Prologae
The Connecticut Academy, USSR
Saturday, 2 May 1985, 0748 EET
"KEN JAMES" STAMPED his feet on the half-frozen dirt, rubbed
his hands together quickly, then wrapped them around the shaft
of a big Spaulding softball bat.
     "Cmon, dammit," he yelled to the tall, lanky kid on the
pitcher's mound.
     "Wait," yelled the pitcher, "Tony Scorcelli.- James made
a few test swings, hitching up his jacket around his armpits.
Scorcelli pounded the softball in his glove, then carefully, as
if trying to toss a ring over a Coke bottle, threw the ball un-
derhanded toward home plate.
The ball sailed clear over Ken's head.
     "What do you call that?" James stepped away from the
plate, leaned on the bat, shaking his head at Scorcelli.
     The catcher, "Tom Bell," trotted back to retrieve the ball.
When he picked'it up from under a clump of quack grass along
the backstop, he glanced over at the bench, noting the displea-
sure of the school's headmaster, "Mr. Roberts," who was
making notes on a clipboard. The catcher knew that meant
trouble.
     All the Academy's students were serious about these once-
a-week softball games. Here, even before perestroika, they
learned competition was necessary, even desirable. Winning
was all, losing was failure. Every opportunity to prove one's
superior leadership, physical and intellectual skills was moni-
tored and evaluated.
     "All right," James said as the catcher, Bell, tossed the ball




2                         DALE BROWN
back to Scorcelli. "This time open your damn eyes when you
pitch. "
     Scorcelli's second pitch wasn't much better than the first, a
high Gateway Arch that dropped almost straight down- on top
of home plate, but James bit on it, swung the bat with all his
strength and missed.
"Hey, hot shot, you're supposed to hit the ball .
     James swung even harder at the next pitch, clipped it foul
up and over the chain-link backstop.
     " One more foul and you are out," the first baseman "Kelly
Rogers" sang out. "Intramural rules-"
     "Shove your intramural rules up your ass, Rogers,` James
yelled at him. The first baseman looked confused and said
nothing. Roberts made another notation on his clipboard as
Scorcelli got ready for the next pitch.
     It was low. James wound up, gritted his teeth . . . then
stopped his swing, clutched the other end of his bat with one
hand. He held the bat horizontally, tracked the ball as it UU1110
in and tapped it. It hit the hard ground in front of home plate,
bounced once, then rolled out between home plate and the
pitcher's mound and died. James took off for first base. Bell
stood up from his crouch, stared at the ball, then at James,
back to the ball, then at Scorcelli-who was looking on in
confusion. James had reached first base and was headed for
second before someone finally yelled to throw the ball.
     Bell and Scorcelli ran to the ball, nearly collided as they
reached for it at the same time. Scorcelli picked it up, turned
and threw toward the second baseman. But it was a lob, not
overhand, and instead of an easy out at second, the softball hit
the ragged mud-choked grass several feet in front of the second
baseman, did not bounce and skipped off into shallow right
field as Ken James headed for third. The right fielder charged
the rolling ball, scooped it on the run, hesitated a second over
whether he could make the throw all the way, then threw to

"Johnston" at third base. Johnston corralled it with a careful
two-handed catch. A perfect throw. James wasn't even halfway
to third.
     Johnston stepped triumphantly on third base, tossed the ball
-around the horn" to second base, held up two fingers. James,
though, was still running. Johnston tapped James' shoulder as
he ran. "Makin' it look good for Mr. Roberts, aren't-?"
     "You idiot," Bell was yelling to Johnston. "You're sup-
posed to tag him out. "
     The second baseman understood and threw the ball to Bell
at home plate.
     By now James was getting winded. The throw was right on
target, and Bell caught the ball with James still fifteen feet from
home plate. Bell extended his glove, crouched down, antici-
pating a slide into home. James liked to do that even if it wasn't
necessary-he once did it after hitting a home run.
     But James wasn't sliding. As Bell made the tag, James
plowed into him running at full bore, arms held up in front of
him, elbows extended. The ball, Bell's mitt, his hat and most
of his consciousness went flying.
     Scorcelli threw his glove down on the mound, ran over to
James, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him up against
the chain-link backsto . "Are you crazy?" The others, includ-
ing a dazed Tom Bell, began to cluster around them. Scorcelli
spun James around, wrestled him to the dirt. "Vi balshoy svey-
nenah."
     The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed-
even Scorcelli seemed to forget that he had his hands around
James' neck.
     "Enough." Mr. Roberts walked through the quickly parting
crowd and stood over the two on the ground. Scorcelli got to
his feet and stood straight, almost at attention, hands at his
sides, chin up. James, his chest heaving, also stood up quickly.
     Roberts was a short, squat man with dark brows obscuring
darker, cavernous eyes. His rumbling voice 'commanded in-

stant attention.
     "James deliberately ran into Bell to make him drop the
ball," Scorcelli began.
     "It's in the rules, pea-brain-"
     "He ran right into him," Scorcelli went on. "He did not
even try to slow down or get out of the way! James is a cheat-
er-"
     "No one calls me a cheater-"
     "Enough, " Roberts ordered.
     But James ignored the order. "I fight my own battles. If you
knew the rules, Scorcelli, you'd know I have the right to home
plate as much as the catcher. If he stands in front of it, I can



4                        DALE BROWN
run him down. And if he drops the ball, even after making the
tag , the runner is safe and the run scores."
     "What about when you tapped the ball like that?" Scorcelli
fired back. "Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are
supposed to swing the bat, not-"
     "It's called a bunt, you fool." That revelation brought a
number of blank stares.
     Eyes turned toward Mr. Roberts, who stared at Ken James,
then announced the period was over and ordered them to report
to their next class.
The students Ken James and Anthony Scorcelli were standing
before their headmaster's desk. Jeffrey Baines Roberts was be-
hind his desk. His secretary had put two file folders on his
desk. She ignored Scorcelli; favored James with the hint of a
smile before leaving.
     "Mr. Scorcelli," said the headmaster, "tell me about your
brother Roger."
     Scorcelli stared at a point somewhere above Roberts' head.
"I have four siblings, sir, two brothers and one sister. Their
names-"
     "I did not ask about your other siblings, Mr. Scorcelli. I
asked about your brother Roger."
  "Yes, sir . . . Kevin and Roger." He seemed to be
talking to himself, then said aloud, "Roger is two years older
than me, a freshman at Cornell University. He--
"Where was your mother born?"
     My . . . mother . . . yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse,
New York. She has two sisters and--
     "I did not ask you about her sisters." Roberts ran an exas-
perated hand down his forehead. "Are you not familiar with
the rules of baseball, Mr. Scorcelli?
     "I was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his
friends and fellow players-"
     "The proper term is a battery, Mr. Scorcelli. Assault is the

threat of physical harm. Is it a battery if Mr. James' actions
are a legal part of the game?"
     "It may not be a battery, sir, but I believe Mr. James took
great pleasure in the opportunity to knock over Mr. Bell--
     "Bullshit," James said.
     "I also think, sir, that If Mr. James could legally find a way
     to hit me over the head with one of those bats from that stupid
     game, he would do it with the same enthusiasm and--
     "Right, asshole . . . "
     "That's enough," Roberts said, his voice calm. Actually he
had to strain to keep from smiling. Scorcelli would be right at
home in a large corporation's boardroom or in a court of law;
James would be at home in an active situation. A dangerous
one with courage and physical stamina. And an ability to ad-
just. James was not a team player. He either led or he would
choose to operate on his own. He could also be ruthless . . .
     "I will not have athletics in this institution become a private
battleground between students," Roberts said. "Mr. Scor-
celli?
     Scorcelli hesitated, turned to face James and stuck out a
hand.
     "Apology accepted, Mr. Scorcelli," James said with his
winning smile-a smile that infuriated Scorcelli.
     "I assume you have no intention of changing your playing
habits," Roberts said. "You will continue to take advantage
of each opportunity to denigrate your compatriots, even in a
baseball game?"
     Ken James looked puzzled. Scorcelli may have believed he
was wrestling with a moral dilemma. Roberts knew better, but
was surprised when James replied: "Sir, I will take advantage
of every rule and every legal opportunity to win."
     "No matter the consequences?"
     "No matter, sir."
     Roberts expected and desired nothing less. "You are dis-
missed, Mr. Scorcelli. Mr. James will remain . . . so, Mr.

Scorcelli?
                 "Yes, sir?
     "Vi balshoy sveynenah.
     Scorcelli did not look blank, as required. Only flustered.
     "Get out," Roberts said, and Scorcelli hustled away, clos-
ing the door behind him so gently he might have been closing
a door made of fine china.
     Ken James waited impassively. Roberts motioned him to a
seat. Roberts watched him unbutton the top button of his sports
coat and seat himself. "You even swear like one of them, Mr.
James.
                  No reply.



6    DALE BROWN
"Do you think you are ready for graduation?"
     "I do."
     'Mr. James, whose side are you on? Sometimes it appears
only your own."
     "Isn't that the American way? Knowledge is power, in base-
ball or business. I want all the knowledge I can accumulate.
I've worked hard to accumulate it, even the things others think
inconsequential. It would be a waste not to use it-
     "Do not pretend you know everything about America or
how to live in it. You have lived a sheltered life here in the
Academy. The world is just waiting to swallow overconfident
young people like you." James made no reply but sat easily in
the hard-backed upright wood chair. Roberts paused for a mo-
ment, then asked, "Tell me about your father, Kenneth."
     "Not again, sir. All right, my father was a drunk, sir, a
drunk and a scum who murdered my younger brother but was
found incompetent to stand trial and was committed to a men-
tal institution. They said he was suffering from delayed shock
syndrome from his three tours as a Green Beret company com-
mander in Vietnam. When he was released several years later
he abandoned his family and went off to who knows where.
Prison or another mental institution. His name was Kenneth
also, but I refuse to use 'Junior' in my surname and I've even
thought of changing my whole name."
     Roberts looked surprised, which amused James. "Don't
worry, sir. I won't. It's not as glamorous a story as Scorcelli's
rich jet-setting parents, or Bell's midwestern aunties. But it s
my story. I've learned, sir, to downplay it, push it out of my
consciousness. I allow it to surface as a reminder of what I
could become if I don't work and study very hard."
     "I am not particularly interested in your opinion of your
father," Roberts said, "and you would be well advised to keep
such opinions to yourself."
     James' response was to smile back at him with that madden-

ing half-grin. James, it seemed, had no intention of taking such
advice.
     A problem. The Connecticut Academy, in operation for only
thirty years, had acquired a reputation for excellence in its
graduates. Only the best left the Academy, and they left only
for the best colleges and universities. The rest were sent back
to wherever they came from, without any ties or records of
their time at the Academy. The Academy had a reputation to
uphold. How would this Kenneth Francis James fit in?
     His grades were never in question-he had scored in the
upper one percent of his Scholastic Aptitude Tests and had
passed advanced placement exams in mathematics and biology,
allowing him to take nine credits of college-level courses even
before stepping onto a college campus. He had even taken
several Law School Admissions Tests for practice and had
scored high on all of them. He had requested only the best-
Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, Oxford. It was his intention
to study under such as Kissinger, Kirkpatrick, Brezezinski-
and pursue a career in the Foreign Service or in politics.
     Mostly autonomy was what James craved, autonomy and
control, but his extremism could destroy him and hurt the
Academy. In the Foreign Service, in government, one had to
be a team player. Which left out Kenneth James.
     But the Academy tried not to discard its students who did
not fit. Especially the highly intelligent ones. The problem now
was to find James a niche for his particular talents and person-
ality and at the same time channel usefully his considerable
energy and intelligence.
     Roberts began to stack the folders on his desk and buzzed
his secretary. "You are dismissed, Mr. James."
     The sudden announcement took James by surprise, but he
tried not to show it. He stood and headed for the door.
     "Das svedanya, tovarishchniy Maraklov, " Roberts called
out, glancing up at the retreating figure, waiting to catch his
reaction.
     
There was none. James turned, hand casually on the door-
knob. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
     Roberts remained stone-faced but inwardly was pleased.
Good, Mr. James, he said to himself. No sign of recognition-
and more importantly, no sign of trying to hide any recogni-
tion. You have learned your lessons well. I think you may be
ready for graduation .
     "Dismissed, Mr. James."
"My name is Janet."
     Ken James moved closer to the woman and stared into her
bright green eyes. Janet Larson was thirty years old, five feet
tall, with long, bouncy brown hair. She was wearing stone-



8                        DALE BROWN
washed jeans and a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up and
the top three buttons unbuttoned against the warming late spring
weather. Sitting in her apartment, Ken let his eyes travel from
her shining eyes to her white throat and down her open neck-
line to the deepening crest between her breasts. When his eyes
moved back to her face he found her looking directly at him.
     "Eye contact," he said, moving closer. "When strangers
meet, eye contact is frequently broken. We've been taught here
to look everyone in the eye, that eye contact is important. Ac-
tually a woman's direct look makes many men uneasy."
     She nodded, then slowly stepped even closer until her breasts
pushed against his cotton Rugby shirt. He let the Academy's
administrative secretary linger there for a moment, then reached
out, grasped her shoulders and pushed her away a few inches.
     "Remember the social bubble, too," he said with a smile.
"Americans need their space. Encroachment on a person's
bubble, even by a beautiful woman, turns even the most desir-
able woman into an intruder."
     "Do you find me desirable, Kenneth?"
     He pretended to be exasperated. "Try it again," he
prompted.
     She nodded, looked up, smiled and said, "Hi, my name is
Janet.                                                          f
     "Pretty good. But try contracting 'name' and 'is.' Ameri-
cans love contractions. They slur everything together. 'Hi, my
name's Janet.'
     She nodded, took a deep breath. "Hi, my name's Janet,"
and punctuated it by invading his bubble again.
     " Perfect," he said, and let his eyes deliberately roam her
body once again. She raised her lips, and their little lesson was
abruptly postponed.
     She was very well trained. She started slowly, agonizingly
so. Undressing was part of the foreplay. She was controlling
him, moving slowly when she felt him hurry, speeding up when

she felt him grow impatient. She knew when and where to
touch him, what to say or do to build their sexual energy in
perfect synchronization.
     Soon it became too much to control and they released their
pent-up energy. She climaxed first, the way she had been
taught, giving him one last volt to heighten his own climax.
She used her muscles to draw every drop from him, then re-
leased him moments later-she had been taught that most
American men would not remain inside a woman after sex,
sometimes refusing even to lie beside them. But this student,
however well trained, was not that American . . . He stayed
inside her for several minutes, then let her lie on top of him so
he could nuzzle her neck and breasts and feel her warmth all
around him. She gently rolled beside him, propped up her head
so she could look into his eyes as he traced his fingers around
her body.
     She too had once been a student at the Connecticut Acad-
emy, but her training was in a far different field than his. She
had readily accepted her courtesan training and had been se-
lected for "graduation," but instead opted to stay at the Acad-
emy as an administrator. Seducing the young students was her
chief source of excitement now, her satisfaction coming less
from the erotic than from pleasure in displaying her exceptional
skills.
     She especially enjoyed displaying her skills with this young
student-control name "Ken James," born Andrei Ivanschi-
chin Maraklov of Leningrad, the son of a Party bureaucrat and
a hospital administrator, the top student at the top-secret Con-
necticut Academy in the Mountainside city of Novorossijsk on
the Black Sea, where young Soviet men and women were
trained to be KGB deep-cover agents.
     The Connecticut Academy was a most unusual high school,
and it attracted the USSR's most unusual men and women.
Most of the students were trained at a very early age for the
intelligence field, learning foreign languages and customs of

dozens of nations. Both male and female students, like "Janet
Larson," were trained as courtesans and used for sexual es-
pionage activities. Others were trained in demolition or assas-
sination or other forms of terrorism. And still others, like
"Kenneth James," born Maraklov, were part of a whole new
area of espionage.
     Selected individuals in various countries were targeted by
the KGB because of their socioeconomic status and opportu-
nity for growth and importance. These individuals-sons and
daughters of politicians, businessmen, corporate presidents-
would be carefully studied at an early age, once identified as
being groomed for a particular position or put into the pipeline
for a given career or special responsibility. Their habits, social




10                        DALE BROWN
life and personality were examined. Were they responsible,
stable individuals, or did they squander time and money on,
say, drugs and partying? If they were especially promising in-
dividuals, apparently destined for greatness, phase two of the
project was invoked.
     A young Russian closely matching the target's general phys-
ical and mental attributes would be trained in the same fields
as the subject individual. Along with being taught the target's
native language, the student would also learn everything os-
p
sible to help blend himself into the social fabric as well as the
personality of the target. After years of study and training, the
student would be a virtual clone of the target.
     Next, at an opportune time, the clone would be inserte d to
replace the target. He would assume all of the target's activi-
ties, history, future. Of course it w as not possible precisely to
duplicate the subject's every mood or segment of his person-
ality, so the clones were trained to fit in, to adapt, to take
control of their situations. If they did not perfectly match, they
were to change the environment around themselves. The cl one
would, it was hoped, create the new norm and thereby achieve
a more viable match-up.
     After a suitable waiting period to allow the new mole to
acclimate himself with his new surroundings, he would b e di-
rected by Moscow headquarters to begin collecting informa-
tion, to maneuver closer to the seat of power in government or
industry, to influence events in favor of the Soviet Union or it
allies. In an emergency the mole could be used to assist o ther
agents, collect or borrow funds, even carry out search-and-
destroy missions or assassinations. Unlike informers, traitors,
bribery victims or embassy employees, these "native citizens"
were always to be immune to suspicion. They could pass the
most exhaustive background investigation-fingerprints, if nec-
essary, even surgically matched.
     
