive the crushing force of a plane crash. The doctors and
nurses, although hard-working and very professional, carried out their duties
as if they were demonstrating to the victim’s family that the Air Force was
doing everything possible, while trying to steel the family into accepting the
worst. It was evident in the damned attending physician. He seemed more
concerned with making the family comfortable then with saving Wendy’s life—

 
          
McLanahan
stopped dead in the hallway. He realized that he had been walking very fast
down the middle of the corridor, storming past patients and nurses, his fists
tight-clenched. Get a grip, McLanahan, he told himself as he stepped aside and
slowed his pace through the corridor. This is no time to go bananas.

 
          
As
he passed an open doorway on his way out to the parking lot he heard the words
“Air Force” from the room’s television set. He stopped outside the door to
listen:

 
          
“.
. . today would not comment on reports from a Mexican news service that U.S.
Air Force jets were shot down by Russian fighters today in the Caribbean Sea
south of Cuba. Pentagon officials will only confirm that American military
planes were in the area on routine training missions, and that those aircraft
were harrassed by Soviet, Cuban and Nicaraguan military aircraft. Air Force
officials say the aircraft were part of a month-long exercise called Tropical
Thunder, an annual joint U.S.-Central American military exercise ...”

 
          
McLanahan
turned away to look for a telephone. “Tropical Thunder” was the name of a joint
U.S.-Latin American military exercise, but it rarely involved more than a few
dozen Marines and a few transports, and it was usually conducted in the United
States or Panama. This had to have something to do with DreamStar.

 
          
He
found a telephone, and got the base operator, who dialed the command post
number at Dreamland.

 
          
“Command
Post, Captain Valentine.”

 
          
“Kurt,
this is Colonel McLanahan—”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Valentine, the senior controller at HAWC interrupted, “General Elliott is
expecting your call. Can you stand by, sir?”

           
“Yes, this is not a secure line.”

 
          
“Understand.
Stand by.” He heard clicks and digital dial tones in the background; then a
voice said, “Barrier, Charlie one, go ahead. Over.”

 
          
The
HAWC command post had hooked him into a UHF or satellite phone patch with some
ship or aircraft. McLanahan considered using his Dreamland call sign on the
open frequency, but this guy wouldn’t know what he was talking about. He said:
“Barrier, this is Colonel McLanahan. Connect me with General Elliott.”

 
          
“Stand
by one, sir.”

 
          
There
was a only a slight pause, then the booming voice of General Elliott came on.
“Patrick, how’s Wendy?”

 
          
“Still
critical, sir. They might be operating tonight.”

 
          
“You
know we’re all thinking of her . . . How you doing?”

 
          
“Okay
... I was watching the news and heard this story—”

 
          
“I
know which one you mean,” Elliott interrupted. “We need to discuss it. If you
feel up to it, make your way to the electronic security command post at Kelly.
I’ll leave instructions on how you can contact me directly.”

 
          
“I’ll
get out there as soon—”

 
          
“Listen,
Patrick. You don’t have to do this. If you think you shouldn’t leave—”

 
          
“I
won’t know anything more about Wendy for several hours, she’s stable now ...”

 
          
Things
were obviously happening fast, he thought. There was no telling what sort of
aircraft Elliott was in—it was very possible for him to be in some emergency
airborne command post, much like his former Strategic Air Command position in
the Airborne Command and Control Squadron, ready to take charge of a wide array
of military forces. He was probably right on the scene of whatever happened in
the
Caribbean
earlier that day.

 
          
But
should he leave Wendy now? If she could, she would tell him that even now, with
DreamStar in enemy hands, he was still the key in the DreamStar program. At
least his place was with the people trying to get DreamStar back, not wringing
his hands and letting self-pity take over . . . “I’ll be there in a half hour,
sir.”

 
          
“I’ll
be waiting for your call. Barrier out.”

