Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (87 page)

 
          
“That’s
good, real good . . . What about Ken James?”

 
          
“You
mean Colonel Andrei Maraklov. The Russians say the guy really
is
a KGB agent,” Briggs said. “Do you
believe it? We had a damned KGB agent in Dreamland for almost two whole years.
Heads are gonna roll for that—mine in particular.”

 
          
At
the mention of James’ real Russian name, the old fury came back. “What’s
supposed to happen to him?”

 
          
“The
White House says he’s on his way back to
Russia
,” Briggs said. “The next time we see him
will probably be on the podium beside the head man at the Great October
military parade.”

 
          
Briggs
suddenly touched the earphone. “Briggs. Go ahead.” The earpiece acted as a
microphone as well as a speaker, picking up sinus- and osteo-vibrations and
transmitting them like a conventional radio system. Briggs listened for a few
moments, then replied, “Copy all. Briggs out.” He turned to McLanahan. “Word’s
in, Colonel. The plane’s been sealed oflF in a concrete shelter on Puerto
Cabezas airfield. Tomorrow morning at six
A.M.,
we’ve been cleared to fly no more than four more people in to inspect
DreamStar—that means Carmichael, Butler, J.C. and myself. If we can fly it out,
they’ll let us. If we can’t, we’ll be able to sail a barge into the docks at
Puerto Cabezas and ship it out. The general wants J.C. back immediately. I’ve
got to get his gear together back at Dreamland.”

 
          
McLanahan
glanced down the hallway and saw Wendy’s doctor and several nurses and
technicians wheeling a large machine into Wendy’s ICU ward at a run. “Wait
here,” he said, and ran down the hallway and followed the doctor back into the
ward.

           
When he entered the room a low,
high-speed electronic beeping was coming from Wendy’s body-monitor. The
relatives were crowded around her bedside, blocking the doctors and technicians
from reaching her. The minister was kneeling beside her . . .

 
          
“Get away from her,”
McLanahan shouted
and pushed his way through the knot of people. The doctor, after seemingly
being paralyzed by the scene, rushed over to the monitor. “What the hell are
you doing? Get away from her and let the doctors through ...”

 
          
“Respiratory
arrhythmia,” McLanahan heard the doctor say to one of the technicians, “but
I’ve still got a heartbeat. She’s hanging in there. Put her on the respirator
and take her to the CDV lab.” They began to insert the tracheal tube in her
throat and worked to reinflate her lungs.

 
          
McLanahan
pushed the minister aside and stood beside the doctor. “Can you help her?”

 
          
“I
don’t know, dammit.” He was watching as the technicians quickly transferred the
body-function leads from the wall unit to the portable device. “Her respiratory
system has shut down.” He pointed to an electronic electrocardiogram readout on
the portable respirator. “But that could be her saving grace. Strong as a
horse. There may still be time.” He turned to the people surrounding the bed as
a gurney was wheeled into the room. “All right, please move aside, everyone.”
Wendy was transferred to the gurney, and the hospital technicians rushed out.

 
          
McLanahan
saw Wendy’s parents staring at him as if he was crazy. “Wendy will be all
right,” he told them.

 
          
“Why
are you doing this, Patrick?” Betty Tork said in low voice.

 
          
“I’m
doing
this because I want Wendy to
live. You’re all waiting for her to die. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of
you.
” He turned, pushed past the
relatives still packing the small room and hurried out.

 
          
He
was met by Powell and Briggs in the hallway. “I’m going with J.C. back to
Honduras
,” he told them. The two officers stared at
him. “We’ll fly back in Cheetah. Hal, go back and get J.C.’s flight gear and
Carmichael
and
Butler
and meet us in Puerto Lempira.”

 
          
J.C.
said gently, “Do you think you should?”

 
          
“Wendy’s
back on a respirator. I think she’s going to make it. I believe she’s going to
pull out of it. I’ve got to be there when we get DreamStar . . .”

 
          
“Man,
are you sure you’re all right?” Briggs asked. “Maybe you should stop and think
about this ...”

 
          
“Listen,
I’ve got to do it this way. The more I stay around this place the more I feel
like I’m on a death watch. I won’t do that. I got to believe she’s going to
make it. Now let’s get going. Until DreamStar is out of
Nicaragua
I won’t stop. And I want Cheetah there in
case something goes wrong ...”

 
          
“Nothing
can go wrong,” Briggs said. “Maraklov is on his way to
Russia
. He’s the only one that could fly
DreamStar. They can blow DreamStar up, destroy it or disable it, but either way
we’ve at least kept the Russians from getting their hands on it. We’ve won,
man.”

 
          
“Not
yet, we haven’t. As long as Wendy’s fighting, I’m fighting too. And I can’t
fight wringing my hands in this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sebaco
,
Nicaragua

Sunday 21 June 1996
, 2141 CDT (2241 EDT)

 
          
Out
of some one hundred troops originally stationed at Sebaco, fewer than twenty
were still there, all pressed into service in cleaning up and preparing the
base for rebuilding. Since there were no aircraft at Sebaco, security had been
cut back to only a couple of guards roving the base. With workers on the job
from twelve to sixteen hours a day, the base was practically deserted by
nine
P.M.