Perhaps only a handful of these super-moles could be turned
loose in a year. The training was exhaustive and exhausti
ng;
many Soviet students, even though they learned English well
and knew a good deal of "American," could not sufficiently
adapt themselves to the very strange American culture and be
a reliable espionage agent as well. And even with the appar-
ently perfect student, there was no way of knowing what would
happen to the intended target. Targets were selected for their
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           1 1
accessibility as well as their potential value, but over the years
there was no way to guarantee a useful match. Goals changed,
opportunities came and went, minds changed, paths crossed.
An individual who was perceived as the next President of the
United States could turn out to be a corrupt congressman; a
candidate-target discarded from consideration could turn out to
be a future Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
     The target Ken James-the American Ken James-would
never have been considered only a few short years earlier: He
was the son of a psychotic Vietnam veteran; he grew up in a
fragmented childhood punctuated by a devastating family di-
saster; the family was split apart. The boy himself was a loner,
unpopular and remote, anti-social.
     But things changed. The loner turned out to be a boy genius.
The father disappeared from sight and was presumed dead. The
mother married a wealthy multinational corporate president,
and both the stepfather and mother were candidates for politi-
cal office by election or appointment. The obscure boy was
suddenly a prime candidate for "cloning." Still a loner, vir-
tually ignored by his jet-setting parents, he was nonetheless
being educated and groomed for a public life in government-
.  . A perfect target.
                   service
     And they found a boy in the Soviet Union equal to the chal-
lenge of a match-up . . . and ultimate substitution. Andrei

Ivanschichin Maraklov had a unique combination of writer's
imagination and a savant's intelligence-the stuff to qualify him
as Ken James' intellectual and emotional twin . . .
     Janet Larson smiled as she noted the faraway expression in
'his eyes and propped herself up again on one elbow so she
could watch him. "Where are you now, Kenneth?"
     He smiled at the question. It was a game they played when
they were together. As an administrative assistant to the head-
master, Janet Larson knew all about Ken James-why he was
there, what was expected of him after "graduation." But some
students, the special ones like Maraklov/James, gave the nuts
and bolts of their alter egos a considerable amount of spice and
feeling. It was forbidden for the students to talk of their "lives"
with any other student, but not so with her, and especially not
so with her and student Kenneth James . . .
     "I'm on my way to Hawaii," he said. "One last fling before
college. My mom and stepdad are in Europe on business. They





12                       DALE BROWN
gave me a Hawaiian vacation as a graduation present. I grad-
uated last week, remember?"
   "How were your grades?"
   "Straight A's, but it was an easy semester. I planned it that     i
way. I could have graduated and gone on to college after my
junior year-doubled up on a few classes in the summer-but
I was told by my stepdad that a guy shouldn't miss out on his
senior year in high school, that it has too many memories.
That's a crock. Anyway, I cruised through the year."
   "And what about your senior-year memories? Were they
worth delaying college?"
   "I guess so, " he said as he ran his hand up and down her
back and she saw that smile slowly spread across his face. It
was as if he was actually reliving those experiences . . .
   "I was quite an athlete the whole year," he went on. "Soc-
cer in the fall, basketball, baseball in the spring-I already had
all my credits for graduation and I had two gym periods every
day so I could devote full time to all of them. It was fantastic. "
   Janet had trouble following--gyrn" and "soccer" were
foreign words to her. Not, of course, baseball. The way he told
his story was eerie, as if he was relating some sort of mysticar
out-of-body experience.
   "That was all you did? Sports?"
   "No, I had lots of dates. I went out every Friday and Sat
urday night. My mom and Frank-that's my stepdad-were                 i
home only one week out of five, so I had the run of the place.
Except for the maid, of course."
   "Tell me about your dates, Kenneth."
   Again, that smile. "I saw Cathy Sawyer the most. We've
been going out almost all year. Nothing special . . . a movie,
dinner once in a while. I helped her with her homework, she
can't seem to pick up calculus no matter how hard I try to
explain it to her."
   
Listening to him, watching him, it was like hearing someone       i
not just talk about but actually live another life in front of you.
They had done a complete job, it seemed, on Andrei Maraklov.
Now he was Kenneth James. "Were you ever passionate with
her, Kenneth?
   Suddenly his eyes grew dark. "Ken?"
     "She doesn't want me that way." His voice had been deep,
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           13
harsh. She touched his shoulder-his body seemed to have
turned to ice.
          She doesn't want me," he repeated in a dead-sounding
voice. "No one does. My dad's an alcoholic schizoid. People
think some genetic germ is going to rub off from me onto them
if I get too close. Everyone thinks I'll whack out on them just
like my dad whacked out on his family."
     Whack out? More mumbo-jumbo. "Ken .
     "All they want is my brains and my money." His body was
now as hard, as tense as his voice, his eyes were hot.  " 'Help
me with my homework, Ken'               'Help us with the fund-
raiser, James'        'Come out for the team, Ken'             Ask,
ask, ask. But when I want something, they all run away."
"It's only because you are better than they are, Kenneth--
"Who cares about that?" It was like a cry. She gasped at
the anger in his face. "When am I going to get what I want?
When am I ever going to feel accepted by them . '. . ?" He
took hold of her right hand and squeezed hard. "Huh? When?"
     He tossed her hand aside and rolled up out of bed. She gath-
ered a sheet around her and slid out on the -other side.
          I was glad when they asked me to be valedictorian
because then I could turn them down. What's the difference?
My mom was going to be in New Zealand or some other place,
something too important to cancel even for her only surviving
son's high school graduation-and my dad's dead or in a gutter
somewhere . . . Nobody that I cared about was going to hear
my speech, so I arranged to have my Regents diploma mailed

to me. When I told my mom, instead of being angry, she sent
me first-class plane tickets to Oahu and five thousand bucks. I
got the hell out of that school as fast as I could."
     Janet sat on the edge of the bed, carefully watching this Ken
James as he told his story. There was something frightening in
him. It was so weird listening to him tell that story, not his
and yet entirely his, and the way he slid into the first-person
present tense . . . All of the students at the Connecticut Acad-
emy studied their alter egos, but in her memory Andrei was
the only one in the Academy who actually seemed to live his
alter ego, experiencing everything he did, every hurt, every
triumph, every sadness. And Maraklov's eyes, they were scary
but held Janet-bom Katrina Litkovka, the daughter of a Red
Army colonel-so that she didn't want him to stop.




14   DALE BROWN
     "What about college?" she asked.
     "I've been accepted at a dozen schools," he replied in per-
fect mid-Atlantic American English. "I haven't made up MY
mind. I was even considering skipping a semester, getting away
from it all. I've even thought about enlisting in the Marine
Corps. I told that to my stepdad once. He said it might look
good on a r6sumd if I want to run for a congressional seat
someday. I've never forgotten that."
     Janet still had a bit of trouble keeping up with his fluent
English-years earlier she had been schooled in English as
much as he but had lost much of her skill out of disuse. Still,
she understood enough to be amazed-the clarity, the realism,
the precise detail of his story ... The Academy rarely if ever
managed to teach their students to his degree of authenticity.
     He stood, his back toward her. She eyed his tall, youthful,
athletic frame-broad shoulders, thin waist, tight buttocks.
     It seemed Andrei Maraklov had so totally immersed himself
in the life of Kenneth Francis James that he had assumed his
emotional identity as well as his documented public one. How
else could Andrei reel off intimate, secretive aspects of hi S-
James'-life so naturally? Of one thing she had no doubt: this
man could easily beat the best interrogators, polygraphs, hyp-
nosis or even drugs.
     Andrei Maraklov is Kenneth James . . .
     "But now I'm on my way to Hawaii," James/Maraklov con-
tinued. "I'm going to take it easy, maybe raise some hell,
maybe do some painting, I don't know .
     He turned toward the bed once again, but she was too caught
up in his eerie transformation to think about having sex with
hirn again. Actually, he frightened her . . . he was a stranger.
Uncharacteristically, she clutched the sheet tight to her breasts.
     "Cathy Sawyer gets wet every time she sees me," he said, a
slight smile on his lips. "I know it. But when we're alone she
won't touch me." He moved toward her, and she flinched.
     
The smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed. "All right, damn
you, you're like everyone else."
     She had pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around
herself. He seemed to be frozen in place, his powerful chest
rising and falling. As she tried to step around him, he quickly
reached out and grabbed her arm.
     "Kenneth-"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           is
     "No, I'm not leaving and neither are you. Not yet." He
grasped her forearms with two powerful hands. The sheet fell
away from her breasts. He pulled her forearms up and toward
him, drawing her toward him so that she was barely touching
the floor. "I'm going to show you what I did to that bitch Cathy
Sawyer the night before I left. She never showed up for grad-
uation, did I tell you that? They thought we ran off together,
but we didn't. Poor Cathy ... I wonder what happened to
her .
     He is going to kill me, Janet thought. He's crazy, he's going
to ...
     Abruptly the terrifying grin was replaced by a broad, pleas-
ant smile. His body relaxed and he let her drop back onto tier
feet, then planted a playful kiss on her nose.
                  "Gotcha."
     "What?" Her voice high, edged with fear. "What do you
think you are doing?" She said it in Russian.
     "Uh oh, remember, lover, English only is spoken at this
academy .
          III thought . . . I thought you .
     were crazy," he said. His smile was making her even
angrier. "I know what you're thinking. Every time we're to-
gether you want to hear my little stories about the American.
So I tell you what I think he's like, what he's going through,
what kind of life he lives."
          "You scared me to death. Why?"
"Because you wanted it. I was only doing what you-"

"You are crazy," she said, grabbed up her clothes and put
on her blouse and pants. "Get out of here."
     "Janet, wait . . . "
     "I don't want to see you again." She yanked open the front
door to her bedroom. "Now get dressed and get out."
     The smile stayed, but he obediently put on his jeans and
sweatshirt, gathering his underwear and shoes in his'arms. But
just before he left her apartment he turned to her.
     "You'll miss me," he said. "The sex you can get from any
of the others. But you need the excitement of living with a real
American. It's your high. It's the worst transgression for a fe-
male KGB operative. You love it."
     "Andrei lvanschichin Maraklov--
     "My name is Kenneth James."




16                       DALE BROWN
     "You will not be allowed to leave the Academy. You Will
never see America except in your own mind. That I prom-
ise-"
    His smile disappeared, but she couldn't stop.                I
    ." will make recommendations to Mr. Roberts that you never  I
be
    allowed to graduate. You could compromise the whole op-
eration. "
     It pleased her to see the panic in his face that had now re-
placed his smug expression. "What are you going to tell them,
Janet? That while we've been screwing each other I somehow
scared you and you think I'm crazy? You've no credibility. A
thirty-year-old ex-whore having sex with a seventeen-year-old
high school student. You'll make a very reliable witness." He
stepped toward her, his expression softening. "You'll drag
yourself down as well as me. Don't do it. I promise I won't
scare you again. Janet .
     She pushed him away. "I don't need credibility. I can de-
stroy you without anyone ever knowing it was me. A notation
here and there, a rumor, a changed grade or a negative entry
on your progress charts. You will be on your way to a border
post before you know it. Now once more, get out."
     "Don't do it," he was still saying as the door slammed in
his face. "You'll be sorry if you do .
His morning regimen had been the same for the past five years.
Wakeup at five A., calisthenics and a morning three-mile
jog, breakfast by six-thirty. The Academy even taught students
to enjoy the typical American breakfast dishes while at the
same time giving them healthier, more substantial foods.
     Classes began at eight. Usually there was a bit of time before
the morning class-today's was on the stock market and Amer-
ican economics-so James spent his time reviewing the latest
intelligence on his "target--the real Ken James.
     How could anyone with so much going for him act the way

James had? Maraklov asked himself. The report said James
was going to ace every course he was enrolled in in his final
semester of high school, including several advance-placement
college-level courses. At the same time a police blotter report
noted that James had been caught with a bag of marijuana. He
was not charged with a crime, only reprimanded-his stepfa-
ther carried a good deal of influence in the small town where
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            17'
he lived. But James had risked his whole career on a one-ounce
bag of dried grass. Stupid.
     No pictures were included in the latest intelligence, but pre-
vious photographs showed a tall, handsome youth shopping in
fancy stores, driving expensive cars, going to parties, every
weekend. He had seemed like a normal well-adjusted teenager.
Maraklov knew, of course, about James' unfortunate past, but
that was ancient history. Surely that ugly episode was long
forgotten? Maraklov sat back now and thought about what it
was like to be Ken James
     I have everything I ever wanted. Brains, money, things. What
am I missing? What else do I want? Why did I need to smoke
marijuana and get in trouble with the cops? I have a good
family, minus a brother-my natural father killed him in a
drunken rage. I don't have a father, a real father-he's either
dead or in a mental institution. I haven't seen my mom in
months-the only grown-ups around are the housekeeper, the
gardener once a week, and the occasional relatives of my step-
father who show up and say it's okay for them to borrow the
Jag or bring their mistresses in for a nooner. "Nooner"
Janet would have trouble with that Americanism ...
     The big house is lonely at night. My "'friends" stop by once
in a while, but they study pretty hard, and I'm not exactly
popular ... There are alarms 0 over the place-I have to be
careful to shut them off even when I just want to get some fresh
air or take a dip in the pool. Cathy Sawyer doesn't come by
much anymore. I wonder where she is-?
     
A call on the room's intercom interrupted: "Mr. James, re-
port to the headmaster's office immediately."
     As he headed toward Roberts' office he thought of Janet
Larson. Damn her. She had really done it, had blown the whis-
tle on him. She would pay for this, he told himself as he
straightened his tie. She would pay ...
     But Janet Larson was just as surprised, and just as fearful to
see him, as she walked into Roberts' outer office. They ex-
changed no words, only anxious glances as he knocked on the
headmaster's door. He was ushered in by Roberts himself and
left standing in the middle of the office.
     "The question about whether or not you will ever graduate
has been made for us, it seems," Roberts began. He motioned
to a message form. "A report from our agents in place in




18                       DALE BROWN
Washington. It seems your Mr. Kenneth Francis James has de-
cided on a college."
     Maraklov smiled. Washington, D. That must mean
Georgetown. Ken James has decided on-
     He surprised everyone," Roberts went on. "We did not
even know he had applied for the Air Force Academy."
          Maraklov was stunned. "The Air Force Academy?"
     He received a senatorial sponsorship last winter, obviously
from his stepfather's connections," Ro erts went on.            were
fortunate-we learned he had cut his scheduled vacation in Ha-
waii short by two months, and one of our operatives did some
checking to find out why. He is supposed to begin summer
orientation training in six weeks."
     Maraklov's mind was beginning to catch up. "My father,"
he mumbled, then looked at Roberts. "I mean his father is
. . .was . . . a highly decorated veteran of the Vietnam war.
Even without political connections he could have received
sponsorship as the son of a combat veteran. There could be a
sympathy factor too. I should have known. The possibility of
a military academy placement was always there .
     "Whatever, this changes our plans for your graduation, Ken-
neth James." He was testing as he said it.
     "Sir?"
     "Your counterpart-target is about to enter the Air Force
Academy. We cannot risk putting an agent into the Air Force
Academy. He has a pilot-training appointment. He will be in
the United States Air Force for four years-"
     Eight years, sir," Maraklov corrected him, eyes bright with
anticipation. "Pilot candidates must serve eight years after UPIT
graduation . . . "
     "You have learned well, but that is not the point, Mr. James.
We have never placed a deep agent in the American air force's             t
cadre. He would have little chance of surviving the security

screening. It is very intense, especially for a pilot candidate.
They check every move from present day to birth, check his
parents, his relatives, his neighbors-"
     And Kenneth James will pass with flying colors," Maraklov
said excitedly.
     '.But the applicant for a security clearance initiates the pro-
cess with a detailed report on his background, relatives, ad-
dresses," Roberts said nervously. "You would have to supply
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            19
every detail of James' life from memory-you could not risk
being caught with a dossier on yourself. And the process is
repeated every five years while in the service. Could you do
that?
     "Of course, sir."
     Roberts hesitated, but only for a moment. If any other stu-
dent had made that confident a reply he would have dismissed
it as bravado. But not Maraklov. The boy knew his counterpart
so well .     it was almost frightening. Beyond any of the other
student-target linkages.
     "You will need plastic surgery," Roberts said. "And if the
scars and bruising from surgery do not heal in time, you will
be discovered."
     "I assume James will be in Hawaii until July," Maraklov
said. "The summer orientation course starts in mid-July, as I
recall. That gives us five weeks before we need to intercept
James. Five weeks is time enough for my scars to heal. And
the surgery would not need to be extensive, sir. My . . . his
parents won't be visiting very often. And plebes are not al-
lowed visitors until Thanksgiving. By then his appearance will
have changed enough to explain any minor differences-" his
voice dropped, sounding depressed--if my parents notice at
all.
     Roberts scarcely noticed James' changing moods, his jux-
taposing of himself and the real Kenneth James, the angry dis-
tant look. But he was too busy marveling at Maraklov's

xtensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of infor-
e
                   mation.
     "This will have to be approved by Moscow," Roberts said,
sounding as excited as Maraklov had earlier. "But we have a
chance to do it . . . And if we do, it will be the espionage coup
of the century-"
     "Yes, sir," James agreed, though he was not thinking about
espionage coups, or success or failure.
     He was thinking, I will be . . . complete. Yes, that was the
word. For the first time in my life, I will have a chance to
become a complete person. Thanks to Ken James . . .




20                      DALE BROWN
Wednesday, I July 1985, 2103 EET
It was late that evening. As usual Katrina Litkovka, known as
Janet Larson, was finishing a stack of paperwork, clearing her
desk and preparing the Academy administrator's morning busi-
ness. She heard the outer office door open. Before she could
look up from her desk, Maraklov was in her office and had
slammed the door behind him.
     Katrina knew it was Maraklov, but it still took a moment for
the shock to wear off-after all, it had only been a few weeks
since Andrei Maraklov had had his new face. This new one
was thinner, with a higher forehead and a stronger, squarer
jaw. The quality of the plastic surgery was excellent-the scars
were nearly invisible and the bruising had all but subsided.
This Ken James could be considered very handsome-except
right now what she felt was a stab of fear. Maraklov, if rec-
ognizable, was also much more a stranger now, unpredictable
as any other intruder.
     She forced down the anxiety she felt and managed an au-
                              "You are not to be here after
thoritative edge in her voice .
hours, Mr. James."
     Maraklov did not say a word but quickly scanned Litkovka's
desk. His attention settled on a memo paper still in her type-
writer. Before she could react he had yanked the paper out of
the platen and read it, his face darkening with every word.
"So," he said in a low voice, "you are going to try to block
my mission to the United States." y psychologist," she
     "It is a report from the Academ                             said.
"It has nothing to do with me-"
     "He's another one you sleep with."
     "You should know about that." Litkovka stood up and
snatched the paper out of his fingers. "He, not I, says he is
uncertain about your emotional stability. He thinks you may
not be prepared to enter the Air Force Academy. It is my duty

to make sure that Mr. Roberts knows about the doctor's opin-
ion-"
     "Don't do this to me," Maraklov said. "I'm the perfect
candidate for this operation. I am prepared. I've prepared for
years. I know exactly what I'm doing-"
     "Spoken like a schizophrenic bordering on psychotic," she
s aid with a smile. "If you 'graduate' and compromise us,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           21
all our careers are in jeopardy. I must not allow that to hap-
pen-"
     Maraklov slapped his hands on the desktop, then visibly
fought to relax, put on a hint of a smile, and reached inside
his jacket. Her eyes widened with fear, but what he pulled out
was a small half-liter bottle of amber liquid.
     "This is for you, Janet," Maraklov said. "I know it's your
favorite." He set the bottle down and she read the label.
     "Scotch whiskey?" she said in a surprised voice. "Where
did you get Scotch whiskey?"
     "Never mind, Janet. It's yours. Please take it."
     "But that is contraband, Andrei--
     "My name is Ken James .
     He really did seem beyond the edge, although that identifi-
cation with his subject-target was what he had been trained to
achieve. Still, wasn't his extreme, so much so he might lose
control and endanger his mission? Her personal anger over his
treatment of her helped the rationalization, if that's what it
was.
     "Having that in your possession is a serious offense. I sug-
gest you get out of my office and get rid of it immediately or
I will be obliged to call the headmaster-"
     "No, don't do that. Please-- his tone was abruptly sub-
dued-"I'm going .
     He picked up the bottle, stuck it back into his coat pocket
and left without another word.
     True, Litkovka had used her well-honed talents to get the

school psychologist to write a perhaps more damaging psycho-
logical report on Maraklov than otherwise. But it was only a
matter of degree, she assured herself. Without question, Mar-
aklov would do anything to go to the United States-his mo-
tives were personal as well as patriotic. Why this was so she
didn't know. She did know that Andrei Maraklov could be a
dangerous man. Well, he had accepted the situation, finally.
At least it seemed so . . .
     She stayed until ten o'clock that evening-curfew for all stu-
dents was ten P. and bed-check was shortly thereafter, so
she would be safe from Maraklov just in case he tried to do
something crazy when she left the office. She gathered up the
papers on Maraklov and locked them in her briefcase-if Mar-
aklov got his hands on a bottle of Scotch whiskey, he could




22                        DAIE BROWN
easily get his hands on this report if she left it in the office-
and headed for her car in the parking lot.
   She found herself checking around outside her car, checking
the back seat and trunk until a passing security patrol saw her.
She had to smile. "You are acting very strange, Katrina. Go
home and get some rest and put Maraklov out of your mind."
   Minutes later she was outside the front gate of the Academy
heading down the two-lane chickenseed road toward the main           I
highway. After turning onto the wide, two-lane asphalt high-         I
way, she switched her headlights to high-beam and roared east-
bound to her apartment complex a few kilometers from the
Academy. The road was curvy in places but it was wide and
fast and she kept the speed up to a hundred kilometers an hour.
   She was rounding a gentle right-hand curve when suddenly
a figure appeared in the glare of her headlights, right in front
of her car. Litkovka jerked the wheel to the left and tromped
on the brakes. Her Zil automobile skidded in a half-circle across
the road and into the ditch on the other side. Litkovka was
weanng a seatbelt but no shoulder harness, and her head hit
hard against the steering wheel, then against the closed driver's
side window as the car sank several inches into the muddy
ditch.
   She was still semiconscious, dazed by the impact, when the
passenger-side door opened. She raised her head and squinted
against the sudden glare of the interior light and saw a man         I
dressed in a heavy coat and gloves. The interior light went out.
   "Help me, please. Pamaghetye . . . "                              I
   Her head was yanked backward by her hair. Before she could
take a breath a strong liquid was poured down her throat. She
coughed, tried to spit it out. The liquid burned her throat, lungs,
nose. Then a powerful gloved hand covered her mouth and
nose, trapping the liquid inside her throat. She had no strength
to resist. Only to squirm for only a moment or so, then was
still.
   
