Dreamland right now. Two may be lying dead in the jungle in
Honduras-Powell and McLanahan. And another turned out to
be a goddamned Russian spy-"
"General Elliott, this is Major Preston," the pilot said over
the cabin intercom. "We're crossing the coast now, ETA to
Puerto Lempira nine minutes. We've got clearance to fly near
the Nicaraguan border, but we'll only have enough fuel to loiter
464 DALE BROWN
about ten minutes before we need to head back to Puerto Lem-
pira for fuel."
"Thanks, Major. Take us down to two thousand feet and head
south of Puerto Lempira, then ask Storm Control on what fre-
quency they talked to Major Briggs. We'll scan that frequency
Plus GUARD and hope he comes back." Preston gave General
Elliott enough time to strap himself in back in the right cockpit
seat before descending quickly to five thousand feet and getting
on the radio to Puerto Lempira. A few minutes later she had set
up the radios on UHF and VHF GUARD and Air Force discrete
emergency channel alpha. Elliott put on his earset and keyed the
microphone:
"Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four, this is Storm
Commander on alpha. How do you read?"
The three crewmen of the mission to bring DreamStar out of
Nicaragua reached Auka in less than an hour, but all hope of
finding a telephone was quickly squelched-Auka was little more
than a group of abandoned old shacks, half flooded and long
overgrown by jungle. The road was still wide and paved-it was
part of the main coastal highway running through Central Amer-
ica-but there was almost no traffic anywhere except for a few
horseback riders and some youngsters herding a small knot of
uncooperative goats through the streets. They had no intention
of talking to a group of dirty-looking strangers, and as fast as
the children appeared, they were gone.
The road through Auka branched out just on the north side of
town off to the west-the fork in the road was on a small cleared-
away rise with a shrine to the virgin Mary in the intersection.
From that spot they could see for about five miles in any direc-
tion before the trees shrouded the horizon. "This looks like the
best vantage point," McLanahan said. "Hal, go ahead and--
"Wait," Briggs said. He held the survival radio up to his ear,
then hit the TRANSMIT button. "Storm Commander, this is Hal
Briggs. I read you loud and clear. Over." To McLanahan: "It's
General Elliott! He's coming this way!"
"All right. "
Briggs handed McLanahan the survival radio. "General, Col-
onel McLanahan. "
"Patrick, damn good to hear you." Then he realized-the
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 465
third survivor must be the chopper pilot "Who did you
lose?"
" JC., Carmichael and Ray Butler .
Elliott slumped back in his seat. Powell dead-that was their
last hope, the man who could fly Cheetah well enough to take
on DrearnStar in air-to-air combat. He keyed the microphone:
"How did it happen? Were they killed in the crash?"
"No. They were killed by Andrei Maraklov-Ken James."
"James? He's supposed to be in Moscow
"He's alive and he's got DreamStar."
"But what about the deal? The transfer?"
"I had the impression that James came out of nowhere, com-
pletely unexpected. Even by the local Russian general. He killed
the KGB general and two Russian soldiers and who knows who
else to get Dreamstar. He might be working for himself, or for
someone else. General, DreamStar is flyable. We've got less
than fifteen minutes to put together an attack package and take
it out before he gets away."
"I see Elliott's jet," Briggs shouted, pointing skyward.
"General, we've got a visual on you. Range about three miles.
Come right twenty degrees. There'll be an east-west road off
your right wing. Follow the road until it ends. We're right at
the intersection in the clearing."
Aboard the JC.-21 Marcia Preston made the correction and im-
mediately spotted the intersection. "I've got it," she said.
Elliott turned to her. "Major, can you . . . ?"
"Tell everyone to hang on. Speed brakes coming out .
The three men watched as the blue-and-white Air Force JC.-21
made a sudden hard-left bank. They heard the turbine whine
decrease to a whisper as the JC.-21 turned in the opposite direc-
tion, paralleling the east-west road out of Auka. McLanahan
could hear the loud, angry sound of rumbling air. "It's slowing
down," he said.
"Landing gear," the Dolphin pilot shouted. "He's gonna
The JC.-21 made the turn to final approach only a few feet
above the trees at the edge of the clearing, its nose high in.the
air, flying just above the stall. As soon as it cleared the last row
of trees, the jet dropped almost straight down, touching down
466 DALE BROWN
precisely and firmly in the center of the asphalt road. The speed
brakes stayed up and the flaps were retracted to put as much
weight as possible on the main landing-gear brakes. This jet did
not have thrust reversers but the short-field approach technique
was executed so well by Marcia Preston that they were not
needed-with only a few hard taps on the brake, the JC.-21
LearJet-35 slowed and came to a stop right at the road intersec-
tion. Engines running, the left side airstair door opened and
Briggs, McLanahan and the Dolphin pilot climbed on board.
