He had prepared himself for this, ever since deciding to take DreamStar out of the United States. In hesitant, poorly phrased Russian, he replied, “Vi gahvahretye pah angleyski? “
“Of course, Colonel. My mistake.” The sponge ran over his shoulders, across his back. He tried to look at the woman but couldn’t even manage that much energy. Now in a near-perfect midwestern American accent the woman said, “Good morning. Colonel.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Musi Zaykov. I am your aide and secretary.”
“Are you KGB?”
“Yes, sir. I am a starshiy leyt … I’m sorry — a lieutenant, Central American Command. I have been here in Nicaragua for almost a year.”
Nicaragua. Maraklov closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten. That explained the heat and the humidity. The events of his flight across Central America came back and invaded his thoughts. That explained his debilitation — he had flown DreamStar several hours longer than he had ever done before. He routinely lost four or five pounds on every one-hour sortie in the past, and this last flight, with ANTARES in combat conditions, had taken three hours. No wonder …
“I have been asked to notify the base commander when you awoke, sir,” she said, rinsing the sponge off in a pan on a stand by the bed, “but I’ll wait and let you go back to sleep if you want.”
“Thanks.” He made an effort and rolled onto his back, opening his eyes wide as he did so to help him regain his equilibrium. Musi Zaykov was sitting on the bed to his right. She looked about thirty, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a bright disarming smile. She wore a khaki bush shirt with the collar open several buttons from the top against the heat.
“Musi … Musi … very pretty name.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About fifteen hours, Colonel.” He watched her eyes scan his body. “I’m sorry we could not provide you with better sleeping arrangements, sir. It was decided to leave you here in the hangar where the security units have been assembled. I’m sure air conditioning will be set up as soon as possible.”
Maraklov nodded. “Pass the water.” Zaykov quickly passed the pitcher of ice water over to him. He watched her over the rim of the plastic glass.
“They say you were close to death when they took you out of your aircraft,” she said, her eyes occasionally straying down to his abdomen and legs. “Dehydration and chemical depletion.”
“Ten pounds is unusual,” Maraklov said, “but dehydration and chemical imbalance isn’t. I have a megadose on vitamins and minerals every time I fly my plane.” She was fidgeting a bit on the edge of the bed, her breathing getting deeper.
She was beautiful, but was he imagining this as a come-on? If it was real, why?
“Leave me alone,” he said suddenly. “I want to get dressed.”
“I have been asked to stay with you—”
“I said get out.”
“I am a qualified nurse, sir, as well as an intelligence analyst and operative.” She leaned closer to him, inviting him to touch her body. “In your condition I do not think it wise to leave you alone.”
And he suddenly realized the real situation he was in. He was lucky the Central Command had only sent a “friendly” operative, an agent instructed to get close to him, become his confidante, including his sexual partner if necessary. Right out of Academy syllabus …
“You obviously didn’t place too well at Connecticut Academy,” Maraklov deadpanned.
Zaykov looked startled, but only for an instant. “I’m sorry, sir …?”
“You’re also bothering me, and I don’t want the KGB watching me on the john, even an agent with big tits.”
She didn’t blink. “Yes, Colonel, it’s true I am a KGB soldier, but right now I am here to help you in any way I can during your recovery phase. You have been through a remarkable ordeal, and you have an even more difficult one ahead of you. I think it important that you not go through this alone. All I ask is that you please let me help.”
So sincere, but she was using the exact hand gestures and body movements “Janet Larson” had practiced back at the Academy — her body, her mannerisms, even her accent were virtual duplicates of Janet Larson, who had tried to get him thrown out of the Academy and take away his chance to come to America…
“1 don’t need any help—”
“But—”
“That’s an order, Lieutenant. Now get your butt out of here.” Zaykov missed that bit of slang but got the idea, rolled off the bed and left.
The word was going to spread quickly that he was awake, so Maraklov went over to the tiny closet-sized bathroom, found toilet articles and towels and showered and shaved as fast as he could without making the room spin. He had finished and was on his seventh glass of water when the door of the small apartment opened and a man in the black battle-dress uniform of the KGB Border Guards moved aside, allowing an older officer in a dark green-and-brown camouflage flight suit to enter. The officer was tall and wiry — the flight suit, Maraklov decided, wasn’t just for show; this guy looked like a fighter pilot. He looked at Maraklov for a moment, then came to attention and made a slight bow.
“It is a pleasure to see you, Colonel Maraklov. I am General Major Aviatsii Pavel Tret’yak, commanding officer of Sebaco Military Airfield.” He walked over to Maraklov and extended a hand. “Welcome home.”
Maraklov shook his hand. “Thank you, General. But I think I’ve quite a way to go before I get home.”
“We consider this is a slice of Russia in the middle of Central America,” Tret’yak said with a smile. “You will be home soon. Until then, this base and all its personnel are at your disposal, and I will see to it that you are treated in recognition of your feat.” Tret’yak was bobbing around like a young flying cadet, showing his excitement at meeting Maraklov. “Tell me about your flight, and all about this magnificent aircraft. I took the liberty of inspecting it this morning. It seems a fantastic machine, no doubt the fighter of tomorrow … We must talk about your flight over breakfast.”
“Thank you, sir. I could go for some coffee and breakfast before we begin DreamStar’s preparations for the flight back—”
“Oh, we will see to that, Colonel. It is already being done.” Maraklov stared at Tret’yak. “What? You—?”
“Under orders from Moscow, we have already begun the process of dismantling the aircraft. In a few days it will be—”
“Dismantling DreamStar? What the hell do you mean?”
Tret’yak looked puzzled. “How else do you intend to get it out of Nicaragua? Do you intend to fly it back to Russia? It is sixteen thousand kilometers from here to Moscow, with North America on one side, the U.S. Navy in the center and all western Europe on the other side. I should think you would have found it dangerous enough flying a thousand kilometers across Central America.”
“But I don’t know how to take it apart,” Maraklov said. “I didn’t bring the tech manuals with me and besides, I don’t want to risk—”
“That is not out concern,” Tret’yak said. “We are pilots, not mechanics. When we are in the cockpit, we are in charge. But when we are on the ground the grease-monkeys and pencil-pushers are in charge.”
“That isn’t some rag-wing biplane out there, General. You can’t just take a few screws out of her and fold it up. DreamStar may be the world’s greatest jet fighter but it’s as delicate as an inertial guidance computer. If it’s taken apart, it will never fly again. Believe me …”
Tret’yak was obviously bored with the argument and anxious to hear about Maraklov’s escape from the-U.S. He shrugged. “There are tropical-weight flight suits in the closet. Get dressed. We’ll talk.”