The shadowy figure checked the body for any sign of life,
then dumped out the contents of Litkovka's briefcase on the
car floor. Using a small penlight, he checked each paper until
he found the one he was searching for. He stuffed it into his
pocket, dropped the bottle of whiskey on the seat beside Lit-
kovka and hurried off.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            23
Honolulu, Hawaii
Monday, 6 July 1985, 2017 PDT
Ken James was adjusting the collar on his Hawaiian flowered
shirt when he heard the knock on the door.
     "Housekeeping," a young woman's voice announced. "May
I turn your bed down, sir?"
     The hotel had some delicious-looking maids working there,
Ken had recalled, young Polynesians working their way through
college. This one sounded more promising than the matrons
that had been coming by lately. He was on his way out but
thought he might at least have a look. Who knew, once she
was off duty she might make his last night in Oahu very spe-
                    cial.
     "Come in," he said over his shoulder as he admired himself
in the mirror. He heard the door swing open-
     A hand clamped tight over his mouth and nose. When he
reached up and tried to pry his hands away from his face
he felt a sharp sting on his left shoulder. He swung hard as he
could, heard a muffled grunt, and then his head was snapped
down and sideways. A hand was around his throat and face.
The more he struggled to free himself, the weaker he became-
his muscles now refusing to work. The hands left his face, but
he had no more resistance. Feeling incredibly weak, he stum-
bled forward against the bureau, tried to balance himself and
fought the urge to collapse. Slowly he turned around . . .
     . . . Or did he turn? When he was able to focus his eyes, he
found himself looking at . . . himself ?
     And at the same time, Andrei Maraklov stared at the object,

the target of all his training for so many months-the real Ken-
neth Francis James.
     Close as the resemblance was, as Maraklov studied James
he noted that James' hair was thinner than his-James would
be bald in five years or less while he would have his full head
of hair. He was an inch taller than James and somewhat more
muscular. No doubt James' dissipation, his drinking and drug
taking accounted for the subtle differences that even the KGB
could fail to keep up with. Still, the overall impression was of
near look-alikes.
     Meanwhile, Ken James studied the face that was peering at
him. It could have been a twin but that was impossible. Some




24                      DALE BROWN
     sort of hallucination. God, he'd better lighten up on the booze
and grass. "Are you for real?" James asked, blinking th
                    rough
the growing haze that seemed to be fogging his senses.
  "Yes, real .
     James' eyes widened, and he reached out to the appa..
tion. Hallucination? No . . . a dream come true .          "Mat-
thew . . . Matthew?" James was reaching to touch the face.
"Matthew-"
     "No," Maraklov said. "Our brother is dead, remember?
Our father killed him."
     James blinked in surprise. So did the two KGB enforcers
that had come with Maraklov into James' hotel room. Marak-
lov's voice had a pleasant, intimate tone. And the reference to
our" father momentarily startled them, though they had been
briefed on this unusual young agent.
     James stared at Maraklov. "Then . . . who are you?"
     "I am you, Kenneth. I am Kenneth James. I've come to help
you.
     Through his rapidly dulling senses James clutched tighter to
Maraklov to keep from falling. Maraklov held him steady.
     "Give him here, tovarisch," one of the strong-arms mut-
tered. "We don't have all night-"
     "Shut up," Maraklov said. "And no Russian. These hotel
walls are paper thin."
     "Sorry," the other said. He had wheeled a large white can-
vas laundry cart into the room. "Drop him in here and-'
          "I said be quiet. I'll turn him over when I'm ready."
     James had been taking in the exchange among the three Rus-
sians. When Maraklov turned back toward him he asked what
was going on, what were they going to do with him . . .
     Maraklov opened his mouth to invent an easy lie for the half-
dead alter ego standing before him but could not. This Amer-
ican, whom he had only known for a few minutes, was also

someone it seemed he had known all his life . . . and the clos-
est any human being had been to him since he left his home
for the Connecticut Academy eight years earlier. He forced his
voice to sound firm, reassuring. "Don't worry, everything Is
going to be okay. You don't have to worry about dad, or mom,
or Matthew, or about Cathy or about school . . . I'm going to
take care of everything, Ken. Everything will be fine. I'm strong
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          25
     and smart, I'll take care of our problems. Don't worry. You
just go with these guys and forget about everything."
     James seemed to nod, even smile a bit. Andrei eased him
over and handed him to the first man.
          "Hey . . . hey . . . Who are you?"
     Andrei smiled benevolently, brotherly. "I am you, Ken. I
told you that. I'm you and I can take care of everything. You
just go on now .
     James was slipping away fast but still had residual instinct
to resist. He turned to Maraklov. "Ken .
     Maraklov was nearly mesmerized by the sound of that name,
hearing for the first time an American-the American-call him
by the name the KGB had assigned him three years ago.
     "Yes . . . what?
     "You love father, don't you9
     The two enforcers were puzzled by this exchange, but Mar-
aklov ignored them. They no longer existed. It was just the two
. . . brothers. They wouldn't understand.
     What could he say to ease things for this man . . . ? Kenneth
James, Sr., was, he had learned, a stressed-out war veteran
who had taken out his frustrations and failures in civilian life
on his family. He had killed Matthew, the younger son, on one
of his drunken sprees. How could a son forgive the man? But
apparently Ken James, Jr., could. Or wanted to.
     "Sure, Ken," Maraklov said quietly. "Sure I do. He was
our,father, a war hero, he wasn't . . . responsible.
     But Maraklov's words seemed to make things worse. Some-

thing in James' face, misery and terror in his eyes           "He
wasn't responsible-" Maraklov repeated, and James' body
actually began to tremble and he shook his head.  "No . . . I
did it . . . I- "
     Maraklov stared at James, finally understanding what the
American was saying.
     "I didn't mean to do it." James was crying now. Maraklov
motioned to one of the men with him to lay the boy down on
the bed. "I didn't hate him, I didn't really hate him. But damn
it, Matthew was making father spend all his time with him.
Not like it used to be when we were together so much. I felt
all alone and it was Matthew's fault
     Left alone . . . Maraklov knew something about that . . .
"You shot Matthew . . . ?
M




26                       DALE BROWN
                              DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           27
"An accident, I was just going to scare him. I got father's
gun and went and told Matthew to stop it and ... the gun "James," Maraklov said as if by rote. "The name is Ken
                  James. "
went off ... "Whatever your damned name is, sir, get undressed and put
     :'Go on, Ken."
'Father saw me and he saw Matthew and he told me not to
worry, just like you now"         his eyelids were beginning to
close . . . "he called the police and an ambulance and they
took him away. I saw him just once when he got out of the
hospital. He made me promise never to tell, it would be our
secret . . . I hated mother for marrying Frank, I hate her,
and Frank, hate myself too. But don't hate father. You under-
stand ... ?"
     Maraklov tried to put it together, to readjust. Ken had killed
his brother. To protect his son, his father had taken the blame
for the shooting. There was no drunken rampage like Ken's
mother had said. His father had endured years in a mental
institution to save his son. No wonder he went crazy.
     And now another thought forced itself on him. He bent down
to James. "Kenneth?"
     The American opened his eyes.
:'Cathy. Cathy Sawyer. Where is she?"
'Gone.
     Footsteps could be heard outside the hotel door. One of the
KGB agents grabbed Maraklov's shoulder. "Stop this, let's get
out of here."
Maraklov shrugged off the hand and bent closer to James.
     "Answer me. Where? Where is she?"
     "She never loved me, said she never wanted to see me again.
Even laughed at me when I said I loved her           He stopped,
reached up as though to touch Maraklov's face, the face so like

his own, just a fraction of an inch from the freshly healed
plastic-surgery scars. "Thank you . . ." The hand dropped,
the haunted eyes closed for the last time.
     -Took longer than it should have," mumbled one of the
agents, then nudged Maraklov out of the way and began to
strip off James' jewelry and clothes.
     "He killed his brother . . . and his girlfriend," Maraklov
said half-aloud, trying to absorb it, and understood the per-
sonal impact of it. He rubbed his eyes, his temples.
     "Get undressed, Maraklov .
these clothes on." In less than a minute they had tossed James'
clothes to him and were busy putting his clothes on the corpse.
     Maraklov looked at James' clothes, shook his head. "I can't
wear these-" Maraklov gasped.
          "We don't have time for-"
     "I said, I can't." Not yet, anyway. Not until he had exor-
cised, or taken as his own the images that assaulted him ...
Matthew, from the only photograph acquired by the KGB weeks
before his death-happy and laughing ... Kenneth hefting the
big Colt .45 caliber pistol-he could almost feel the weight of
it, with a grip almost too big for his fingers to wrap around, a
hammer almost but not quite too tight to cock, could feel the
recoil, feel the weapon hot and alive, hear the blast drowning
out his younger broth er Matthew's cry of pain . . . then his
father's face, the sorrow, the compassion in it-and he could
see himself begging for forgiveness, for understanding. And
his father had given it all to him. He had sacrificed his life for
him.
     Maraklov struggled for control. Only a few weeks ago it had
been, he thought, a game he played with Janet Larson, some-
thing that always seemed to excite her. Make up stories about
Kenneth James. The juicier, the better. She wanted to know if
James had a lot of women, if he masturbated, if he liked older
women. Maraklov always had a new story for her. Including
the one about his target Ken James killing his girlfriend Cathy

Sawyer. He thought he had just made it up, embroidered what
the KGB report told him. But now .     h
                s                      e had thought he had
an overwhelming reaso n to kill Janet  Larson, and he had been
right. Only it was not just the logical one-to do away with a
threat to his mission in America. Somehow he had been du-
plicating what Ken James had done to Cathy Sawyer. Andrei
Maraklov had become more complete with his target than he
could have imagined. Cathy Sawyer had died twice-once in
America, and once at the Academy in the Soviet Union . . .
     He tried to clear his head, looked for the two agents who
had come with him.
     They were gone. So was the body of Kenneth James. He
went to the door, opened it, looked outside. Nothing:




28                      DALE BROWN
     And then he heard: "What a great hotel." A female voice.
"Free peep shows." He turned and saw three college-age
women clustered around the elevator. Only then did he realize
he was standing in the hallway wearing only a pair of briefs.
:'Prastiti ... uh, sorry ... "
     'Don't be, sugar," one of them said, straining for a better
look as Maraklov ducked back into his room. "It looks to me
like you got nothin' to be sorry for. " '
     He must get hold of himself. After all the training, the con-
ditioning, the first word he uttered as Kenneth Francis James
to the first Americans he saw was a Russian word. He could
only hope they hadn't noticed. Probably not, but it was a warn-
ing to him .
     He collapsed onto the bed. On the bedspread were some
pieces of gold jewelry, a large, heavy Rolex watch, a wallet,
some bills in a silver money clip, the hotel key and assorted
papers and receipts. The two agents had taken James' clothing,
but an open suitcase sitting on a clothes valet in a corner had
plenty more.
     A drink. He needed one.'The room's tiny refrigerator was
empty except for an icetray with half a dozen cubes. He thought
about calling for room service but didn't want anyone inside
the room until he had triple-checked it for any evidence of a
struggle. The drink wouldn't wait.
     He selected a pair of slacks and a red polyester pullover shirt
from the suitcase, slipped on a pair of Nikes-they fit per-
fectly-slipped on the Rolex and gold chains, pocketed the
room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied him-
self in the mirror. The shirt was a bit tight across his chest,
and his thighs strained some against the pants legs. He could
detect the faintest evidence of plastic surgery scars. Never
mind. He had to get out of this room where Ken James had
died . . . and been reborn?
     He made his way downstairs to the hotel's Polynesian bar

and seated himself in an area where he could watch all the
exits and windows, just as he had been taught at the Connect-
icut Academy.
     "Good evening, Mr. James."
     Maraklov willed himself not to show what he felt. A wait-
ress in a tight sarong slit up each side nearly to her waist had
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          29
come up behind him and put down a cocktail napkin. "Hi,
there, Mr. James. Your usual?"
Maraklov nodded.
"I need to see your 1. D. again. Sorry."
     Identification! Slowly he withdrew the wallet, opened it and
held it up for the waitress.
     "Not that one, silly." She reached in behind the driver's
license in the front and pulled out an identical-looking lami-
nated card. "Thank you, Mr. James. Back in a flash."
     After she left Maraklov took a close look at the hidden card.
The birthdate had been cleverly changed. A fake I. Appar-
ently the hotel staff knew the routine-even better than the
"new" Ken James. A few moments later the waitress returned,
placing a huge frosted champagne glass on the napkin.
     Maraklov looked at her. "This is my usual?" Immediately
he regretted the words. A giveaway . . .
     "Not tonight, lover," the waitress said. She nodded over
toward the bar. "Champagnecocktails, compliments of those
ladies over there." He turned and saw the three women that
had seen him in the hallway at the elevator. They raised their
glasses toward him, smiling.
     "Well, Romeo," the waitress said. "What are you waiting
for? I I
     Slowly, carefully, Maraklov rose to his feet. To his surprise,
he found his legs and knees quite strong. Without thinking, he
reached into his wallet, extracted the first bill he touched and
handed it to the waitress as he picked up his cocktail. It was a
twenty dollar bill.
     
"Thank you, Mr. James," she said. "A real gentleman, as
always." She lowered her voice, moved toward him. "If those
waihilis don't do it all for you, Mr. James, why, you just leave
a message for me at the front desk. Mariana knows what you
want'
     Still feeling shaky inside, he made his way toward the bar,
smiling. Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov was about to experi-
ence his first night as an American named Kenneth James.
Now he was the real Ken James. The only one.




30                       DAIE BROWN
     McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas
August 1994
"Required SATCOM reports are as follows," Air Force Cap-
tain Ken James said. He motioned to a hand-lettered, expertly
rendered chart beside him but kept his eyes on his "audience"
and did not refer to it. "As soon as possible after launch we
transmit a sortie airborne report. If we launched on an execu-
tion message we transmit a strike-message confirmation re-
port." He pointed to a large map on another easel. That
depicted the strike routing of his B-IB Excalibur bomber as it
proceeded on its nuclear-attack mission.
     "After each air refueling we transmit an offload report, ad-
vising SAC of our aircraft status and capability to fulfill the
mission. On receipt of a valid execution message, if we weren't
launched with one, we would acknowledge that message as
well as any messages that terminated our sortie. After each
weapons release, if possible we, transmit a strike report that
gives SAC our best estimate of our success in destroying each
assigned target. The message also updates SAC on our progress
and advises them of any difficulties in proceeding with the mis-
sion. Of course, staying on time, on course and alert has pri-
ority over all SATCOM or HF message traffic. All strike
messages can wait until we climb out of the low-level portion
of the route and are on the way to our post-strike base. These
messages can also be delivered to other SAC personnel heading
stateside, to U. foreign offices, or to overseas military bases
capable of secure transmissions to SAC headquarters."
     He pointed further along the route. "Other messages will
include launch reports from the post-strike and each recovery
base: NUDET-nuclear detonation-position reports, GLASS
EYE combat damage reports, severe weather reports,
continental-defense-zone entry reports and sortie recovery and
regeneration reports.
     James lowered his pointer and stepped away from the charts.

"SIOP communications are extremely important, and the SAC
aircraft involved with the execution of our Single Integrated
Operations Plan are a front-line asset in keeping the Strategic
Air Command, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Corn-
mand Authority advised of the progress worldwide of any con-
flict. We feel we have the' world's most up-to-date and
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          31
surviva ble communications networks, but of course it's no good
unless each aircrewman uses it effectively." He looked around
the empty briefing room. "That concludes my annual Mission
Certification briefing, Colonel Adams. Any questions, Sir?"
     "Not bad, not bad-for a pilot," came a voice from the back
of the room. Kenneth frowned at the man who came in now
and began to pack up the briefing charts and diagrams.
     "Kiss my ass, Murphy," Ken said. "It was a perfect brief-
ing-even for a navigator."
     Captain Brian Murphy, James' offensive-systems officer on
his B-1 crew, had to admit it. "Yeah, it was, Ken. No doubt
about it. But why are you spending so much time on that
stuff? On an Emergency,War Order certification, briefing is
done by the radar nav or the defensive-systems operator. Not
by the pilots."
     "I heard Adams likes to hit his mission-ready crews with
little surprises," Ken said. "His favorite is mixing up the usual
briefing routines to make sure each guy on the crew is familiar
with the other guy's responsibilities. He likes to hit navs with
pilot questions, too-how well do you know your abort-decision
matrices? "
     Murphy shrugged. "I'll bone up on that stuff before the brief-
ing tomorrow. These briefings are bull anyway . . . Coming to
the Club with us for lunch?"
     "In a while, it's only eleven-thirty. I'll meet you there at
noon.
        "Man, you are so dedicated."
               "Knock it off."
     
