But Maraklov had a new worry: the Nicaraguans. If anyone from the base came out here to investigate, the game would be over. He ran back to the taxiway and dragged the bodies of the two KGB Border Guards and General Tret’yak out of sight in the aircraft shelter, then checked the ammunition in his pistol. Three shots left. Two for any curious spectators that decided to investigate — and perhaps one for himself.
He sat down in front of DreamStar’s nose gear, peering up over the edge of the semirecessed parking stub, waiting for anyone to approach. After ten minutes there was still no sign of activity. Either no one had heard the shots — unlikely — or no one cared enough to interfere.
Maraklov felt a rush of excitement. He had snatched DreamStar out of the hands of the Americans once more, just as he had done back in Dreamland. This fighter was destined to be his. More than ever, he felt it must be.
He ran out the back of the shelter toward the perimeter fence, checking for any sign of intruders or surveillance. He went to where he had hidden the cases containing his flight suit and helmet and quickly brought them back to the shelter. He checked the perimeter once more — once he had the metallic flight suit on, it was going to be impossible for him to defend himself. The aircraft shelter had a set of steel doors that could be motored in place, but Maraklov had no choice but to keep them open — there was no one alive to open them again.
No matter. In two hours, perhaps less, he’d be airborne, heading away from this damned place, once and for all.
Maraklov dragged the aluminum cases up onto the service platform beside the cockpit, then climbed up the ladder and began opening them. Already, he was beginning the deep-breathing exercises that would relax his body, open his mind and allow the electronic neural interface to begin. In five minutes he had stripped down, put on the pair of thin cotton underwear, and began connecting the fiber-optic electrical connections between the suit and helmet and from the suit and helmet to the interface inside the cockpit. He could feel the familiar, soothing body cues beginning to wash over him as he entered the first level of alpha-state, the primary self-hypnosis level of his mental relaxation. Coincidentally, this alpha-state was helping to block out the throbbing pain in his shoulder and calm the quivering in his muscles as adrenaline began to be dissipated from his bloodstream.
He opened DreamStar’s canopy and climbed inside. No longer needing the platform, he unlatched and collapsed it, then kicked it away as hard as he could. The ladder rolled across the stub, hit the revetment wall and fortunately did not roll back toward DreamStar’s wings or canards.
Next he activated DreamStar’s internal battery power and did a fast system self-test to make sure he had all the connections right — the self-test reported fully functional and ready to receive computer commands. The test also reported on any ground safing pins, access panels, or covers out of place. The standby gauges read full tanks, full twenty-millimeter ammunition drum and connectivity with the four remaining air-to-air missiles. DreamStar was ready for engine start as soon as the ANTARES interface was completed.
Finally, standing on the ejection seat, Maraklov began to put on the flight suit. He had thought it would be impossible to do it without help, but it was turning out to be less of a problem than he’d anticipated. In twenty minutes he had put on and adjusted the sixty-pound suit, then carefully lowered himself into the ejection seat and fastened as many body restraints as he could. The suit was not designed for free range of motion — it resisted any movements that departed from the normal cockpit flight position — but he was soon strapped in tight.
After a few moments of concentration he had his breathing back to normal, then well below normal as he reentered full alpha-state hypnosis. Still no sign of interference as he closed his eyes to begin the progressively deeper levels of self-hypnosis.
Soon, DreamStar would be his once more. And he would be DreamStar’s …
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four on GUARD frequency, twenty miles east of Lecus Southeast airport at two thousand feet. We are a United States Air Force military flight. Three on board plus three casualties, seven thousand pounds of fuel, heading two-niner-zero degrees magnetic toward Buena Vista airport at one hundred knots. Engine and electrical damage and uncontrollable fuel loss. Requesting search and rescue meet us along southern Honduran border south of Puerto Lempira. Emergency. Please respond. Over.” There was no reply. The pilot repeated the call on both UHF and VHF GUARD emergency frequencies.
“Nothing from the Nicaraguan military?” McLanahan asked. “It’s like they all disappeared off the face of the earth,” the pilot said. “When we crossed the border into Nicaragua, they were all over us every second. Now they don’t even answer a distress call.”
“They might not hear you,” Briggs said, checking the overhead circuit-breaker panels. “Your radio panel looks like it might be damaged.” The pilot kept trying. Briggs moved up beside McLanahan, who was scanning a chart and keeping track of their progress. “Patrick … J.C. … he’s had it.”
The chart dropped from his lap. His mouth turned dry as sand. His fingers trembled. “Jesus, no …” He shut his eyes. “J.C., J.C., dammit …” His only immediate relief was to allow the grief to overflow into blinding rage at Maraklov. That sonofabitch was going to pay; somehow, he was going to pay …
McLanahan’s anger was disrupted by a hard thump and a low-frequency vibration that began to echo through the helicopter. The pilot tapped him on the shoulder. “Behind your seat, in the survival kit, there’s a hand-held radio.” He was also struggling against a sudden vibration that shook the entire helicopter. “We were briefed to use rescue channel alpha on this mission. See if you can raise anyone with that.” But before Briggs could retrieve the kit the chopper took a steep dive. The pilot had to pull with all his strength on the collective to keep the helicopter airborne.
“I’m losing it fast,” the pilot said. “I’ve gotta set it down.”
McLanahan picked up the chart and relocated their position. “Try to make it across the Rio Coco river into Honduras. No way we want to go down in Nicaragua.”
The pilot shook his head. “I don’t know how far we can go, but I’ll try. You two better strap in.” McLanahan stuck the chart in a flight-suit pocket. Briggs grabbed the survival kit, found a seat between the bodies on the chopper’s aft deck and strapped in.
Somehow the helicopter did manage to stay intact for ten more minutes. McLanahan directed the pilot farther west toward a road leading northeast, and the pilot found it just as a yellow caution light lit up on the front instrument panel. “She’s seizing up,” the pilot said. “We can’t autorotate with all these trees around us. We land now or crash.”
Following the road as best they could, they glided in over the forests, searching for a clearing. They found a bend in the road, and the pilot headed for it. He had timed it well. The Dolphin hit the road, hard, just as the overspeed safety system in the chopper’s transmission automatically uncoupled the rotor.
“Out!” the pilot yelled, cutting off fuel and power and activating the automatic fire-extinguishing system. “Form up off the nose. Fast.” The three men dashed from the helicopter and ran a hundred yards away from the chopper, then turned and waited for an explosion or fire. Smoke billowed from the engine and power-train compartment behind the cockpit, but there was no explosion or fire. The three collapsed on the driest spot they could find beside the road, too weak from fear, tension, and worn-off adrenaline to stand any longer.