Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (90 page)

 
          
But
as the strategic importance of
Nicaragua
had tended to diminish over the years,
fewer and fewer shelters were used until all alert air-interceptor operations
were relocated to
Managua
. These revetments had been unoccupied for years, used only for annual
Soviet-Nicaraguan exercises. Until now.

 
          
Tret’yak
and two armed KGB Border Guards waited outside the revetment where DreamStar
had been parked. All of the Nicaraguan troops on the base were kept away from
the alert shelters—that was as much to avoid the embarrassment of the
Nicaraguans finding out that they were turning over DreamStar to the Americans
as it was for security. A landing pad had been prepared just inside the alert
area fence on the throat or exit-taxiway from the alert area. A
three-meter-high fence surrounded the entire alert area.

 
          
Tret’yak’s
men had checked the perimeter and found the fence in disrepair but intact.

           
“Why must we even be here, sir?” one
of the guards asked Tret’yak. “Let the Americans get their own plane.”

 
          
“We
are here because I personally want to meet the men who built this incredible
machine,” Tret’yak told him. He studied the amazing shape of DreamStar for at
least the tenth time since arriving on the base. “She’s a masterpiece of
aeronautical design.” The guard looked disgusted. Tret’yak shook his head. “It
may be hard for you to understand, but building a machine like this is an art.
And sometimes art can transcend politics.” But don’t quote me, he added to himself.

 
          
A
few moments later Tret’yak heard the rhythmic beating of helicopter blades.
They looked up to find an American HH- 65 transport helicopter flying down the
runway. It slowed to just a few miles per hour as it approached the west end of
the runway, then barely to walking speed as it flew up the throat and over the
security fence. Tret’yak signaled to one of his men, who pulled a flare from
his belt, popped it and set it on the edge of their prepared landing area. The
HH-65 dropped its landing gear and settled in for a landing.

 
          
The
first man out of the helicopter was a tall, thin black man. One of the Border
Guards smiled. “There is your artist, sir,” he said to Tret’yak.

 
          
“Quiet,”
the KGB general said. “He’s carrying a weapon, obviously a security guard.” The
others quickly moved ofiF the helicopter—one civilian, a non-commissioned
officer in dark green fatigues, and two U.S. Air Force officers in light green
flight suits. As the rotor blades slowly moved to a halt and the turbine noise
subsided, the five men walked toward Tret’yak. The short, thickly muscled
officer in the flight suit headed over to Tret’yak while the others stopped
about ten paces behind.

 
          
“My
name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force,” the man
said in slow English. In hesitant but obviously pre-rehearsed Russian, he
asked,
“Vi gavaretye angleskiy?”

 
          
“Yes,
I speak English,” Tret’yak said. “I am General-Major Pavel Tret’yak, senior KGB
field commander in
Nicaragua
.” He looked over McLanahan’s shoulder at
the other men. “I was told there would only be four persons coming here.”

 
          
“My
fault and my responsibility,” McLanahan said, and turned toward them. “Major
Briggs, my security chief. Dr. Alan Carmichael, chief engineer. Sergeant
Butler, senior maintenance non-commissioned officer. And Captain Powell, senior
test pilot.”

 
          
“And
your function, Colonel?”

 
          
“Officer
in charge of the DreamStar project.”

 
          
“Ah.
Captain Kenneth James’ senior officer.” McLanahan’s only reaction was to narrow
his eyes, his mouth tightening.

 
          
Tret’yak
nodded toward the four men. “Well, you are here, and I would prefer to get this
business over with as quickly as possible. You are cleared to enter.” McLanahan
nodded, then waved the four men behind him to follow.

 
          
Butler
was the first to react when he saw the
XF-34. “Oh, boy,” he muttered, ran ahead and into the shelter. Carmichael and
Powell followed. McLanahan studied the two Lluyka tanks and the missiles hung
on the fighter. “I see you made a few modifications.”

 
          
“Modifying
a fighter for external ferry tanks, in-flight refueling and foreign-made
weapons is a major task. Our devices worked very well.”

 
          
“You
didn’t need extra tanks to fly to
Cuba
.”

 
          
“But
to fly to
Russia
, our original and eventual destination...”

           
“This plane and its pilot shot down
two American fighters
—after
you stole
it.”

           
“Come now, Colonel, the theft, the
air battles, all part of the game. We both played it.”

 
          
McLanahan
shook his head. Get on with it, he told himself.
Butler
finished a cursory inspection and came back
to McLanahan. “Looks like they used two pylon hardpoints on each wing to stick
those tanks on. Simple electronic pyrotech- nical jettison squibs. Same with
the missiles. We can punch ’em off here but there’s no telling what damage it
might cause.”

           
“Leave them on, then,” McLanahan
told him. “I want DreamStar out of here fast as possible.”
Butler
nodded and trotted back to the helicopter
to get his gear. McLanahan turned back to Tret’yak. “Where is Maraklov?”

           
“On his way to
Moscow
. He will be debriefed. Even though he was
not given the opportunity to bring this aircraft back with him, he carries a
great deal of information. His talks with our intelligence people should be
revealing.”

 
          
“And
after that?”