"No, really, I mean it," James' crew navigator said.
"You're always studying. You know your stuff backwards and
forwards, and you know everyone else's too. If it's not EWO
communications procedures it's security or avionics or corn-
puters or target study. You got your hands in everything.
          "That's my job, Murph.
     "Well, at least you're getting some reward for it. Making
commander of a B- I Excalibur in less than two years was moon-
talk until you came along. They're saying you might make
flight commander in a few weeks. You're really burning up the
program.
     James slapped his pencil down on the table, smiled. "You're




32                        DALE BROVIN
buttering me up, man. Okay, okay, I'll buy lunch. Just let me
finish.
     "Hey, hotshot, can't you take a compliment? I know atta-
boys are rare around here, but I think you can still recognize
one. "
     James raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Thanks,
Murph, but I'm not doing anything special here. I do this stuff
because it's my job and because it really interests me, and
because my ass will be grass if I don't learn this communica-
tions staff by tomorrow morning."
     "Message received. I'm outta here." Murphy stood and
headed for the door, then stopped. "You're an Academy grad,
aren't you?"
     "Right.
     "Top of your class, from what I heard."
      ames looked at Murphy. "Get to the point, Murph."
     J. thought so, I just want to know why you chose B -Is
                                                       You
could have had your pick of any hot jet in the inventory, but
you picked B- Is."
     .'I liked them. I always did. They're big and sexy-just like
your wife . . . "
          "Asshole.
     ...  and I still have a stick and afterburners and Mach-one
speed like a fighter. I hated it when Carter canceled them. I
think they should build another hundred of them. At least. An-
swer your question?"
     Murphy nodded. "But you seem a little, I don't know, out
of place."
     "Out of place?" His stomach tightened as he looked closely
at his radar nav.
     "Yeah. Like B-Is are just a jumping-off place for you I
mean, you're not advertising it or anything, but somehow, Old
buddy, I get the feeling you're on your way somewhere. Care

to tell?
     Ken James forced himself to smile. This big Irishman was
hitting too close. "Just between you and me and the fence-
post?
     "Sure, man.
     "I did get an assignment, I think. When I filled out my last
dream sheet I was sort of .     well, daydreaming. Appropriate,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           33
huh? Anyway, I put down that I was interested in the High
'Technology Advanced Weapons Center--
     "HAWC! You got an assignment to Dreamland? I don't be-
lieve it! Do they actually give assignments there?"
     "I didn't think they did, either. Like I said, it was a long
shot. And I don't have any assignment yet. But I did get a
letter back from the deputy commander, a Brigadier General
Ormack. He sounded interested. It was sort of a don't-call-me-
I'll-call-you letter, but at least I got an answer back."
     "I don't believe it," Murphy said. "Dreamland. You real-
ize that all of the world's hottest jets and weapons in the past
thirty years went through there? Those guys fly planes and test
weapons out there that are years ahead of anything that exists
in the real world. And you're going to be assigned there-"
     "I said I don't have an assignment, Murph. So keep this
under your hat, okay? Besides, how do you know so much
about Dreamland?"
     "I don't know much of anything, except that anybody who
even accidentally overflies Dreamland gets sent to our version
of the old Gulag Archipelago. Every now and then you hear
about an ex-Los Angeles Center air-traffic controller telling
stories about Mach-six fighters or planes that fly vertically to
fifty thousand feet over Dreamland. It's got to be the assign-
ment of a lifetime."
     "Well, like I said, keep all this under your hat," James said.
. Now take off. I want to polish my briefing before we do our
dry runs this afternoon."
     
After Murphy left, James got up from his seat, went to the
door, locked it, put a chair in front of it. He returned to the
small pile of red-covered books and manuals on the desk
the front of the conference room and selected one marked:
"COMBAT CREW EMERGENCY WAR ORDER COMMUNICATIONS
PROCEDURES-TOP SECRET/NOFORN/SIOP/WIVNS." It was the
master document used by all the American strategic combat
forces all over the world-aircraft, submarines, intercontinen-
tal missile sites, and command posts-outlining every one of
their communication sources and methods, procedures, fre-
quencies, timing and locations of the nation's domestic and
overseas communications facilities. The hieroglyphics after the
title warned that the document was top secret, not releasable
to foreign nationals, pail of the Single Integrated Operations




34                       DALE BROVIN
Plan-the master plan on how the United States and its allies
would conduct "the next world war." This particular volume
was dated I October 1994, some two months from now, be-
cause it belonged to the new SIOP revision scheduled to take
place at that time. The procedures in that manual would be
used by all strategic forces for the next twelve months after-
ward.
     It made it convenient for him and the KGB, Ken thought, to
have to do these once-a-year briefings for the wing corn-
mander. The annual Mission Certification briefings were re-
quired by law. The wing commander of each SAC base with
nuclear missions had to certify to the Commander-in-Chief of
SAC, and he in turn to the President of the United States, that
each crewman knew precisely what his duties were in case the
SIOP was "implernented--a euphemism for the so-called un-
thinkable, the declaration of World War Three. Normally the
certification briefings were given once, when a crewman be-
came mission-ready. But the SIOP was revised each year, re-
flecting new rules, new tactics, and so every year each crewman
had to dig out the changed books, study them, then brief the
wing commander on the revised mission. The top-secret books
were trotted out for the certification, studied for a week, then
locked away, usually never to be seen again except for base-
wide exercises or inspections. The opportunities were rare to
have such free access to these manuals, and Ken had to work
fast.
     He opened the manual to section four, "ELF, LF, HF and
SATCOM SIOP Frequencies and Broadcast Schedules," and
ped the pages open with a couple of books. This section
prop
detailed all of the frequencies used by aircraft and submarines
to broadcast and receive coded messages from SAC and the
Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with what time of the day these
broadcasts would be made. Anyone knowing these frequencies

and times could jam or disrupt them, specific broadcasts could
be intercepted and decoded. The crew charts had stickers that
had only one frequency, but this book had all the frequencies
for the nuclear strike force of the United States.
     James unzipped a leg pocket of his flight suit and took out
what looked like a thick-barreled marking pen. Moving his
chair so his body would cast no shadows across the pages, he
twisted and pulled the cap, held the device a couple of feet
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           35
     r the pages, and pressed the pocket clip to activate the shut-
ove
                    ter.
     Murphy was close, James thought as he worked. He would
have liked to get assigned to F- I 5s or F- 16s, or the new F- 1 17
Stealth fighter unit, but he went where Moscow told him to go,
and that was where he could learn as much as possible about
the new B-I's nuclear-strike mission. Drearnland was the most
secret base in the country. B-I Excalibur bombers were fine,
but he would give anything to get his hands on the United
States newest fighters.
     Two minutes later Kenneth James had finished photograph-
ing the entire chapter and its accompanying appendices with
the tiny microdisk camera. He wrapped the device in a hand-
kerchief to help protect it, then zipped it safely away in his leg
pocket, out of sight so no one would be tempted to ask to
              borrow his "Pen."
     Satisfied, he packed up his charts and books and turned them
back to the vault custodian. He would put the camera in his
car outside the alert facility to prevent discovery during one of
the commander's frequent no-notice locker searches on the alert
pad, then deliver it to the prearranged drop point for his KGB
contact from St. Louis after he got off seven-day alert.
              Dreamland, Nevada
Monday, 3 December 1994, 0730 PDT (1020 EDT)
                                        stiff, uncomfortable

Ken James was strapped securely into a
                              chest bound by heavy leather
steel chair, wrists, ankles and
straps. His head was immobilized by a strong steel beam. The
room where he lay on the rack was dimly lit, buzzing with the
sound of power transformers and smelling of the ozone created
by electronic relays and microcircuits. Two men in Air Force
blue fatigues rechecked his bonds, making sure they were extra
tight; one of them adjusted a tiny spotlight directly onto James'
right eyeball, smiling as James tried to squint against the glare.
The sergeant knew there was nothing James could do to him.
     James had been sweating in the steel chair for nearly an
hour, the two technicians hovering over him, before another
man entered the room. Tall and lanky, he looked considerably
older than his mid-thirties, thanks to a bald head and a few




36                       DALE BROWN
stray shocks of gray hair that seemed to be haphazardly stuck
onto his skull. He spoke briefly with the techs, then walked
over to the rack and inspected the fitting and bonds. He stuck
his face close to James, smiled and said, "Now, Captain James,
I'll ask you once more-where were you on the afternoon of
August eleventh?"
     In fact, Ken James was photographing top-secret documents
in a vault at McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas. He rolled
his eyes in exasperation. "Very funny, Dr. Carmichael. Now
can we get on with this?"
     "Couldn't help it, Ken," Alan Carmichael, the white-coated
researcher, said. "Seeing you trussed up gives this place the
look of some futuristic interrogation chamber."
     Which was precisely what Maraklov was thinking himself.
He was wearing a heavy suit made of thick metallic fabric. The
suit had several thick cables and conduits sewed into it that ran
all through his arms, legs, feet, hands and neck. A raised metal
spine ran along his backbone from head to tail, so thick that a
channel had been cut into the chair to accommodate it. There
was a bit of cool circulating air flowing through tubules in the
suit, but it did little to relieve the oppressive heat and stuffi-
ness.
   "Have you been practicing your deep breathing exercises9
Carmichael asked.
   "Don't have a choice. I either breathe deep in this getup or
I suffocate. Are you ever going to tell me exactly what I'm
supposed to be doing?"
   "Try to relax and I'll tell." Carmichael adjusted the volume
of a small speaker next to a nearby oscilloscope-like device;      I
                                                                   I
the speaker began to chirp in a seemingly random pattern. Car-     I
michael motioned to one of twenty-five lines on the oscillo-
scope. "Your twenty-five cps beta readouts are still firing.
Relax, Ken. Don't try to force it or it won't come."
   
"14%at won't come?" Carmichael said nothing. Ken began
to take deeper breaths, trying to ignore the sweat trickling down
his back and the cramp in his right calf. After a few moments,
the chirping subsided. Progress?
   "Very good," Carmichael said. "Beta is down . . . your
Hertz waves are increasing. Good. Occipital alpha is increas-
ing. Good. Keep it up. " He turned and with the help of one
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           37
of the techs lifted a huge device off a carrying cart that he had
brought in with him.
     "What the hell is that?" James asked as the huge object was
lifted overhead. It was hexagonal, and two wide visors in the
front and cables leading to various parts of the suit and to
controls and boxes nearby.
     "Your new flight helmet," Carmichael said. "The final
component of the suit you're wearing. The project is progress-
ing so well, we've decided to proceed with a full-scale test."
     "Test of what . . . ?"
     "Wait." Carmichael slid the heavy helmet over Ken's head.
     "Watch the ears, damn it."
     "Watch your beta-you're pinging again." The helmet was
set into place and fastened to a heavy clavicle locking ring on
the metallic suit. The braces holding Ken's head in place took
some of the helmet's weight, but his shoulders were aching
after only a few moments.
     A microphone clicked on, and through a set of headphones
in the helmet came: "How do you hear me, Ken?"
          "I think you broke my left ear off."
     "You'll live. Try to relax and I'll explain." Carmichael's
voice dropped into the familiar deep, even monotone that he
had used weeks earlier during several days of screening: in
fact, Carmichael was hypnotizing him, not with a shiny watch
on a chain, but with his voice only. James' susceptibility to
hypnotic suggestion had made him an especially good candi-
date for this secret project.
     
"As you know, we've been working here at Dreamland with
several projects. We call them all together 'supercockpit'-
designing an aircraft workspace that allows the pilot to perform
better in a high-speed, high-density combat environment. You
and several other pilots were working with Cbeetah, the F-15
advanced technology fighter demonstrator; that's the state of
the art, and her systems will be incorporated in the Air Force's
new fighter in the next few years. Cheetah makes extensive
use of multi-function computer screens, voice-recognition and
artificial intelligence, as well as high-maneuverability technol-
ogy . . . Well, we've been working on the next generation of
fighters after Cheetah, things like forward-swept wing technol-
ogy, hyper-start engines, super-conducting radar. But the most
fascinating aspect of the new generation of fighters will




38                       DAIZ BROWN
     be ANTARES-that's an acronym for Advanced Neural Trans-
fer and Response. "
     "Neural transfer? Sounds like Buck Rogers thought-control
stuff." Comic books were SOP at Connecticut Academy.
          A slight pause, then Carmichael said: "It is."
     Inwardly Maraklov was tingling with excitement-Can-nichael's
electroencephalograph must be pinging off the dials, he thought.
They were actually working on thought-controlled aircraft . . . ?
     "Relax, relax," Carmichael said. "It might sound like sci-
ence fiction but we demonstrated the rudimentary ANTARES
technology as early as the late nineteen eighties."
     "But is it possible . . . ?"
     "Well, we don't know that yet. I'm hoping, I'm betting,
we'll find out pretty soon . . . "
          "But how can you control by thought?"
     "The idea is simple, the mechanism is complex." He waited
a few moments while the subject hurriedly fought to control
his racing heartbeat.
     "That's better," he said in his most soothing, uninflected
voice. "Here we go. Remember back to your physiology. The
human nervous system is composed of nerve cells, neurons.
The neurons carry information back and forth from receptor
nerves in the peripheral nervous system-nerves in the body in
general-to the central nervous system, brain and spinal cord.
The information carried through the nervous system is a series
of chemical and electrical discharges between neurons. If one
neuron is stimulated enough so that-its ionic balance is changed,
it releases a chemical into the synapse, the gap between neu-
rons, and that chemical stimulates another neuron."
          "Like electricity flowing through a wire?"
     "Well, some discharges are purely electrical, like when neu-
rons physically touch, but mostly the connection is chemical.
Anyway, this electrochemical and ionic activity can be de-
tected and read by electroencephalographs, which you've be-

come very familiar with the past weeks. " He would have
nodded if he could. -EEGs in the past could only measure
electrical activity-they couldn't analyze, decode that activity.
It was like the Plains Indians putting their ears up to a telegraph
pole, which they used to call the spirit trees, by the way. They
could hear the telegraph clicks and tell that something was hap-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           39
pening, but they couldn't decipher the clicks or tell which di-
rection the clicks were coming from, and of course, they didn't
know how it was being done, just as we are ignorant about so
many things in the nervous system. Sure, lots of clicks usually
meant the army was coming, but that was about all. Ditto for
us twentieth-century wizards."
     Carmichael paused to ad ust his oscilloscope. "Well, a few
years ago we built an EEG i that could read the spirit tree. You
could lift a finger or hand and this EEG could tell a researcher
that you lifted a finger. And the opposite was true, too-when
you generated a thought command to lift your hand, that im-
pulse could be detected and read-in effect, we could read your
mind.
     "Of course, the military got their mitts on the system right
away. The new-style EEG, nicknamed Spirit Tree-hey, I'm
famous-was the ultimate lie detector. But there was much
more potential in Spirit Tree than use as a glorified polygraph.
We already knew the general path of nerves and which areas
of the brain corresponded to certain thoughts or activities-that
all came about during Nazi Germany's infamous lab experi-
ments on human guinea pigs, when they would surgically re-
move parts of a prisoner's brain and see what the victim could
no longer do. The new idea was, if we could now read the
information flowing through the system, was there a way we
could interject outside or foreign stimuli into the nervous sys-
tem? Instead of receptors in, say, the fingers generating the
initial sensory impulse, could we send information from a com-
puter into the system and read how the brain reacted to it? And

could the opposite be true-could we think about, say, moving
a finger, and have a computer read that nervous instruction and
execute the command electronically?"
     The more James heard, the more excited he became, though
now it was an intellectual response and his signs stayed re-
laxed. A computer issuing instructions to a human via his own
nervous system . . . a computer reading the human nervous
system ... For a while he thought his time might better be spent
making drawings or photographs of the F-15 Advanced Tacti-
cal Fighter named Cheetah. But now . . . well, the Academy
hadn't imagined anything like this when they sent him to
America. Of course nobody could have . . .
"Got all that?" Carmichael asked.




40                       DALE BROWN
     "I think so ... You're going to try to read my mind with
this ... whatever it is
          "In a sense, yes.
     "But how strong are those electrochemical discharges across
the synapse? Don't you have to clip some electrodes onto my
skull?
     "In the past that's how EEGs were done. Every human body
has a basic electrical potential, an electrical aura, so to speak,
and that potential is affected by the central nervous system.
Simple electrodes could read the tiny impulses generated by
the brain and nervous system. But those electrodes couldn't
measure anything except the change in electrical potential .
          "Like the telegraph clicks . . . "
     "Exactly. But now we have two new technologies that
have improved our ability to read those electrical impulses-
very high-speed integrated circuits and NRTS, near-room-
temperature superconductors.
     "Your helmet and that large device on your spine are huge
superconducting antennae. They're so powerful they not only
can measure your nervous activity, they can read it, analyze it
and map its direction as the impulses move around your pe-
ripheral nervous system. And as they do, the computer issues
instructions to the other large device you're wearing-that
metallic flight suit. Actually, the suit is an integrated circuit
that records the route each and every nervous impulse takes
and studies it. After repetitions of the route the artificial-
intelligence computer actually learns the route and proper
timing and intervals between a certain set of impulses from
certain areas of the central nervous system."
     This project did sound remarkable, but it also appeared to
involve a long period of passive training. Maraklov preferred
action. Could he sustain the process . . . ? "You're going to
map out every muscle twitch, every movement, every breath I
take . . . ?"

if "To the contrary," Carmichael said. "We'd be overloaded
we tried to record every muscle twitch, just as your question
implies-so the idea is, we don't want you to twitch any mus-
cles. We don't want mere muscular activity to show up. We
don't need it-once we map out your peripheral nervous activ-
ity, we'll know what impulses are necessary to move things
like muscles.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           41
     "So we need you totally re axed, imp, deeper than re-
laxed-we need you as detached as you can be from your phys-
ical body. We practiced biofeedback techniques before to get
you to what we call, for lack of a better term, alpha state-it
simply means the propagation of alpha brain waves and the
suppression of beta waves, the latter activity indicating con-
scious brain activity. But alpha state has many levels-nine
known ones, to be exact. You've reached perhaps the'second
or third level, where you can totally relax both smooth and
ridged muscle and even exert control over certain autonomous
functions such as heart rate, respiration and blood pressure.
That's fine-but we need more."
     Carmichael's voice became even deeper, even more steady.
There was no hint of tension, no emotional cues, no inflec-
tion. Somehow he had even managed to cut out most of the
background noise in the laboratory-or was that part of the
hypnotic state the subject knew he was slipping into?
     "There's a level of activity called theta-alpha," the voice
continued, so melodic and penetrating that it seemed to bypass
his eardrums and enter directly into his brain . . . "Theta-alpha.
It's a stage where the central nervous system in effect cuts out
the peripheral nervous system. In higher life forms it's a de-
fense mechanism, a way to protect the central nervous system
from sensory overload.
     "Without any peripheral functions to control, the brain ex-
pands its powers. Areas of the brain that normally go unused
are suddenly put into service to control autonomous functions.

