"Warning, target beneath us . But at that same moment the MISSILE LAUNCH warning sounded-a radar-guided missile was in the air. "Escort Four, break away, bogey at your five o'clock low-"

Escort Four ejected chaff, rolled inverted and began a steep dive toward the ocean, but with the combat damage he had taken in the dogfight he could not maneuver fast enough. The Scorpion missile plowed directly into the center of the canopy, and the last MiG-29 fighter exploded and crashed into the sea.

DreamStar had no chaff or electronic countermeasures, but it had maneuverability that equaled the Scorpion missile. Maraklov turned DreamStar as hard as he could directly for the F-16 that had appeared out of nowhere. He found himself eyeball-to- eyeball with the Scorpion missile itself, seconds before impact.

The plan had worked, nearly to perfection, Berry had said to himself. It was obvious why the XF-34 could defeat them so easy-if he had access to the AWACS's data he could see the attack coming and plan against it. So Berry had decided to dis- appear from the AWACS scope-shut off the IFF and the data transceivers and drop down low enough to the ocean that his radar blip would be surrounded by clutter from the ocean. It was easy for him to approach the Russian aircraft unseen from sea level, climb directly underneath them, designate both fighters on his attack computer and launch his two AIM-120 Scorpion mis- siles at the Russians.

The first fighter went down with near-textbook precision, but something must have gone wrong with the second AMRAAM.

It was running hot and true right on target, but the missile's plume passed by the XF-34 without even a proximity explosion.

Berry flipped on his IFF and data-link transceiver.

"Barrier, this is Five-Nine, splash one MiG."

"Five-Nine, this is Barrier Control . . . Roger came 360 .

the confused voice of the surprised AWACS controller. "Do you need a vector?"

"Berry, where the hell are you?" Duncan called out, inter- rupting the controller.

"Head to head with that stolen fighter," Berry said. "He's mine." The data-link image of the last fighter seemed to hover in front of him-his velocity had decreased to less than three hundred knots. Beny selected an AIM-132 missile and centered the line-of-sight infrared aiming-reticle on the target. This was easy. The reticle eased into place, and the missile's computer reported a lock-on- But Berry did not notice the range rapidly decreasing until it was much too late. DreamStar had heeled sharply downward to avoid the Scorpion missile attack; the maneuver had been so fast that it appeared that the fighter had stopped all forward motion.

The only waming Beny had was the rapidly growing black spot under the reticle and the sudden SHOOT indication on the heads- up display, but by the time his right thumb had pressed the weapon-r-elease button, DreamStar had cut loose with its cannon in a Mach-one un-pass. The twenty-millimeter shells missed the cockpit but tore into the fuselage and engine compartment.

FiRE and EJECT lights snapped on as the cockpit filled with smoke.

Berry clawed for the ejection handle just as the first rolling waves of fire hit the fuel tanks.

"Emergency locator-beacon coming from Five-Nine's last plot- ted position," the controller reported. Elliott could hear the faint clicks of the intercom as the controller relayed position-data to Communications, which would relay them to the tilt-rotor CV- 22 Osprey search-and-rescue aircraft out of Guantanamo Naval Base and Puerto Rico.

"Dragon Five-Seven looks like he'll make it, Sir," the con- troller reported. "He's approaching the initial approach-fix for landing at Georgetown."

"Dragon Six-Zero flight of three will be on station in ten minutes," a third controller reported. "Do you want them on a high CAP?"

Elliott had kept silent ever since the third F-16 got hit. He could do nothing but watch DreamStar head south with the stricken Ilyushin transport.

"Soviet aircraft moving out of range," Marsch, the AWACS 361.

commander, reported from his console. "Shall I reposition to maintain contact?" No reply-Elliott closed his eyes as the com- puter data block that read "XF-34 USSR" froze on the edge of the screen while it cruised out of range. "Sir?"

"I heard you, Colonel," Elliott said. "I heard you. We will stay on station over Five-Nine's locator beacon until the Osprey picks him up. Bring the tanker south and arrange a refueling for us if we need it. Arrange a refueling with Dragon Six-Zero flight and have them stay with us until we withdraw from the area."

"Are you going to pursue the XF-34 any further, Sir?" Marsch pressed, his own anger rising. "We've got three more fighters on the way, plus three more on the ground-maybe you can waste the entire squadron this morning. Like the commercials used to say-'we do more by nine A. than most people do all day . . .