 
          
“After
that, I cannot say. He is a difficult man, but if I were the General Secretary
of the Kollegiya I would make Colonel

 
          
Maraklov
a Hero of the
Soviet
Union
. We like to
reward loyalty, courage and initiative,” Tret’yak said.

           
“Thanks for the compliments,
General,” a voice behind them said. Tret’yak and McLanahan turned. And saw
Andrei Maraklov emerging from behind the concrete walls of the revetment.
Tret’yak and McLanahan saw the man, but the two KGB Border Guards accompanying
Tret’yak saw the pistol he held. They lifted their rifles and swung them toward
Maraklov. With two muffled puffs of the nine-millimeter automatic pistol, they
were dead as fast as they had reacted.

 
          
Maraklov
then turned the pistol toward Hal Briggs, who had only gotten as far as
reaching for the Uzi at his hip. “Don’t do it, Hal. Left hand, unbuckle your
holster and toss your gun over here.” Briggs hesitated, his hand still poised
near the Uzi. “I’ll kill you otherwise.” Briggs had no choice, did as he was
told. Maraklov picked up the Uzi and took its safety off.

 
          
“You
had a detour on your way to
Moscow
,” McLanahan said.

 
          
“There’s
been a change in plans, Colonel. It happens.”

           
“Where is Lieutenant Zaykov?”
Tret’yak said.

           
At that, Maraklov’s attention seemed
to wander, but only for a moment. “She found out about our plan.”

 
          
“
‘Our’ plan?’ ” McLanahan said, turning to Tret’yak. “You never intended to turn
DreamStar over to us.”

 
          
“I
know absolutely nothing about this,” Tret’yak told him. “He obviously has
killed the officer I ordered to escort him to
Managua
.”

 
          
“What
counts,” Maraklov said, “is that DreamStar is mine. It always has been. I
decide what to do with it.” Not quite the case, he realized, but by now it felt
like it was ... “It’s not going back to the
United States
, and it’s not going to be hacked up in the
Soviet Union
. I’m flying it out of here to a place where
it’ll be safe.” He stuck the automatic pistol in his pocket, cocked the Uzi,
raised it and aimed at them—

 
          
Out
from behind the Dolphin helicopter, Sergeant Butler appeared holding one of the
computer logic test devices, a large suitcase-sized object, up before his body
like some huge heavy shield. And proceeded to run full speed at Maraklov, who
whirled, dropped to one knee—more out of surprise than to help his aim—and
fired at Butler.

 
          
The
Uzi had been set for single-shot. Maraklov squeezed off two, three rounds,
swore and reached down to move the action lever.
Butler
had eaten up all but a few yards of the
distance between them before Maraklov switched the weapon to full automatic and
sprayed the charging man. But
Butler
had finally reached Maraklov and crashed
into him before one of the bullets found
Butler
’s unprotected legs and cut him down.
Butler
drove the test device into Maraklov’s face,
then used his body weight to haul him to the ground.

 
          
Lying
on top of Maraklov,
Butler
tried to raise the test device over his head and drive it into
Maraklov’s skull. But he was too late. Maraklov put the muzzle of the Uzi into
Butler
’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The
senior NCO’s gut exploded, he dropped over backward, dead before he hit the
ground.

 
          
McLanahan
yelled,
“Run for cover,
” and made a
dash for the helicopter. The pilot immediately started the engines in the
Dolphin, and Powell and Carmichael, both inside DreamStar’s shelter, ran for
the helicopter.

 
          
Briggs
made his run at Maraklov, but to his surprise, General Tret’yak turned, blocked
his path, then pushed him back toward the helicopter. As Briggs stumbled
backward and fell to the concrete taxiway, Tret’yak turned on Maraklov.
“Ehtat yah svenyena mo sahm.
This pig is
mine.”

 
          
Tret’yak
never had a chance. He’d take no more than three steps when Maraklov raised the
Uzi and emptied its magazine into the KGB general.

 
          
“Hal,
run for it,” Patrick called out. The Dolphin’s rotor blades were spinning up to
takeoff RPMs. Hal got to his feet and sprinted for the open door.

 
          
Maraklov
got to his knees, took aim at Briggs, squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He had
emptied out the magazine on Tret’yak. He tossed the machine pistol aside and
pulled out the nine-millimeter silenced pistol. Briggs had just gotten to the
Dolphin’s starboard side-door and jumped inside, so Maraklov swung his aim left
to the two running figures and squeezed off a shot.

 
          
Alan
Carmichael grabbed the right side of his chest and pitched forward. J. C.
Powell skidded to a halt, knelt down and began to drag
Carmichael
toward the helicopter. Maraklov took aim
once again, and before McLanahan or Briggs could react, fired. Powell flew
backward away from
Carmichael
’s inert form, and lay still.

 
          
“You bastard.
” McLanahan was screaming,
rushing out of the helicopter and heading toward Maraklov. He had just cleared
the Dolphin’s right door when the Dolphin pilot yanked the chopper off the
ground, hovering less than three feet above ground, and aimed the helicopter at
Maraklov. McLanahan, knocked aside, crawled on hands and knees toward Powell
and Carmichael, trying to shield his eyes from the flying gravel and sand.