“We are now looking out the left-side camera of the F-15, at the rows of hangars and buildings just off the flight line at Sebaco. We will replay the image without magnification at first. Here — take a look at this hangar.”
Even without increased magnification the sight was obvious — it was the XF-34 parked inside the hangar. “It’s unmistakable — this is DreamStar. Notice the forward-swept wings, the canards with the trailing edges pointing downward, the chin intake, the slanted vertical stabilizers. This is what the crew saw on their first pass. Now I’ll let the film go for the rest of the pass.”
In normal speed the scene suddenly swung down out of view, revealing only sky and treetops — mostly treetops, since the fighter was still very low. The scene then shifted back to the forward camera, and Elliott could see Benson grabbing his chair’s armrests as treetops skittered past the bottom half of the screen. The image then centered on the hangar again — and remained centered on it. They did not see the top of the hangar. The field of view was centered precisely on the aircraft inside. Their eyes widened as the mouth of the hangar raced forward. It seemed to engulf the entire screen. The needle nose of the XF-34 was aimed right at them. It seemed impossible that the fighter could turn away in time—
The hangar disappeared, to be replaced by a rearward shot as the F-15 sped a few feet above the hangar — they could see antennae and even birds’ nests on the hangar roof. The image revolved once, and the trees rushed up again, snapping and whipping around in the fury of the fighter’s wingtip vortices.
Attorney General Benson was the first to get out a word. “That was unbelievable. Who was that pilot?”
“One of my best test pilots. He flies photographic chase missions against the XF-34. He was the one who almost shot down DreamStar over Mexico.”
“He must have a death wish,” William Stuart said. “Or else he’s completely nuts. How could you let him fly this mission? Wasn’t he reprimanded by General Kane?”
“I needed the best pilot for this job. There was no final decision on a reprimand, and I needed him. Considering his performance today I believe he’s in line for a commendation.”
The President was still blinking from what he had just seen. “I’m very impressed, General Elliott. It certainly sent a message to the Soviets … There’s no doubt that your DreamStar fighter is in Nicaragua. What do you think they’re going to do with it?”
Elliott pressed a button on his remote control. The reconpod imagery rewound to a clear view inside the hangar, just before Cheetah dodged skyward. “That’s clear in this picture, sir. You can see access panels on the sides open, and these objects here are fuel tanks. We believe they’re modifying DreamStar with long-range fuel tanks. I believe their objective is to fly it out of Nicaragua as soon as possible, maybe to Cuba, maybe even to Russia.”
The President nodded. “Well, for damn sure they obviously aren’t about to give it back … I will call a meeting later this evening with the Russian ambassador and Secretary Danahall. Debbie, Richard, I’d like you to be there. We need to make an official protest. Let’s set it for eight P.M. That’ll get the ambassador’s attention.”
“But Mr. President,” Elliott cut in, “that won’t stop the Russians. By the time that meeting is over DreamStar could be on a Soviet-controlled airbase. We have got to keep it from leaving Nicaragua.”
“And exactly how am I supposed to manage that? Load up your F-15 fighter with bombs and destroy that base? Send in the Marines? Think, General. I can’t attack a country that’s barely the size of Arkansas and five times poorer without a damn good overwhelming reason.”
“This has very little to do with Nicaragua, sir. It—”
Stuart, still smarting from not being included in the plans on Cheetah’s recon mission over Sebaco, said: “The world won’t care if we say we’re really after Russians. All they’ll know is that we attacked Nicaragua. Your strong-arm tactics would get this government into deep trouble—”
“All right, enough,” the President said. “It’s late. General Elliott, I’ll expect you at the staff meeting tomorrow morning at eight A.M. We’ll go over the situation then and decide what next.” As Elliott stood, tight-lipped, and headed for the door, the intercom phone on the President’s communications panel beside his desk buzzed and he picked it up.
“Hold it, General,” the President called out. His eyes widened with delight. “You’re kidding … and he’s here? Right now? You bet, Paul. Send him up.” The President scanned the faces around him in the room. “Rewind your tape there, General. Sergei Vilizherchev just arrived. He wants to speak with us.”
“The Russian ambassador is here?” Benson said.
“It’s just got to be about DreamStar,” Deborah O’Day said. “But I never expected them to react first. I was figuring on a world-class stall job if we tried to see him tonight. What are you going to do, Mr. President?”
“Listen to what he has to say. I assume he wants to talk about a way out of this. If he tries to deny that they have the aircraft we’ll show him this tape.” He picked up his intercom button again. “Paul, see if Dennis Danahall is available. If he can be here, we’ll ask Vilizherchev to wait until he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President put the phone down. “I hate to admit it, Wilbur,” he said to Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, “but it looks like sending that F-15 over Sebaco wasn’t such a bad idea. We seemed to have gotten the Soviets’ attention without getting anyone killed.”
“The crew of the Old Dog,” Elliott said quietly.
“I accept the reminder,” the President said, “but this isn’t the time to be settling a score, General. Right now, we want your airplane back. Period.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I think they owe more than DreamStar,” Elliott said. “A dozen good people are dead, plus the destruction of the B-52 and the fighters.”
“What I want is an end to this whole business,” the President said. “We’ll still negotiate for reparations, but to tell the damned truth I’ll settle for getting back what belongs to us and having the parties move back to their corners and call this one a draw.”
Elliott considered pressing his argument further, but there seemed no point to it now. He had spent much of the day on the carpet with the President of the United States after an exhausting twenty-four hours the day before. He had organized a daylight recon mission through a heavily defended Soviet base with no losses, which apparently had forced the Russians to the bargaining table. He had been at it for eighteen hours. He was beat. All right, maybe it was time to let the big-shots do their thing.
The phone rang again. Vilizherchev had just arrived. Surprisingly, none of the few straggling members of the White House press corps had picked up on the early evening visit — since Friday was now considered the first day of the three-day weekend, few reporters hung around in the evening. Secretary of State Danahall was en route; they would make the ambassador wait about fifteen minutes until Danahall arrived and could be briefed on what was going on.
Danahall, partially briefed in his car on the way to the White House, arrived ten minutes later — Cesare had to give him a jacket and tie from the contingency closet — the Secretary of State, working late in his office, looked rumpled. Cesare handed him the coat as he finished with the tie.
“I was wondering where my jacket had disappeared to,” Danahall deadpanned. “… So Vilizherchev just called the White House and requested a conference?”