Deborah O'Day gasped as she saw Briggs and McLanahan.
Blood covered their bodies. Quickly they found seats in the back
of the eight-passenger jet.
Elliott moved past her in the narrow center aisle, blocking her
view of the three newcomers. "Deborah, sit up front, would
you?" The NSA chief nodded and quickly changed places. El-
liott took her seat and strapped himself in, waited until Secretary
Curtis had the airsiair door closed, then touched the intercom
button. "Ready for takeoff, Major Preston. Best possible speed
for Puerto Lempira. Call for medical assistance on arrival."
The JC.-21 executed a tight left turn as Preston lined up again
on the road for takeoff. Sixty seconds later they were airborne.
"We don't need medical assistance, what we need is an attack
against Puerto Cabezas. Right now or it may be too late."
McLanahan turned and recognized the Secretary of the Air Force.
"Secretary Curtis, I think Ken James-Andrei Maraklov-will
try to fly DreamStar out of Puerto Cabezas as soon as possible.
He killed and five other men out there. He's gotta be
stopped. "
t'Colonel, we're trying to work out something, but we don't
have any assets out here. We withdrew everything when the
Soviets agreed to this turnover."
"We've got Cheetah," McLanahan said. "I want to fly Chee-
tah out there and get him. " Curtis and Elliott said nothing, sat
back in their seats. "I can fly it, I know I can. I've flown it in
the simulator and I've had lots of stick time-"
&nb
sp; "I've flown in the F-15F's simulator," Curtis said, "but that
doesn't mean I can take it into combat, especially against a plane
like the XF-34. We'd be risking you and Cheetah against im-
possible odds."
"Wilbur is right," Elliott said. "Even couldn't beat
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 467
DreamStar and James half the time in flight-test exercises. You
would have no chance. I just can't endorse it-"
"And I won't authorize it," Curtis added.
" told me the key to beating DrearnStar, he had it figured
out and he taught it to me."
"It takes more than a second-hand theory to-"
"Besides, James himself has changed. You should have seen
him-he looks like he's lost thirty pounds and aged twenty years.
I know how it can eat at you from the inside, from the brain.
It's been eating at James for almost two years. ANTARES has
changed him into . . . into something else-"
Hal Briggs broke in. "The man has become a cold-blooded
murderer. He gunned down those KGB soldiers, and and
Dr. Carmichael, like he was shooting at paper targets.
"He's gotten compulsive-acts like DreamStar is his. I think
that may be our chance . . . His entire being is centered around
that machine. But one thing he isn't-he's not a cool-headed
fighter pilot any more. He's changed into something else."
"But you're not a fighter pilot either, Colonel Curtis
pointed out.
"No, I'm not, but what I am is the only chance we've got to
keep DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians or an obsessed
type like Maraklov. We don't have any choice, we've got to do
it.
Elliott looked at Curtis. "What about if? He makes sense."
"We'd be throwing Cheetah and McLanahan away. We'd
have another dead officer on our hands and lose both our ad-
vanced fighters all in one morning."
"That's bull, General Curtis, and you know it," McLanahan
snapped. "There's only one thing we know for certain here-if
I don't go, Ken James, Maraklov, gets away with DreamStar.
Sure, if James gets away we still might get DreamStar back from
the Russians, but only after they've copied all our technology
and duplicated the ANTARES interface. After that, we'd be
forced to build the F-34 fighter because we'd know that the
Russians would build and deploy their own DreamStar-but we'd
be building the F-34 knowing that it would be a trillion-dollar
waste of money because the Russians would have developed
defenses and countermeasures against it and its weapons . . .
Worse than surrendering DrearnStar is letting James get away.
He's killed a dozen Americans to get his hands on Dream-
468 DAIE BROWN
Star. He blew away three of his own people right in front of us.
He's gone round the bend. I want him, General Curtis."
There was silence again in the JC.-21 cabin. Marcia Preston
made an announcement that they were about to land in Puerto
Lempira, but no one reacted. As they touched down and taxied
to the parking area, Elliott said quietly, "I'll fly as your weapon-
systems officer."
"Out of the question," Curtis said.
"I'll go alone," McLanahan said. "Cheetah is designed to
fly air combat with one pilot-"
"I won't allow any of you to fly this mission," Curtis said
as the JC.-21's engines were shut down. "It's suicide, a major
breach of regulations-"
"I'll go," a voice said behind Curtis. They turned and saw
Major Marcia Preston standing in the aisle behind Curtis and
Elliott. "It'll solve your problems, General Curtis. I'm high-
performance twin-turbine qualified, also a qualified military in-
structor pilot. If General Elliott makes me part of his unit it'll
at least be a legal flight. All nice and by the book."
