Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (46 page)

 
          
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 sah- mahlyot, 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 it 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-34 A 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 power 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.”

 
          
“Kenneth
James?” Defense Secretary Stuart said. “You mean Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin
Maraklov.” Stuart fixed an angry stare at Elliott. “Well, at least this
happened out in Dreamland, we have a chance of keeping it out of the press.
I’ve had my staff scan James’ records and they’re squeaky- clean as far back as
we can go. But that’s the bad news. We didn’t start keeping close personal
records on him until he applied for admission to the Air Force Academy. It’s
hard to believe, but I think this Maraklov was inserted
then
, as a cadet. He apparently worked his way through the system
and found himself in Dreamland—”

 
          
“And
as the test pilot for our most high-tech aircraft,” Benson added. “A goddamned
Russian spy flying our best fighter for
two
years
...”

 
          
“And
you take responsibility for this James, or Maraklov, being in your
organization, General Elliott?” the President said.

 
          
“Yes,
sir.” Elliott had rehearsed a series of explanations in his mind—the fact that
Maraklov had eluded ten years of Department of Defense security investigations
before coming to Dreamland being the chief argument—but instead he said, “If I
had uncovered Maraklov’s infiltration earlier, the XF-34 wouldn’t be in Soviet
hands now.”

 
          
“I
agree,” the President said. “Although the problem obviously began well before
Maraklov entered your organization, Dreamland is the most sensitive research
installation we have. You have security measures and procedures available to
you that are not available to other commanders. But even with all these
measures, you failed to prevent this. And that resulted in the deaths of eleven
military and civilian personnel, the loss of two fighter aircraft and one B-52
bomber, millions of dollars of damage
and
the theft of a hugely valuable experimental fighter.”

 
          
Taylor
paused, made a note in his desk book. “But
my predecessor here held you in very high regard, General. He made a point of
recommending that I allow Dreamland to remain in operation and under your
command, even after your injury following that . . . mission to
Russia
. I took his advice because I knew he meant
it and not because he needed a favor. I kept Dreamland open despite your
enormous budget. And I kept you in charge despite numerous calls for your
mandatory retirement. You’ve been doing some remarkable work and up to now have
a fine record, even though much of it can’t be publicized ... Well, Dreamland
and the
Advanced
Weapons
Center
is to stop operations immediately until a
full investigation can be conducted. General Elliott, you will see to it that
your unit is properly closed and secured so that any evidence is kept intact.
When the investigation is convened you will provide any and all assistance
asked for. When the investigation is finished . . . I’m sorry to say I will
accept your request for retirement.”

 
          
Elliott
said nothing.

 
          
“The
Mexican government was demanding I hand over your head on a platter for sending
that F-15 into their airspace without permission. You can thank the Speaker
here for defusing that one.”

 
          
“Deborah
O’Day did the legwork,” Speaker Van Keller said.

 
          
Elliott
turned to look at the fiftyish, very attractive National Security Adviser.
Deborah O’Day . . . she’d had a career that Elliott had always found amazing
for a woman, even in the eighties and nineties—a former professor at the Center
for Strategic Studies in
Washington
, former Ambassador to the United Nations during the previous
administration, and the first woman to hold the position as special assistant
to the President on national security matters. It had been rumored that her
appointment had been made only because of political expediency—Taylor was still
a chauvinist of the fifties and figured he needed a woman on his White House staff
for show—but O’Day had surprised him with her talent, insight and take-charge
attitude. She nodded slightly to Elliott, who was surprised to see a friendly
reaction in that place.

 
          
“I
thought the Mexican government was dragging their heels in allowing us
permission to pursue the XF-34 into their airspace,” O’Day said. “I reminded
the commander of Mexican air defense forces of the times their pilots have
crossed into our airspace and even landed in our airports, supposedly by
mistake.”

 
          
Chief
of Staff Cesare broke in: “But it made the President look bad, not only in
their eyes but in the eyes of the world. One hotshot Reserve fighter pilot was
bad enough, and he got himself killed. Then we send another plane, and
he
almost gets killed. The whole incident
makes the Air Force look like Keystone Kops in flight suits,
and
it made the White House look like we
weren’t in control.”