“I am, of course, entirely to blame for these events, sir,” Kalinin said — perhaps a complete admission of guilt, he thought, could smooth things over— “but now that it has been dealt, we should play this hand to its conclusion. We must see to it that the fighter is brought here as quickly as possible.”
“I see. Have you gone completely crazy? Do you think the U.S. will not perhaps object to having the KGB steal one of their top-secret fighters?”
“Sir, I am not thinking of the Americans,” Kalinin said. “I am thinking of Russia. We had the opportunity to take the aircraft, and we did. Now we must capitalize on our achievement. The technology we gain will be—”
“Will be useless if they attack and kill a hundred of our people and destroy that base in Nicaragua to get their fighter back,” the General Secretary said. “I will not risk a shooting war with the Americans over one damn plane!”
“If the Americans were going to attack, they would have done so,” Kalinin said. “They know where the fighter is — their radar planes tracked the XF-34 throughout its entire flight. So the point is, they will not attack. They will not risk war over the fighter—”
“You underestimate them,” the General Secretary said. “I do not.”
“Sir, this whole incident is part of a game,” Kalinin said. “A game. Military secrets are stolen every day by both sides. Messages of protest are sent by both sides daily. I lose one or two operatives a month, sometimes more, to espionage or counter-espionage activities. Wars aren’t started over such matters.”
“We lost six men! The Americans lost a B-52 bomber, two fighters, and six of their people. This is a game?”
“But, sir, none of it affects the strategic balance,” Kalinin said. “It is simple maneuvering, part of the give-and-take between our governments. I say the Americans will not take action or retrieve their fighter. We will open secret negotiations, perhaps eventually trade captured agents or information for the aircraft after we have learned what we want from it. We may even lose something important to us in the near future, but we should not, sir, panic. As I say, we will eventually return the aircraft — after we study it. Please remember, this fighter is the most advanced aircraft in the world, sir. It is controlled by thought. Everything — flight control, weapons, every system is activated at the speed of light, all by thought commands.”
The General Secretary paused. Actually he had very little exposure to this side of his government. It was, indeed, he realized, a coup to obtain such an aircraft intact, a unique opportunity to study the best of American military technology … But Kalinin’s apparent success also posed a danger. Kalinin’s prestige and popularity would rise with the recognition of such an achievement, and the fact that he had done it all behind the General Secretary’s back would make matters worse. Kalinin had to be carefully reined in. Right now …
“Very well,” the General Secretary said, “I am opposed to this operation, but because of the unusual nature of the aircraft and the benefits of having such a machine to study, I will allow you to continue with your plans — after I review your project files. I will assign a member of the senior Politburo Central Committee to oversee your operation. He will contact your Colonel Maraklov in Nicaragua and speak with him, as well as with members of your staff, and report back to me. Control of this operation reverts to me. Is that clear?”
“Of course, sir.” Kalinin’s response was automatic — but he was thinking about who the General Secretary’s representative could be. Cherkov? Tovorin? Some unknown? He would have to deal with him as he came along.
“Meanwhile, I want all activity on the American aircraft to stop. The aircraft will not be moved from Nicaragua until I give the order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was a small setback — he would, of course, have to contend with an informant in his own Office. But in effect, so far as he was concerned, his coup was intact. And the future was brighter than ever.
Sebaco Military Airfield, Nicaragua
Maraklov was startled out of a deep sleep by a ringing telephone. He took a few moments to collect himself — the feelings of imbalance, of disorientation, were still plaguing him — before he touched the speaker-phone switch.
“What?”
“Vash vrizeveahyota peho tehyehlfono, tovarisch, “ a woman’s voice replied — Musi Zaykov, he guessed. “Moskva. “ There was no apology for speaking Russian this time, he noted. Never mind. He had been studying a bit of Russian all day; because of that, plus listening to it spoken between the technicians and soldiers in Sebaco, he was able to understand more and more of it as time went on. His own vocabulary, however, was still very limited, and his reading comprehension was almost nil. Cyrillic characters were almost impossible to understand. Luckily, most of the machinery and matters relating to the flight line were the Russian export versions, which had instructions and labels printed in — of all languages — English.
“Da,” he replied. “Sechyahs.” He had gotten very good at saying “wait a minute” in Sebaco, because everyone seemed to want him at once. Maraklov slipped on a flight suit and a pair of boots and opened the door to his apartment. It was indeed Musi Zaykov, now without her seductive bush shirt but wearing a KGB casual uniform, pants and black riding boots.
“Kahtoriy chyahs? What time is it?” Maraklov asked, as he emerged from the apartment.
“Your Russian is improving, sir,” Musi said as she led him out of the hangar. “Byehz dvahtsatye pyetye pyaht. “ Maraklov was expecting Musi to answer in English, since she’d begun in English, and her Russian escaped him. No matter. It had to be some time before five A.M., because the guards he could see all looked bored and tired; guard-post changeover was at five.
They walked across the flight-line ramp, had their badges checked by a gruff, sleepy KGB Border Guard, then walked down a dark, mossy path toward a grove of mangrove trees. The trees disguised a twenty-foot-diameter satellite dish and other communications antennae, the only visible landmarks of the Soviet Air Force command post and KGB detachment headquarters nearby. They were stopped by still another guard post, then proceeded down a short flight of steps in the semi-underground facility.
Unlike the rest of the camp, this building was well ventilated and air conditioned — much like most of the buildings in Dreamland. They signed in, punched codes into an electronic door lock and entered the communications facility. On the right was the main communications console, with two Air Force non-commissioned officers manning it and a KGB officer supervising them; on the left was a radar console with one Air Force NCO in charge. The rest of the room was filled with smelly transformers, old teletypewriters and storage lockers.
“Ah. Tovarisch Polkovnik Maraklov. Zdyehs.” General Tret’yak motioned to Maraklov and Zaykov, who followed him into a small conference room. The general looked a bit nervous as he closed the door to the conference room.
“Vsyo tovarisch Vorotnikov, Andrei,” Tret’yak said, motioning to a telephone on the desk at the front of the room. “Sta Politischeskoye Buro. Yah khatyehl …”
“Hold on … er, prastiti, sir,” Maraklov said. “I don’t understand you. Damn it, yah nyee pahnyemahyo …”