Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (84 page)

 
          
“You’d
do anything to save your pension and your
dacha
...
”

           
“Silence,
Kalinin
.”

           
“Your defense of me is not
necessary, sir,” Cherkov said. “Actions speak louder than words and
young
Kalinin
’s actions in this operation prove what sort
of tactician he is.”

 
          
“It
was not
my
pilot that tried to ram
the American fighters,”
Kalinin
said quickly. “It was not my ineffective pilots that could not defeat
inferior American forces.”
Kalinin
chose not to mention that the air-defense troops around Sebaco were all
KGB. Cherkov did not bring it up either.

 
          
Kalinin
turned to the General Secretary, trying to
put on his best humble, earnest face. “Then allow me to bring the fighter out
on one of our carriers, sir. A Kiev-class cruiser with escorts can be brought
from
Havana
to Puerto Cabezas within the hour. The
XF-34 can easily land on one, and the Americans would not dare attack a carrier
...”

 
          
“But
one of these Megafortress bombers could send a few of the carrier’s escorts to
the bottom of the
Caribbean
,” the General Secretary said. “
Vladimir
, I have lost count of the number of
fighters, transports, men and equipment we have lost trying to bring that
fighter out of
Nicaragua
. Even if what you say is true—if this
DreamStar fighter is worth ten of our front-line fighters—we are definitely on
the minus side of the ledger. We have lost six MiG fighters along with the
Ilyushin radar plane, which I understand is worth ten or twenty fighters, plus
the transport helicopter and its men and crew in
Mexico
. If we then lost a seven-thousand-metric-ton
capital ship to an American attack, we would all be deposed by the Politburo.
That could still happen . .

 
          
He
reached to the phone on his desk and buzzed his confidential secretary. “I am
going to order Vilizherchev to open negotiations with the Americans for the
transfer of the aircraft back to them. You will not move the aircraft from its
present location. You will not remove or damage any of its components. I do
want you to collect as much information about the aircraft as you can without damaging
it—we had better get more out of this nightmare operation than a dozen
caskets.” “Sir, you
must
reconsider,”
Kalinin
said. “If we stop now, if we don’t attempt
to get the aircraft to
Russia
, all those men will have been killed for
nothing, all of our efforts will have been for nothing.”

 
          
“All
of
your
efforts,
Kalinin
,” the General Secretary said.
“Your
operation. I must remind you that
I was against this operation from the beginning. I told you it would never
succeed. I will not accept responsibility for an operation that I never
approved and that was conducted largely without my knowledge.”

 
          
The
General Secretary’s senior aide came into the office, carrying notepaper and
pencil. “Now see to it that the XF-34 is secured and ready for transport.”

 
          
“I
ask you once more,”
Kalinin
said. The General Secretary was turned away from him. If we succeed,
and I stake my life that we will, there will be huge assets for both of us,
sir. We are already committed, we must—”

 
          
“Your
career is already at stake here,
Kalinin
,” the General Secretary said. Mine too, he
thought gloomily. “I will concentrate on repairing the damage caused by your
ill-conceived plan. Do as I’ve ordered.”

 
          
Outside,
Molokov,
Kalinin
’s aide, fell in behind him. “Sir... ?”
Kalinin
gave his instructions.

 
          
“Back
to KGB headquarters,” Molokov told the driver. To
Kalinin
he asked, “What is the situation, sir?”

 
          
Kalinin
filled him in, needing to unload his
feelings. “I have no more authority in this. I am only authorized to collect as
much data as possible on the aircraft without damaging it, then prepare to
turn it over to the Americans.
”

 
          
They
drove through the streets of
Moscow
in silence until approaching KGB
headquarters, then Molokov said, “Maraklov will not like this. Turning over
that fighter to the Americans, after all he’s done, will be like asking him to
turn over one of his legs to a shark.”

           
Kalinin suddenly turned to Molokov,
an idea forming in his head, becoming clearer every moment. “Maraklov . . .
yes, perhaps he can secure the aircraft for us . . .”

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
“Maraklov
... I need a secure satellite channel to Puerto Cabezas. The General Secretary
will brief Vilizherchev in less than an hour, and Vilizherchev will ask to
confer with the President by seventeen hundred hours
Moscow
time—I must talk with Maraklov
immediately.”

 
          
“There
is a transponder set up with the command post at Puerto Cabezas now, sir,” Molokov
said. “What will you do?”

           
“This operation is still on, my
friend,”
Kalinin
said. “There may still be a way ...”

