"He's in the Commando."

154 .

McLanahan grunted his surprise. "Looking out those tiny gunport windows? Get those guys in the Rover to relieve him on his post and have him come take a look at the Megafortress. I know he's been itching to get a look at her too."

"Yeah, right." Briggs walked off toward his sedan. Patrick was about to repeat his request for a ride out to the bombing range but changed his mind-Briggs, he decided, must have a million things on his mind.

As he walked to his car Hal Briggs decided McLanahan was right. Jacinto had wanted to get a look at the Megafortress Plus and DreamStar for years. Now, with the huge bomber not three hundred yards away, Jacinto was sitting locked up in his V-100, watching through tiny gunports when he could be outside watch- ing it. Why? Besides, Jacinto was a well-known roamer. He couldn't stand being cooped up in a Commando for more than a few minutes.

It was then that Briggs noticed the blue Stepvan half-hidden from view beside Hangar Five. He also noticed that the doors to Hangar Five were open and that a missile-carrying trailer was parked inside. And he saw the orange safety cones arranged outside the hangar-MMS, or Munitions Maintenance Squad- ron, was already downloading weapons from DreamStar. They were four hours early . . .

Briggs pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and set the chan- nel for security control. "Red Man, this is Hotel."

"Go ahead, Hotel."

Orinack had finished his walkaround, and he, Carter and El- liott were shaking hands. Visitors began filing into buses to take them off the flight line. The crew of the Megafortress was climb- ing up the belly hatch into the massive bomber.

. Briggs keyed the mike button: "Status check of Foxtrot posts. "

Last status check one-five minutes ago reports all secure.

Last Rover check zero-one minutes ago reports all secure."

Copy. Break. Rover Nine, this is Hotel. Report to Five Fox- trot for relief. He wants to get a look at the monster up close.

Five Foxtrot, you copy?"

Lovyyev, alias Airman Crowe, nearly pulled the trigger of his M-16 in panic when he heard his call sign over the security net.

He was about to pick up the microphone and say something 155.

when he heard, "Break. Hotel, this is Rover Nine. Job Control has requested us to assist in clearing the flight line. We. are moving into position. Please advise. Over."

Lovyyev's throat was stone dry. He didn't dare try to speak.

Nothing would come out. Should he walk out of the car? Wave?

Should he do anything ... ?

Briggs stared at the armored car in front of Hangar Five. Jacinto sure was acting strange. Normally he would have jumped at the opportunity to check out any aircraft, from an old Piper Cub to the hypersonic spaceplane. He was being oddly reticent this morning. Well, tough. He was too late.

"Rover Nine, continue to clear the flight line. Five Foxtrot, sorry, maybe some other time."

Lovyyev still kept away from the mike button. He turned and saw KGB veteran Gekky Orlov, alias Sergeant Howard, standing inside the hangar, his M-16 out of sight, watching him. He knew Orlov had a tiny earpiece radio set to that security-net frequency.

He was looking hard at him, trying to get him to calm down.

Orlov could tell without seeing him that Lovyyev was ready to collapse. Don't key that microphone, be silent . . .

No reply. Strange.

A crew chief was hauling a huge Halon fire bottle over to the left inboard engine pylon and several of his assistants were po- sitioning themselves around the B-52 to act as safety observers for this engine start. Briggs suddenly found himself in the mid- dle. He got inside his sedan, closed the windows against the sound of external power carts being started, switched on the engine, and headed for the security checkpoint to watch the taxi and takeoff.

But as the first dull roar of the number four engine began to invade the early morning air, Briggs stopped the car just short of the checkpoint. He was perhaps four hundred yards from Hangar Five. Still no sign of Jacinto. Hal picked up his car microphone. "Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. How copy?" No re- ly. "Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. Come in. Over."

