“Wrong,” McLanahan said. “I want the chopper fueled and ready to go fifteen minutes max.”
“But they said we can’t be there any earlier than eight A.M.”
“Push them. Ask for immediate clearance into Nicaraguan airspace and clearance onto Puerto Cabezas. If they won’t let us near the plane until eight, fine — but I want to get on the base as fast as possible.”
“You’re the colonel, Colonel.” Briggs stuck his head back in the helicopter cockpit to talk to the Dolphin’s pilot and have him arrange for clearances.
McLanahan turned to Butler. “Got everything you need? I know this was short notice.”
“I could’ve brought half my shop if Briggs had let me,” Butler said. “I’ve got two portable logic test units, assorted toolkits and supplies, about a thousand pounds worth. The best test unit we have, though, will be Captain Powell. Once he’s interfaced with ANTARES, we can diagnose and fix any problems.”
“Good.” McLanahan found Carmichael alone with J. C. Powell in one of the nearby tents. Powell was leaning back against a tent pole, his head bent down as if he was napping; Carmichael was just a few inches from his ear, saying something to him. As McLanahan approached, Carmichael held up his hand to keep him away. A few moments later Carmichael pulled a stethoscope from a jacket pocket and placed the electronic pickup against Powell’s chest, then stood and walked over to Patrick.
“I saw it right away,” Carmichael said. “He was jumpy as hell.”
“J.C.? I didn’t notice anything. He seemed himself.”
“He’s like that. He’s the most laid-back guy I’ve ever met. The differences were subtle, but after working with him for eight months on the early ANTARES project I can tell when he’s nervous. I put him in a mild hypnotic state to help him relax — actually he took my suggestion and put himself in a hypnotic state.”
“Will he be able to interface with ANTARES?”
“We won’t be able to tell until he tries it, but I’d say yes. He put himself right into alpha-state as if he had been doing it for years. He should be able to go into theta-alpha. Whether or not he can maintain it during the interfacing — well, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Sooner than you thought,” Briggs said as he came over to McLanahan and Carmichael. “We’ve got clearance to cross the border and into the Puerto Cabezas control zone. Final clearance onto the base will be issued through the control tower. The Dolphin will be topped off in five minutes.”
“Then tell everyone to get back on board,” McLanahan told Briggs. “Let’s go get our fighter back.”
Puerto Cabezas Airbase, Nicaragua
This was the one of the hardest jobs General Tret’yak had ever performed in peacetime, rivaling the unpleasant duty of telling mothers or young wives of their son’s or husband’s death in some training accident. To be ordered by the Kollegiya, the senior political-military staff in Moscow, to give back the DreamStar aircraft was one thing — to have the Americans land here and take it from him was doubly embarrassing.
The DreamStar aircraft was right where Maraklov had left it two nights ago. The airfield at Puerto Cabezas, originally built in 1987 as a combined air force and navy base, was designed as the primary air-defense base in Nicaragua besides Managua itself. A series of semi-underground aircraft shelters had been constructed to house Nicaragua’s alert fighter-interceptors. The shelters, six in all, were concrete pads with six-foot-high walls and concrete roofs. They were located one hundred meters north of the west end of Puerto Cabezas’ single east-west runway, well distanced from the rest of the base.
But as the strategic importance of Nicaragua had tended to diminish over the years, fewer and fewer shelters were used until all alert air-interceptor operations were relocated to Managua. These revetments had been unoccupied for years, used only for annual Soviet-Nicaraguan exercises. Until now.
Tret’yak and two armed KGB Border Guards waited outside the revetment where DreamStar had been parked. All of the Nicaraguan troops on the base were kept away from the alert shelters — that was as much to avoid the embarrassment of the Nicaraguans finding out that they were turning over DreamStar to the Americans as it was for security. A landing pad had been prepared just inside the alert area fence on the throat or exit-taxiway from the alert area. A three-meter-high fence surrounded the entire alert area. Tret’yak’s men had checked the perimeter and found the fence in disrepair but intact.
“Why must we even be here, sir?” one of the guards asked Tret’yak. “Let the Americans get their own plane.”
“We are here because I personally want to meet the men who built this incredible machine,” Tret’yak told him. He studied the amazing shape of DreamStar for at least the tenth time since arriving on the base. “She’s a masterpiece of aeronautical design.” The guard looked disgusted. Tret’yak shook his head. “It may be hard for you to understand, but building a machine like this is an art. And sometimes art can transcend politics.” But don’t quote me, he added to himself.
A few moments later Tret’yak heard the rhythmic beating of helicopter blades. They looked up to find an American HH-65 transport helicopter flying down the runway. It slowed to just a few miles per hour as it approached the west end of the runway, then barely to walking speed as it flew up the throat and over the security fence. Tret’yak signaled to one of his men, who pulled a flare from his belt, popped it and set it on the edge of their prepared landing area. The HH-65 dropped its landing gear and settled in for a landing.
The first man out of the helicopter was a tall, thin black man. One of the Border Guards smiled. “There is your artist, sir,” he said to Tret’yak.
“Quiet,” the KGB general said. “He’s carrying a weapon, obviously a security guard.” The others quickly moved off the helicopter — one civilian, a non-commissioned officer in dark green fatigues, and two U.S. Air Force officers in light green flight suits. As the rotor blades slowly moved to a halt and the turbine noise subsided, the five men walked toward Tret’yak. The short, thickly muscled officer in the flight suit headed over to Tret’yak while the others stopped about ten paces behind.
“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force,” the man said in slow English. In hesitant but obviously pre-rehearsed Russian, he asked, “Vi gavaretye angleskiy? “
“Yes, I speak English,” Tret’yak said. “I am General-Major Pavel Tret’yak, senior KGB field commander in Nicaragua.” He looked over McLanahan’s shoulder at the other men. “I was told there would only be four persons coming here.”
“My fault and my responsibility,” McLanahan said, and turned toward them. “Major Briggs, my security chief. Dr. Alan Carmichael, chief engineer. Sergeant Butler, senior maintenance non-commissioned officer. And Captain Powell, senior test pilot.”
“And your function, Colonel?”
“Officer in charge of the DreamStar project.”
“Ah. Captain Kenneth James’ senior officer.” McLanahan’s only reaction was to narrow his eyes, his mouth tightening.
Tret’yak nodded toward the four men. “Well, you are here, and I would prefer to get this business over with as quickly as possible. You are cleared to enter.” McLanahan nodded, then waved the four men behind him to follow.
Butler was the first to react when he saw the XF-34. “Oh, boy,” he muttered, ran ahead and into the shelter. Carmichael and Powell followed. McLanahan studied the two Lluyka tanks and the missiles hung on the fighter. “I see you made a few modifications.”