Gasping, Musi crawled up to her hands and knees, reaching for the pistol. Maraklov caught it first. Musi dug her nails into the back of his left hand, raked the nails of her right hand across his face. He let go of the gun. She tried to grab the gun but the hot silencer-barrel burned her fingers, and before she could grab the stock he had tumbled on top of her. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on top of her, trying to pin her arms down.
“Musi, don’t …”
Blood ran down from his shoulder over her T-shirt, covering her chest, her face and hands. He put one hand over her mouth, ignoring the pain as she bit into it. With his other hand he pulled the hunting knife out of his boot. “Musi, all I want is the flight suit …”
Zaykov freed her right arm, punched Maraklov in the left shoulder, then on the jaw. He toppled off her, and she rolled to her right away from him, reached out and grabbed the pistol. She swung it up and fired.
The bullet just missed Maraklov’s left ear. Before she could get off another shot he had knocked the pistol aside, swung around and, before he realized what he was doing, plunged the hunting knife into her abdomen. The blade pierced her diaphragm and punctured the right lung. She took one more breath, exhaled, blood coming from her open mouth in spasmodic coughs. She shuddered slightly, stared at him with a look of surprise, and then lay motionless underneath him.
He rolled off her, staring back at her lifeless eyes, then away. Janet Larson, James’ girlfriend. …all over again …
He shook himself back to the present … pulled the pistol from her fingers and crawled to the window, checking outside. Nothing. He checked the side windows, the bedroom, the back door. Nothing. The gunshots that had shocked him had not carried beyond her secluded quarters.
He went back to the living room. Forcing himself back to her, forcing himself to touch her, he grabbed her hands and dragged her to the bedroom, then into her closet. There was little blood — her heart had stopped beating almost instantly. He rested her as best he could in the closet and closed the door. She would not likely be discovered until morning.
His shoulder wound hurt badly now, but the bullet had only taken a shallow, ragged gouge out of his left shoulder muscle. Maraklov found bandages, disinfectant ointment and tape and wrapped the wound tightly as he could. The pain began to build, but he decided against any of the pain-killers he found in Zaykov’s medicine cabinet — the drive would be long enough, and any drugs might later interfere with the ANTARES interface. The pain also acted like a stimulant, helping to clear his mind. Fortunately, he thought wryly, he could fly DreamStar without a fully functioning left arm.
He found the two aluminum cases in a living-room closet and made a fast check of the flight suit and superconducting helmet — both were as he had packed them the day before. He pocketed the pistol, picked up the two aluminum cases and headed for the back door. After checking outside for several minutes he brought the cases out to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove off.
He followed the access road out from the southeast runway hammerhead toward the destroyed anti-aircraft gun emplacement, then turned onto a dirt road that led toward the perimeter. No patrols were in sight. He followed the road right to the base perimeter fence and found a long-unused gate secured by a chain and a rusty lock that gave way when he rammed it open with the sedan. Ten minutes later he was on the Isabella Highway heading east toward Puerto Cabezas.
Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras
Powell and McLanahan had just finished refueling and securing Cheetah in its portable hangar on the Honduran coastal airbase about eighty nautical miles north of the concrete bunkers at Puerto Cabezas. They were also watching the construction of a second portable aircraft shelter right beside Cheetah’s hangar. The second hangar was for DreamStar. After leaving Puerto Cabezas, Powell was to take it here to Puerto Lempira, where technicians would give it a thorough going over before Powell would fly it first to Houston, and then on to Dreamland in Nevada.
Cheetah was still armed for combat — there had not been time in nearly two days to disarm her. She still carried four AIM-120C Scorpion radar-guided missiles in semi-recessed fuselage stations, and two AIM-132 infrared-guided missiles on wing pylons — two other AIM-132 missiles had been expended on Soviet fighters during the bombing raid on Sebaco — plus FASTPACK conformal fuel tanks and five hundred rounds of 20-millimeter ammunition.
“The Russians figured out how to put external fuel tanks on DreamStar,” Powell was saying as they watched the final parts being assembled onto the steel-and-fiberglass structure. “We should be able to do it. With external tanks I’m sure I can fly her all the way back to Dreamland.”
“I’m sure you can, but it’s too risky. From what you said yourself, you’ll be flying DreamStar right on the edge of your capabilities to begin with — it’s been at least two years, J.C., since you’ve flown her. The Russians probably didn’t bother testing DreamStar with the external tanks — they just slapped them on and hoped they’d work. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather make a few fuel stops along the way than trust those tanks.”
“I know. Well, I’ve no big desire to fly that thing all the way from Central America to Nevada in one leg. Four hours hooked up to ANTARES? Gives me a migraine just thinking about it.”
“A bad time for a headache,” McLanahan said. “We want that plane out of there today.”
“Hell, why don’t you fly it out of Nicaragua then? You at least flew in DreamStar’s simulator a couple weeks ago. You’d probably do better than me. I could fly Cheetah on your wing and keep you company …”
“It’s an idea. But you know what happened the last time I flew in the simulator — I crashed and burned, in more ways than one. If you think you can’t do it, we’ll just call Elliott on the horn and get that Navy barge in here. No, I think I’ll let you have all the pleasure of flying DreamStar. I’ll be in Cheetah on your wing.”
Powell looked at him. “I’ll be happy if I can just keep it upright.”
A few minutes later they heard the steady rhythm of helicopter blades approaching; An Air Force HH-65A Dolphin helicopter swung in over the saltwater marshes, down the runway and over to the asphalt and concrete parking area. A security guard directed in the chopper with lighted wands. and it settled gently in for a landing. As the rotors began to spin down, a fuel truck and maintenance crew began making their way toward the chopper, and the passengers began to deplane. Powell and McLanahan went over to greet them.
“These helicopters have some real possibilities,” Master Sergeant Ray Butler said as he exited the Dolphin. “But I’ll take solid wings and big turbofans any day.” He shook hands with McLanahan. “How are you, sir?”
“Okay, Ray.”
“Sorry about Dr. Tork,” he mumbled.
Alan Carmichael wrapped his big arms around McLanahan before saying a word. “I called Brooks before we left La Cieba, Patrick. Wendy’s hanging right in there. Still on full respiratory life support but she’s a fighter. I think she’s going to pull out of it.”
“Me too. Thanks for the news, Alan.”
There were a few extra security guards along, plus several cases of supplies that were hauled out. The last man off the chopper was Major Hal Briggs. “Patrick, J.C., things are looking better,” he said. “Wendy’s gonna do okay, and we’re gonna get our baby back.” He checked his watch. “It’ll take us less than an hour to get to Puerto Cabezas. We should plan to leave in about forty-five minutes, right?”