“Eagle Three, this is Two. Lead’s been hit. He’s going down — no ‘chute, no ‘chute …”
“I see him, Two, I see him … Jesus Christ …”
Downs took a firm grip on his stick and throttles. “I’ve got the lead. Take the mid CAP and follow me in. This bastard’s not getting—”
“Eagle flight, this is TINSEL on malibu”—malibu, FM frequency 660, was the Squadron’s discrete scrambled channel. Great, Downs thought, they found our so-called secret channel. “Eagle flight of two, we copy that Eagle Lead is down. Search and rescue has been notified. You are to return across the ADIZ immediately, or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Acknowledge and comply. Over.”
“TINSEL, this is Eagle Two. That son of a bitch just shot down Colonel Harrell. Are you ordering us to let him go? Over.”
“We don’t have any damned choice, Downs.” It was a new voice on the radio — obviously the AWACS mission commander cutting in over the senior controller. “We can’t start a major international incident by ignoring the rules. You’ll get another shot at him when we get permission to cross. Now get your asses back over the border before you have to fight off the damned Mexican Air Force — and then you and I get to tangle. That’s an order from Air Division. Over.”
DreamStar was only a dozen feet above a rocky dry-river bed snaking through the Pinacate Mountains. Occasional radar sweeps showed the skies above him were clear, but that last attack was so sudden and so close that Maraklov kept DreamStar in the dirt to avoid any more sneak attacks. He stayed in the rugged mountains and dry desert valleys until he reached the fringes of the AWACS coverage zone, then slowly step-climbed out of the rocky terrain, being careful to stay under detectable radar emissions in the area. After a few minutes, as he cruised down the Magdalena River valley at five hundred feet, he was finally out of range of all American surveillance radars. The military radar nets from Hermosillo seventy miles south of his position were searching for him as well, but they were high-altitude-only surveillance radars and not capable of finding low-altitude aircraft. As he approached the northern foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains he was finally able to climb above ten thousand feet for the first time and reestablish best-endurance power.
Not time to celebrate, though. Maraklov was starting to search for places to crash-land DreamStar, taking seriously the fuel-endurance figures he was receiving. He was three hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo with five thousand pounds of fuel. His best endurance speed was only fifty-five percent of full power — idle power, barely enough to maintain altitude and control. He was slightly over eleven thousand feet, which put him right at the minimum safe altitude for the region — he could see Cerrro Chorreras, one of the highest peaks of the Sierra Madre, looming off to his right and looking like an impenetrable wall, a fist ready to reach out and pull him out of the sky.
He didn’t have the fuel to climb any higher; in fact, the best routine would command a descent soon to prevent DreamStar from stalling at such slow airspeeds. The high terrain would then force him further eastward toward the Mexican fighter base at Torreon only two hundred miles away. After successfully evading four squadrons of high-tech American fighters, Maraklov thought ruefully, he might end up dropping himself right into the very appreciative laps of the Mexican government.
ANTARES needed to search its own database for landing sites within range. Not easy. DreamStar was well within the Sierra Madre mountains now. Below were hundreds of grass-and-dirt strips — every plantation owner, every mining town, every timber mill, every drug dealer had his own airstrip. Most were simply cleared sections of land or dirt roads. Many were on high plateaus far from any usable roads or towns — if Kramer and Moffitt, his two KGB contacts from Los Angeles, were bringing a fuel truck it would take days for them to arrive.
After a few moments Maraklov was presented with a chart of north-central Mexico with landing-site choices depicted. He quickly discarded the unimproved runways of San Pablo Balleza and Rancho Las Aojuntas. Likewise the paved airport of Parral — the computerized chart showed the airport had a rotating beacon and even runway lights, which meant it probably was used by the militia or local police. Too active to maintain any secrecy.
The last choice seemed the best, a paved sixty-four-hundred-foot-long runway named Ojito. Detail of the runway showed it to be like the valley road nearby, which meant it probably was the road, just widened and strengthened some to serve as a runway. Several of such quasi-runways dotted central Mexico, where air access was occasionally desired/ but there wasn’t enough room to build an airport. Ojito was a hundred miles northwest of the original landing site, and in these rugged foothills that meant at least a four-hour wait.
Once that decision had been made, Maraklov commanded radio two to a special UHF frequency. “Kramer, this is Maraklov. Come in. Over.”
The radio crackled, and the pilot filtered out the noise, careful not to decrease the radio’s effective range. No response. He was over two hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to hear him in the mountains …
“Maraklov, this is Kramer. We read you. Welcome; you made it.”
For the first time, Maraklov allowed himself to feel the exhilaration he’d not thought possible. “Kramer, listen. Change of plans. New runway is at grid coordinates kilo-victor-five-one-five, lima-alpha one-three-seven. Situation critical. Over.”
“We understand. We have been monitoring your progress. We are airborne and will meet you at your designated landing point. You are almost home. Kramer out.”
The official blue sedan screeched to a halt not four feet in front of Cheetah’s nose gear. General Elliott jumped up from behind the wheel, threw the door open and stood behind it, drawing a thumb across his throat. He looked mad enough to hold down Cheetah even if they used full afterburner. At the same time Hal Briggs got out of the passenger’s side, wearing a set of ear protectors, and holding aloft his Uzi submachine gun in an obvious warning. Patrick could see him shrug and shake his head. He had no doubt that Briggs would use that SMG on Cheetah’s tires.
“Shut ‘em down, J.C.,” Patrick said.
J.C. muttered to himself as he touched the voice-interface switch on the stick. “Engine shutdown, power on.”
“Engine shutdown. Brakes set. External power on. Clear to scavenge,” the computer replied.
“Clear to scavenge,” J.C. said. One by one the engines revved up to eighty percent power for ten seconds, then shut themselves down. Patrick did not shut down any of his equipment but left it on standby to have it ready when — or, looking at Elliott’s angry face, if — they received takeoff clearance. Soon the only noise left was the sound of the external power cart. Briggs holstered his Uzi as Elliott walked over to the crew ladder being put up on Cheetah’s left side, pushed Sergeant Ray Butler out of the way and painfully hauled himself up the ladder.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Have you gone crazy?”
“You know where I’m going,” McLanahan said quietly. “You ordered this?”
“Yes.”
Elliott stared at Patrick, then at the external power cart and the screaming its turbine engine was making. “Shut that damned thing off.”
“Leave it on, Sergeant,” Patrick told Butler.
Elliott jabbed a finger first at Powell, then at McLanahan. “You, I knew you were crazy, but Patrick, you’ve gone round the bend. James steals a jet so you guys want to steal one too? All even up—?”