"Knock it off, Colonel," Elliott said, too tired to react to Marsch's heavy sarcasm. "If you're looking to get yourself busted . . . oh hell, we've got a pilot in the water-I want you to make sure he gets picked up ASAP. Okay?"

"May I remind the general, we've got pilots in little pieces in the water," Marsch said. "We got three pilots killed, sent up against known superior forces. For what? One lousy fighter al- ready in Soviet hands? "

"You just woffy about getting that pilot out of the water, Colonel.

Marsch glared at Elliott, but turned to his interphone to give the orders. Elliott slumped in his high-backed seat overlooking the master consoles. Any other thoughts except the images of five out of six F-16s damaged or destroyed and three out of six pilots dead was all but impossible. True, they had exposed the true intentions of the Soviets, but at a shocking cost. Now the decision had to be made-what were they going to do about it?

DreamStar may have been headed back for Nicaragua, but it was certainly not going to stay there for long. It might just refuel, arrange for another escort and try again-with the U. air task- force decimated by fifty percent it now had a much better chance of making it.

Elliott hit his intercom button. "Communications, this is El- liott. I want a secure satellite link direct with JCS set up soon as possible. Get Air Force on the line, Secretary Curtis direct- 362 .

he should be standing by for a report on transponder kilo seven.

Set up the call with JCS on that channel if possible."

"Yes, sir. Kilo seven is active. I should be able to conference JCS and Air Force in a few minutes."

The mission had gone sour, but its objective, no matter how terrible the price, had been achieved-to intercept the XF-34 and prevent it from leaving Nicaragua. The question remained- would the price Elliott paid to reveal the Soviet Union's deceit be too high for the President of the United States to accept? And what would he do about it?

Orbiting at five thousand feet over the marshy northeast coast of Nicaragua, Maraklov watched as, one by one, crewmen bailed out of the stricken 11yushin-76 AWACS transport. Because the aircraft was no longer structurally sound, ditching was not rec- ommended; instead, they decided to crash the aircraft in the peat bogs of the Mosquito Coast after the crew bailed out. The II- yushin had been trimmed for a shallow left-turning descent to allow time for the pilot to run back to the cargo door and jump out. Maraklov watched each crewman bail out, electronically measuring and recording the location of each man as he hit the marshy ground, then watched as the huge transport, still stream- ing smoke from its mangled tail and ruptured fuselage, continued its left turn, pointed itself toward the ocean and pancaked in just a half-mile offshore.

They had hoped to retrieve the aircraft relatively intact and salvage as much of the expensive electronic gear on board as possible, but their estimates of the aircraft's poor structural in- tegrity were on-target. Even though the plane made a rather gen- tle belly-flop into the warrn Caribbean, the weakened fuselage cracked and tore apart as if made of balsa wood. The last Mar- aklov saw was the huge wings of the Ilyushin flying and spinning in the air; then the sea swallowed the plane and it quickly disappeared from sight.

"Control, this is Zavtra," Maraklov reported as he electron- ically recorded the impact point and the point at which the fu- selage disappeared from view. "Ilyushin is down and submerged.

Stand by for transmission of impact coordinates for possible na- val salvage. Requesting immediate clearance to land."

"Request approved, Zavtra," the controller replied in En- glish, then added: "Plenty of parking space available now."

363.

The reply, a bitter one, underscored the fast-worsening situ- ation Maraklov faced. Sebaco was virtually defenseless. All four of the MiG-29s assigned to Sebaco had been destroyed-the only aircraft available were borrowed MiG-23 fighters from the Ni- caraguan Air Force at Managua and possibly some of Nicara- gua's Sukhoi-24 swing-wing fighter-bombers to counter any naval forces that might threaten Sebaco. Sebaco did not even have Russian pilots to man these twenty- to thirty-year-old air- craft-they'd have to rely on poorly trained Nicaraguan or Cuban pilots until Russian pilots could be flown in.

As Maraklov approached Sebaco he noticed the small anti- aircraft artillery guns at the end of the runway. They had piled up more sandbags and scrap-armor plates around the gun's bun- ker to protect the gunners, but the extra buttresses decreased the gunner's visibility and reaction time. Those too would be useless in a fight.

Tret'yak and his men, isolated for so long in this damned never-never land, had no conception of what was about to be unleashed on them.

Whatever, Maraklov was determined not to allow their short- sightedness spell the end of DrearnStar.