There may have been a reply but Briggs couldn't hear it over the steady scream of the eight turbofan engines on the massive B-52 bomber. The crew was running through their pre-takeoff 156 .

equipment checks. The three-thousand-watt taxi lights on the front landing gear trucks flashed insistently at him, indicating that the B-52s attack radar was on. Briggs was parked right in front of the bomber. He started his car and moved away from the B-52s front quarter.

The pre-takeoff checks were running quietly. As Hal Briggs continued to try to raise Five Foxtrot, the crew chief ran in front of the Megafortress Plus with two lighted- wands, and using hand signals ordered his assistants to pull the B-52s wheel chocks.

Hal considered cruising over to the guard post but it was too late. The crew chief swirled his wands in the air, a signal to Ormack and Khan in the cockpit that they were clear to run UP their engines for taxi. The engines began a deafening roar and the huge bomber lumbered forward. It stopped briefly to test its brakes, then taxied out quickly onto the ramp and moved toward the open exit-gate. Rover Nine and Rover Seven, the two M113 combat vehicles, fell in on either side of the B-52, their gun turrets now manned and armed with automatic cannons.

Briggs let out a loud sigh of relief when the B-52 taxied clear of Hangar Five-if there had been a commando or terrorist there he would have struck then, as the Megafortress taxied right in front. He almost expected to see a bazooka or TOW anti-tank missile round hit the Old Dog's jet-black surface, but there was no movement. Hal keyed his car's mike: "All units, be advised aircraft exiting main parking ramp heading for taxiway delta. Begin pre-launch sweep check and report to Red Man when complete. Red Man, report status to Hotel when complete.

"Red Man, wilco."

Hal put his car in gear and fell in well behind.the B-52 as it headed down the taxiway toward the sand-colored four-mile-long runway. The security units surrounding Dreamland were report- ing in to Red Man Security Control as briefed. Individual tac- tical units would report to their sector commands, who would report to their team leaders, who would report to Red Man.

Everything was going smoothly.

The last to report in were the units not involved with the B-52's operations-base security, individual building security and standing flight-line checkpoints. It took several minutes, by which time all units had reported in as ordered . . . all except Five Foxtrot.

157.

That did it. Definitely something wasn't right here. Hal Briggs stopped his car dead in its tracks and picked up the mike: "Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. Check in immediately. Over."

He couldn't wait any longer-Lovyyev could hear the irritation in the voice of whoever this Hotel character was. Orlov had disappeared into the hangar. For an instant he thought that Orlov was running, escaping before the security patrols closed in, but he knew better. Orlov was one of the best KGB operatives in North America. He would never run out on a mission unless it was completely hopeless, and he certainly wouldn't run out on another operative.

He had to answer, but he needed to sound convincing. What was the nationality of the security guard they killed? Spanish?

Mexican? Why didn't the United States use one damned race in the military like most of the rest of the world? In the Soviet Union they used Russian soldiers. Other nationalities swept floors or collected garbage.

Taking a deep breath, he composed his reply in his mind, as taught to him in an all-day cram course by Orlov, and keyed the mike: "Five Foxtrot, all secure. Over."

A chill ran down his spine. Hal had a tough time hearing the faint response, but even if it had been a whisper it wouldn't have made any difference.

That was not Rey Jacinto on the mike.

The Old Dog had now reached the end of the runway. It paused for a few moments as it aligned with the runway centerline. For an instant Hal thought that now would be the perfect time to strike-here, away from the ramp, isolated and vulnerable-but as he began to issue orders to cover the bomber from attack, the engines slowly accelerated to ftill thrust and the huge plane rolled down the runway.

Hal Briggs stared transfixed at the huge dark creature blasting down the runway. He could see huge puffs of dust and sand erupting from the edge of the semi-camouflaged runway, those could be mortar rounds impacting near the plane-which con- jured up the memory of the last time he had seen the Old Dog take off eight years ago, not five hundred yards from this very spot, when there were mortar rounds exploding all around them.

The same sense of fear gripped him . . .

158 .

