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 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-1 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 …”
8
Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras
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-mâché 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 comer 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-ranged 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 photo-reconnaissance 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 — Elliot 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 …