The average person uses only thirty percent of his available
brain capacity, but under theta-alpha the other seventy percent
is suddenly put on line. That new seventy percent has the mem-
ory and computational power of all the computers in this build-
ing, packed into a ten-pound package that needs no power, no
cooling air, no bench or field maintenance. And, like a corn-
puter built by humans, it's programmable and erasable, with
its own built-in operating system."
     James was finding it progressively harder to concentrate.
When he tried to speak he couldn't make his jaw work. It felt
as if he was asleep, but in that weird half-in, half-out state of
sleep where you could hear and feel everything around you but
were still deeply resting. His body felt very warrn, but not
sweaty or cocooned any more. The oxygen being fed into the




42                        DALE BROWN
face mask was cool and soothing as it streamed into his lungs.
It was as if his body were somewhere else, as if he was de-
tached ...
     Suddenly, he felt his whole body burst into flame. Every
pore, every cell, every molecule of his body spit red-hot lava.
He jerked out of his semi-sleep state and screamed.
     "Easy, Ken, easy," Carmichael said. Pure oxygen flooded
his face mask. The visors on his helmet opened, and Carmi-
chael and a medical technician peered inside to check his bulg-
ing eyes.
          "What . . . what was that?"
     "It worked," Carmichael said. He nodded to the med tech,
and they both disappeared out of view. Ken tried to move his
head but found it still securely fastened in place.
          "Get me out of here-"
     "No, Ken, relax," Carmichael was saying. The room noise
seemed louder than-ever. Ken rolled his eyes, trying to blot
out the hammering in his head. "Everything's fine. Relax, re-
lax . . . "
     "I felt like . . . like I was-"
     "Shocked. Electrocuted," Carmichael finished for him.
"You did it, Ken."
          "Did what, dammit?"
     "You entered theta-alpha. The final stage of alpha state.
You were so relaxed, relaxed in such a deep neurological sense,
that your mind opened up to its maximum capacity."
     "So what was that shock-electrocution, you said . . . ?"
     "ANTARES. The system detects when you enter theta-alpha
and begins the process of integration. The shock you felt was
the Activation of the ANTARES system-it was the first time,
Ken, the very first time, so far as we know, that a computer
and the human mind have been linked, even if it was only for
a split second. You've made some history, my friend. Decem-
ber third, in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-four, at

seven-thirty-eight A., a human mind and a computer were
linked-not merely in contact, but linked-for the first time."
     "Forget history, Carmichael. I asked you what that shock
was. "
     "Yes, well to facilitate the tracing of your neural impulses,
we created a slight electrical field of our own through your
suit. We charged the suit with a tiny electrical-"
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            43
"Tiny? You call that tiny? I felt like I was frying!"
     "Milliamperes, I assure you," Carmichael replied jovially.
"About the same as a nine-volt toy battery. It does no per-
manent damage that we can detect-"
     "That's real reassuring, Doc."
     "You're experiencing the same irritation that anyone feels
when violently awakened from REM sleep," Carmichael said.
"Try to relax. We'd like to try for another interface."
     "So you can shock me like some chimpanzee?" There was
a limit.
     "Ken, we're on the threshold." Carmichael had turned on
the microphone again and had closed the visors. "We've
proven that our system works, that our equipment can respond
to a specific and up to now unexplored neurological state. If
we can complete the interface we may actually be able to
establish communications between a machine and the human
mind. I don't mean to sound overly melodramatic, but this is
at least comparable as a scientific breakthrough to the discov-
ery of the semiconductor. It is important that we try again.
But this time you must try to ignore the electrical charge when
it happens."
     "And how am I supposed to do that?"
     "There's no training manual for this . . . you must maintain
theta-alpha through the interface process. I'm really not sure
how to tell you to do that. Think of something else, try to shut
out the pain. After a while the system will help you, but you
must be able to endure the first wave of it until the system can

learn how to help - "
     "What about drugs?"
     "Drugs would interfere with the neurological impulses in
your system. Besides, this program is based on creating an
aircraft that responds to thought commands. We can't very well
go around drugging all our pilots before sending them into
combat. "
     The full realization of what was happening finally hit him.
"You really intend to put this system on an aircraft. You say
you can control an aircraft just by thinking?"
     "Exactly. We already use sophisticated computers to fly our
jets. But with ANTARES, we've developed the most powerful
computer of all-the human brain. It's a thousand times more




44                       DALE BROWN
     powerful, a hundred times faster, and a million time s more
reliable than any computer ever conceived or conceivable.
     " You've flown Colonel McLanahan's F-15 ATF-imagine
putting all this on a plane like Cheetah. Or a plane more so-
phisticated than Cheetah-you've seen the plans for the new
fighter they're developing, the X-34. Imagine the speed and
power of your mind going into the X-34. It would be all but
invincible, more powerful than a squadron of F-15s. It would
rewrite most everything we know about fighter combat."
     Carmichael paused. "And you would be the first pilot."
     Maraklov was stunned. This was miles beyond anything he'd
hoped or bargained for. Carmichael was serious. They actually
were going to move ahead with plans to put all this on an
airplane.
          "But how can all this gear go into an aircraft?"
     "Ken, this is a laboratory. We do everything on huge scales
because we have the room to spread out. But in the real world
we'd miniaturize all this. With new microchips and supercon-
ducting technology, most of the computers in this lab can be
miniaturized to the size of a -steamer trunk. In three years that
trunk-sized computer could be the size of a toaster. By the turn
of the century it could be down to the size of a walnut."
     He relaxed and smiled for the first time since entering what
he had once thought of as Carmichael's chamber of horrors. It
sounded far-fetched, but they could really be on the verge of a
massive technological breakthrough. If they were, then Ken
James, alias Andrei Maraklov, a newly promoted major of in-
fantry in the KGB, was to be the principal, the key actor in a
remarkable scientific discovery.
     "All right," he said. "Fire it up again."
     Carmichael signaled to his technicians.
     "But make sure you spell the name right in the history books.
It's-".
          "I know," Carmichael said. "J-A-M-E-S."
     
No, he said to himself, beginning his deep breathing exer-
cises, starting from his toes and consciously ordering every
muscle to relax. Spell it M-A-R-A-K-L-O-V.
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           45
The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR
     Thursday, 6 December 1994, 1451 EET (0551 EST)
"In summary, then, General Secretary," General Boris Cher-
kov, Chief of Staff of the military forces of the Soviet Union
concluded, "we still command a substantial lead in both con-
ve ntional and nuclear forces in Europe and Asia, and we should
be able to maintain that superiority through the rest of this
century. I am ready to take questions."
     No one in the Kollegiya raised any; few ever did during
these briefings. The men and women who made up the lead-
ership of the Soviet military, intelligence and state bureaucracy
sat mute, nodding to Cherkov as if congratulating him on his
presentation-the same one he had given during the past three
years, and very similar to the one that the General Secretary
had heard since assuming the office. Now he turned to Vladimir
Kalinin, chief of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti,
the KGB. "Do you have a comment?"
     "Just this. How is it possible that we are so superior? With
respect, sir, I question the conclusions made here this after-
noon. Since the late eighties and in this year of 1994 as well,
the Americans have begun a steady increase in levels of con-
ventional forces all over the world, including western Europe.
We know they have a space-based strategic defense system in
place that is more sophisticated than our ground-based one.
Intermediate-range nuclear forces have been eliminated, our
strategic nuclear forces have just been cut in half, and biolog-
ical weapons have been eliminated. We have been forced to
draw down the size of all our forces to help relieve our budget
problems and promote perestroika. How can we be maintaining
such a large advantage over the United States and the NATO
forces-? "
     
"Because of our continuing five-to-one numerical advantage
and our increasing technological achievements," Chief-of-Staff
Cherkov broke in. "For the first time we have an aircraft car-
rier force that rivals the Americans'--
     "We have three carriers. The Americans have seventeen.
Even the British have more than we do."
     "We have an unrivaled worldwide cargo-transport capabil-
ity. In each and every area we-"
     "If we commandeer every civilian-passenger jet in Aero-




46                       DAIE BROWN
flot," KGB chief Kalinin interrupted, "not counting civil
transports, the Americans still have more airlift capacity. We
can juggle numbers, but the fact is that we have lost the ad-
vantage. The Americans have fielded two new types of fighters
in Europe in the past ten years; we have fielded one. The
Americans have launched two new aircraft carriers in the past
ten years and equipped each one with new F-31 fighters. We
still have one carrier of equivalent size in sea-trials, with
fifteen-year-old fighters on board. In every area except armor
and total manpower we have either lost our advantage or suffer
a real lessening of whatever advantage we retain."
     "Times have changed," Minister of Defense Andrei Tovo-
rin said. "Our security is no longer based exclusively on mil-
itary strength. We have treaties and agreements with many
nations. We have mutual verifiable cuts in strategic and tactical
nuclear weapons, beginning with the INF treaty . . . "
     "But we do not agree to roll over and accept domination by
the West," Kalinin said. "Sir, you will be on American tele-
vision in one hour, smiling at their cameras, saying how de-
lighted you are at the progress that has been made since you
signed the INF Treaty seven years ago. But, sir, the peace and
security of our nation still depends on the strong arms and
backs of our people, rather than on pieces of paper. Those
treaties will be the first things to be set on fire in a major
conflict-"
     "Are you saying that this nation is in danger because we
have agreed to reduce the number of nuclear weapons pointed
at us?" the General Secretary asked. "Are you saying that we
are in greater danger of destruction as a nation now than ten
years ago?"
     "I believe we were more secure ten years ago, yes," Kalinin
said. "Then I knew that we had the military capability and the
national resolve to defend ourselves against any attack. Now,
I am not so sure. For the first time in my career I wonder

whether we could resist an invasion of western Europe or hold
off a NATO invasion of western Russia. I question the security
of our cities and military bases. And yet I see American stores
and American hotels being built in Moscow. Where is all this
taking us?"
     "Into the future," General Cherkov said. "The truth is we
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          47
are a richer, more secure nation than ever. We also are a mem-
ber of the world community, no longer the ugly Russian bear. "
     Kalinin said nothing. The General Secretary, probably the
most popular Soviet leader in history, was a formidable enough
opponent in the government. But along with Cherkov, the mil-
itary veteran and hero of Afghanistan and Africa, the opposi-
tion was all but overwhelming.
     "This meeting is adjourned," the General Secretary said,
and accepted the handshakes and good luck wishes from the
Kollegiya members. Kalinin stayed behind after the rest of the
members, except Cherkov, had left.
     "I apologize for spoiling the mood of the meeting, sir, but
I feel I have a duty to express my opinion-"
     "You are correct," the General Secretary said. "I encour-
age such discussions; you know that."
     "Yes, sir." The General Secretary was getting ready to leave
for the new Kremlin press office for his interview. "Sir . . . I
need your authorization for additional manpower on an ongo-
ing project. I need ten more men for five years overseas."
     The General Secretary straightened papers in his briefcase.
"Overseas? "
     "The United States. Deep cover operation on an American
military-research base."
     The General Secretary paused, glanced at Cherkov, then
shook his head. "It sounds like a major escalation. Ten people
on one base?"
     Kalinin tried to control his irritation. The General Secretary,
it seemed, had already decided in the negative but wanted to

pump his KGB chief for information before saying no. "In one
city, actually," Kalinin pushed on. "Perhaps two or three on
the base itself, one or two on a separate research center
nearby. "
     "This perhaps refers to Dreamland?" General Cherkov
asked. "More activity there?"
     "It is Dreamland," Kalinin admitted. The old than was well-
informed. The crafty Chief-of-Staff's small but hig ly e cient
cadre of internal investigators were still very much hard at work
spying on the KGB for the General Secretary. "We have re-
c6ived information on a new American project that I believe
should be of great interest to us."
     "Obviously," the General Secretary deadpanned. "Ten new




                                                            7-
48                       DALE BROWN
operatives in one area at one time is a lot. Is there a danger of
discovery? "
     "There is always that chance, sir. But this project is so im-
portant I feel the additional manpower is absolutely vital."
     "Wasn't your young pilot assigned to Dreamland? " Cher-
kov asked. "The deep-cover agent that you managed to help
transfer from their Strategic Air Command?"
     "Major Andrei Maraklov, yes, and he is the one who has
reported on a new American project that I must track very
closely.
     "And this project?"
     Kalinin hesitated-he didn't expect to be grilled like this. As
reported to him so far, the new project was so unusual that he
didn't fully understand it; it was going to be very difficult ex-
plaining it to the General Secretary. This was another chango
from practices of ten years ago-back then, the government
was so large and, more to the point, so bureaucratically com-
partmentalized that sending ten or even fifty new agents to the
United States was relatively easy. Now all personnel move-
ment, even covert or so-called diplomatic transfers, were ap-
proved in advance. "I'm talking about a project begun by the same research '&
center we obtained the short takeoff and landing data from,"
Kalinin said. "Maraklov has been assigned to a project study-
ing . . . thought-controlled fighter aircraft-"
     " Thought-controlled aircraft? " The General Secretary
quickly looked down at the small stack of papers on his desk-
apparently stifling his skepticism.
     "Maraklov reports they've had significant success with this
project," Kalinin said, stiffening. "I feel it is very impor-
tant . . . "
     The General Secretary shook his head. "I am sorry, but ten
men for such a project is too much. I can authorize two in the

Los Angeles consulate, and this must be coordinated with the
foreign minister."
     "But, sir, I was going to use two men as handlers for Mar-
aklov. The handlers are very important. Maraklov's move-
ments are carefully monitored and more than one contact is
essential. If I only have two new men and use them as handlers
I will not have any for inside duties at the research center.
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           49
     "I have another meeting, Kalinin," the General Secretary
said, snapping shut his briefcase. "I am scheduled to be in Los
Angeles in one month. It will not look well if a large-scale
deep-cover ring is discovered. I can't risk that. Two men only,
Kalinin. If more information on this project comes in, I may
reconsider. Now I must go."
     As the General Secretary moved around his desk to leave,
Kalinin quickly stepped toward him, not blocking his way but
obviously wanting to hold his attention a moment longer. "Sir,
I assure you, this is most urgent."
     The General Secretary looked directly at his KGB chief. He
was shorter than Kalinin by several centimeters and at least
twenty years older; Kalinin had a full head of dark brown hair,
the General Secretary was bald except for graying temples.
The older man was solidly built and only recently giving way
to fat; Kalinin was lean, as athletic as a career bureaucrat from
Leningrad could manage.
     Yet as they stood face-to-face, the General Secretary exuded
a power that was considerably more than physical. He had a
presence, an aura, an intensity that had all but mesmerized
heads of government around the world. His eyes were espe-
cially effective in seizing and transfixing.
     "Vladimir, the KGB has been well supported by this gov-
ernment. I have given you my support. I did so even when the
Politburo believed I had made a wrong decision in appointing
you to head the KGB. I believed the KGB needed a strong
young leader for the future, and I chose you. I know that you

look to something greater than merely the head of the world's
largest intelligence organization-perhaps minister of defense
or even General Secretary. Your ambitions are your own affair.
But do not accuse me, Vladimir. I do what is in the best interest
of our country and this government, including the KGB. "
1 Kalinin saw the understated power in those blue eyes. After
eight years in power, he was still considered by many to be
the most influential man on the world scene. With glasnost now
an important part of Soviet life, the General Secretary was
much more visible in the eyes of the world. Kalinin realized
confrontations at this time were pointless and even dangerous.
     But the man was getting older. Older and more cautious.
Nearly every decision involved weighing how it would look in
the eyes of the world. Kalinin didn't much care about the eyes




so                       DALE BROWN
of the world-he cared about Russia, her security, based on
her strength. The Soviet Union was not just another member
of the world community-she was, or should be, its leader.
     The General Secretary studied the younger man's eyes for a
moment before moving toward the door. Cherkov, once the
General Secretary's mentor and now his submissive guard-dog,
followed him out.
     The General Secretary might be, as some said, a visionary,
Kalinin thought, but right now he was being dangerously short-
sighted. Forget him this time, Kalinin told himself. This was
a KGB project-it would remain a KGB project.
     And if there was any way for this strange new American
technology to advance his own position in the government,
then let it happen.
Air Force High Technology Advanced Weapons
Center (HAWC)
Wednesday, 10 June 1996, 0430 PDT (0730 EDT)
AIR FoRCE LIEUTENANT Colonel Patrick S. McLanahan watched
Captain Kenneth Francis James preparing to mount his "steed."
James' tall, powerfully built frame was covered-a better term
might have been "encased"-in a stiff flight suit made of nylon
and metallic thread. James had to carry around a small portable
air conditioning unit to stay comfortable, and the suit was so
stiff that James had to be hoisted into his steed on a hydraulic
lift. A small army of "squires"-military and civilian scientists
and technicians, led by Doctor Alan Carmichael, the chief proj-
ect engineer and Patrick's civilian counterpart-followed James
on his lift up toward his incredible steed.
     Both McLanahan's and James' aircraft were in a large open-
ended hangar, used more to shield the two fighters from the
ultra-magnified eyes of Soviet reconnaissance satellites than to
protect against the weather. It was only four-thirty in the mom-
ing, but the temperature was already starting to climb; it was
going to be a scorcher in the high Nevada desert test-site north

of Las Vegas known as Dreamland.
     But Patrick wasn't thinking about the heat. His eyes were on
the sleek lines of the jet fighter before him.
          DreamStar . . .
     As McLanahan stood gazing at the fighter the senior noncom-
missioned officer of the DreamStar project, Air Force Master
Sergeant Ray Butler, moved alongside him.
     "I know how you feel, sir," Butler said in his deep, gravelly




52                       DALE BROWN
voice, running a hand across his shaved head. "I get a shiver
every time I see her."
     She was a child of the first X-29 advanced technology dem-
onstrator aircraft built in the early and mid-1980s. Long, low,
sleek and deadly, DreamStar was the only fighter aircraft any-
where with forward-swept wings, which spread gracefully from
nearly abeam the cockpit back all the way to the tail. The
forward-swept wings allowed air to stick to the aircrafts control
surfaces better, making it possible for the aircraft to make faster
and wilder maneuvers than ever thought possible. She was so
agile and so fast that it took three independent high-speed com-
puters to control her.
     "Chief," Patrick said as they began a walkaround inspection
of the fighter, "there's no question she's one sexy piece of hard-
ware. Very sexy."
     Butler nodded. "Couldn't put it better myself."
     The cockpit seemed suspended in mid-air on the long, pointed
forward fuselage high above the polished concrete floor of the
satellite-bluff hangar. Beside the cockpit on each side of the fu-
selage were two auxiliary fins, canards, integral parts of the
DreamStar's advanced flight controls. When horizontal, the ca-
nards provided extra lift and allowed the fighter to fly at previ-
ously unbelievable flight attitudes; when moved nearly to the
vertical, the canards let the fighter move in any direction without
changing its flight path. DreamStar could climb or descend with-
out moving its nose up or down, turn without banking, dart
sideways in, literally, the blink of an eye.
     The one large engine inlet for the single afterburning jet en-
gine was beneath the fuselage, mounted so that a smooth flow
of air could still be assured even at radical flight attitudes and
fast changes in direction. DreamStar had two sets of rudders,
one pair on top and one on the bottom, which extended and
retracted into the fuselage as needed; the lower stabilizers were
to assure directional control at very high angles-of-attack (when

the nose would be pointed high above the flight path of the
aircraft) and low speed when the upper stabilizers would be in-
effective.
     Even at rest she seemed energetic, ready to leap effortlessly
into the sky at any moment. "She looks like a great big cat
ready to pounce, " Patrick said half-aloud.
They continued their walkaround aft. DreamStar's engine ex-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            53
haust was not the typical round nozzle on other fighters. She
used an oblong vectored-thrust nozzle that could divert the en-
gine exhaust in many different directions. Louvers on the top
and bottoms of the nozzle could change the direction of thrust
instantaneously, giving DreamStar even greater maneuverability.
The vectored thrust from the engine could also act as added
boost to shorten takeoff rolls, or as a thrust-reverser during dog-
fights or on landing to bleed off energy.
     She was one hell of a bird, all right, and Patrick McLanahan
figured he had the best job in the world-turning her into the
world's newest and deadliest combat-ready weapon. Patrick
"Mac" McLanahan, an ex-Strategic Air.Command B-52 radar
navigator-bombardier-especially remembered for his role on the
Flight of the Old Dog that knocked out a Soviet laser installa-
tion-was the project officer in charge of development of the
DreamStar advanced technology fighter. Once perfected, the XF-
34A DrearnStar fighter would be the nation's new air-superiority
fighter.
     Walking around the engine exhaust they noticed a crew chief
running over to activate an external-power cart. "Looks like
they're ready for power," Butler said. "I'd better go see how
they're doing. Have a good flight, Colonel.
     Patrick returned his salute and headed toward the plane he
would be flying that morning. If the two aircraft were humans,
the second jet fighter, Cheetah, would be DreamStar's older, less
intelligent cousin. A by-product of the revolutionary SMTD,
Short Takeoff and Landing and Maneuverability Demonstrator

projects of the last decade, Cheetah was a line F- 15E two-set jet
fighter-bomber, heavily modified and enhanced after years of
research and development in the fields of high performance flight
and advanced avionics. It had come to Dreamland, this top-
secret aircraft and weapons research center northwest of Las
Vegas, seven years earlier. It had been at Dreamland for less
than a day before then Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, the
director of HAWC, had had her taken apart for the first time.
The changes to the airframe had been so extensive that it had
been given a code-name Cheetah instead of keeping its original
nickname, Eagle.
     Hard to believe, McLanahan thought, that such a machine like
Cheetah could be outdated in so short a time.
The remarkable enhancements built into DreamStar had been