 
          
He
hurried back to the ICU nurse’s station, grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a
number on it. When the duty nurse came over he gave her a number to call in
case of any change in Wendy’s condition. “Tell the controller anything you
have, this is my command post number, they’ll—”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, sir, we’re only allowed to contact you in person. We can’t leave any
message in situations like—”

 
          
“Then
get your supervisor over here. I’m tired of people around here telling me what
I have to do or should do or can do. Do you follow me?”

 
          
The
nurse reached over and took the slip of paper. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

 
          
“Thank
you. Remember,
any news at all.
”

Sebaco
Airfield
,
Nicaragua

Saturday, 20 June 1996
, 1735 CDT

 
          
Maraklov
woke up with the most crushing headache he had ever had—the pain this time so
great that the slightest movement of his head or the least bit of light
penetrating the room made everything spin. It was severe dehydration, as
always. It was like a fierce case of cotton-mouth and hangover after an
all-night drunk—the ANTARES interface soaked up vast amounts of water and
essential minerals from his tissues to facilitate the computer-neuron
connection, causing the sickness—except this was far far worse. This was the
second time he had been taken unconscious from DreamStar’s cockpit—it was
getting very unnerving. He decided not to rush things, but lay in bed quietly
with his eyes closed and tried to will the pain away.

 
          
A
few minutes later he heard voices and footsteps. They were talking in Russian.
They did not try to knock before entering, but came right in. Maraklov decided
to pretend to be asleep.

 
          
“So
this is the great pilot?” one voice was saying.

 
          
“After
today, who can tell?” the other said. “He is the only one who returns out of
six aircraft—either he is very lucky or he let the others do the fighting for
him.

 
          
“Check
his arm, check the drip against your wristwatch, then administer ten c.c.’s
of—” Maraklov could not understand the word—“if he is not conscious ...”

           
Ten c.c.’s... ? Maraklov
experimentally flexed each arm and felt the stiff tubules and dull pain of an
intravenous needle in his left arm. He quickly opened his eyes. There was a
plastic bottle with clear liquid suspended over his head to his left. His left
arm was taped onto a stiff plastic board, and an intravenous tube ran into a
vein in the crook of his elbow. His eyes focused just in time to see a
white-jacketed man injecting something into his intravenous feeding tube with a
hypodermic needle.

 
          
“Hey,
Karl, he’s awake ...”

 
          
With
strength Maraklov thought he wasn’t capable of, he drew his legs up to his
chest, swung around to his left, planted his feet on the white-coated man with
the hypodermic and kicked out as hard as he could. The man stumbled back and
crashed against the far wall, slipping to the floor.

 
          
“Easy,
easy...” The other man threw himself over Maraklov and tried to pin his arms
and legs down. Maraklov brought the thick edge of the plastic board down on his
right temple. He was still struggling but the blow had taken a lot of fight out
of him. Maraklov sat up, forcing away the rush of dizziness, rolled away from
the second attacker and struggled to his feet. When the entire room seemed to
sway Maraklov dropped to one knee and tried to steady himself.

 
          
Two
arms suddenly reached around him from behind and pinned his arms to his sides.
“O myenya,
Ivan, I have him, get—”

 
          
Maraklov
bent his head forward, then snapped it backward as hard as he could. He heard
bone and cartilage splinter as the man’s nose took the full force of the blow.
Still on one knee, Maraklov braced himself against the bed and shoved backward.
The man landed hard on his back. Maraklov rolled away from him, giving him a
chop to the throat. He found a chair, and held it between the second attacker
and himself—using it as much for balance as for self-defense.

 
          
The
second man was done. “
Stoy
,
stoy,
” he said, holding up his hands.
Maraklov had never seen him before.

 
          
Suddenly
the door to his room opened and Musi Zaykov and two KGB Border Guards appeared,
all with rifles trained on the three men. Musi was the first one in. She
scanned the room, then: “Colonel Maraklov, are you all right?” She saw the
blood seeping from his left arm, shouldered her rifle, turned to one of the
guards.
“Pazavetya vrachya. Skaryeye!
Call a doctor. Be quick!” She went over to Maraklov, took a towel from the
bedstand and wrapped it around the point were the I.V. needle had come out.

 
          
“What
happened, Colonel?”