Curtis returned it. “Let me guess … you’re not going to use a bomber — that was my first guess. What’s the hottest machine on your flight line right now? Cheetah. And McLanahan and Powell go with it. How’m I doing? Don’t answer that … You had Cheetah in mind from the start. You’ve got some sort of camera pod rigged up on it, self-protection devices up the ying-yang — you’re going to have to take the missiles off: the President said no.” Elliott allowed a smile. The Secretary had hit it right on the mark. “Cheetah’s been ready to go ever since last night … Ever since O’Day agreed to help you. Right?”
“No comment, sir.”
“I like it, Generaclass="underline" I like it. You want to send a message — Cheetah will do it.”
6
Sebaco Military Airfield, Nicaragua
Work had begun on DreamStar less than three hours after the last transmission from Moscow, and even though he had diverted the plan to dismantle his aircraft, every minute that Andrei Maraklov watched DreamStar’s refit was like another twist of the knife that seemed to be stuck in his gut.
He was standing a few meters in front of DreamStar’s hangar, just a few dozen meters from the flight-line ramp leading to Sebaco’s runway. The hangar doors, which had remained closed to guard against sabotage or espionage, were now wide open because of the huge volume of trucks and workers scrambling in and out. The hangar was guarded by KGB border troops, two stationed every ten meters around the perimeter, along with a manned BMD armored vehicle or BTR-60PB armored personnel carrier on every cardinal point. Workers carried large picture I.D. cards slung around their necks, which allowed the point guards to check I.D. ‘s against wearers without the workers stopping.
The technicians and engineers assembled to do the job seemed to be even more ham-handed than General Tret’yak had described. They tore at fasteners they did not understand how to open, yanked at delicate data cables, got greasy hands all over the superconducting antennae arrays. They made notes about everything, in writing and by video camera, but mostly they cared about getting their jobs done on time, not on how well the fighter flew after leaving Sebaco.
Each twist of the worker’s wrench brought home another reality to Maraklov — that along with the delivery of DreamStar to the Soviet Union came the end to his own usefulness. General Tret’yak was correct, of course — DreamStar would be dismantled in ultra-fine detail once it was safely delivered to the Ramenskoye Test Facility near Moscow. It might be flown once or twice, but more than likely its avionics would be activated artificially and all its subsequent “flights” would be confined to a laboratory. If there was no DreamStar, there would be little need for a DreamStar pilot, especially one who would seem more American than Russian. They might create an ANTARES ground simulator to study the thought-guidance system and train future pilots on how to fly DreamStar, but that would not last long. After that, he doubted very much that the Soviet military would allow him to fly or even participate in any way, except as.some glorified figurehead … until his usefulness there ran out too.
The workers were struggling with a service-access panel on DreamStar’s engine compartment. The senior non-commissioned officer, Master Sergeant Rudolph Artiemov, spotted Maraklov standing outside the hangar, came over to him, gave him a half-salute, pointed to the engine and said something unintelligible to Maraklov.
“Speak slower, Sergeant,” Maraklov said in halting Russian. The technician squinted at him. “Mahtor sestyema smazki nyee khodyaht, tovarisch Polovnik. Vi pahnyemahyo?”
“I don’t understand what the hell you’re saying,” Maraklov exploded in English. The startled sergeant stepped back away.
“You’re tearing my damned aircraft apart, you want me to tell you from here if it’s okay? Is that it? Get out of my face.”
“He said the engine-lubrication system access-panel is stuck, Andrei,” a voice said. He turned to see Musi Zaykov beside him, her attractive smile momentarily piercing his gloom. Musi said something to the technician in a stern voice and the sergeant saluted, turned and trotted back to the workers.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you said he is an incompetent fool, and that you will kill him first and report him second if he is not more careful.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“They say they will have the aircraft ready for a test flight in twelve hours,” Musi said. Maraklov looked at her, then turned away from the open front of the hangar and began walking down the flight line. Musi followed.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Maraklov said. “I just feel …” Could he trust her? He was beginning to feel he could. She had become something of a confidante over the past few hours. If she was a KGB operative assigned to watch him, she was either doing a very good job, or a very poor one … “I feel a terrible mistake is being made here … they don’t trust or respect my judgment. I brought them the U.S.’s most advanced fighter, and all they can seem to think of is taking it apart. Musi, that is no ordinary aircraft. It is … alive. It’s part of me … Can you understand any of that?”
“Not really, Andrei. It is, after all, a machine—”
“No …” But he knew it was useless to try to explain. He changed the subject. “You tell me, Musi, what will they do with me after I return to Russia?”
“You will be honored as a hero of the Soviet Union—”
“Bullshit. Tell me what’s really going to happen.” She seemed to avoid his eyes. “Come on, Lieutenant.”
“I … I don’t know, Andrei.” Her voice now seemed to lose its easy tone, to become almost stiff, as though she were reciting. “You will be welcomed, of course … following that, you will be asked to participate in the development of the aircraft for the Air Forces—”
“I want to know what kind of life I’ll have in Russia. I want to know if I’ll have a future.”
“You ask me to predict too much, Andrei.” Her tone changed again. “In my eyes you are a hero. You have done something no one thought possible. But there are … people who are distrustful of any foreigner—”
“I’m not a foreigner.” Or was he?
“Andrei, I know what you are, but you know what I mean … You do not speak Russian. You must understand that there will be less trust at first.” She took his hands in hers. “Could it be, Colonel Andrei Maraklov, that it is perhaps you who do not trust us?”
Maraklov was about to reply, stopped himself. She was right. The U.S. bias toward the Soviet Union had taken hold and was his now — distrust, fear, the works, in spite of the show of glasnost and perestroika.
He smiled at Musi, pulling her closer. “How did you get so smart, Lieutenant Musi Zaykov?”
“I am not so smart, Andrei. I think I understand how you feel. Living in Nicaragua for a year, feeling the resentment from the people, isolated in this little valley — it is easy to mistrust, even hate, those you do not understand or who seem not to understand you.” She moved in closer to him, her lips parting. “I love it when you say my name. I wish you’d do it more often.”
And then she kissed him, right there on the little service road next to the flight line. “I know you don’t trust me, Andrei, not yet. But you will. Just trust your instincts and I will mine …”