“Welcome, Andrei. What you have accomplished is incredible.”
“Thank you,” the computer-synthesized voice replied.
“Can you move? You must be tired. Can you get up?”
“I won’t disturb the ANTARES interface until we are safely in Nicaragua. The refueling can be accomplished with the engine running. I should launch without any delay.”
“I understand. We have begun refueling. We also have missiles and ammunition for your guns.”
“What kind of missiles?”
“The best we have,” Moffitt broke in on the interphone. He had climbed up the other side of DreamStar and was leaning inside the cockpit, watching with fascination as the multifunction screens flickered and changed at breathtaking speed while Maraklov monitored the refueling. “We have two hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition plus two AA-11 close-range dogfighting missiles and two AA-14 medium-range missiles. They—”
“Neither is enough,” came Maraklov’s ANTARES synthesizer voice. Moffitt tried to reach inside the cockpit to touch a button on one of the MFDs, and Maraklov immediately powered the monitor down until Moffitt withdrew his hand. “Without proper interface the missile needs to be able to lock onto a target without carrier-aircraft guidance. Neither the AA- 11 or the AA-14 can do that.”
Moffitt’s comment was predictable. “Your American friends always build the best of everything, don’t they?”
“Be quiet,” Kramer told Moffitt, and then asked Maraklov, “Can’t you use the missiles as a decoy? Perhaps they could scare off—”
“They’ll only add additional drag, and they could cause damage. I have no intention of letting anyone that close to me. I’ll take the ammunition for the cannon — that’s standard size.” Maraklov ordered the cannon-bay door opened, and the twenty-millimeter cannon lowered itself out of its nose bay, where crewmen, along with the photographers, began to examine it in preparation for loading. “Another important item: remove the left access panel just forward of the canard. There’s a black box marked ‘data transmitter.’ That unit must be disconnected as soon as possible.”
“What is it?”
“An automatic telemetry-data transmitter,” Maraklov told him. “It sends engine and flight data to any airborne receivers within a hundred miles, including the F-15F. They can decode the information and use it to track me. It can’t be deactivated by ANTARES. Do it immediately.”
Kramer gave the order to the senior crew chief, then: “What is your plan for escaping to Nicaragua?”
So he was going to Nicaragua, as he’d guessed. Okay, so be it … “I’ll stay in the mountains as much as possible and avoid military bases.” The main multi-function display screen flashed on, then scrolled through computer-generated charts of the route of flight as Maraklov continued: “I’ll fly west of Durango and east of Culiacan to avoid those bases, through the interior to avoid Aguas Calientes and Guadalajara, then into the Sierra Madre del Sur between San Mateo and Acapulco. I don’t anticipate problems avoiding Tuxtla Gutierrez and Villahermosa military airfields, and crossing the border I should be unopposed through Guatemala. The problems may come crossing through Honduras,” the computer-altered voice of ANTARES said — the metallic voice did not reveal any hint of Maraklov’s real apprehension or fear. “I may encounter large American forces from Llorango Airfield in El Salvador, and La Cieba and Tegucigalpa airfields in Honduras, but I believe resistance will not be major. There are only about two hundred miles to the Guatemalan border, through El Salvador and Honduras and into Augusto Cesar Sandino airfield — I can transit the entire distance in less than twenty minutes if necessary. I assume Sandino will be the final destination?”
“Ah … that reminds me,” Kramer said. “The Nicaraguan government was adamant about not allowing DreamStar into Managua — those people actually believe the U.S. will send the New Jersey and shell the city if DreamStar shows up anywhere near it. However, we have been provided an alternate base of operations that you will find more than adequate — Sebaco Airfield, north of Managua.”
Maraklov immediately activated DreamStar’s on-board database, and in an instant the computer had found the field and displayed a chart and airfield-information on Sebaco. “It’s a mining town with a dirt runway?”
“Your information is dated,” Kramer said, “although to tell the truth, we have made our own modifications only recently. Sebaco is now a functional airfield and military post, staffed by our people. The runway has been lengthened and paved and is protected by anti-aircraft missiles and artillery. The KGB Central American Command is based there, along with a small squadron of Mikoyan-Gureyvich-29 fighters. It will be home away from home for you — your first taste of homeland in some time.”
“Yes,” Maraklov replied curtly.
Maraklov, sitting immobile in DreamStar’s ejection seat, felt the life-giving flow of jet fuel into DreamStar, felt the energy and vitality as the precious liquid flowed into the fighter’s tanks — and yet, watching the efficient Soviet plainclothes agents hunting down the villagers, he also felt cornered, trapped, alone. The Soviet KGB forces out there — his countrymen — were in a way as strange to him as men from Mars. He even felt a bit of the typical American response when seeing pictures or videotapes of Russian soldiers or airmen: curiosity, puzzlement, even a little fear. They were the enemy — no, they were his countrymen, his fellow Russians. So why did he feel this way?
He looked back toward the nose of his fighter and noted the tall, beefy frame of Kramer’s assistant and chief neck-crusher, Moffitt. No matter what he’d accomplished, guys like Moffitt would always suspect him, figuring that as valuable an asset as he was to the Soviets he could be an even more valuable one for the Americans. Had he been turned? Was he a double agent? What if the returning hero turned out to be an embarrassment? At least he hadn’t forgotten how they thought; never mind glasnost.
At a mental command, Maraklov activated DreamStar’s attack radar and concentrated the energy on the right-forward nose-sector antenna-arrays. But after a few moments he turned the radar off. He would have enjoyed barbecuing Moffitt with microwaves — or at least scaring him.
He would have to deal with Moffitt, and the other Moffitts in Russia, very soon. Even being a hero could be dangerous. But he was getting ahead of himself. He was no hero. Not yet. So far he was nothing more, or less, than an uncommon traitor to the U.S.A.
“Tinsel, this is Storm One. Refueling completed with Goalie Three-Zero; squawking normal.”
“Storm One, roger. Strangle mode two and four for IFF check.”
“Roger, Storm One.” J. C. Powell issued commands to deactivate the two military-only data channels that would help Tinsel, the E-3B AWACS radar plane, locate and identify Cheetah. One by one, Tinsel ordered J.C. to turn each transmitter on until all were activated.
McLanahan lowered his oxygen visor. The waiting was the worst part … waiting for special clearance for takeoff, clearance to use the KC-10 refueling tanker, clearance to join up with Tinsel and the rest of the interceptor pursuers, and now they had to wait for permission to cross into Mexican airspace. He was itching to get on with the chase. DreamStar had such a long head start … He continued to check his equipment and thought about Ken James. It was nearly unbelievable. Apparently a Soviet agent had gotten an assignment into the most highly classified research facility in the United States and had gotten to be chief test pilot — hell, the only test pilot — of the hottest tactical jet fighter in the world. And had now managed to steal that fighter out from under the noses of a large security force and escape with it out of the United States right past four interceptor squadrons.