54                       DALE BROWN
tested years earlier on Cheetah, so Cheetah shared DreamStar's
huge movable forward canards, vectored-thrust engines and
computer-commanded flight controls. But even Cheetah was
starting to show its twenty years of age. Modifications to every
component of the fifty-seven-thousand-pound aircraft meant lots
of riveted access panels scarred across its fuselage, performance-
robbing patches that layers of paint could barely hide. With an
eleven-hundred-pound remote-control camera mounted just be-
hind her aft cockpit, her once impressive top speed of Mach two
was now a forgotten statistic-she'd have a tough time, Patrick
thought, of reaching Mach one without afterburners. DreamStar
could easily cruise at one point five Mach without 'burners.
     Where all of the high-tech components had made DreamStar
the fighter of the future, those same enhancements had taken a
severe performance penalty on Cheetah. But there was still one
man who could make Cheetah dance in the sky like a brand-new
bird. Patrick found that extraordinary young pilot asleep under
Cheetah's nose, using the nosewheel as a headrest.
     ,.   C. I I
          "Yo," came a sleepy reply.
     Patrick went up the crew-boarding ladder, retrieved a set of
ear noise protectors from the cockpit. "On your feet. Time to
go aviating.
     For    C. Powell that bit of Air Force jargon was raw meat to
a starving wolf-he was up, on his feet and skipping up the crew
entry ladder like a kid.
          "Say the word, Colonel."
     "I'm stopping by to see how our boy is doing in DreamStar,
McLanahan said, putting on the ear protectors to block out the
noise of the external power cart. "Should be fifteen minutes to
engine start. Get Cheetah ready to fly."
          "You got it, boss."
     In another life, Captain Roland Q. Powell, the only son of a
very wealthy Virginia family, all five feet five and one hundred

twenty pounds of him, must have been a barnstormer; before
that he might have ridden barrels over Niagara Falls. "Plain
reckless" would have been the wrong term to describe his fly-
ing, but "reckless abandon" was close. He was totally at
home in airplanes, always pushing his machine to the limit but
staying in control at all times. He never flew slow if he could
fly fast, never made a turn at thirty degrees' bank when he could
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           55
do sixty or ninety, never flew up high when he could fly down
in the trees. He earned the nickname "  " from his Under-
graduate Pilot Training instructors who would mutter "Jesus
Christ" (usually followed by "help me" or "save me") when
they found out they had been scheduled to fly with Roland Pow-
ell.
     He became an FAIP, first assignment instructor pilot, out of
Undergraduate Pilot Training, but the Air Force didn't want an
entire Air Force filled with    JC. Powells, so he was assigned to
Edwards Air Force Base. Flight test was the perfect place to
stick Roland Powell. He knevall there was to know about aero-
dynamics but would still agree to do anything the engineers asked
of him, no matter how dangerous or impossible it seemed. As a
result Powell got the hot planes. Every jet builder wanted to see
what magic    JC. Powell could conjure up with his airframe. He
was soon enticed to Dreamland by General Elliott with the
promise of flying the hottest fighter of them all-Cheetah. Pow-
ell's expertise both as a pilot and as an engineer helped speed
up the development of DreamStar, but he chose to stay with
Cheetah. From then on, he had been her only pilot.
     But    JC. Powell had had his time in the spotlight. Now, it
was Kenneth Francis James' turn.
     When he got to DreamStar again, Patrick climbed up the lad-
der on the hydraulic lift and watched as James was lowered into
the cockpit. His special flight suit was preformed into a sitting
position, making James look like a plastic doll. Once James was
lowered into place, Patrick moved toward him as close as pos-

sible without interfering with the small army of experts attending
to the pilot's seat configuration.
     "Feeling okay, Ken?"
          James nodded. "Snug, but okay."
     Patrick watched as James was set into his specially molded
ejection seat, strapped into place, and had his oxygen, environ-
mental and electronic leads connected. The image of a medieval
knight being readied for combat flashed in Patrick's head, topped
off when they placed James' helmet on his head and clipped it
into a clavicle ring on his shoulders. The helmet was essentially
a holder for a variety of superconducting sensors and terminals
that covered the inner surface. Once the helmet was locked into
place, the flight suit became one gigantic electronic circuit, one
big superconducting transistor. It became the data-transmission




56                         DALE BROWN
circuit between James and the amazing aircraft he was strapped
into.
     "Self-test in progress," Carmichael said. The computer, a
diagnostic self-test device as well as an electroencephalograph
to monitor the human side of the system, checked each of the
thousands of sensors, circuits and transmitters within the suit
and their connections through the interface to DrearnStar. But
Carmichael chose not to let the computer do his work, even
though he was the one who had designed the interface; the sci-
entist manually ran through the complex maze of readouts,
checking for any sign of malfunction or abnormal readings.
     He found none; neither did the computer. A few minutes later,
Carmichael turned to Patrick, nodded. "He's ready."
     Patrick walked around the lifts narrow catwalk and knelt down
in front of James. He could barely see a movement of James'
eyes through the helmet's thick electro-optical lenses.
          "Ready to do some flying, buddy?"
     They looked at each other. There was no movement at all
from James. Patrick waited, watched. James appeared to be
trying to decide on something. He didn't seem fearful or appre-
hensive or at all nervous. He was just . . . what?
     Patrick glanced at Carmichael. "Alan? How's he doing?"
     "His beta is pinging off the scale," Carmichael said, recheck-
ing the electroencephalograph readouts. "No alpha or theta
activity at all."
     Patrick turned again to James, bent down close to him. "We
can reschedule this, buddy. Don't push it. It's not worth the
grief .
     "No. I'll be okay. I'm just . . . trying to get ready .
     "Then relax, let it come to you, don't chase it. If it doesn't
happen, it doesn't happen.- ,@'
     "Hell of a way to fight a war," James said-the tension in
his voice was obvious. "I can see a fighter pilot telling his
squadron commander, 'I know the enemy is rolling across the

base but I can't fly today-my damn theta isn.'t responding . . I
I've got to prove that I can go in and out of theta-alpha in a
moment's notice."
     "Making the system operational is still a few years off, Ken,"
Patrick told him. "Don't worry about all that. Relax, don't force
yourself or the system. Let's just go up and have some fun
Finish up and buy me a beer at the Club afterward. That's all.
                                                            57
             DAY OF THE CHEETAH
     Patrick raised a hand in front of the test pilot, and James
slapped a metallic-lined glove into it. "Punch a hole in the sky,
buddy. That's an order, too." He gave James one last thumbs-
up and stepped off the lift.
     By the time Patrick had stepped back onto the tarmac Dr.
Carmichael was shaking his head in disbelief.
     "He's already under alpha-JC. parameters. I think he's getting
to the point where he can do it anytime. If we had him hooked
up outside the plane, he could probably go into theta-sine A
before we strap him in."
     "He gets nervous every now and then," Patrick added, "es-
pecially before a big test like this one. Back me up on monitor-
ing him, Alan."
     An external power cart was running on Cheetah by the time
Patrick returned, climbed into the aft cockpit and strapped in.
Aircraft power was already on, and his crew chief and test-range
officers had already done a fast preflight of the telemetry and
data collection instruments packed into the cockpit. Because
Cheetah was the only jet around that could even try to keep up
with the DreamStar, it was now used to fly photo-chase on train-
ing and test flights. The special high-speed camera Cheetah car-
ried tracked DreamStar as it went through its paces. Patrick
could monitor all of DreamStar's important electronic indica-
tions and if necessary take control of the plane by remote con-
trol.
     With all of DreamStar's power off, however, there was only

one readout to monitor-the EEG of Ken James himself. Like
Carmichael, Patrick was amazed as he watched the electronic
traces of James' different brainwave patterns. He clicked open
his interphone.
     "He's almost into theta-sine alpha already."
     "Does that mean I can go to sleep too?"    JC. Powell said.
     "How fast could ou go into theta-alpha?" Patrick said,
watching the readouts change. "I know you've flown the
DrearnStar simulator. Could you do any better?"
     "Patrick, I'm a pilot, not a robot."   's voice had lost its
sardonic tone. "Seems to me ANTARES turns pilots into near-
robots. But to answer your question: sure, I could go into theta-
sine-alpha quickly. Couple of minutes. Staying in theta-alpha
was another trick. I could never quite get the hang of it. But I




58                         DALE BROWN
didn't lose DrearnStar, I gained Cheetah. I figure I got the better
deal.
     Which was a long speech for    JC. Powell; it underscored his
dislike for ANTARES. ANTARES might be th@'great addition
to DreamStar's already amazing array of avionics, it might be
the future of air combat-but    JC. Powell didn't see it in his
future.
     "It doesn't turn anyone into a robot," Patrick said. "You still
have full control. I don't see what your problem is about AN-
TARES. "
     "Full control? Of what? A computer tells him what to do,
and he does it. "
          "It's still the pilot calling the shots,   
     "Sure, he can pick up his own options out of a list the com-
puter presents to him, or he can override everything and go his
own way. I know that. But if a smart computer offers up a list
of a hundred options, well, most guys will pick something out
of that list." Powell spread his hands out across his lap. "Say
you're at a fancy restaurant." He motioned an imaginary waiter
to his table. "You've been to this restaurant before because they
have the best steak in town, but Pierre hands you the menu.
What do you do?" Powell opened his imaginary menu and pre-
tended to read it. "You look at the menu. Why? Because it's
there. So maybe you order the steak because that's what you
always order, but you still look at the menu.
     "See, even with ANTARES it takes time to scan the menu.
A real pilot will use that time to use his head and instincts to
execute a real maneuver. In ANTARES there's no thought, anal-
ysis, decision making . . . it's been done for you. And I call that
programming.
     "But if it results in a better system?"
     "ANTARES hasn't been proved to be better than a human
pilot .
          "We still use a human pilot,   "
     
"More or less, I guess," Powell said sarcastically, returning
switches to their proper positions. "But in a significant way we
don't-I say ANTARES can be beat."
     "Well," Patrick said, rubbing his eyes wearily, trying to mas-
sage away the headache that usually happened when arguing with
   JC. Powell, "it's a moot point, at least for now. Like I said,
we're not concerned with how well DreamStar fights, deploying
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                              59
her is still a ways off. We're here to test the aircraft and test the
concept. "
       , slumping so far down in his seat Patrick 'ouldn't see
him, said, "But all those generals and congressmen don't care
about testing the concept. They all want to know the same
thing-can she win dogfights?"
          "And you're saying she can't."
     "I'm saying that she can be beat. A pilot with the right combo
of skill and balls can beat ANTARES. And if ANTARES is
forced out of the combat loop, the pilot in DreamStar has to be
able to take charge and fight on his own. DreamStar's not really
set up for pilot-directed dogfighting. For me that's her weak-
ness . . . And look what we're doing to our combat pilots"-
   motioned toward DreamStar-"Ken James is one of the
best pilots in the Air Force. He's been a star ever since he grad-
uated from the Zoo. So what have we done with him? We've
trussed him up in a steel flight suit, a twenty-pound helmet and
more damn electrodes than Frankenstein's monster. We're using
his brain but not his mind. There's a big difference, I figure.
Are all our best military pilots going to be used as protoplasmic
circuit boards for ANTARES?"
     For a guy that was only thirty years old, Powell could be a
real stick-in-the-mud sometimes. Patrick scanned the EEG read-
outs. "Everything looks normal. It should be awhile before he
radios in that he's ready. I'll let you know when he's coming
around so we can crank engines."
     "Roger that. I'm gonna do another flight-control check."
          
"Didn't you just do a computer self-test?
     "Having a computer check a computer to see if a computer
is working is just looking for trouble. One of these days all those
computers will get together and drive us into the ground. I wanna
catch them before they do it. I'm doing the check manually. Let
me know when you're ready to go."
     "Rog." Patrick was tired of arguing. Besides,    had a
point. He turned again to the EEG monitors.
     Theta-sine-alpha indicated that James was relaxed, but it was
a much deeper level of relaxation, more neurological, much more
than ordinary muscle relaxation. The ability to get to theta-sine-
alpha had taken months of training. They called it biofeedback
when psychologists would hook a patient up to a mini-EEG or
polygraph that would beep whenever a beta wave would be de-




60                        DALE BROWN
tected, indicating stress or irregular muscular or nervous activ-
ity. The idea was to relax the body or control nerve Activity until
the beeping stopped. James had to go far beyond such muscle
relaxation-he had to relax his mind, open it, create a window
into the subconscious.
For Kenneth Francis James, the window to his mind did not
open like a door or a window-it opened like a hot, rusty knife
ripping through pink flesh. But that was the nature of the Ad-
vanced Neural Transfer and Response System that linked the
brain with a digital computer. James had gone far beyond Car-
michael's lectures. This was the real thing, the link-up between
the computer on the plane and his suit.
     The first mind-numbing phase of transition was activation of
the system itself, which occurred automatically once ANTARES
detected that James had entered theta-sine-alpha. In order to pick
up the tiny changes in electrical activity in James' body, the
metallic ANTARES flight suit itself had to be electrified. Even
though the charge was very small it was applied to almost every
part of the body, from the skull to the feet; it was like touching
one's tongue to the terminals of a nine-volt battery and feeling
the tiny current jolt the taste buds, except that James felt that
sweet, tingling sensation in every part of his body. And through
it all, he had to maintain theta-alpha . . .
     Enduring activation of the ANTARES system was only the
first step; the now familiar slight physical pain was easy to block
out. The next assault, however, was on the mind itself.
     Once ANTARES was open it would transmit a complex series
of preprogrammed questions to various conscious and subcon-
scious areas of James' mind. The questions, programmed months
earlier by countless hours in a simulator-recording unit, would
match the existing brainwave patterns of each level encountered.
After scanning, recognizing and matching the patterns, AN-
TARES would then overpower that particular neural function,
force the original pattern to a compatible subconscious level and

allow the ANTARES computer to control that level. It was like
submitting a series of passwords to several levels of guards ex-
cept each time ANTARES would reach a level it would hammer,
not knock, on the door, demanding entry. Once admitted, it
would first befriend, then overpower, the resident inside. The
takeovers accomplished by ANTARES were sometimes painful,
                    DAY OF THE_CHEETAH                            61
sometimes soothing. At times images would force their way out
of James' subconscious, long-stored memories of childhood that
Maraklov had long forgotten.
     His conscious mind was now like a big living room that had
just had all its furniture moved to different parts of the house.
ANTARES had taken over control of most conscious activity,
keeping only a few essential activities in the conscious fore-
ground while relegating the rest to higher parts of the brain. Now
ANTARES was ready to start remodeling.
     With the doors and windows to James' subconscious mind
wide open, his mind was ready to receive and process vast
amounts of information. Normally that information would come
from the five senses, and even with ANTARES some still did,
but now altogether new sources of information were open. AN-
TARES could collect and transmit digital data signals to James'
conscious mind, and James could receive that information as if
it came from his own five senses. But James no longer had five
senses-he had hundreds, thousands of them. The radar altime-
ter was a sense. The radar was a sense. So was the laser range-
finder. Dozens of thermometers, aneroids, gallium-arsenide
memory chips, limit switches, logic circuits, photocells, volt-
meters, chronometers-the list was endless and ever-changing.
     But it was an enormous shock to the system to find that the
list of senses had grown from five to five thousand, and here
ANTARES was no help at all; when the "room" was full it
simply began cramming in more input sources. For James the
new impulses weren't coherent or understandable. They were
random flasNs of light or crashes of sound, battering his con-
          
. d, all fighting for order and recognition. Put another
scious min
way, as he once had, it felt like a crushing wall of water, a wave
of unbearable heat, and the swirling center of a thunderstorm all
mixed up at once. And ANTARES was relentless. The instant
Ise was set aside, a hundred more took its
an image or an impu
place. The computer only knew that so much had to be learned.
It had no conception of rest, or defeat, or of insanity.
     Suddenly, then, the flood of input was gone. The tornado of
data subsided, leaving only a room full of seemingly random
bits of information lying scattered about. The furniture was over-
turned-but it was all there, all intact. Now, like a benevolent
relative or kindly neig hbor, ANTARES began sorting through
the jungle of information, creating boxes to organize the infor-




62                        DAIE BROWN
mation, placing boxes into boxes, organizing the mountains of
data into neat, cohesive packages.
     The random series of images began to coalesce. Undecipher-
able snaps of sound became long, staccato clicks; the clicks
turned to a low whine; the whine turned into waves of sounds
rising and falling; the waves became words, the words became
sentences. Flashes of lights became numbers. And then the
numbers disappeared, replaced by numbers that James wanted
to "see. "
     The energy surges generated by ANTARES were still cours-
ing through James' body, but now they were acting like am-
phetamines, energizing and revitalizing his body. He was aware
of DreamStar all around him, aware of its power waiting for
release.
     James' eyes snapped open, like those of a man awaking from
a nightmare. Swiveling his heavy helmet on its smooth Teflon
bearings, he looked across at Cheetah's open canopy. Powell
was busy in the forward cockpit; McLanahan was watching his
instruments. But he must have read something in the instruments
in Cheetah's aft cockpit, because just then McLanahan looked
over toward him. He could see the DreamStar project director
with his oxygen visor in place, apparently talking on the radios.
Patrick was looking directly at him now-was he talking to
him.....  ?
     . . . And suddenly the energy was unbearable. It was as if
DreamStar was a wild animal straining on a leash, hot with the
scent of prey, demanding to be released.
     James looked down at the left MFD, the multi-function dis-
play, on the forward instrument panel. He imagined the index
finger of his left hand touching the icon labeled -VHF- 1. " Im-
mediately the icon illuminated. Now, hovering right the             in
re
front of his eyes, was a series of numerals representing the pre-
programmed VHF radio channels-the image, transmitted from