But this time it turned out to be huge dust clouds kicked up by the wingtip vortices generated by the Old Dog. A few mo- ments later the bomber was airborne, the gear was up, the SST nose retracted into flight position and the Old Dog was racing skyward once again. It climbed nose-up, more like a light fighter plane than a half-million-pound strategic bomber.

In minutes the B-52 was out of sight. No alerts, no warnings.

Members of the M 113 Rover crews had gotten out of their ACVs to watch the takeoff. Hal checked Five Foxtrot once again. He could see clearly inside the hangar, but there was no sign of any munitions maintenance men in there, and the missiles were still on DreamStar's handpoints beside the air intake. A power cart was hooked up to DreamStar, with hoses and cables snaking around to the fighter's service panel, and now that the Old Dog had departed, Hal could hear the roar of the external power cart's jet engine. It was as if the MMS crew had simply left the plane alone and on power to watch the Old Dog's takeoff. That was a major breach of security, not to mention good sense. You never left a plane unattended with power and air on. Jacinto knew that-where was he during all this? And whose was that voice on the mike? Or was he imagining . . . ?

The upper hatch on the armored car was open, and Briggs noticed that a fifty-caliber machine gun was now mounted on the armor-shielded gun bracket on the car's roof. Still no sign of Jacinto. Maybe he had watched the takeoff, after all. But why mount his machine gun now? Or had he done it during taxi?

Briggs picked up his microphone. "Five Foxtrot, report status and location of the work crew at your location. Over."

No reply.

"Red Man, this is Hotel, radio check."

"Hotel, this is Red Man. Five by."

It wasn't his radio. Was there a radio "blind spot" out here?

Was Jacinto's radio malfunctioning? If it was, he should have gotten a replacement long ago-if it was Rey Jacinto in there.

"Roger. Break. Rover Nine, meet me at Five Foxtrot on the double. Over. "

"Rover Nine on the move." Briggs could see the two alert crewmen run back inside the ACV. The low-slung, eleven-ton mini-tank made a tight turn and headed back toward the parking ramp on its twin-steel tracks.

Briggs put his car in gear and headed toward Dream Star's 159.

hangar. Somebody was screwing up by the numbers here, it was past time to find out who and what.

Lovyyev was silently screaming at himself. Only a few hours in place, he speaks three words on the radio and is discovered.

Be calm, he told himself. Things were happening out there on the flight line-perhaps there was still time to bluff his way out of this. This Hotel person may get too busy to check on him.

But one glance out the bulletproof windscreen told him that his luck was running out. A staff car was heading his way. It was still three hundred yards off, perhaps more, but it was com- ing fast.

Lovyyev jumped out of his seat and crawled up into the ar- mored open turret on the roof. He yelled back into the hangar, "Orlov. Skaryehyeh! Etah srochnah! Hurry. They're coming!"

"Shut up, Crowe!" Orlov was hiding against the inner front wall of the hangar, his M-16/M-203 in his arms and the rernote- control detonator around his neck. "Get down!"

But it was too late. In a panic, Lovyyev swiveled the machine gun turret around, released the safety, aimed it at the approach- ing staff car, pulled and held the trigger.

Hal Briggs was thinking about what he was going to say to Rey Jacinto about his strange behavior when he saw what looked like exhaust smoke rising from the Commando armored car. Just as he was wondering why Jacinto was starting up, he saw a line of explosions and shattering concrete race across the tarmac di- rectly at his car. He slammed on the brakes and dived for the floorboards under the front seat just as his windshield exploded in a shower of glass. Instantly he felt a wall of fire envelop him, and realized that the engine compartment was on fire.

