“Andrei?”
“Yes, Musi.”
Zaykov stared in surprise when she heard the voice. “Andrei, is that you …?”
“No time to talk,” Maraklov said. “Relay these instructions exactly to the chief of maintenance. I can’t start my engine until this problem is corrected.”
Zaykov copied Maraklov’s instructions down on a clipboard, read them back to verify them, then gave the clipboard to the chief of aircraft maintenance. He read the instructions several times, then finally called to his assistant to get someone to begin removing the left access panel.
“They are removing the wrong panel,” the computer-synthesized voice told Zaykov. Musi called to the workers to stop, then directed them to the correct panel. She had to repeat the instructions to the assistant crew chief, who told the crew chief, who issued the same orders back down the chain to the workers. They did not begin the job of removing the fasteners until told by their superior.
“Left primary bus-power is off,” Maraklov said after issuing the mental command to redirect the power from the external power cart away from the left primary circuit. “That maintenance chief would be out on his ass in the States. Five minutes to open one access panel — we’ll be here all morning.”
Sarcasm did not transmit well through ANTARES, but Zaykov nodded her understanding. “They are all afraid to touch the aircraft,” she said. “They’re afraid you will electrocute them. The chief has to order them to do the simplest task.”
“At this rate I’ll be forced to make the crossing in daylight,” Maraklov said.
“They should be finished in a few minutes.”
“But that’s only the first of about a dozen major items that need to be inspected before I can launch. It’s almost sunrise now. I’ll have half the U.S. Navy on top of me before I can fly a hundred miles, and in daylight with two external tanks I’ll be a sitting duck.”
“Our headquarters is coordinating with the Nicaraguan navy in sweeping the Caribbean for any American ships that might get in your way,” Zaykov said. “So far, they report no American ships closer than six hundred miles, except those in the Canal Zone and Puerto Rico. Besides, we have been informed by Moscow that the Americans have agreed not to take any action for five days. They will be totally unprepared for this.”
“Never mind all that,” Maraklov said, “just make those idiots out there work as fast as they can. Every minute I sit on the ground in this hell-hole is another mile closer the Americans can get. …”
One Hundred Miles Southwest of the Cayman Islands
“Dragon Five-One flight, this is Georgetown radar,” the cheerful British voice announced over the command radio. “Welcome to the Cayman Islands. Stand by for frequency assignments.”
“Now this is what I call a summer camp,” Major John Coursey said happily, taking another sip of orange juice. Coursey was one of twelve F-16 ADF pilots from Howard Air Force Base in Panama taking part in an operation they had come to know simply as Barrier. Coursey was the leader of Dragon Blue, one of four three-ship cells in the huge fighter formation. The twelve fighters were all from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group, New York Air National Guard, from Niagara Falls International Airport, deployed to Panama in one-month rotations. They were all serving their annual training commitment, which for F-16 pilots was always more than the standard Air National Guard two weeks per year.
“One week in Panama is heaven,” Coursey said over the scrambled interplane frequency, “but a secret mission to the Cayman Islands is a real hardship.”
“Cut the chatter, Blue flight,” came the order from the squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Tinker. “Okay, listen up. Red, Yellow and Gold stay on me for recovery. Blue, Georgetown Radar will clear you to an orbit just outside their airspace, blocking altitudes from five to thirty thousand. You’re required to squawk modes and codes even though you’re outside their airspace, but you are cleared to strangle if you get into a situation. Get together with your tanker for refueling, then set up a high- and mid-CAP as directed by Barrier Control. Watch your fuel. No one goes below three thousand pounds over the high fix at Georgetown. Everyone got it?”
“Don’t drink all the margaritas down there, boss,” Coursey said.
“No screwing around, Blue Leader,” Tinker radioed back. “We’re expecting some brass on board Barrier Control for this one.” Barrier Control was the 767 AWACS radar plane that would be controlling the fighters from its more protected orbit point closer to the Cayman Islands.
“Blue Lead copies. We’ll look pretty for the brass.”
“You’d better. Dragon flight minus Blue, come right and start descent. Blue flight, watch your gas, and good hunting.”
“Blue flight is clear,” Coursey reported as he watched the three groups of F-16 Falcon air-defense fighters execute a tight echelon turn to the right as they began their approach into Georgetown, the capital city of the Cayman Islands.
Coursey sucked in his breath. Against the crystal-blue shimmering backdrop of the Caribbean Sea, the large formation looked spectacular — especially to a desk-bound accountant from Tonawanda, New York, for whom the biggest excitement in life lately was having the Delaware Avenue monorail going into downtown Buffalo arrive on time. The Air National Guard was the country’s biggest secret, he told himself — he was getting a great Caribbean vacation paid for by Uncle Sam, and all he had to do was fly one of the hottest jet fighters in the world.
“Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Georgetown radar. Squawk mode three code zero-zero-one-four, mode C on, and have your wingmen squawk standby,” the juicy sounding controller from the Grand Cayman said.
“Anything you say, babe.” Coursey was feeling altogether the hot pilot. He knew his wingmen would check that their mode three identification beacons were in standby — they were placed in standby so collision alerts between fighters in the formation would not continually show on radar — so he doubled-checked his IFF settings and got himself comfortable.
“Dragon Five-Four flight; you are cleared to orbit as required within one-zero-zero nautical miles of BRAC intersection as requested, in the block from five thousand to thirty-five thousand feet. Contact me on this frequency if you require assistance. Clear to switch to tactical frequencies. Georgetown radar clear.”
Coursey was about to ask her for an after-hours phone number but it was time to get things organized. “Roger, Georgetown. You have a nice day, now. Dragon flight, push blue.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Blue” was the assigned common scrambled UHF frequency to be used by Coursey’s flight, the AWACS known as Barrier Control, and King 27, their KC-10 tanker out of Homestead AFB, Florida.
“Dragon flight, check,” Coursey called out a few seconds after switching frequencies.
“Two.”
“Three,” his wingmen responded.
“Station check, report with fuel status.” Coursey took a fast look at Dragon Five off his right wingtip. The big centerline fuel tank on the F-16s made the sleek bird awkward looking, not to mention the huge decrease in performance and range — those tanks would be the first to go if they engaged any hostiles out here. Each F-16 carried two AIM-132B European-built infrared-guided ASRAAM (Advanced Short-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for close-range “dogfighting” engagements) and two AIM-1200 AMRAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for longer-range attacks), along with five hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition. They were loaded and ready, but out here, flying quietly and peacefully over the sparkling blue Caribbean, trouble seemed a zillion miles away.