“Of course not—”
“Lady, I am the only hope of getting that bird out of here in one piece. They don’t have a chance without me.”
“I know that, Andrei,” she said. “If they want to get the fighter out of Nicaragua, must fly it. But there is a very good possibility that they will not want to fly the aircraft out of Nicaragua.”
“Not fly it out of Nicaragua …?”
“Andrei, our government tried to make a deal with the Americans for the return of their fighter. They told the Americans they would turn the plane over to them in five days. The same day they concluded that agreement we were caught trying to fly the plane to Cuba. The Americans no longer believe us. You’ve said it yourself — we can’t defend ourselves here. If the U.S. mounts an attack) they’ll destroy this base. It would seem the only way we can save ourselves is to turn the fighter over to them.”
“Like hell … “ He recalled he’d momentarily considered it himself, but only in his bitterness about what probably waited for him back “home.” But he could never seriously go through with that … “Do you know what I’ve done? Do you realize what I’ve gone through to get that aircraft here? I was the top pilot in the United States Air Force’s most top-secret research center. In ten years I could have been running the place. I sacrificed it to protect and deliver this aircraft and I will never surrender it …”
He went to the closet, found a fresh flight suit and began pulling it on. “I’ll talk to the general — hell, I’ll talk to Moscow. I doubt that the Americans will attack this base. But if they dot we can move DreamStar to another location until the attack is over. Unless the U.S. declares war, they won’t threaten the peace in Central America by bombing a base, even over this fighter. And they’re not going to declare war.” Maraklov pulled on a pair of boots and left his room.
Zaykov remained there for several minutes. The strain, she decided, was getting to him. Even more than before, the fighter was his personal possession, more than the U.S.’s or the USSR’s, and he was determined to ignore official orders and political realities and do with the fighter as he thought best. The signs of paranoia were stronger as well. She’d never thought he’d agree to leave DreamStar in Nicaragua, but at the very least she thought her words would comfort him if not altogether reassure him. It had had the opposite effect. He clearly now believed that the Soviet military would discard him like a spent shell casing after his mission was completed. (She did not consider the likelihood that he might be right …)
She had to try to convince him to trust his countrymen. That was now more important than ever. With the threat of American retaliation hanging over them, a battle-fatigued and alienated mind of Colonel Maraklov could mean disaster for himself, the mission and all Soviet personnel in Nicaragua.
He had to be brought back to the fold — or he had to be eliminated.
Maraklov went to the command post, where he found General Tret’yak in his office sitting in front of a computer terminal, staring at a half-filled screen. “I need to talk to you, General.”
Tret’yak looked up, motioned to a chair. Maraklov ignored it. “I am composing a detailed report on this morning’s incident,” Tret’yak said in a distracted tone. “Five aircraft lost. Watching that Ilyushin go in — I have never felt so helpless—”
“Sir, we have to discuss the XF-34 fighter,” Maraklov interrupted. “It’s not secure here. I recommend it be moved as soon as possible to a secret location and prepared for another flight to the Soviet Union as soon as possible.”
Tret’yak stared at the screen for a few moments; then, to Maraklov’s surprise, began typing again. “Colonel Maraklov, personally, at this moment, I don’t care what happens to our fighter,” he said without looking up from his work. “I have lost seven men and five aircraft today — that is more men and more equipment than I have lost in four years as a squadron commander in Afghanistan. I will certainly lose my command and possibly my pension. The safety and security of your wondrous aircraft is out of my hands. I have no more resources to defend it with.”
He reached over to a stack of papers, selected one and tossed it to Maraklov without looking up from the computer screen. “Here are your orders, transmitted by the chief of the KGB. You are authorized to take any actions necessary to protect the aircraft. Authorization has already been obtained to allow you access to Sandino Airport in Managua, Aeroflot hangar number twelve, and Puerto Cabezas Airport, main transient hangar. You will take weapons with you. I have already ordered my men to load Lluyka tanks, ammunition and missiles on your fighter — we suddenly seem to have plenty to spare. It’s your responsibility now.”
Maraklov picked up the message. It was true — he had been given almost unlimited authority to protect DreamStar from destruction until the chief of the KGB, Kalinin, could consult with the Soviet Kollegiya. Trucks, trains, ships, tankers, weapons, hangars, men, money — anything he felt was necessary, so long as DreamStar was safe. It was an exciting prospect, but he realized that if he failed, the Kollegiya would demand repayment — and not in money.
Maraklov almost felt sorry for the man — he had, in effect, just been relieved of command because of something he had no control over. “I understand, sir, spasiba—”
“Get out, Colonel,” Tret’yak said. “You have everything you need.”
“I want to ask your opinion, sir,” Maraklov said quickly, “about where you recommend I take Zavtra. “
The old fighter pilot looked up from his work. “You want my opinion?”
Maraklov saw the old glimmer in his eyes, at least something of the fire he’d noted when they’d met that day he arrived at Sebaco. Tret’yak wanted a piece of the action, no matter what. “I’m glad you asked, because I have given it some thought.” Tret’yak motioned to a chair, then poured a tall glass of ice water for Maraklov. “I am very, very glad you asked.”
Washington, D.C
President Taylor cursed, his New England accent, rarely heard after years in Washington, leaking through.
The full National Security Council had been summoned for an early-evening meeting at the White House conference room. They had just been briefed on DreamStar by General Elliott via two-way satellite videophone from the E-5 AWACS plane, in which he was still orbiting over the Cayman Islands. The President turned his face away from his advisers at the conference table, his jaw tight. “They just went ahead and lied to me.”
“According to Ambassador Vilizherchev, the military detachment in Nicaragua acted on their own without clearing it with Moscow,” Secretary of State Danahall said. “Vilizherchev insists there was no intention of deceiving us.”
“I don’t care what he insists. For starters, I want Vilizherchev’s ticket pulled — he’s persona non grata. And I want to make sure that the press knows he’s not being ‘recalled to confer with his government’ or any such bull — I want them to know that I’m kicking him out.”
“Do you want the press to know why?” Danahall asked.
“Because he lied to me, he lied to this government.” He pointed a finger at Danahall. “You don’t need to go into details.” Danahall shook his head as the President turned back to the image of Elliott on the three-sided monitor set up in the center of the conference table. Yes, Danahall thought, the President needed to go into detail for something as serious as kicking out an ambassador, especially the ambassador from the Soviet Union.