His synthetic fatigue shirt began to melt on his back. He clawed for the door handle, found it, shoved the door open and crawled Out of the burning car. He landed only a foot from the flaming remains of the car's hood, which had been blasted apart by the explosion, and half-crawled, half-stumbled away from the car. Thick black smoke was everywhere. He inhaled a lungful of the gas, gagged, fell to the concrete. Pieces of red-hot metal were all around him. But at least the smoke hid him from the unner in the V- 100. He stayed on his hands and knees and began to crawl to where he thought the security checkpoint 160 .

was ... He guessed right. A few moments later two guards rushed out and hauled him to his feet. He let the guards carry him to the guard shack but resisted when they tried to lay him down on the floor. He picked up the radio, switched the channel selector to one, the base-wide emergency channel, and clicked it on: "Attention all HAWC security units, this is Hotel on channel one. Execute code echo-seven. Repeat, code echo-seven. Intruder alert, Hangar Five. Repeat, intruder alert, Hangar Five. This is not an exercise. Shots fired in front of Hangar Five by intruders from a V- 100 armored vehicle. Number of intruders unknown."

Briggs paused, rubbing a pain in his right temple. Massaging it, he found a gash in his head and his hair burned off. "All Foxtrot guard units, secure your posts and stand by to repel.

Break. Rover Seven, converge on Hangar Five, secure the V- 100 parked there, block the front on the hangar by any means pos- sible. Break. Red Man, notify Colonel Towland and General Elliott in Mission Control of situation, use channel nine, and have them order the flight crew on the airborne B-52 to remain clear of the area and notify the crew of the standby B-52 to prepare to evacuate. Deploy all available personnel in full com- bat gear to security checkpoint alpha and launch helicopter air security units one and two. Break. Rover Nine, pick me up in front of security checkpoint alpha. I will take control from Rover Nine. All units,'execute .

Orlov knew it was no use berating Lovyyev-he might have even saved them by keeping that sedan away from the hangar until Maraklov, or James, or whatever his name was now, could get ready. They had been out there for hours. Was Maraklov ever going to be ready?

The security forces were moving faster than Orlov ever thought possible. Seconds after Lovyyev opened fire, he was receiving return fire from Hangar Four, although Lovyyev was in no dan- ger except from a lucky shot. M-16 rounds were pinging off the armor surrounding the turret, forcing Lovyyev to shoot from a more protected position inside the cab. But it was working. He was holding down any deadly return fire, keeping the first wave of defenders back. It wouldn't last long, but he was buying Maraklov time . . .

As was always the case, the first device to be activated under the Advanced Neural Transfer and Response System was on the 161.

radios. Usually they were quiet. This time, there was so much chatter on the area air-traffic control frequency that at first James thought he had dialed in two overlapping Las Vegas AM talk stations. The words were almost unintelligible, which at first confused him. Then he realized that the voices were talking about them-half the military security forces in Nevada were being called on to attack Hangar Five . . . they had already been dis- covered by Dreamland's security forces. If he'd spent two more minutes completing the ANTARES interface they'd all be dead.

A millisecond's mental inquiry told him all he needed to know: Sergeant Howard, if he was still alive, had done his job well. External air and power were on and available. DreamStar's body tanks were full-he had much more fuel than he had hoped for. Apparently they had drained the wing fuel tanks but left the body tanks and their thirty thousand gallons of jet fuel intact.

Both AIM-120 Scorpion missiles were loaded and even re- sponded to a fast connectivity and continuity check-which meant they could be launched orjettisoned at any time. Whether they were armed or capable of defending him was a question that would have to wait. The twenty-millimeter Vulcan cannon was empty-a fully loaded cannon would have been too much to hope for.

Howard had removed the inlet covers, safety pins and landing gear downlocks, and had closed all the maintenance covers ex- cept for the external power cover. The man was really efficient.

He'd have to thank him someday, if they made it . . . AN- TARES' automatic flight-data recorder recorded the thought for later retrieval.

DreamStar had the ability to go from complete power off to full military takeoff thrust in moments. Fighters in the twenty- first century would routinely have it-now only DreamStar did.

James again placed his life in the hands of a computer-only a machine could control the enormous amount of power that he was about to unleash. It was the ultimate in combat speed and efficiency-but it could just as easily turn the one hundred- thousand-pound fighter into a huge bomb.