DreamStar's computers through ANTARES to his optic nervous
system, was as clear and as real as every other visual image. He
selected the proper ship-to-ship channel on the computer-
generated icon and activated the radio. The whole process, from
deciding to activate the radio to speaking the words, took less
than a second.
     "Storm TWo ready for engine start," James reported. Al-
though the ANTARES interface did not take away his ability to
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             63
speak or hear, all traces of inflection or emotion usually were
filtered out. So the voice that Patrick heard on the radio was
eerie, alien.
     "Welcome back, Captain," Patrick said. "I saw you come
out of theta-alpha. Ready to do some flying?"
     "Ready and waiting, Colonel."
     "Stand by." Patrick switched to a secondary radio. "Storm
Control, this is Storm One."
In the underground command post of the High Technology Ad-
vanced Weapons Center a four-star Air Force general seated at
a large cherry desk replaced a phone on its cradle, then looked
down with disgust at his right leg. He reached down, took his
right calf in both hands, straightened his leg, then raised himself
out of his leather seat using the stiff right leg as a crutch. Once
fully standing he unlocked the graphite and Teflon bearings in
the prosthetic right knee joint, allowing it to move much like a
regular leg.
     An aide held the office door open for General Bradley Elliott
as the director of HAWC stepped out and down the short hallway
to the command post. He used a keycard to open the outer door
to the entrapment area. A bank of floodlights snapped on, filling
the entrapment area with bright light, and the outer door auto-
matically locked behind him.
     Two security guards armed with Uzi submachine guns came
through the doors on either side of the area. They slowed when
they recognized who it was but didn't alter their moves. While

one guard quickly pat-searched Elliott and ran a small metal
scanner over his body, the other stood with his Uzi at port arms,
finger on the trigger. The metal detector beeped when passed
over Elliott's right leg. Elliott tolerated it.
     The guards watched as Elliott signed in on a security roster
and double-checked the new signature against other signature
samples and the signature on Elliott's restricted-area, badge
pinned to his shirt. Satisfied, the guards slipped away as quickly
as they had appeared.
     A tall black security officer wearing a nine-millimeter Beretta
automatic pistol on his waist walked quickly to the general of-
ficer as he emerged from the entrapment area. "Sorry, sir,"
Major Hal Briggs said, handing Elliott a cup of coffee. "New
guy on the security console. Buzzed the sky cops when the metal




64                       DALE BROWN
detector in the entrapment area went crazy. He's been briefed
again on your ... special circumstances. "
     "He did right. You should have commended him. The re-
sponse guards too."
     "Yes, sir, " was all Briggs had time to mutter as Elliott pushed
on past him and entered the communications center. One of the
controllers handed him a telephone.
     "Storm Control Alpha, go ahead."
     "Alpha, this is Storm One. Flight of two in the green and
ready to taxi.-
     "Stand by," Elliott said. As he lowered the phone Briggs
handed him a computer printout.
     "Latest from Lassen Mountain Space Tracking Center,"
Briggs said. "Three Russian satellites will be in the area during
the test-window: Cosmos 713 infrared surveillance satellite still
on station over North America in geostationary orbit, but it's
the other two we're concerned w ith. Cosmos 1145 and 1289 are
the kickers. Cosmos 1145 is a low-altitude, high-resolution
film-return photo-intelligence satellite. Cosmos 1289 is a radar-
imaging film-return bird. We believe th@y're mainly ground-
mapping satellites with limited ability to photograph aircraft in
flight, but obviously they can be damaging. Both will be over
the exercise area during the test throughout the day. Do you want
to reschedule, sir?"
     "No," Elliott said. "I don't want to give the Russians the
pleasure of thinking they can disrupt my schedule with a couple
of old Brownies. Just make sure DreamStar and Cheetah stay in
the bluff while they're overhead.
     He took a sip of coffee, scowled at it, then set the cup down
with an exasperated thump. "Besides, it seems like they have
all the information they need on DreamStar anyway. I could have
dropped my teeth when I saw the DIA photo of the Ramenskoye           1
Flight Test Facility in Moscow with the exact same short-takeoff-
and-landing runway-test devices as ours here at Dreamland. The

exact same ones. In precisely the same position right own to
the inch. "
     "We've known the Russians have been working on high-
                                                                 "
performance STOL fighteT-aircraft for years, sir .
     "Right. Exactly as long as we've been working on them here
at Dreamland. We launch Cheetah, they launch an STOL fighter.
We develop a supercockpit for DreamStar, and four months later
                                                            65
             DAY OF THE CHEETAH
we intercept plans for nearly the same design being smuggled
into East Germany. The Joint Chiefs will close down Dreamland
if we don't stop the leaks around here."
     "I'm rechecking the backgrounds of every person remotely
connected with the project," Briggs said. "DIA is rechecking
thousand
the civilian contractors. But that adds up to over five
people and more than a hundred and fifty thousand man-years'
worth of personal histories to examine. And we do this every
year for key personnel. We're just overloaded--
     ,I know, I know," Elliott said, picking up the phone again.
"But we're running out of time. For every success we have on
the flight line we have one defeat with intelligence leaks. We
can't afford it." He keyed the switch on the telephone handset.
"Storm Flight, this is Alpha. Clear for engine start. Call for
clearance when ready for taxi."
          "Roger," McLanahan replied.
     Elliott turned to Briggs. "Join me in the tower when you've
gotten the overflight update on those two Russian satellites. Be-
fore I have you work your tail off to find our security leaks, the
least you can do is watch a little of our success."
     -Wouldn't miss it for all the stolen STOL plans in Ramen-
skoye," Briggs said, and immediately regretted it as Elliott gave
him a look and limped out of the command post.
-Storm TWo starting engines," James reported to Powell. The

pilot of the F-15 Cheetah barely had time to acknowledge when
the whine of the engine turbines pierced the early morning still-
                    ness.
     Engine start was triggered by a thought impulse that selected
the "engine start" routine from the "home" menu transmitted
to James by ANTARES. Computers instantly energized the
engine-start circuits and determined their status; since no exter-
nal air or power was available, an "alert" status would be per-
                   formed.
     Less than a second later the ignition-circuits were activated
and a blast of supercompressed nitrogen gas shot into the
sixteenth-stage compressor of DreamStar's engine. Unlike a con-
for one compressor
ventional jet engine, it was not necessary
stage at a time to spin up to full speed-all compressor stages
Of its engine were activated at once, allowing much faster starts
Less than twenty seconds later the engine was at idle power and




66                        DALE BROWN
full generator power was on-line. Once the engine-start choice
had been activated, the computer knew what had to be done
next-James just allowed the results of each preprogrammed
check to scroll past his eyes as the on-board computers com-
pleted them.
     "Storm Two engine start complete, beginning pre-takeoff
checks.
"Amazing," Powell murmured in Cheetah. He had begun his
engine-start checklist at the same time James had, but he had
barely had his left engine up to idle-power by the time
DreamStar's start-sequence was completed.
Immediately after James made his report to McLanahan
                                                            11u
Powell, he commanded the start of an exhaustive computer check
of all of DreamStar's systems. With the engine powering two
main and one standby hydraulic pump, energy was available to
DreamStar's flight controls. Outside, the check made Dream-
Star's wing surfaces crawl and undulate like the fins of a manta
ray. From outside the cockpit the flight-control check was almost
surreal . . . each wing bent and unbent in impossible angles,
stretching and flexing more like a sheet of gelatin rather than
hard fibersteel. The process from hydraulic system power-up to
full flight-control certification had taken fifteen seconds.
     Next was an electrical system check. Total time for a complete
check of two generators, two alternators, one emergency gen-
erator, and two separate battery backup systems: three seconds.
James stayed immobile during the checking process, allowing
his senses to be overtaken by the rush of information.
     The aircraft itself was like a living thing. Personnel were not
allowed near the aircraft during the preflight because damaging
radar, electromagnetic and laser emitters were being activated
all around the aircraft at breakneck speed. The throttle advanced
and retarded by itself. The mission-adaptive wings continued
their unusual undulations, arching and bending so wildly it

seemed they would bend clean in half or twist right off the fu-
selage.
     Through it all James was constand informed about each sys-
tem's exact status and operation. He could no longer feel his feet
or hands, but he knew which circuit in the superconducting radar
was energized, and through that system he knew down to the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           67
millimeter how far Cheetah was parked from him. He knew the
position of Drearnstar's canards, the pressure of the fluid in the
primary hydraulic system and the RPMs of the ninth-stage en-
gine's turbine, just as one might know which way his toes were
pointing without seeing them or the way one picks up a pencil
and begins to write without consciously thinking about the ac-
tion. ANTARES had cut James off from monitoring his own
body, had relegated that function to a deeper portion of his brain
and had shifted his conscious mental capacity to the task of
operating a supersonic fighter plane.
     Suddenly, DreamStar ceased its wild preflight movements, and
the engine throttle returned to idle . . .
     "Storm One, TWo is in the green, ready for taxi," James
reported.
     "My radar's not even timed out," Patrick said to    JC. Pow-
ell. "How are you coming on your preflight?"
     "Few more minutes."
     "How can he accomplish an entire systems preflight in just a
few minutes? "
     "How long does it take you to wake up from a nap?"   
told him as he put the finishing touches on the preflight he had
begun long before. "How long does it take you to ask yourself
how you feel? That's what ANTARES is like. If something was
wrong with DreamStar, Ken would feel it just like he'd feel a
sprained ankle or a crink in his neck."
     Where Ken had banks of computers to check his avionics,
   manually had to "fail" a system to check a backup system,
or manually deflect Cheetah's control stick and have the wing

flex checked by a crew chief to verify the full range of motion
of the fighter's elastic wings. But after a few,minutes of setting
switches and checking off items in a checklist strapped to his
right thigh, he was ready to go.
     Patrick keyed his microphone: "Storm Control, this is Storm
One flight. Wo birds in the green. Ready to taxi
     General Elliott was now on top of Dreamland's portable con-
trol tower, a device fifty feet high that was set up and taken
down for each mission to confuse attempts by spy satellites to
pinpoint Dreamland's many disguised dry-lakebed runways.
Major Hal Briggs had just come up the narrow winding stairs
and handed Elliott another computer printout when Patrick made
his call.




68                        DALE BROWN
     "Those Cosmos peeping Toms start their first pass over the
range in fifteen minutes," Briggs said. "They've got our test
time scoped out almost to the minute. Those satellites will be
overhead every fifteen minutes for the next two hours-exactly
as long as this scheduled mission."
   "Another damned security leak. And I scheduled this mission
only two days, ago."
   "But those spy birds weren't up there two days ago," Briggs
said. "I checked. You mean-?"                                          I
   "I mean the Soviets took only two days-maybe less-to
launch two brand-new satellites just for this test flight, 'I Elliott
said. "Well, at least they won't catch our planes on the ground.
He picked up his microphone. "Storm Flight, this is Alpha.
Taxi to hold point and await takeoff clearance. Winds calm,
altimeter . . . " Elliott checked the meteorological data readouts
on an overhead console ". . . three-zero-zero-five. Taxi clear-
ance void time is one-zero minutes. Over."
   "Storm Flight copies ten minutes. On the move." Moments
later both fighters emerged from the satellite bluff and -fell in
behind a jeep with a large sign that read "FOLLOW ME." The
caravan moved quickly across an expanse of hard-baked sand to
another smaller satellite-bluff hangar that had been towed out to
the end of one of the disguised runways that crisscrossed Groom
Lake in the center of the Dreamland test range. Now Cheetah
and DreamStar pulled alongside each other and set their parking
brakes while technicians and specialists did a fast last-chance
inspection of each.
   "Pre-takeoff and line-up checks," Patrick said over inter-
phone.
   "Roger,"    replied. "In progress."
   "Storm T\vo ready for release," James suddenly radioed in.
   "Amazing," Patrick said to    "He's already done with a
pre-takeoff checklist twice as complicated as ours." He keyed          I
the UHF radio switch. "Standby, Storm Two."
   
"Roger.
   "MAW switch set to V-sub-X, max performance takeoff."
   read off the most critical switch positions for the mission-      I
adaptive-wing mode, and Patrick saw that the leading and trail-        I
ing edges of the wings had curved into a long, deep high-lift
airfoil.
   "Canard control and engine nozzle control switches set to
                     T_
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             69
AUTO ALPHA,'         continued.  "This will be a constant-alpha
takeoff."    JC. Powell always briefed his back-seater on the
takeoff, abort, and emergency procedures, even though he and
Patrick had flown together for almost two years and Patrick knew
the procedures as well as    JC. "Power to military thrust, brakes
off and power to max afterburner. We'll expect negative-Y push
after five seconds, with a pitch to takeoff attitude. After that we
monitor angle-of-attack throughout the climb and make sure we
don't exceed twenty-eight alpha in the climb-out. I'm looking to
break my previous record of a seventeen-hundred-foot takeoff
roll on this one . . . In case we don't get the push-down I'll
cancel auto-alpha and switch to normal takeoff procedures-
accelerate to one-sixty, rotate, maintain eight alpha or less, ac-
celerate to two-eight-zero knots indicated and come out of
afterburner. Same procedures if we lose vectored thrust after
takeoff . . . All right. " Powell slapped his gloved hands to-
gether, finished off the last few items of the checklist: "Circuit
breakers checked. Caution panel clear. Canopy closed and
locked. Seat belts and shoulder harnesses?"
     "On and on," Patrick intoned.
     "Checked up front. Lights set. Helmets, visors, oxygen mask,
oxygen panel."
     "On, down, on, set to normal."
     "Same here. Parking brakes released."    JC. touched a switch
on his control stick. "Takeoff configuration check."
     "Takeoff configuration check in progress, " responded a

computer-synthesized voice. It was the final step in Cheetah's
electronics array. A computer, which had monitored every step
of the pre-takeoff checklists being performed, would make one
last check of all systems on board and report any discrepancies.
          "Takeoff configuration check complete. Status okay. "
     "I already knew that, you moron,"    murmured to the
voice. He never relied on the computerized system although he
consulted it. It was, as he would frequently remind everyone
within earshot, another computer out to get him. "We're ready
to go, Colonel," he said.
     Patrick keyed the radio switch. "Storm Control, this is Storm
flight of two. Ready for departure."
     Hal Briggs, on the narrow catwalk of the portable tower, spoke
four words into a walkie-talkie. "Sand storm, one-seven."




70                       DALE BROWN
     His cryptic message activated a hundred security officers
spread out within some four-hundred square miles of the takeoff
area. They were the last line of defense aga ' inst unauthorized
intrusion or eavesdropping on the test that was about to begin.
Each man checked and rechecked his assigned sector with an
array of electronic sensors-sound, radar, heat, motion, electro-
magnetic-and once secure, reported an "all secure" by send-
ing a coded electronic tone. Only when all of the tones were
received would a "go" signal be sent to Briggs.
     Five seconds later he received that coded tone. "Good sweep,
General," he reported to Elliott. The general took one last look
at the satellite overflight schedule, picked up the mike:
     .'Storm flight of two, clear for unrestricted takeoff. Winds
calm. Takeoff clearance void time, five minutes. Have a good
one."
Patrick hit a switch, and the faint hum of the big gyrostabilized
video camera mounted on Cheetah's spine could be heard. "Ca-
mera's slaved on DreamStar,   ," he said. "Don't lose him."
     "A cold day in hell before any machine can outrun me."
     They saw DreamStar taxi a few feet forward just ahead of
Cheetah, until the tip of DreamStar's forward-swept right wing-
tip was just cutting into    JC.'s view of Ken James.
     "Comin' up,"    said. He brought the throttles forward,
keeping his toes on the brakes. Cheetah began to quiver, then
shake with a sound like the distant rumble of an earthquake.
     "Turn 'em loose, baby,"    murmured. He scanned his
engine-instrument readouts on the main display, running down
the graphic displays of engine RPM, fuel flow, nozzle and louver
position, turbine inlet temperature and exhaust gas temperature.
Each bar graph lined up in the normal range, everything right
smack in the green-both engines in full military power, one
hundred and nine percent of rated thrust, sixty thousand pounds
of power. His grip on the stick and throttles unconsciously tight-
ened "Turn 'em loose .

James also performed a last-second engine instrument check.
But he had no bar graphs to check out with his eyes. ANTARES
reported information not only through the visual nervous system
in the form of words, numbers and symbols that he could "see,
but, to avoid overload of the visual senses, also as sensations
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            71
that he could detect with his other senses. He could feel the
power of the engine as clear and as real as air inflating his lungs
or strength rippling down his arms. He knew in an instant that
the engine was at full military thrust. At a thought-command,
a computer that metered fuel flow performed a retrim of the
engine to compensate for pressure altitude and outside temper-
ature, which yielded a few hundred pounds extra thrust. The
engine-fuel trim would be accomplished every six seconds there-
after as DreamStar began its test flight, accomplished as easily
and as subconsciously as a person might ride a bike or drive a
car along a much-traveled highway.
     James briefly activated the search radar, which transmitted its
signals as visual images-no obstructions or targets within thirty
miles. A fast scan of VHF or UHF frequencies-no emergency
calls, air traffic control challenges, no abort call from the tower.
One quick check of hydraulic systems-all running normally.
Electrical-one generator on the engine running a bit hot. On a
mental suggestion, a digital flight-data recorder logged the time,
conditions and readouts on the left generator for the crew chiefs
to analyze after the flight.
     The check of the secondary systems, including the flight-data
recorder entry, had taken less time than it took    JC. Powell to
tighten his grip on his throttle quadrant.
     James now ordered the brakes to be released . . .
   saw DreamStar shoot forward. "Here we go," he said.
     Patrick took a firm grip on the steel "handlebars" surround-
ing the instrument panel in the aft cockpit. Without a stick,
throttle, or pedals, Patrick could do nothing during takeoff but
watch the engine instruments and hang on. He glanced at the

large yellow-and-black-painted handgrip between his legs un-
demeath the center of the instrument panel-the ejection han-
dle-and mentally measured the distance to it . . .
DreamStar shot forward like a dragster popping off the starting
line. James commanded the engine to max afterburner, increas-
ing thrust to well over eighty thousand pounds. At almost the
same instant he also commanded activation of the auto-alpha
Louvers on the top of the engine nozzle swung
                flight mode.
open, diverting one-third of the engine thrust diagonally upward,
compressing the rear main landing gear struts to their lowest




72                         DALE BROWN
                                                              1
position and allowing the nose-gear strut to extend fully.
DreamStar was now pointing ten degrees upward, in full un-
stick, takeoff attitude.
     The trailing edges of the two canards deflected downward.
The engine, coupled with the foreplanes, was now shoving
DreamStar's nose skyward-its computers controlling the ca-
nards kept the one-hundred-thousand-pound fighter from flip-
ping backward out of control. As speed increased and the canards
began to fly the nose, the louvers diverting the engine thrust
upward gradually swung downward, allowing the thrust to ac-
celerate the fighter and lift the tail off the runway. At one hun-
dred knots airspeed DreamStar's nose gear lifted off the runway.
The pitch attitude increased to thirty degrees, held just below
the stall by the computer-controlled foreplanes. At one hundred
and fifty knots DrearnStar lifted off the runway, and because the
wings, foreplanes and engine were commanded for maximum
lift, she rose like an elevator.
     In just over one thousand feet, the same distance a small
general-aviation plane used at takeoff, the fifty-ton jet fighter had
left the ground. Once airborne, thrust again was automatically
diverted to optimize climb performance. DreamStar was now a
rocket, being propelled skyward at well over twenty thousand
feet per minute. By the time it reached the end of the two-mile-
long camouflaged runway, it was over eight thousand feet above
the ground.
     JC. Powell's promise to keep up with DreamStar was kept for
about five seconds.
     He and McLanahan saw James give the signal to release
brakes. "Two good engines," McLanahan called out from the
aft cockpit as    eased both engines into max afterburner.
     "Roger. TWo good cookers."
     They saw DreamStar dash forward, then saw its forward fu-
selage jut into the sky and its canard's trailing edges snap
                                                       
down-
ward . . .
     Then DreamStar disappeared.
            JC. cursed. "Hang on. " But try as he did, Powell could not
match DreamStar's spectacular liftoff or climb rate. While
DreamStar's pitch, power, and thrust controls were automatic,
Cheetah's were mostly hand-controlled, relying on reaction time
rather than electronics to trim the aircraft. When DreamStar dis-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                              73
appeared from view,   's first reaction was to pull back on the
stick to try to follow. But Cheetah had not reached unstick speed,
and Cheetah's computerized canard pushed the nose down to the
runway to gain speed.
     "Command override, " the computerized voice suddenly in-
tedected as Cheetah's nose fell and the nosewheel struts com-
pressed. "Stall warning. "
     "Damn, too much,"    murmured, and let the nose fall a
few feet and watched the airspeed rise. "So much for a short
takeoff record." He let the airspeed rebuild to one hundred
eighty knots, then eased back on the stick. Cheetah glided gently
off the runway. This time, with plenty of "smash," Cheetah's
canards responded by pulling the nose higher into the air to take
advantage of the extra speed.
        touched the computer interactive control on his stick.
"Gear up."
     Three red "LANDING GEAR UNSAFE" lights illuminated, and
Patrick could feel the rumble as the two main wheels and the
nosewheel lifted through the slipstream. "Landing gear un-
safe, " the computerized voice said. Five seconds later: "Land-
ing gear up and locked. "
     "Gear's up," Patrick said. "TWo hundred knots. Passing six
thousand feet. "
        began pulling the engines one by one out of afterburner
to conserve fuel. "Left engine to MIL power . . . right engine
to MIL . . . Okay, where is he?"
     