Puerto Lempira
Airbase
,
Honduras

Sunday, 21 June 1996
, 0612 CDT (1512 EET)

 
          
PATRICK MCLANAHAN
and J. C. Powell
might have thought they had been transported to the set of a low-budget Vietnam
war movie. They were sitting on a plastic fold-up picnic table inside a musty
green canvas tent, eating cold scrambled eggs and canned ham out of tin mess
kits. Outside, it was warm and impossibly humid, with occasional heavy
downpours that seemed to erupt with no warning and then, just as abruptly, end
a few minutes later as if God had simply shut off a faucet somewhere in the
heavens. Their sweaty flight suits, now going on their second day of use, stuck
to their bodies like strips of papier-mache and smelled like the saltwater
swamps that surrounded the tiny Honduran airbase.

 
          
“Airbase”
might have been a flattering term for Puerto Lempira. The base was actually a
small airstrip clinging to a marsh near the ocean on the northeast corner of
Honduras
, only forty miles from the Nicaraguan
border. The place had a nine-thousand-foot concrete runway, but only six
thousand feet of it was usable, the encroaching swamps having retaken almost
half a mile of the eastern end; workers were busy sandbagging the end of the
runway, trying to drain it. There was a small concrete aircraft parking area
where a prefabricated aircraft hangar had been erected for Cheetah. Outside the
ramp area was a half-sand, half-rock clearing where the tents and a
communication trailer had been airlifted in—except for the runway, the entire
base may have occupied a total of five acres.

 
          
Almost
all the personnel at Puerto Lempira were security guards, here to guard Cheetah
and the support equipment that had been moved in. Over the years Puerto Lempira
had been used more by smugglers and drug runners than military forces. Four
guards stood watch in Cheetah’s portable hangar, two guarded the communications
trailer, and another thirty were stationed around the airbase’s perimeter.
Everyone expected trouble.

 
          
“When
do you suppose we’ll get out of here?” J.C. asked, frowning at the lump of
canned ham in his mess kit and pushing it away.

 
          
“No
idea.” McLanahan glanced at the device that had been set up on the picnic table
beside him. “We should find out soon.”

 
          
The
device was a field communications unit linked to the system of power generators
and electronics in the trailer. They had instant satellite, UHF, VHF and HF
communications capability with most of the rest of the world through that tiny
unit, which was about the size of a cereal box.

 
          
The
rains began coming down again, lightly at first, then in virtual sheets with
big fat rain droplets that threatened to shred their canvas roof. The rain
rattled the metal roof of Cheetah’s hangar. Cheetah had been rearmed for air
combat with both long- and short-range missiles, but intelligence had been
received that DreamStar might have been moved to Puerto Cabezas in Nicaragua
less than a hundred miles away, and a crew was standing by to arm Cheetah with
its photoreconnaissance pod again—as well as an array of air-to-ground weapons.

 
          
The
sound of the rain almost drowned out the gentle beeping of the satellite
communications transceiver. McLanahan picked up the receiver, laying his finger
on the
SCRAMBLE/ DESCRAMBLE
button.
When he heard the snaps and whine on the other end he hit the button. The
static disappeared, replaced by a faint hiss.

 
          
“McLanahan.”

 
          
“Patrick,
this is Brad Elliott.” His heart began pounding—

 
          
Elliott
rarely used his first name, even to his closest friends and most senior
officers, unless something was wrong.

 
          
“Go
ahead, sir.”

 
          
“I’ve
sent a F-15E down to pick you up. It should arrive in about an hour from now.”

 
          
“Wendy
. . . ?”

 
          
“They’ve
asked you to come back.”

 
          
Suddenly,
in the heat and humidity, he felt very, very cold. He forced himself to ask,
“What about DreamStar?”

 
          
A
slight pause, then: “No word yet. We’re bringing your replacement on the F-15,
a guy from the tactical bomb squadron at Luke Air Force Base. He’ll fly Cheetah
if DreamStar tries to make a break. The F-15E will fly you directly back to
Brooks AFB.”

 
          
This
time he did not try to rationalize staying with Cheetah in
Honduras
. She had spent hours in surgery and a full
day in post-operative intensive care. Now even General Elliott was telling him
to come back . . .

 
          
Or
maybe he finally realized that it was time for him to start facing up to
reality. He had flown three missions in Cheetah since she was hurt, tearing
himself away—no,
running
away— from
her agony, claiming that he was the only one who could do the job, the only one
who could defeat James in DreamStar. In fact, a young F-15E back-seater in
Cheetah could probably do a better job than a forty-year-old desk jockey. His
responsibility was with his wife and her family—not hiding behind an oxygen
mask and a radar scope.

 
          
“How’s
J.C. and your bird?” Elliott asked.

 
          
“Okay.
Ready to go.”

 
          
“Okay.
We’ve scheduled Cheetah for a photo-recon run over Puerto Cabezas—we’d like to
pinpoint DreamStar’s location but that’s unlikely. But they well might think
it’s another prelude to an attack, help convince them to turn DreamStar over to
us
intact.
”

 
          
Silence.