 
          
It
would be that much easier to get away from Sebaco. Maraklov had decided on a
plan nobody would expect, he hoped—return to Puerto Cabezas and try to steal
DreamStar again.

 
          
Earlier
that day he had taken a military sedan that had a full tank of gas and hidden
it, keeping the keys. It was less than two hundred miles to Puerto Cabezas, but
the first one-third was on mountainous gravel roads, which were dangerous
enough when driven by day—he would have to make the drive in the middle of the
night. The first fifty miles would take at least two hours, maybe more. The
rest would be easier—he could make the trip in five hours, maybe a little less.
According to KGB director Kalinin, the Americans would be at Puerto Cabezas to
get DreamStar shortly after dawn. He had to be there ahead of them.

 
          
There
were only two things left to do: get back his metallic flight suit and helmet
from Lieutenant Musi Zaykov, who was holding the equipment in preparation for
sending it back with him to Moscow, and—what would be the hardest of
all—subdue, or eliminate, Musi herself. She was scheduled to drive him to
Managua
at
six
A.M.
the next morning and put him on a
nine
A.M.
Aeroflot flight to
Moscow
. If he could keep Musi quiet, maybe tie her
up and hide her in the jungle where she’d eventually be found, they would think
they had left for
Sandino
International
Airport
as scheduled. They wouldn’t know until the
Aeroflot’s departure time of
nine
A.M.
that they never showed up—and by then he
would be airborne once more in DreamStar.

 
          
That
evening he dressed in a dark flight suit and spit-shined boots—into which he
slipped a large hunting knife in a leather sheath—and left his room; he had, of
course, already deactivated the surveillance camera set up in his room, and he
was sure it had not been reactivated since the attack. He slipped outside
through a back window, retrieved the sedan and drove it over to Musi’s barracks
several buildings away—being an officer as well as one of the few women on the
base, Musi had a cabin to herself.

 
          
He
stopped the engine a few dozen yards from her cabin and coasted to a stop
several yards from the back door. He considered trying to sneak into the cabin,
but Zaykov would probably shoot him as an intruder. Instead he simply went to
the front door and knocked.

 
          
"Kto tarn?”

           
“Andrei.”

 
          
A
slight pause, then, in a light, excited voice, Musi replied in English, “Come
in, Andrei.”

 
          
She
was standing in the middle of her small living room, wearing a T-shirt that
outlined her breasts, a pair of tropical- weight shorts and French-made tennis
shoes. She came over to him and kissed him lightly on the right cheek. “Come
in, Andrei.” She tugged him into the living room and around toward the sofa.
“Please, sit down. How do you feel?”

 
          
“Physically,
great, emotionally, lousy ... I can’t believe we’re just going to give up
DreamStar. After all that’s happened.”

 
          
“Orders
are orders, I suppose,” she said, curling up like some exotic cat on the
loveseat beside the sofa. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”

 
          
“Doesn’t
make me feel better.”

 
          
“No,
but we are both soldiers,” she said. “Never mind, won’t you be glad to get back
home? It’s been so long since you have been there . . .”

 
          
Maraklov
had to work at his reaction. “Sure, but it would be better if you were going
with me.”

 
          
“I
will join you in
Moscow
before long,” she said. “We will see each other very soon.” She
motioned to a small bar in the corner behind Maraklov. “Fix us some drinks? I
think I have something interesting in there.”

 
          
He
got up, found ice and glasses, then started checking out her stock. He picked
up one especially fancy bottle. “Well, look at this! Glenkinchie single malt
Scotch whiskey ... I never expected to see this in this godforsaken place.”

 
          
“You
can try some of that,” Musi said. “It is very special. It is my favorite.” As
he dropped ice cubes into a couple of glasses she added, “It was Janet’s
favorite, too.”

 
          
“Who?”

 
          
“Janet.
Janet Larson. Her real name was Katrina Litkovka— the woman you murdered eleven
years ago.”

 
          
He
froze, then, willing his muscles to move, turned around. Musi Zaykov was
standing in the center of the room holding a silenced nine-millimeter automatic
pistol in her right hand. Her seductive smile had vanished, leaving a stone-cold
murderous glare.

 
          
“What
in hell is going on, Musi?” He put the glass down on the bar but kept the
Scotch bottle in his left hand, sliding it down his leg to hide it as best he
could. “Put that thing down.”

 
          
“You
are under arrest, Colonel Maraklov,” Zaykov said, “for the act of murder.”

 
          
“What
are you talking about? Is this some kind of sick joke?” Loosen up, he told
himself. Find out what she knows and use the time to figure out something . . .
He forced himself to put on a broad smile. “What’s going on, Musi? Put that
thing away. Are you crazy? I’m no threat to you—”

 
          
“Stay
where you are.” She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a sheet of
paper. “A copy of a message transmitted to you from
Moscow
, directing you to go to Puerto Cabezas and
steal the DreamStar aircraft. What is this about?”