“Sir, call off the dismantling until I can speak with Moscow. I don’t think—”
“It is already being done, Colonel. Now—”
“I said call it off, General.”
Tret’yak turned and looked with astonishment at Maraklov. He was, after all, a general. But then he softened, seeming to understand. “I know how you feel, Andrei,” he said, sounding like an older brother or father. “But these orders came directly from Kalinin himself. I must comply with them. It is an amazing war machine, I realize. You are afraid it will never fly again and I understand that — our scientists and engineers can get a little overzealous at times. They have little appreciation for what we do. But you did realize, Colonel, that they were going to get the XF-34, did you not? I cannot think of one instance where an aircraft stolen or delivered to another country in such circumstances was not used for study and research. It certainly never flies again. True, the MiG-25 that traitor Belyenko stole from Petropavlovsk and flew to Japan twenty years ago was flown a few times, but just for—”
“They can’t destroy DreamStar. It’s no damn lab rat. You of all people should appreciate that. DreamStar needs to be studied, true, but studied in one piece. We can train Russian pilots to fly her and develop an entire squadron of pilots who can fly her.” Maraklov paused, wondering how much of this he believed, how much was his attachment to DreamStar, his communion with it. “How would you, sir, like to be the first MiG-39 Zavtra squadron commander?”
Tret’yak broke out into a grin — he’d be dead meat in a poker game, Maraklov thought. “Zavtra? Has it been given a name?”
“Not officially, sir. But the 39 series is the next to be developed in both the Mikoyan-Gureyvich and Sukhoi design bureaus, and you suggested the name, sir. You said it was the fighter of tomorrow—zavtra means ‘tomorrow’ in English. So … the first fighter of tomorrow.”
“Zavtra,” Tret’yak said, nodding. “I like it.”
Thank God, Maraklov thought, for Tret’yak’s huge ego and the bits of elementary Russian that were coming back to him. “We can paint it on the XF-34 right away, sir — with your name as commander, of course.”
“This will have to be cleared through the engineer corps working on the XF-34—”
“MiG-39, sir.”
“Yes, the MiG-39. I will speak to people in Moscow. After breakfast.” He left with a pleased smile, and Maraklov hurriedly dressed and followed.
His apartment was in the back of a small administrative section next to the main hangar. He passed two guard posts, one outside his door and the other at the end of the corridor leading to the hangar. The last guard at the end of the corridor moved toward Maraklov and pinned a restricted area badge on his flight suit.
“Pazhallosta, vi mnyeh mozhitye pahkahzaht tvoye sahmahlyot, tovarisch?” the guard asked him as he pinned the badge on his suit.
Maraklov recognized that it was a question and made out the word for plane, but the guard’s stern voice also made it sound like a request to stay away from DreamStar. Maraklov ignored it, turned and walked away.
The guard looked at him. Another stuck-up pilot, he thought. All he did was ask him if he could take a closer look at his fighter. The hotshot didn’t even answer him. Maybe he really was more American than Russian now, like some were saying …
Maraklov had to strain to hold back his anger when he saw DreamStar. They had, indeed, wasted no time. Every access panel and maintenance door had been opened. External power was on the aircraft — and judging by the size and high-pitched whining sound of the power cart it was probably supplying the wrong frequency. DreamStar’s electrical system would kick off external power if there was any danger of damage, but if those engineers forced the circuit closed, it could do irreparable damage. Then they would have to ship it out of Nicaragua.
Tret’yak was returning from the administrative offices wearing a big smile. “Damn you, Colonel,” he said with mock irritation, “you have got to learn Russian again so I can stop with this damned English … I have a call in to Moscow outlining your concerns about dismantling the MiG-39. I expect an answer in an hour. Meanwhile I have no choice but to continue with my orders; the dismantling must proceed.”
Maraklov heard it like a stab in the heart, but there appeared nothing he could do — for now. “I understand. However, sir, in the future I would like to be present while any work at all is being done on Zavtra.”
“Granted. I understand how you feel. Having these cavemen tear into a pilot’s airplane is like watching your mistress out with another man — you want to tear the man’s eyes out, but there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Maraklov had to suppress a smile. Tret’yak was straight out of central casting, a real anachronism. But at least for now he was dazzled enough by Andrei Maraklov, his aircraft and his feat in flying to Nicaragua that he was being cooperative. But that wouldn’t last long if Moscow insisted on ripping DreamStar apart.
If orders came to go on dismantling DreamStar, Maraklov thought, as Tret’yak led him away to the chow hall, he would have to think of something else. Something drastic. He didn’t rescue DreamStar from mothballs in the U.S. to have it become heaps of fibersteel and electronics scattered around laboratories all across eastern Europe. DreamStar didn’t deserve to die. At least not without a fight …
Washington, D.C
“All our ground security units and anti-air missile units were at full readiness and responded properly,” General Brad Elliott was saying. “The XF-34A was able to elude all of our area defenses, which is what the aircraft was designed to do, and it evaded or defended itself against all other airborne interceptor units …
“The responsibility for the loss of the XF-34 is mine. It was my responsibility to make sure that personnel assigned to HAWC had the proper background investigations and security checks; it was my responsibility to secure our aircraft against attack, sabotage or theft. And it was my responsibility to do everything in my dower to repel any attacks or hostile actions against personnel and resources in my center …”
The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office, listening to Elliott’s mea culpa. With him was the Attorney General, Richard Benson, his brother-in-law and, it was said, closest adviser; Paul Cesare, the President’s Chief of Staff; Army General William Kane, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; General Martin Board, Air Force Chief of Staff; William Stuart, Secretary of Defense; Deborah O’Day, the National Security Adviser; and Speaker of the House and ranking congressional Democrat Christopher Van Keller, another close adviser and personal friend of President Lloyd Taylor.
“Your ground forces — you said you had two armed combat vehicles on the ramp at the time,” Attorney General Benson said, “and you still couldn’t stop that aircraft?”
“That’s correct.”
“What are these vehicles armed with?”
“Twelve-point-three-millimeter — half-inch — heavy machine guns. They also carry two armed security troops. They’re armed with standard M-16 rifles. Some have M-203 infantry grenade launchers as well.”
“And with all that they were ineffective?”
“Yes.” It was the n-th time he had heard the word “ineffective” during this half-hour briefing, along with “incompetent” and “irresponsible.” … “But the infiltrators set up remote-controlled mortars with concussion grenade rounds,” Elliott added. “They were relatively light ordnance, but at close range and against soldiers on foot they were very effective. It gave James enough time to taxi away and take off.”