Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (51 page)

 
          
“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
counterespionage 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

Friday, 19 June 1996
, 0445 CTD (1345 EET)

 
          
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 chyahsP
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
...”

 
          
“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
Polkovnikthe 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 the 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 Maraklov 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?”