Brooks Medical Center, San Antonio, Texas Saturday, 20 June 1996, 1730 CDT (1830 EDT) McLANAHAN WAS AWAKENED from a fitful sleep by a hand shak- ing his shoulder. "Colonel McLanahan? Colonel?"

It was Wendy's doctor. His face looked weary. Patrick's heart began to race and he leapt to his feet. A nurse was removing the plastic airway in Wendy's throat, and aides were wheeling in a gurney. "Wendy . . . ?"

The doctor immediately held up his hands. "She's all right, Colonel, at least for the lime being." He paused, referring to a chart he had brought with him. "She has some extensive damage in her lung tissues . . . pneumonectomy may be necessary. I doubt we can wait any longer."

Patrick watched as the orderlies moved his wife onto the gur- ney and began attaching a portable respirator. "How long will it be? "

"Several hours. I suggest you go home and get some rest. We won't know until morning."

"Call if there's any news."

"I will." The doctor followed Wendy's gurney and the tech- nicians out of the intensive care unit.

It had been an exhausting two-day vigil over Wendy's bedside, waiting to see if she would ever regain consciousness. He wan- dered in a near-daze out of intensive care and down the silent corridor toward the exit.

Usually victims of an airplane crash were assumed to be dead-the human body was simply not designed to survive the crushing force of a plane crash. The doctors and nurses, al- 365.

though hard-working and very professional, carried out their du- ties as if they were demonstrating to the victim's family that the Air Force was doing everything possible, while trying to steel the family into accepting the worst. It was evident in the damned attending physician. He seemed more concerned with making the family comfortable than with saving Wendy's life- McLanahan stopped dead in the hallway. He realized that he had been walking very fast down the middle of the corridor, storming past patients and nurses, his fists tight-clenched. Get a grip, McLanahan, he told himself as he stepped aside and slowed his pace through the corridor. This is no time to go bananas.

As he passed an open doorway on his way out to the parking lot he heard the words "Air Force" from the room's television set. He stopped outside the door to listen: ". . . today would not comment on reports from a Mexican news service that U. Air Force jets were shot down by Russian fighters today in the Caribbean Sea south of Cuba. Pentagon officials will only confin-n that American military planes were in the area on routine training missions, and that those aircraft were harassed by Soviet, Cuban and Nicaraguan military aircraft.

Air Force officials say the aircraft were part of a month-long exercise called Tropical Thunder, an annual joint U.-Central American military exercise . . ."

McLanahan turned away to look for a telephone. "Tropical Thunder" was the name of a joint U. -Latin American military exercise, but it rarely involved more than a few dozen Marines and a few transports, and it was usually conducted in the United States or Panama. This had to have something to do with DreamStar.

He found a telephone, and got the base operator, who dialed the command post number at Dreamland.

"Command Post, Captain Valentine."

"Kurt, this is Colonel McLanahan-"

"Yes, Sir," Valentine, the senior controller at HAWC inter- rupted, "General Elliott is expecting your call. Can you stand by, Sir?

"Y.

es, this is not a secure line."

"Understand. Stand by." He heard clicks and digital dial tones in the background; then a voice said, "Barrier, Charlie one, go ahead. Over. "

The HAWC command post had hooked him into a UHF or 366 .

satellite phone patch with some ship or aircraft. McLanahan considered using his Dreamland call sign on the open frequency, but this guy wouldn't know what he was talking about. He said: "Barrier, this is Colonel McLanahan. Connect me with General Elliott. "

"Stand by one, sir."

There was only a slight pause, then the booming voice of General Elliott came on. "Patrick, how's Wendy?"

"Still critical, sir. They might be operating tonight."

"You know we're all thinking of her . . . How you doing?"

"Okay . . . I was watching the news and heard this story-"

"I know which one you mean," Elliott interrupted. "We need to discuss it. If you feel up to it, make your way to the electronic security command post at Kelly. I'll leave instructions on how you can contact me directly."

"I'll get out there as soon-"

"Listen, Patrick. You don't have to do this. If you thinv you shouldn't leave-"

"I won't know anything more about Wendy for several hours, she's stable now .

Things were obviously happening fast, he thought. There was no telling what sort of aircraft Elliott was in-it was very pos- sible for him to be in some emergency airborne command post, much like his former Strategic Air Command position in the Airborne Command and Control Squadron, ready to take charge of a wide array of military forces. He was probably right on the scene of whatever happened in the Caribbean earlier that day.