Power, fuel, air-all engine start systems activated with a sin- gle thought. Lights and transmitters off-no use in making it easier for Briggs and the Air Force to find him. A compressed air tank, filled from the external power cart, collected twenty 162 .

thousand cubic feet of air at five thousand pounds PSI pressure, then emptied it onto the sixteenth-stage compressor in DreamStar's turbofan engine in less than a second. At the same time fuel was injected into the combustion chamber and the high- voltage ignitors activated. The blast of compressed air spun the engine turbines at three thousand RPMs, mixing air and fuel in the proportions to create a huge explosive ignition equal to the force of a ton of TNT.

In ten seconds DrearnStar was ready for flight. With full power available, his only concern now was to get off the ground as fast as possible.

Orlov, as Sergeant Howard, had been briefed on DreamStar's fast-reaction-start capability, b6t he never quite believed it. One moment the fighter was silent, cold, without power-the next, the engine was at full power with a hugh shaft of fire burning out the engine exhaust, expelling dangerous unburned gases. It reminded him of watching a tiger being fed at the Moscow Zoo- one moment the tigers were sleeping soundly, but at the first scent of blood they were unstoppable dynamos of motion and energy.

The external power cables and air hoses dropped off the ser- vice port by remote control, and before he could rush to the side of the cockpit to see if Maraklov needed anything, DreaniStar was moving forward-ready to fly.

Orlov didn't hesitate. He reached up to the remote-control trigger device, pressed the button, then threw the device away in the hangar and sprinted for the V-100 armored car.

He reached the car just as columns of fire lit up the gloomy early morning sky. Orlov hadn't counted on how bright those magnesium mortar shells were-he had, though, tightly closed his eyes just as he heard the loud puffs when the mortar rounds were launched. Lovyyev, inside the V-100, had neglected to shield his eyes, and Orlov found him rubbing and blinking fu- riously.

"Move, get out of the way!" Orlov ordered. Lovyyev fol- lowed Orlov's grasp and tumbled into the clear area under the gun turret as Orlov scrambled into the stiff driver's seat, put the V-100 into gear and hit the gas pedal.

"Can you operate the machine gun?" Orlov called to Lovy- yev and checked his assistant as he hauled himself into the 163.

gun-turret brace. Lovyyev was still trying to blink away the flashblindness, his face red and puffed, but Lovyyev, longer on courage than brains, was the kind who would say he was okay if both arms were blown away. All Orlov could do was drive. Ei- ther Lovyyev was up to the task of holding off the response forces, or they would die.

"Just don't shoot behind you," Orlov told him. "Maraklov and his fighter are right behind us. Shoot at anything else that moves. Don't waste a single shot. Our only hope is-"

Orlov's voice was drowned out by a rhythmic hammering sound on the hull of the armored car. He thought it was from Lovyyev's gun until he realized that the sound came from out- side. He was about to warn Lovyyev to take cover when the young KGB agent's body, minus his handsome blond head, slumped into the bottom of the gun turret. Orlov stomped hard'

on the gas pedal. Never leave a pretty corpse for the enemy.

Dreamland's security forces had reacted much, faster than Or- lov had anticipated. Now the last obstacle lay ahead-the long movable steel gate that enclosed the fence surrounding the re- search hangars. Orlov had to work fast. Once fully closed, huge steel pilings would be lowered into place and the gate would be unmovable.

Driving with one hand on the wheel, gas pedal to the floor, Orlov reached up and swung the fifty-caliber machine gun back facing forward, then fumbled with the remote trigger mecha- nism, finally clipping it into place on the rifle's trigger. He was less than a hundred yards from the gate. Firing in short bursts, he swung the wheel back and forth, pointing the gun's fire at anything that moved near the gate.

To his surprise, the gate was already fully closed. Time had almost run out. TWo soldiers were low-crawling along the gate, trying to reach the locking mechanism.