“The XF-34 Storm Two is an experimental aircraft. It’s also lethal as hell. We will pursue and destroy it. Stay clear.”
“No. Follow me or you will be shot down.” The F-20 on Cheetah’s left wing dropped back a few yards and began a climbing left turn.
“Warning, radar target lock, six o’clock. “ The F-20 following behind them had activated its tracking radar again. At this distance he could hardly miss …
“I’m open to suggestions, Colonel,” J.C. deadpanned.
“DreamStar’s moved out to ten miles,” McLanahan said, checking his radar. “Those other two Mexicans are chasing him; but it’s no contest; he’s pulling away—”
“I’ve got to follow,” J.C. said, gently easing into a left bank. “That guy behind me will hose us if I don’t.”
“Damn it, we had him … he was so close … can you get away from these guys?”
“Sure. This guy ahead of us is so sloppy I can fill him full of holes right now, and I think I can get away from the guy on our tail. But then what? We’re into our fuel reserves as it is. After we lose these guys we’ll need afterburner the whole way back just to get within missile range of DreamStar, and then the best we get is a tail-chase until we run out of gas.”
“So do it …”
“If that’s what you really want …”
“What the hell does that mean …?”
“That I think you better think pretty damn hard about it. If you try to chase down DreamStar from here, we won’t make it home. You’ll risk Cheetah for a fifty-fifty chance of downing DreamStar. You’ve already violated Mexican air space and will take heat for that but if you don’t bring back Cheetah, you’re guaranteeing yourself a Big Chicken Dinner—”
“Cheetah was my responsibility. If I let James get away … we all go down the tubes. As long as there’s a chance, I’m not going to let this guy go.”
“You’ve done everything you could. Like they say, there’s a time to chase and a time to get the hell out of Dodge. I suggest we boogie.”
McLanahan hesitated. J.C. rolled out behind the lead F-20 and reduced power slightly. The leader reduced his power to move beside Cheetah.
J.C. tried the last gambit he could think of to get Patrick back to reality … “I don’t love chasing DreamStar over Mexico with two chilibeans on my tail and sucking fumes, but I can live with it. But you … you have something worth more than DreamStar back in a hospital in Vegas. Let’s get back and go after him another day.”
It worked. Watching the Mexican F-20 off their left wing, with one speedbrake raised to slow himself down, McLanahan realized J.C. was right. He’d taken an incredible chance and violated a few dozen rules by coming this far. He and J.C. had almost got James … they’d done everything they could … “There’s going to be a next time,” he muttered. “Bet on it.”
J.C. added: “The Russians don’t have DreamStar yet — a Russian has it and he’s still ten thousand miles from home.”
“So we’ve still got these Mexican guys.” He strained to search behind Cheetah. “Number two’s back there right between the tails “
“No offense to the Mexican Air Force,” J.C. said, “but I’ll bet these bozos never intercepted anything but a soccer ball. The lead’s got his power way back waiting for us, and his wingman’s right in our jet-wash. They’re both out of position. Hang on.”
J.C. jerked the throttles to idle and popped Cheetah’s big speedbreak. The lead F-20 noticed the sudden power reduction and, not realizing how slow he was already going, pulled back his power even more. On the verge of a stall, he had no choice but to scissor left and fall away to regain his lost airspeed. Meanwhile, the number two F-20, not watching Cheetah and distracted by his leader’s sudden departure, never tried to slow down. He yanked his stick hard-right just in time to avoid slamming into Cheetah’s tail, and had to spin away. At that moment J.C. retracted the speedbrake, went into full power and began to accelerate and climb away from the Mexican interceptors.
McLanahan was staring out the back of the large bubble canopy. “They’re still below us … not climbing yet …”
“Warning; radar search, six o ‘clock,” from the computer.
“They dropped from radar track to search,” J.C. said. “Are they getting closer?”
“I can’t see them, they’ve dropped back.”
“American F-15, this is Mexican Air Force. Follow us to base immediately. Acknowledge.”
J.C. shut off the VHF GUARD channel.
“I don’t think we can make it,” McLanahan said a few minutes later, using the computer to check their fuel status. “We’ll have to divert to a Mexican airport after all.”
“We’ll start a climb and then use an idle descent into a diversion base,” J.C. said, gently pulling back on the stick and starting a shallow climb. “Oh, well,” he sighed, “I haven’t been in a Mexican jail since high school. It’ll be like old times.”
“Sorry I got you into this, J.C. I’m going to waste that sonofabitch if I have to walk back to Nicaragua or Colombia or Bolivia or wherever he’s headed—”
Suddenly the number one radio, still set to the refueling tanker’s operating frequency, crackled to life: “Storm One, this is Cardinal Three-Seven. Over.”
“I got it,” McLanahan said. On the radio he replied: “Cardinal Three-Seven, this is Storm One. Over.”
“Storm One, this is Cardinal. We’re Sun Devil KC-135 out of Phoenix-Sky Harbor Airport, one hundred and sixty-first Air Refueling Group, Arizona Air National Guard. Set beacon code seventy-four; we’ve got thirty-one. We’re at flight level two-niner zero, orbiting fifty miles south of Tucson near Nogales. What’s your situation? Over.”
“Air-to-air TACAN beacon? I haven’t used that since I was a butter-bar.” J.C. checked the distance readout. “He’s still out of range, not picking him up yet.”
“Cardinal, Storm One is approximately one hundred miles southwest of Chihuahua. Fuel situation critical. We were about to divert to Chihuahua for emergency refueling. Over.”
“Copy that, Storm. I guess your boss wants you back real bad. We’ve been ordered to … how should I put it? … have a catastrophic navigation failure and come and get you. As I speak, our autopilot is mysteriously taking us south across the border.” A pause, then: “Air-to-air TACAN shows two hundred miles, Storm. Can you make it?”
“It’ll be close,” McLanahan said.
“We may have visitors,” J.C. added. “We left a couple sorehead Mexican F-20s in our dust.”
“They should have gotten word by now that you’re on an authorized sortie,” the crewman replied. “Your boss tells us that they finally authorized your overflight. But that’s not going to help you much. I hope you got what you came for, boys — I doubt there are going to be any high fives waiting for you.”
“No,” McLanahan said, “we didn’t get what we came for. Not this time …”
5
Sebaco Military Airbase, Nicaragua
Andrei Maraklov awoke with a start but didn’t try to get up — his muscles quivered with the slightest hint of exertion. He was incredibly thirsty. Beads of sweat rolled down from his eyebrows, and the dirt and salt stung his eyes.
He opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a firm mattress, his face buried in stiff white sheets. His arms were by his side. Judging by feel, he was only wearing a pair of briefs.
Suddenly he felt a cool sponge touch the back of his neck, and a young female voice said in a soft voice, “Dobrahye otrah, tovarisch Polkovnik.”