But should he leave Wendy now? If she could, she would tell him that even now, with DreamStar in enemy hands, he was still the key in the DreamStar program. At least his place was with the people trying to get DreamStar back, not wringing his hands and letting self-pity take over . "I'll be there in a half hour, sir. "

"I'll be waiting for your call. Barrier out."

He hurried back to the ICU nurse's station, grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a number on it. When the duty nurse came over he gave her a number to call in case of any change in Wendy's condition. "Tell the controller anything you have, this is my command post number, they'll-"

"I'm sorry, sir, we're only allowed to contact you in person.

We can't leave any message in situations like-"

7-.

367.

"Then get your supervisor over here. I'm tired of people around here telling me what I have to do or should do or can do. Do you follow me?"

The nurse reached over and took the slip of paper. "I'll take care of it, sir. "

"Thank you. Remember, any news at all.

Sebaco Airfield, Nicaragua Saturday, 20 June 1996, 1 735 CDT Maraklov woke up with the most crushing headache he had ever had-the pain this time so great that the slightest movement of his head or the least bit of light penetrating the room made ev- erything spin. It was severe dehydration, as always. It was like a fierce case of cotton-mouth and hangover after an all-night drunk-the ANTARES interface soaked up vast amounts of wa- ter and essential minerals from his tissues to facilitate the computer-neuron connection, causing the sickness except this was far far worse. This was the second time he had been taken unconscious from DreamStar's cockpit-it was getting very un- nerving. He decided not to rush things, but lay in bed quietly with his eyes closed and tried to will the pain away.

A few minutes later he heard voices and footsteps. They were talking in Russian. They did not try to knock before entering, but came right in. Maraklov decided to pretend to be asleep.

"So this is the great pilot?" one voice was saying.

"After today, who can tell?" the other said. "He is the only one who returns out of six aircraft-either he is very lucky or he let the others do the fighting for him.

"Check his arm, check the drip against your wristwatch, then administer ten JC..JC..'s of-- Maraklov could not understand the word--if he is not conscious . . ."

Ten JC..JC..'s . . . ? Maraklov experimentally flexed each arm and felt the stiff tubules and dull pain of an intravenous needle in his left arm. He quickly opened his eyes. There was a plastic bottle with clear liquid I suspended over his head to his left. His left arm was taped onto a stiff plastic board, and an intravenous tube ran into a vein in the crook of his elbow. His eyes focused just in time to see a white-jacketed man injecting something into his intravenous feeding tube with a hypodermic needle.

368 .

"Hey, Karl, he's awake - - - "

With strength Maraklov thought he wasn't capable of, he drew his legs up to his chest, swung around to his left, planted his feet on the white-coated man with the hypodermic and kicked out as hard as he could. The man stumbled back and crashed against the far wall, slipping to the floor.

"Easy, easy . . . " The other man threw himself over Mar- aklov and tried to pin his arms and legs down. Maraklov brought the thick edge of the plastic board down on his right temple. He was still struggling but the blow had taken a lot of fight out of him. Maraklov sat up, forcing away the rush of dizziness, rolled away from the second attacker and struggled to his feet. When the entire room seemed to sway Maraklov dropped to one knee and tried to steady himself.

Two arms suddenly reached around him from behind and pinned his arms to his sides. -0 myenya, Ivan, I have him, get-"

Maraklov bent his head forward, then snapped it backward as hard as he could. He heard bone and cartilage splinter as the man's nose took the full force of the blow. Still on one knee, Maraklov braced himself against the bed and shoved backward.

The man landed hard on his-back. Maraklov rolled away from him, giving him a chop to the throat. He found a chair, and held it between the second attacker and himself-using it as much for balance as for self-defense.

The second man was done. "Stoy, stoy, " he said, holding up his hands. Maraklov had never seen him before.

Suddenly the door to his room opened and Musi Zaykov and two KGB Border Guards appeared, all with rifles trained on the three men. Musi was the first one in. She scanned the room, then: "Colonel Maraklov, are you all right?" She saw the blood seeping from his left arm, shouldered her rifle, turned to one of the guards. "Pazavetya vrachya. Skaryeye! Call a doctor. Be quick!" She went over to Maraklov, took a towel from the bed- nd the point where the I. V. needle had stand and wrapped it arou come out.