Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (94 page)

 
          
“He’s
gone through a lot of hell, Wilbur,” Elliott said when he saw what Curtis was
looking at. “He’s seen more blood, more death in eight years than a dozen men
will in their lifetime. He’s also got a score to settle—a blood-score—but he’ll
stand on that ladder until you give the word. I think you’ve known that all
along.”

 
          
Curtis
nodded, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Major Briggs, launch
Cheetah. Now.”

Over
Nicaragua

 
          
CHEETAH’S control
stick felt alive,
pulsating with power. Mounted on the right side of the cockpit instead of in
the center as in most pre-i990s fighters, it was almost rigid. Tiny
pressure-sensitive switches in the fixed stick detected hand movements and
applied the inputs to the triple-redundant flight-control computers, which then
transmitted movement instructions to the hydraulic systems that moved the
canards and tail stabilators, as well as the micro-hydraulic systems that
recurved Cheetah’s wings.

 
          
The
system was ultra-sensitive, very fast—not like the old gear, bell-crank and
cable flight-control systems, or even the newer fly-by-wire electronic systems.
The slightest touch on the stick would send Cheetah into an unexpected pitch-up
or sway. He tried to loosen his tight grip on the control stick, but it was
hard to reprogram his head to the realities of electronic fiber-optic
controls—and J.C. had set the system to its lowest sensitivity.

 
          
To
complicate matters, a universe of information kept flashing on the windscreen,
changing so quickly that McLanahan didn’t have time to read it before it
disappeared and another line of numbers or symbols danced across his eyes. He
had experimented with turning ofiF most of the laser-projected symbiology but
found himself repeatedly calling the information back up a few moments later.
Finally he decided to leave it there and just deal with it—he hoped it wouldn’t
distract him too much when the shooting started. How J.C. could assimilate all
this information was beyond him.

 
          
Suddenly
Patrick saw a gloved hand reach across his shoulder. “By the way, I’m Marcia
Preston.” He realized only then that he had not said a word except “prepare for
takeofiF” to his new back-seater. With all the things going on in Cheetah’s
cockpit, he managed to reach across with his left hand and shake Marcia’s
extended hand.

 
          
He
had just leveled Cheetah ofiF at only five thousand feet as once again he
steered it southward toward Puerto Cabezas. At full power he was maintaining
just under Mach one as he raced across the lush tropical forests and salt
marshes of northeastern
Nicaragua
. He hit the voice-command control on the
stick and in a deliberate voice said, “Autopilot, on, altitude, hold.” The
computer repeated the command, which reminded McLanahan to double check the
autopilot status indicators. Cheetah’s voice-command system had been programmed
by J.C., and although it was supposed to be adaptable to any pilot, the subtle
differences in pitch, accent and volume of voices sometimes confused the
computer.

 
          
“Marcia,”
McLanahan said after setting the autopilot, “I’ve got a question—why the hell
did you volunteer for this mission?”

 
          
“Because
you needed me, and mostly because I wanted to
^g
°.”

 
          
“There’s
a chance we won’t make it back.”

 
          
“Not
to toot my own horn, sir, but your chances of making it back are much better
now.”

 
          
“Can
the ‘sir,’ okay?”

 
          
“Okay,
Patrick. Where to?”

 
          
“It’s
an outside chance but it’s possible that DreamStar could still be on the
ground. We need to check the shelter at Puerto Cabezas.”

 
          
At
seven miles per minute they reached Puerto Cabezas in a little over ten
minutes. McLanahan pulled the power back to eighty percent. “I’ll line up so I
can give you a good look out the right side,” he said. “The shelter is pretty
low but you should be able to see if an aircraft is in there.”

 
          
Their
arrival at the Nicaraguan military base was greeted by a cacophony of warning
messages in English, Spanish and Russian, ordering them to turn away. He
ignored them—and there were no radar threat-warnings anywhere in the vicinity.
They had decreased speed to less than five miles per minute to get a good look
in the shelter. As they approached the base McLanahan hit the voice-command switch:
“Arm, cannon, mode, strafe.”

 
          
“Warning, cannon armed, strafe mode, five
hundred rounds remaining.
” An holographic aiming-reticle appeared on the
windscreen in front of McLanahan. He switched off the autopilot, descended to
one thousand feet and began to line up on the shelter.

 
          
“You’re
arming the guns?”

 
          
“If
DreamStar is in there I want to shoot before he gets off the ground.” He hit
the command button again: “Target select.” The reticle began to blink. He moved
his head until the aiming reticle, slaved to follow the pilot’s head movements,
was directly on the mouth of the shelter, then hit the voice- command button
again: “. . . Now.” The reticle stopped blinking and a series of lines drew
themselves on the windscreen like an instrument-landing director. Once
McLanahan centered those lines, the cannon would blast the target to pieces.

 
          
“Target designated, select target off to
cancel. ”

           
“Watch your altitude,” Marcia
Preston said. “You’re less than five hundred feet AGL with autopilot off.”

 
          
“Thanks.”
McLanahan put the altitude-hold autopilot back on.

