“Stand by one, sir.”
There was 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
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 bed-stand and wrapped it around the point where the I.V. needle had come out.
“What happened, Colonel?”
“These men … never saw them before … shooting me up with something …”
Zaykov finished tightly wrapping Maraklov’s arm, then helped him back into bed. As he collapsed onto the pillow she checked the two men. The unconscious one was being checked over by one of the Border Guards.
“Karl Rodovnin,” the KGB soldier said. “He is badly hurt.” Zaykov turned toward the second man. “What are you doing in here, Boroschelvisch?”
“Administering an injection,” the orderly said. “We checked his intravenous needle and were administering his mineral solution into his drip meter when the guy goes berserk.”
“I’ve found the hypodermic, Lieutenant,” one of the guards said, holding the plastic syringe. “It’s still full and intact.”
“Take it and that bag of solution to the infirmary,” Zaykov ordered, pointing to the overturned plastic bag of clear liquid seeping onto the floor. “Have them analyze it. I want to know what’s in it. Boroschelvisch, you are under arrest. Take him and Rodovnin into custody.”
Zaykov turned back to Maraklov. She had not seen him in several days because he was involved in the preparations for taking the XF-34 to Cuba — and she had never expected to see him again when he left. But even in the brief time they had been apart, the changes in the man were frightening. He looked old, emaciated, pale skin stretched over cheekbones, hollow eyes, thinning hair. “Andrei … “