 
          
“Patrick,
about Wendy. What can I say? I wish to God she hadn’t been on that plane—”

 
          
“General,
I’m sick and tired of everyone giving Wendy up for dead. And as far as I’m
concerned we should stop pussyfooting around with the damned Russians. No more
damn messages, no more warnings. If we think DreamStar is in Puerto Cabezas
let’s go in and get it. Right now. If we send Cheetah up to take pictures
they’ll just move DreamStar somewhere else. Bring the carrier
George Washington
in with a naval
bombardment squadron, level Puerto Cabezas and let’s stop jacking around.”

 
          
When
there was no response from the other end he thought the connection had been
broken. Then Elliott said: “Keep us advised on Wendy’s condition, Patrick.
Elliott out.”

 
          
He
dropped the phone back on its cradle. J.C. was looking at him carefully. “I’m
leaving as soon as my plane gets here,” McLanahan told him.

The White House,
Washington
,
D.C.

Sunday, 21 June 1996
, 0815 EDT

 
          
“All
I want to know from you, Vilizherchev,” President Taylor said as the Russian
ambassador entered the Oval Office, “is where our aircraft is and when it will
be returned to us.”

 
          
Sergei
Vilizherchev was taken off guard but shrugged it off and continued inside the
office. He was followed by Secretary of State Danahall, who had met the
ambassador at the rear entrance to the White House. Secretary of Defense
Stuart, Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, Secretary of the Navy John Kemp,
National Security Adviser Chairperson Deborah O’Day, Speaker Van Keller and
Attorney General Benson were already in the Oval Office, summoned there
immediately after learning of the Russian’s hurried request for a meeting. The
President’s advisers formed a semi-circle around Vilizherchev as the ambassador
approached the President’s desk.
Taylor
ignored Vilizherchev’s offered hand; he did
not stand to greet the ambassador.

 
          
The
Russian smiled and made a slight bow. “Very nice to see you again, sir ...”

 
          
“I
asked you a question, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “I want that
fighter. Immediately.”

 
          
“Mr.
President, I am here to deliver my government’s most emphatic protest of the
attack on our military installation last night,” Vilizherchev said, as if
ignoring the President’s outburst. “That attack cost the lives of three pilots,
four men on the ground, and millions of dollars worth of equipment and property
destroyed. The attack was inexcusable—”

 
          
Taylor
interrupted: “Mr. Curtis.”

 
          
Wilbur
Curtis flicked on a high-resolution video monitor and began rolling a tape.
“This was transmitted to us less than ten minutes ago, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis
said. The monitor showed a concrete bunker, open at both ends, inside a
depressed rain-soaked aircraft parking area. Soldiers surrounded the structure.
A few could be seen pointing rifles in the air, obviously taking aim at the
aircraft taking the photographs. Inside one open end of the hangar the
unmistakable forward- swept wings of DreamStar could clearly be seen in the
early- morning sunlight.

 
          
“You
moved our aircraft to a different base and we found it,” the President said.
“If I don’t get the answer I’m looking for I pick up this phone and I order the
Navy to level that base like they leveled Sebaco. In fifteen minutes this whole
thing will be over—I guarantee it.”

 
          
“The
attack will fail,” Vilizherchev said quickly. “Such an offensive has been
anticipated. We have strengthened the coastal defenses and are ready for such
an assault—”

 
          
“The
crew of this recon jet reported no defenses anywhere,” Curtis said. “We have
pictures of the destroyed SA-15 missile sites—want to see them, Mr.
Ambassador?”

 
          
“I
must also tell you, sir, that Soviet forces in the region are prepared to
retaliate. If American bombers cross the border again, orders have been issued
to attack Honduran airfields with Soviet supersonic bombers from
Cuba
. They will destroy one airfield, military
or civilian, for every Nicaraguan base destroyed. The bombers are armed with
supersonic cruise missiles that cannot be intercepted. If naval forces are
encountered they have been ordered to attack them as well. Your new aircraft
carrier
George Washington
is in the
area, I believe— will you risk a three billion dollar vessel for one aircraft?
Pride is a poor reason to go to war, sir.”

 
          
“Likewise
stupidity,” the President said. “I don’t need to remind you what would happen
if the
Soviet Union
tries to start a shooting war in the
Caribbean
.”

 
          
“We
have two aircraft-carrier groups, three strategic air divisions and nine
tactical air divisions ready to send into the area,” Stuart said. “That’s
twenty capital ships and twelve hundred aircraft that can be deployed in less
time than it will take you to get back to your office.”

 
          
“And
all I need, mister, is one Russian cruise missile,” the

 
          
President
said. “Just one. It doesn’t even have to
hit
anything. One missile or one bomber aimed at American forces and we end the
Soviet presence in the
Caribbean
for good. I’ll wipe out everything with a red star on it.”

 
          
Vilizherchev
stood in front of the President’s desk, virtually in shock. “You ... you are
talking a major war, Mr. President,” he said. “You are threatening war over
this . . . this mere aircraft ...”