“All right, Polkovnik, pryekrasna. It is Comrade Luscev Vorotnikov, a member of the Politburo, representative to General Secretary for Central and South America,” Tret’yak said in awkward English. “He wishes to speak with you.” Maraklov reached for the phone. “I would like to know what you will say about the dismantling of the MiG-39,” Tret’yak said.
“Don’t worry, General. As pilot of the aircraft I have authority to decide what happens to it. It was my decision and my responsibility to recommend the halt.” Tret’yak looked relieved but immediately disguised the expression and motioned to the telephone. Maraklov picked it up. “This is Colonel Maraklov.”
“Dobrayeh otrah, tovarisch Polkovnik,” the voice on the other end began. The satellite connection was remarkably clear. “Yah—”
“Please speak English, sir.”
There were some sounds of anger and confusion at the other end, then a much younger voice came on line: “Sir, this is Yegor Ryzhkov, an aide to Chairman Vorotnikov. Can you understand me, Colonel?”
“Yes.”
His accent was British — quite possibly an exchange student or maybe a Connecticut Academy graduate; a favorite target for Academy-trained men and women was Great Britain. “I will translate for the chairman. He welcomes you back and congratulates you on your heroic work.”
The congratulatory message when translated did not match the angry voices he heard in the background, but Maraldov ignored them.
“Chairman Vorotnikov has been advised by routine message traffic from Sebaco that you have recommended that the process of preparing the aircraft for shipment to the Soviet Union be halted. Can you explain this?”
“I stopped the workers from taking the aircraft apart because they were destroying it,” Maraklov said. “I will not deliver a nonfunctional aircraft to Ramenskoye.”
There was a pause at the other end; then Maraklov could hear the voice of Vorotnikov rising in irritation.
“The Chairman wishes to know what you recommend be done with the aircraft now,” the interpreter said.
“I intend to add long-range fuel tanks to it,” Maraklov told him. “I estimate that two Lluyka in-flight refueling drop-tanks can be added to the wings of the XF-34—these are tanks with a retractable refueling probe built into them. The tanks will increase the effective range of the XF-34 aircraft and provide an in-flight refueling capacity. In this way, the aircraft can be delivered intact.”
“Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik,” one of the radio operators said. “Telefoniya eahnyateh.” Maraklov did not understand and turned to Zaykov.
“He said be careful,” Musi said. “The line is not secure. Do not mention the name of the aircraft.”
The translation from Moscow took a long time, interspersed as it was with comments and questions in the background. General Tret’yak, who was listening in on another phone, was becoming more nervous — Maraklov was sure he had just lost the general as an ally. Then: “Colonel Maraklov, Comrade Vorotnikov has ordered that no further actions be taken on the aircraft until further ordered. We shall transmit orders from the Kremlin through the KGB Central Command.”
“I understand,” Maraklov said. “But understand, it will take two or three days for technicians here to saw the aircraft up into pieces, a half day to load it on a ship, at least a week for that ship to arrive in a Russian port and another one to two days for it to be transported to Ramenskoye. And when it arrives there it will be of no use to anyone — it will be nothing but piles of circuit boards and plastic. If I am allowed to proceed it will take two days or less to modify the aircraft for Lluyka tanks. Then, once fighter escort and tanker support has been arranged, it will take only ten hours to fly from here directly to Ramenskoye Research Center. When the aircraft arrives it will be in flyable condition and ready for operational inspection, with its computer memory and structural integrity functional.”
This explanation took even longer, but this time there were fewer interruptions and outbursts from Vorotnikov and whoever was with him in his office. But a few moments later the translator came back with “Colonel, Chairman Vorotnikov has some reservations about your plan, but he would like time to confer with his advisers. He orders you to continue your plans for mounting the aerial refueling tanks on the aircraft and preparing it for flight. He reminds you of the danger of remaining in Central America and orders you to do everything in your power to bring the aircraft home intact. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Maraklov said. General Tret’yak seemed happier. “Tell the chairman that he can assure the Politburo that their orders will be carried out.” But the satellite link had gone dead by then.
“Ochin prekrahsna, “ Tret’yak said, slapping him on the shoulder. “It looks like the pilots have beat the ribniys once again.”
Maraklov erased the relieved expression on his face as Tret’yak led him out of the communications center. Well, he had made Tret’yak a buddy once again — at least until the next crisis blew in.
In Vladimir Kalinin’s office at KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Vorotnikov threw the phone back on its cradle. “I did not understand most of what was going on,” he said. He waved a hand, dismissing Ryzhkov, waited until his assistant had left, then reached for the bottle of fine Viennese cognac on the desk and poured himself a glass. He took a sip, then drained the glass in one loud gulp. “But the pilot, your Colonel Maraklov, appears to be in charge.”
Kalinin nodded, moving the silver tray with the cognac decanter closer to Vorotnikov. “An extraordinary man. His loyalty is firmly to the Party and to his country.”
Vorotnikov shrugged, lifted his thick body far enough up off the chair to pour himself another cognac. “Excellent cognac, Vladimir.”
“If you enjoy this, Luscev, I will see to it that you will have a bottle.” He buzzed his outer desk, and a young, blonde woman in a red low-cut dress entered the office. “Anna, would you please see to it that Comrade Vorotnikov is given a bottle of this cognac … at his convenience?”
Anna favored the old bureaucrat with a dazzling smile, folded her hands behind her back, which served to accent her breasts, and bowed slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you very much, Vladimir,” Vorotnikov said. “Very kind of you. Back to business — this Maraklov, can he be trusted?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Yet he countermanded your orders that the aircraft be dismantled and shipped back to Russia.”
“He … what …?”
Vorotnikov was too busy enjoying his cognac to notice Kalinin’s confusion. “He wants to fly the thing all the way from Nicaragua to Russia, under the very noses of the Americans. Foolish. You should get that straightened out.”
What was this Maraklov thinking? Kalinin was furious. Fly DreamStar to Russia? If he screwed up this mission now, everything he was trying to accomplish would be destroyed.
To Vorotnikov, Kalinin said, calmly as possible, “Yes, sir. Now, if you would like to review my files on the project …?”
“Not necessary at the moment, Kalinin.” Vorotnikov glanced at the door for a few moments, then hauled himself to his feet and straightened his tie. “I think I have heard enough to report to the General Secretary.” He held out his hand, and Kalinin grasped it. “I believe the operation is being run in a satisfactory manner and I shall so report to the General Secretary in the morning. I must leave.” Kalinin buzzed his outer office, and Anna arrived to escort the smiling Vorotnikov outside.
When the two had left, Kalinin hit the outer office buzzer again. “I want another secure voice-line set up to Sebaco immediately.” Suddenly Kalinin realized how little he really knew about Andrei Maraklov. Vorotnikov, the General Secretary’s fat spy, was easy to take care of — this Maraklov, who had spent eleven years in the United States, was a loose cannon. More than anyone else, Andrei Maraklov was now the greatest threat to his plan for ultimate power.