“And I won’t authorize it,” Curtis added.
“J.C. told me the key to beating DreamStar; he had it figured out, and he taught it to me.”
“It takes more than a second-hand theory to—”
“Besides, James himself has changed. You should have seen him — he looks like he’s lost thirty pounds and aged twenty years. I know how it can eat at you from the inside, from the brain. It’s been eating at James for almost two years. ANTARES has changed him into … into something else—”
Hal Briggs broke in. “The man has become a cold-blooded murderer. He gunned down those KGB soldiers, and J.C. and Dr. Carmichael, like he was shooting at paper targets.
“He’s gotten compulsive — acts like DreamStar is his. I think that may be our chance … His entire being is centered around that machine. But one thing he isn’t — he’s not a cool-headed fighter pilot any more. He’s changed into something else.”
“But you’re not a fighter pilot either, Colonel …” Curtis pointed out.
“No, I’m not, but what I am is the only chance we’ve got to keep DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians or an obsessed type like Maraklov. We don’t have any choice, we’ve got to do it.”
Elliott looked at Curtis. “What about it? He makes sense.”
“We’d be throwing Cheetah and McLanahan away. We’d have another dead officer on our hands and lose both our advanced fighters all in one morning.”
“That’s bull, General Curtis, and you know it,” McLanahan snapped. “There’s only one thing we know for certain here — if I don’t go, Ken James, Maraklov, gets away with DreamStar. Sure, if James gets away we still might get DreamStar back from the Russians, but only after they’ve copied all our technology and duplicated the ANTARES interface. After that, we’d be forced to build the F-34 fighter because we’d know that the Russians would build and deploy their own DreamStar — but we’d be building the F-34 knowing that it would be a trillion-dollar waste of money because the Russians would have developed defenses and countermeasures against it and its weapons … Worse than surrendering DreamStar is letting James get away. He’s killed a dozen Americans to get his hands on DreamStar. He blew away three of his own people right in front of us. He’s gone round the bend. I want him, General Curtis.”
There was silence again in the C-21 cabin. Marcia Preston made an announcement that they were about to land in Puerto Lempira, but no one reacted. As they touched down and taxied to the parking area, Elliott said quietly, “I’ll fly as your weapon-systems officer.”
“Out of the question,” Curtis said.
“I’ll go alone,” McLanahan said. “Cheetah is designed to fly air combat with one pilot—”
“I won’t allow any of you to fly this mission,” Curtis said as the C-21’s engines were shut down. “It’s suicide, a major breach of regulations—”
“I’ll go,” a voice said behind Curtis. They turned and saw Major Marcia Preston standing in the Aisle behind Curtis and Elliott. “It’ll solve your problems, General Curtis. I’m high-performance twin-turbine qualified, also a qualified military instructor pilot. If General Elliott makes me part of his unit it’ll at least be a legal flight. All nice and by the book.”
‘Done,” Elliott said. He turned to Briggs and said something to him in a low voice.
“And as senior project officer I can sign you off as qualified in the F-15F — judging by the way you handle this C-21, the F-15 should be a piece of cake,” McLanahan said. “I can also make you air-weapons qualified. And as a flight instructor qualified in the F-15F I can then legally fly front seat in Cheetah. Like you say, by the book.”
“McLanahan’s not a pilot, he’s not qualified to fly in combat—”
“I’ve got a hundred hours of stick time in Cheetah, including air combat maneuvers, General.”
“And I’ve got two hundred hours flying time in the F/A-18 Hornet — air-to-air, air-to-ground, carrier ops, and even Red Flag, sir,” Marcia put in. “You’ll have the experience up there. But what Colonel McLanahan needs more than anything is a pair of air-combat-experienced eyes in his back seat. You’ve got the people you need, sir.”
“It’s still a suicide mission, damn it … I still at least need to get authorization from the White House—”
McLanahan stood and motioned to Preston. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.” Preston pushed open the airstair door and exited the C-21. McLanahan followed her out, along with Hal Briggs and the Dolphin helicopter pilot, and together they ran for the portable hangar in which Cheetah was tied down, yelling orders to the crew chiefs.
“McLanahan, get your butt back here,” Curtis called out. “That’s an—” But Brad Elliott had put a hand on his shoulder. “The decision’s been made, Wilbur.”
“Like hell.” Deborah O’Day joined the two men in the C-21 cabin. “I’m in charge of this operation. It’s my butt on the line. Yours too, Brad.”
“My butt’s been chewed off long ago. I don’t really care what the suits in Washington say. I say let them go.”
“And as one of the suits, I agree with General Elliott,” Deborah said. “You’re outvoted.”
“Don’t give me this,” Curtis said. “You two can stand side by side in the Oval Office and explain to the President why you authorized this mission. But I’m going to call for authorization from the top. And I don’t want those planes to launch until I get it.” He moved toward the airstair door, only to find Hal Briggs rearmed with an M-16B2 automatic rifle slung on his shoulder, blocking the stairs. Curtis turned back toward Elliott, fixing him with a disbelieving look. He then turned on Briggs. “You have a problem, Major?”
Briggs looked at Elliott with a silent request for an order. Elliott paused until Curtis turned back toward him again. “Brad, don’t do this … “
Elliott met Curtis’ stare. He had stepped up to the very edge of insubordination, something he had never quite done. He nodded, abruptly. “The Secretary has a call to make, Hal. Let him by “
“Just wanted to pass along to you, sir,” Briggs said straight-faced. “We can’t seem to make contact with La Cieba. They’re saying another two hours to fix the problem with the radio, maybe longer.”
“Don’t hand me that crap, Major.”
“Wilbur,” Elliott said, “the radio works fine. I told him to rig it. But you know what we’re facing. We need a decision now. You have to make it. Launch Cheetah.”
Curtis hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. Outside he heard a low whine and the whine of a turbine — the sound of an external power-cart being started.
“You made a decision eight years ago that changed my life,” Elliott said. “You sent another crew and another machine on what was considered a no-win mission. You could have ignored the Old Dog, brought back the B-1 bombers and let the politicians handle things. You didn’t. You took over and did what had to be done, and it worked. Do it again. Launch Cheetah.”
Curtis said nothing. Out the starboard windows of the C-21 he could see Preston already in Cheetah’s aft-cockpit seat, strapping in and familiarizing herself with the layout. McLanahan was standing on the top of the boarding ladder, helmet and flight gloves on, hand on the edge of the front windscreen — but he had not yet entered the cockpit.
“He’s gone through a lot of hell, Wilbur,” Elliott said when he saw what Curtis was looking at. “He’s seen more blood, more death in eight years than a dozen men will in their lifetime. He’s also got a score to settle — a blood-score — but he’ll stand on that ladder until you give the word. 1 think you’ve known that all along.”