'Done," Elliott said. He turned to Briggs and said something
to him in a low voice.
"And as senior project officer I can sign you off as qualified
in the F-1517-judging by the way you handle this JC.-21, the
F-15 should be a piece of cake," McLanahan said. "I can also
make you air-weapons qualified. And as a flight instructor qual-
ified in the F-15F I can then legally fly front seat in Cheetah.
Like you say, by the book."
"McLanahan's not a pilot, he's not qualified to fly in com-
bat-"
"I've got a hundred hours of stick time in Cheetah, including
air combat maneuvers, General."
"And I've got two hundred hours flying time in the F/A-18
Homet-air-to-air, air-to-ground, carrier ops, and even Red Flag,
sir," Marcia put in. "You'll have the experience up there. But
what Colonel McLanahan needs more than anything is a pair of
air-combat-experienced eyes in his back seat. You've got the
people you need, sir."
"It's still a suicide mission, damn it . . . I still at least need
to get authorization from the White House--
McLanahan stood and motionedlo Preston. "We're wasting
time. Let's go. " Preston pushed open the airstair door and exited
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 469
the JC.-21. McLanahan followed her out, along with Hal Briggs
and the Dolphin helicopter pilot, and together they ran for the
portable hangar in which Cheetah was tied down, yelling orders
to the crew chiefs.
"McLanahan, get your butt back here," Curtis called out.
"The decision's been made, Wilbur."
"Like hell." Deborah O'Day joined the two men in the JC.-21
cabin. "I'm in charge of this operation. It's my butt on the line.
Yours too, Brad."
"My butt's been chewed off long ago. I don't really care what
the suits in Washington say. I say'let them go."
"And as one of the suits, I agree with General Elliott," Deb-
ora'h said. "You're outvoted."
"Don't give me this," Curtis said. "You two can stand side
by side in the Oval Office and explain to the President why you
authorized this mission. But I'm going to call for authorization
from the top. And I don't want those planes to launch until I get
it." He moved toward the airstair door, only to find Hal Briggs
rearmed with an M-16112 automatic rifle slung on his shoulder,
blocking the stairs. Curtis turned back toward Elliott, fixing him
with a disbelieving look. He then turned on Briggs. "You have
a problem, Major?"
Briggs looked at Elliott with a silent request for an order.
Elliott paused until Curtis turned back toward him again. "Brad,
don't do this . . . "
Elliott met Curtis' stare. He had stepped up to the very edge
of insubordination, something he had never quite done. He nod-
ded, abruptly. "The Secretary has a call to make, Hal. Let him
by. I I
"Just wanted to pass along to you, sir," Briggs said straight-
faced. "We can't seem to make contact with La Cieba. They're
saying another two hours to fix the problem with the radio, maybe
longer. "
"Don't hand me that crap, Major."
"Wilbur," Elliott said, "the radio works fine. I told him to
rig it. But you know what we're facing. We need a decision
now. You have to make it. Launch Cheetah."
Curtis hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. Outside
he heard a low whine and the whine of a turbine-the sound of
an external power-cart being started.
470 DAIE BROVIN
"You made a decision eight years ago that changed my life,"
Elliott said. "You sent another crew and another machine on
what was considered a no-win mission. You could have ignored
the Old Dog, brought back the B-1 bombers and let the politi-
cians handle things. You didn't. You took over and did what
had to be done, and it worked. Do it again. Launch Cheetah."
Curtis said nothing. Out the starboard windows of the JC.-21
he could see Preston already in Cheetah's aft-cockpit seat, strap-
ping in and familiarizing herself with the layout. McLanahan
was standing on the top of the boarding ladder, helmet and flight
gloves on, hand on the edge of the front windscreen-but he had
not yet entered the cockpit.
"He's gone through a lot of hell, Wilbur," Elliott said when
he saw what Curtis was looking at. "He's seen more blood,
more death in eight years than a dozen men will in their lifetime.
He's also got a score to settle-a blood-score-but he'll stand
on that ladder until you give the word. I think you've known
that all along."
Curtis nodded, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
"Major Briggs, launch Cheetah. Now."
Over Nicaragua
CHEETAH'S CONTROL STICK felt alive, pulsating with power.
Mounted on the right side of the cockpit instead of in the center
as in most pre-1990s fighters, it was almost rigid. Tiny pressure-
sensitive switches in the fixed stick detected hand movements
and applied the inputs to the triple-redundant flight-control com-
puters, which then transmitted movement instructions to the hy-
draulic systems that moved the canards and tail stabilators, as
well as the micro-hydraulic systems that recurved Cheetah's
wings.
The system was ultra-sensitive, very fast-not like the old
gear, bell-crank and cable flight-control systems, or even the
newer fly-by-wire electronic systems. The slightest touch on the