“Probably like Puerto Cabezas. SA-15 missiles, MiG-29 or MiG-27 fighters, probably tactical anti-aircraft artillery. Why?”
“Why? Well … do you think the Nicaraguans are just going to let us fly over their cities? Don’t you think they’re going to throw everything they got at us?”
“We’re going anyway. I don’t care what defenses they have, we’ve penetrated them before, and—”
“No, sir — J. C. Powell and you defeated their defenses. You were in the backseat—”
“What the hell does that mean?”
It means that you can’t just charge in over Managua and Sebaco without some kind of a game plan,” she said. “We were lucky over Puerto Cabezas, sir — you assumed that the defenses that were destroyed by the B-52 two days ago were still destroyed, or they didn’t bring in more fighters just waiting for you to fly over looking for DreamStar. What if they’d been replaced? We would have been dead ten minutes in the sky. You can’t assume anything.”
No response from McLanahan. “I’m not trying to chicken out. I’ll fly wherever you want, and I’ll help you defend this aircraft the best I can. But we’ve got to do this the smart way, or we’ll be dead without ever getting off a shot at Ken James …”
“You’re right. I took off from Puerto Lempira with no idea where I was going after checking Puerto Cabezas. And we did receive intelligence that the runway at Sebaco had been repaired — they could have moved in a whole squadron of MiGs by now. We could be jumped at any moment, and we have no air cover, no surveillance and only six missiles to defend ourselves. Stupid. Damned stupid …”
“The question is — what are we going to do now? We can’t just drone around in circles.”
“We’ve got to get an idea which way we went.” But how … He ordered the voice-command computer to set a frequency in the number two VHF radio.
“Sandino Tower, this is Storm Zero Two on one-one-eight point one. Over.”
“Storm Zero Two, this is Augusto Cesar Sandino International Airport tower,” a controller with a thick Spanish accent replied. “State your position, altitude, type of aircraft, departure airport and destination. Be advised, we have no flight plan for you. You may be in violation of the air traffic laws of Nicaragua. Respond immediately.”
“Tower, Storm Zero Two is an American military fighter. I am in pursuit of an American aircraft piloted by a Russian criminal. I intend to overfly Sebaco and Managua in search of this aircraft. I request assistance. Over.”
“Storm Zero Two, overflight of Nicaragua by American military aircraft is prohibited. You are in violation of national and international law. You are directed to land at Sandino International immediately, or you will be fired on without warning. Over.”
“Sandino Tower, I say again; I am in pursuit of a criminal piloting an American aircraft. He is a danger to you as well as to the United States. I request assistance in pursuing this aircraft. I am not hostile to Nicaragua. Please assist. Over.”
“It’s not going to work,” Preston said. “They’re just triangulating our position. We’ve got to get out of here, head back across the Honduran border—”
“Storm Zero Two, this is Sandino Tower. Please stay on this frequency for important message. Acknowledge.”
He did not reply. A message flashed on his windscreen, warning him that a search radar was in the vicinity. From the rear seat Preston said, “We’re getting close to Managua’s search radar.”
“Storm Zero Two, contact the man on frequency one-three-one point one-five VHF. Important. Sandino Tower out.”
He began a left turn away from Managua and changed channels. Preston asked, “Are you going to talk on that frequency? It could be a military ground-controlled interceptor’s direction-finder. They could pin-point our location as soon as you key the mike without using radar.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.” He hit the mike button. “This is Storm Zero Two on one-three-one point one-five. Over.”
“Storm Two, this is General-Lieutenant Viktor Tcharin, Deputy Commander of Operations for Soviet Central America Operations Base Sebaco. Whom am I addressing?”
“It’s a damned Soviet general,” Preston said. “What the hell does he want?”
Patrick keyed the mike. “General Tcharin, this is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force. State your request. Over.”
“McLanahan … McLanahan … “ Then, sounding as if he was reading from a script, went on: “ ‘Senior project officer, Midnight Sky. Code name for XF-34 DreamStar advanced tactical fighter aircraft flight technology validation project. Age forty-one, white male.’ Ochin kharasho. Very good. Colonel McLanahan, I believe we want very nearly the same thing. You want the XF-34. We want Colonel Andrei Maraklov. Perhaps we can make an arrangement—”
“I want Maraklov and the XF-34, General. Do you know where Maraklov is headed?”
“We have evidence to that effect, yes,” Tcharin told him. “We believe we have tracked his course on radar. But we do not have the air assets to pursue him. You reported to the Nicaraguan tower controller that you are in command of a fighter plane. Is it your intention to attack Colonel Maraklov?”
“Yes.”
“We have information that may be of use to you. In exchange for this information we want you to deliver Colonel Maraklov to us, should he survive. Is that agreeable to you, Colonel McLanahan? “
“I’m not making any deals,” McLanahan told him. “I don’t trust you any more than I trust Maraklov. But if you tell me where he went, and if he survives, 1 promise not to kill him myself. What happens to him after that is up to our governments. How about that?”
A pause, then: “I agree. Colonel Maraklov had received instructions” … he did not say from whom … “to fly the aircraft south, to an isolated landing strip somewhere in Costa Rica. He was detected flying forty nautical miles west of Bluefields in southern Nicaragua about ten minutes ago. We have no other information. He was at twenty thousand feet, flying at five hundred nautical miles per hour.”
“Copy that down for me, Marcia,” McLanahan said. On the radio: “How do I know you’re telling the truth? He could be flying north to Cuba, or east. He could even be on the ground in Managua or Sebaco.”
“You contacted us for assistance and I have given it to you. If you do not trust us, your request makes no sense.”
“Why can’t you get Maraklov by yourself? Isn’t he delivering the XF-34 to you?”
“It’s not clear what orders Colonel Maraklov has chosen to follow. Our last orders, from the Kollegiya, were to turn over the XF-34 to you at Puerto Cabezas. Why he took the aircraft, I do not know. We want to question him about that matter, as well as the killing of two Soviet officers and two soldiers. My orders are to capture Colonel Maraklov for questioning, but I have no resources to do it. That is where you can help …”
If this Soviet general was lying, every mile he flew south could be two miles that Maraklov was increasing the distance on his way to Cuba or someplace to the east. Yet he had no other possible options.
“Marcia?”
“I don’t see much of a choice. I don’t trust him either, and I sure as hell don’t like making deals with him, but it’s the only lead we have. Our AWACS from Grand Cayman is covering the north Caribbean — so south seems like a good direction for us to be heading. Might as well try it.”
McLanahan keyed the radio again as he began a right turn toward the south. “General Tcharin, if I get Maraklov alive I promise you’ll have an opportunity to question him about the murders. I was a witness to three of them in Puerto Cabezas.”