Sebaco. Should he fly his plane back to Sebaco-or to Nicaragua
for that matter?
Maraklov initiated a computer database search for all avail-
able runways within DreamStar's current safe-endurance range.
Possibilities-Belize, Costa Rica, offshore islands belonging to
Colombia. All had isolated runways along with possible nearby
sources of fuel.
The Americans, it now seemed, were out to destroy PreamStar
if that was the only way to keep it from escaping, and the Rus-
sians seemed incapable of stopping them. Why shouldn't he take
charge of defending his aircraft? Besides, maybe if no one knew
where DreamStar was he'd have a better chance of getting it to
Russia . . .
. . .or anywhere else. He tried to be practical, not sentimen-
tal . DreamStar was a commodity, wasn't it? A bargaining chip.
If he was so worried about what would happen to him in the
Soviet Union, maybe the Soviet Union wasn't where he should
be. The Americans, Elliott and the rest, would pay a stiff price
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 359
to have DreamStar back, enough for Maraklov to live like a ...
like an American-
The warnings came in rapid succession. Aware that he hadn't
scanned the skies for a few minutes, Maraklov commanded a
two-second spherical sweep of the skies, and instantly an aircraft
was detected directly beneath them, climbing right toward them
at terrific speed.
"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 DALE BROWN
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
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 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 DALE BROWN
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."
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 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
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-
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 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 DALE BROWN
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."