 
          
As
they raced across the Nicaraguan base they could see men and vehicles darting
all across the airfield, even over the runway—it was much too crowded on the
flightline for normal air traffic. A number of emergency vehicles crowded the
throat taxi-ramp that led to the alert parking shelters.

 
          
When
they were about two miles from the alert area Marcia called out, “I can see the
shelters. No aircraft in any of them.” Men were running from the shelter. “They
think you’re going to bomb them, I think.”

 
          
“I
should
put a few rounds in there.”

 
          
“Waste
of ammo.”

 
          
“It
would make me feel better, though.” Instead of firing, however, McLanahan hit
the voice-command button. “Target off. Cannon safe.” The computer repeated and
verified. He shut off the autopilot and began a shallow climb, putting in full
military power once again.

           
“Long gone,” Marcia Preston said.
“Which way now?”

           
“Not sure.” Patrick McLanahan
climbed to ten thousand feet, well above the mountains of central
Nicaragua
far off to the west. “James’ original plan
was to fly DreamStar to
Cuba
. More secure than
Nicaragua
. Then on to the
Soviet Union
...” He switched frequencies to the channel
set up with the communications facility at Puerto Lempira. “Storm Control, this
is Storm Two. How copy?”

 
          
“Loud
and clear, Storm Two,” General Elliott replied immediately.

 
          
“Our
target wasn’t at Puerto Cabezas. Is the AWACS up?”

           
“Affirmative,” from Elliott. “He’s
got complete coverage of the
Caribbean
north of
Nicaragua
. He’s got one F-16 with him. No word from
him yet.”

           
“Target must be heading south, back
to Sebaco or Managua.” McLanahan called up
Managua
on the inertial navigation unit and set the
autopilot on course. “We’re enroute back to Sebaco to check it out, then
Managua
.”

 
          
“Roger.
Keep us advised. Storm Control out.”

 
          
They
flew on for another few minutes, then Marcia clicked on the interphone:
“Colonel, you said we’re flying to Sebaco, then Managua ... What kind of air
defenses does Sebaco have? I know
Managua
is heavily protected. Isn’t Sebaco that KGB
base where they kept DreamStar?”

 
          
“Yes,”
he replied testily, the questions interrupting his train of thought. “Sebaco
was protected by fifty-seven-millimeter guns and SA-io missiles and a few MiG-29
fighters. We destroyed them two days ago.”

 
          
“Are
they back in place?”

 
          
“I
don’t know.”

 
          
“What
about
Managua
? What kind of defenses does it have?”

           
“Probably like Puerto Cabezas.
SA-15 missiles, MiG-29 or MiG-27 fighters, probably tactical anti-aircraft
artillery. Why?”

           
“Why? Well... do you think the
Nicaraguans are just going to let us fly over their cities? Don’t you think
they’re going to throw everything they got at us?”

           
“We’re going anyway. I don’t care
what defenses they have, we’ve penetrated them before, and—”

 
          
“No,
sir—J. C. Powell and you defeated their defenses. You were in the backseat—”

 
          
“What
the hell does
that
mean?”

 
          
“It
means that you can’t just charge in over
Managua
and Sebaco without some kind of a game
plan,” she said. “We were lucky over Puerto Cabezas, sir—you assumed that the
defenses that were destroyed by the B-52 two days ago were still destroyed, or
they didn’t bring in more fighters just waiting for you to fly over looking for
DreamStar. What if they’d been replaced? We would have been dead ten minutes in
the sky. You can’t assume anything.”

 
          
No
response from McLanahan. “I’m not trying to chicken out. I’ll fly wherever you
want, and I’ll help you defend this aircraft the best I can. But we’ve got to
do this the smart way or we’ll be dead without ever getting oflF a shot at Ken
James . . .”

 
          
“You’re
right. I took oflF from Puerto Lempira with no idea where I was going after
checking Puerto Cabezas. And we did receive intelligence that the runway at
Sebaco had been repaired—they could have moved in a whole squadron of MiGs by
now. We could be jumped at any moment, and we have no air cover, no
surveillance and only six missiles to defend ourselves. Stupid. Damned stupid .
. .”

 
          
“The
question is—what are we going to do now? We can’t just drone around in
circles.”

 
          
“We’ve
got to get an idea which way we went.” But how . . . He ordered the
voice-command computer to set a frequency in the number two VHF radio.

 
          
“
Sandino
Tower
, this is Storm Zero Two on one-one-eight
point one. Over.”

 
          
“Storm
Zero Two, this is
Augusto
Cesar
Sandino
International
Airport
tower,” a controller with a thick Spanish
accent replied. “State your position, altitude, type of aircraft, departure
airport and destination. Be advised, we have no flight plan for you. You may be
in violation of the air traffic laws of
Nicaragua
. Respond immediately.”

 
          
“Tower,
Storm Zero Two is an American military fighter. I am in pursuit of an American
aircraft piloted by a Russian criminal. I intend to overfly Sebaco and
Managua
in search of this aircraft. I request
assistance. Over.”