"Four o'clock high, coming down-"
     D'reamStar had appeared out of nowhere; it was in a full-
power descent, nose aimed straight at Cheetah's canopy.
        jammed both throttles back into max afterburner and
began a hard roll to the fight.
          "Too late, he's gonna hit .
     Cheetah lunged forward but DreamStar kept on coming. Pat-
rick could now see DreamStar's canards, deployed diagonally
underneath the fighter's belly in their high-maneuverability po-
sition. He could even see DreamStar's thirty millimeter Vulcan
cannon muzzle screaming in closer and closer . . .
     But DreamStar did not hit. The closer it came, the more the
fighter began to flatten its flight path. It resembled a giant eagle
swooping in on its prey. The cannon muzzle never strayed off
Cheetah's canopy, even as DrearnStar reached its prey's alti-




74                        DALE BROWN
tude-it began to fly sideways, keeping the gun dead on target,
paralleling Cheetah's right turn. As Cheetah began to accelerate,
DrearnStar snapped out of its sideways flight path and maneu-
vered into a right rear quartering missile-attack aspect.
     "He hosed us," Patrick said. "He's at our six. He made a
gun pass on us on our climbout. He's in infrared missile-launch
position. Roll out and get him back into fingertip formation.
        rolled wings level, paused, then rocked his wings twice.
A few seconds later DrearnStar was tucked in on Cheetah's right
wing, so close that they could have had overlapping wingtips.
"Only got a glimpse of him,"    said, "but he looked like
he was haulin' ass. Tell him to stay with the ROE."
     It was a    JC. Powell trademark to push the rules of engage-
ment to the limits; now he was complaining about someone else
pushing the ROE. "He's in fingertip," Patrick reported to Pow-
ell. "I'm sending him to the tactical frequency." Patrick ex-
tended both hands in front of him, fists clenched, one on top of
the other, the signal to switch to the agreed-on scrambled tac-
tical frequency; hand signals, used as much as possible, pre-
vented eavesdropping. James nodded that he understood.
     On the new scrambled VHF frequency,    called, "Storm
flight, check in."
          "TWo," a monotone voice immediately replied.
     "Nice moves, Ken," Patrick said. "Wit remember the ROE.
No maneuvering and no closure rate greater than two hundred
knots within one mile of your target. I'd say you came close on
both.
     "Yes, Sir. " The metallic-sounding voice was James' altered
by the computer. It sounded almost sarcastic. Or was Patrick
imagining that?
     "Okay, forget it," Patrick said, imaging Powell's face.   
didn't like being upstaged. He wouldn't be sore because he had
been upstaged by a younger pilot but that he had been hosed by
a machine called ANTARES. "Ken, ready to start so7e dog-

fighting? "
          "Affirmative.
     "Roger. Lead will come left, heading three-one-zero to stay
inside our airspace. On roll-out, Ken, you are the fox. We'll
give you fifteen seconds, then we're coming after you. Block is
ten to fifty thousand feet, keep it under the Mach, please, or the
camera telemetry won't keep up with you. And stay within the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             75
     ROE, gents. We're all on the same team ... Lead, come left
heading three-one-zero. Head's up."
                11TWo's in."
        started a hard left turn to Patrick's assigned heading. The
roll was a bit more abrupt than it should have been but it didn't
seem to faze James-he stayed right in there, perhaps a few feet
farther out, but still in tight fingertip formation. The instant   
rolled out of his turn, DreamStar merely dropped straight down
out of sight.
     "There he goes," Patrick said. "Straight down, I can't see
him. "
     "Fifteen seconds," Powell complained dryly. "He could be
in the next state in fifteen seconds."
          "That's why he only gets five seconds. Go get 'em."
     Powell rolled inverted, then pulled hard on the stick. Cheetah
did a tight inverted turn, losing five thousand feet. Patrick was
straining against the G-forces shoving him deep into his seat,
trying to look up through the canopy to where he thought
DreamStar would be.
     I "Tally ho,"    sang out. "Coming up on our twelve
0 clock. Right where I thought he'd be." Patrick fought a wave
Of vertigo as he searched for DreamStar on radar. Normally the
back-seater on an F-15E fighter-bomber would use his radar and
process the attack for the pilot, but Patrick was only along as a
camera operator and observer-   would have to find and pro-
cess his own targets. But    already had very unconventional
help, and he quickly began working on his kill.
     
He hit the voice-command button. "Attack radar transmit,
target report. " Patrick watched as the attack radar went auto-
matically from "STANDBY" to "TRANSMIT" and began a
               wide-area scan.
     "Radar transmit, " the computer responded. Almost imme-
diately, the computer reported, "Radar contact, range fifteen
miles. "
          "Heads up display."
       's windscreen was filled with symbols and numbers,
seemingly floating in space. Unlike regular HUDs, heads-up dis-
plays-pieces of plate glass that reflected up from the instrument
console to the pilot-Cheetah's consisted of large banks of high-
resolution laser projectors that created three-dimensional images
that hung in space. Unlike a reflected HUD system, which relied




76                       DALE BROWN
on the pilot orienting himself directly behind the glass, Chee-
tah's laser-projected images were visible no matter how the pilot
moved in his seat, and even bright sunlight or glare on the wind-
shield could not wash the images away. The laser images showed
an icon of DreamStar with a diamond symbol around it, indi-
cating that Cheetah's attack radar was locked onto it. Columns
of numbers surrounding the icon showed DreamStar's heading,
airspeed, range and closure rate.
     "Target designate . . ." Powell said. Instantly micro-wattage
laser projectors in his helmet scanned his eyeballs, and a holo-
graphic circle and crosshairs was projected up onto the wind-
screen corresponding to exactly where he was lookin . He
centered the crosshairs on the icon, ". - . now."           9
"Target radar lock, " the computer reported.
     "Laser slave to radar,"    ordered.
     "Target laser lock. " A four-pointed star superimposed itself
on DreamStar's icon. Unlike Cheetah's attack radar, the laser
rangefinder was undetectable by any of DreamStar's radar-
detecting threat-warning receivers. Cheetah could carry a dozen
laser-guided ATM-12 Cougar hypervelocity missiles, which were
high-speed, nonexplosive, relatively inexpensive guided mis-'
siles. Fired from very short to very long ranges-it had no war-
head and therefore no minimum-range requirements-the Cougar
missile could be used to attack both air and ground targets,
destroying its target by sheer force of impact.
     DreamStar was still cruising along on the same heading. He
hadn't been detected-yet. As James drove in closer he would
eventually pick up Cheetah's radar emissionsJ    JC. had to control
his excitement and steady his voice to issue more commands to
the computer.
     "Radar standby."
     "Radar standby. " The laser rangefinder would now process
the entire kill without danger of detection.
        took a deep breath. "Arm laser missile."
     
"Arm laser missile, warning, practice missile armed. " The
weapons multi-function display showed Cheetah's ten weapons
stations, the belly-mounted Cougar missile rack illuminated with
the number 12 on it, signifying the number of hypervelocity
missiles remaining.
     "Launch laser missile."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           77
     "Launch ... Warning! Collision warning. Collision warn-
ing. "
        barely had time to react. DreamStar had just frozen in
mid-air, still on its original heading, and let Cheetah drive right
at him, chopping the distance between the two advanced fighters
from ten miles to practically zero in the blink of an eye. Powell,
with no choice, rolled hard behind DreamStar and dived past
him. The computer had processed the launch conimand, but
Powell doubted very much if he'd ever be credited with a "kill"
with a closure rate and maneuver like that.
     "God . . ." McLanahan breathed. He remembered how they
had used the same maneuver in the B-52s in the past. Especially
one particular B-52, his Old Dog Zero One, on that mission
over Russia that seemed like a million years ago. "Now I know
what it feels like to get sucked in . . . "
     "He knew we'd try that dive on him," Powell said. "He was
waiting for us. The minute he detected our attack radar was off
he knew we were committed. He just put DrearnStar on max
alpha hover and chopped his power." But    JC. didn't linger on
James' maneuver. He knew DreamStar could accelerate back to
combat speed and pull in right behind him just as fast as he had
slowed down. So    selected full afterburner and yanked the
nose skyward, throwing Cheetah into a near-vertical climb.
     "You mean ANTARES outguessed you?" Patrick taunted as
he clung to his handlebars in the steep climb.
        didn't take the bait. "That was my fault. I performed
like any pilot would if he sees a bogey below him. Well, enough
of that. No more predictability."
     
Fighting in the horizontal, DreamStar, it seemed, was un-
beatable-but DreamStar had only one engine and was less pow-
erful when fighting in the vertical. In spite of Cheetah's weight
penalties she was still a powerhouse when it came to dogfighting
in two dimensions.
     "Laser to standby. Radar to transmit," Powell spoke into the
voice-recognition computer. It acknowledged his commands and
gave presentations of his emitter and weapons status on the dis-
plays in the cockpit.
     Cheetah was nearing the top of the altitude block when   
suddenly rolled her into a wild backward loop. "I'm betting he
didn't have time to break out of that hover and follow us up
here. I'm betting he's still right where we left him . . . "




78     DAIE BROWN
            JC. had let the nose just barely fall through the horizon when
the holographic diamond again appeared on the windscreen.
"Tally ho. " He didn't wait for the computer to acknowledge the
radar lock-on but centered the electronic crosshairs on the icon.
"Target, now. Ann missile. Launch missile."
          The computer acknowledged. "Radar missile launch.
     "Fox two, fox two for Storm One," Powell called over the
interplane frequency. "Storm One descending through forty
thousand. Head's up, partner."
     "Fox four for Storm Two," came the reply. "Seven o'clock,
one-half mile .      And then the voice added, "Partner. Heads-
up.-
     Still inverted, Powell looked to his left, and right off his tail,
also inverted, following as if it was Cheetah's shadow, was
DreamStar!
          "But I've got a lock-on .
     "On a cloud of chaff," Patrick said. "When you made your
zoom, he mustve popped a dozen bundles of chaff and climbed
up with you and stayed on your tail. You just shot a Sparrow
missile into a bunch of tinsel."
        rolled wings-level and lowered his oxygen visor with an
exasperated snap. "The guy's right on today."
     Patrick checked the fuel readouts, did a quick check of his
equipment and warning lights. "Looks like forty minutes to go,  
     Powell gave Patrick a thumbs-up. "Storm flight station check,
lead's in the green with forty minutes to joker"-"joker" being
the code for the minimum fuel reserves necessary on a normal
training flight, about fifteen thousand pounds.
     "T\vo has twenty minutes, all systems nominal."
        said: "He's sucking gas. He's got a bigger jet, more
capacity, only one engine, but half the fuel."
     "And two kills," Patrick shot back. "We're not concerned
about saving fuel here,    I know you'd give every drop of
JP-4 we've got left to get one good shot at him."
     
"Then turn me loose, let's get to it."
     "I want you to be the fox this time,   ," Patrick said. "I
want him on the pursuit."
     "Fine, but open 'em. up this time. Let's see what the boy
wonder over there can really do."
        had a point. They had really not pushed DreamStar to
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             79
the edge of the envelope. And if there was anybody who could
really force DreamStar to perform, it was    JC. Powell.
     "All right,    JC., you got it. But don't break the bubble .
Patrick lined it out. "This time lead will be the fox. We're com-
ing up on the southeast comer of the area. Lead will come left
heading three-zero-zero toward the center. TWo, give us fifteen
full seconds-then start your pursuit. Stay heads-up. Lead's
coming left .
            JC. Powell turned hard left. Patrick had time to grab hold
of his handlebars before being squashed into his seat by the turn.
   stayed on the northwesterly heading for five seconds, then
rolled inverted and pulled the nose earthward, pushing the throt-
tles to full power, aiming the nose directly for Lookout Peak
twenty thousand feet below.
     Patrick watched as the altimeter-readout clicked down faster
than he'd ever seen it before. "I swear, Powell, you have got to
have some kind of death wish"-Patrick's attention was drawn
to a blinking red warning light near the radar altimeter, which
read the distance between the ground and the belly of the jet.
II Watch it!"
     Powell checked his threat receivers-no signals from any-
where. He began to level off, pointing Cheetah toward a wide
cleft in the jagged peaks below. "Colonel, if I stay at high al-
titude with DreamStar he'll hose me again. Let's see how he
does in the rocks." He hit the voice-recognition computer
switch-"attack radar standby," and threw his jet into a
screeching right turn, arcing around the rugged peaks. "Fifteen
seconds-he should be in his turn toward the northwest by now. "

Powell selected a flat valley in the desert, staying as close to the
rocks as possible. Patrick stared out the top of the canopy ex-
pecting the tops of Cheetah's twin tails to scrape along the face
of those rocks any second.
        rolled out of his steep turn, passing only a few hundred
yards from a lone craggy butte. "You're going to wait down
here for him to come after you?"
     "Not exactly, sir. " He steered Cheetah into the narrow valley
he had selected, set the autopilot, then began searching the skies
far overhead. "Wondering why I selected thirty-nine thousand
feet back there?"
     "It's a higher altitude . . . better fuel economy-"
     "Contrails.




80                       DALE BROWN
     Patrick followed    JC.'s pointing finger out the top oi the can-
opy. Far above, they saw a thin white line against the dark blue
sky, heading northwest. "You think I never listen to the morning
weather briefings?"
          "You're always asleep."
     "I always manage to catch the contrail forecasts. The center
of the vapor level was thirty-nine thousand feet. That's where
we left him and that's where he is."
     Patrick took a firm grip on the handlebars.    had aimed
Cheetah for the center of the southern ridge of the Shoshone
Mountains, in the center of Dreamland's southern restricted area,
and now was moving the throttles up to full afterburner. Ten
seconds later they were at Mach one and building.....
Attack radar on . . . spherical scan . . . radar off.....
     James checked in seconds over a half-million cubic miles of
airspace for Cheetah. His superconductor technology allowed
the power of a standard fighter's nose radar to be transmitted
into an antenna the size and thickness of a playing card so that
the antennae could be spread out all around DreamStar's skin
instead of located only in the nose cone. A thousand of such
micro-miniature radar arrays made a complete spherical sweep
of the sky within two hundred miles of the aircraft. But except
for commercial and civilian aircraft outside Dreamland's re-
stricted airspace, the radar scan came up negative. Cheetah had
disappeared!
     ANTARES immediately suggested a data link with Dream-
land's powerful ground-based surveillance radar, but James
squelched that idea. Although DreamStar could integrate data
from a variety of outside sources, he'd been ordered not to use
them-and McLanahan could detect the link with his equipment
on Cheetah. Never mind, he wouldn't nee-d outside help to find
Cheetah.
     A pause as ANTARES weighed alternatives to an outside
data-link, then suggested a ground-map scan.
     
Nothing. The Shoshone Mountain range was bright and prom-
inent directly below, surrounded by dry lakebeds and non-
reflecting sand. DreamStar's high-resolution radar picked out
power lines, roads and tiny buildings scattered all across the
desert floor. Nothing moving faster. than sixty miles an hour
anywhere within range.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           81
     James shut down the scan. Cheetah was obviously hiding in
the Shoshone Mountains somewhere, probably ridge hopping
among the rocks, staying in the radar clutter as much as possi-
ble. But this was supposed to be an air-to-air attack. Powell was
screwing up big-time.
     James mentally ordered another spherical radar sweep of the
skies. McLanahan would probably direct Powell to climb out of
the low-level regime, and then he'd-
     ANTARES broke in with its warning: "Radar contact, di-
rectly below and climbing. "
     ANTARES suggested a roll and a ten-G push-over to' an emer-
gency descent. But just as James ordered the maneuver he heard
on the interplane channel, "Fox four, Zero-One, three-niner
thousand. Underneath you, Ken. " Powell had already started
shooting . . .
     What was happening? Why didn't he see Cheetah coming?
The questions brought spikes of pain that shot through his head
and reverberated through his body. For the first time that James
could remember, DreamStar had no options. The pain intensi-
fied as he continued polling the database, hunting for answers-
Abruptly the confusion that had lasted only a few seconds
ended as DreamStar's sensors continued to track Cheetah. Sud-
denly the pain in James' head disappeared and he found himself
presented with a series of maneuvers.
     DreamStar inverted and began a tight descending vertical roll.
If Cheetah was in a high-speed climb underneath him,   
would be out of airspeed at the top of the climb and would have
to go inverted and begin a descent to regain lost airspeed. Now

DrearnStar had the power advantage. All it had to do was com-
plete the roll and Cheetah should be dead ahead and directly in
his gun sights.
     But as James hit the bottom of the roll the G-forces reached
their peak. Air tubules in the legs of James' flight suit inflated,
which helped force blood back into the upper part of his bQdy,
but it wasn't fast enough. James' vision went to a gray-out as
blood was forced out of his brain, then darkened completely as
he lost consciousness.
     ANTARES detected the elevated blood pressure and the in-
terruption of theta-alpha. The computer immediately lowered
the back of James' ejection seat so that his head was below heart
level to improve blood flow back to the brain. Oxygen shot into

A




82                       DALE BROWN
his face mask as he fought to regain theta-alpha. With his face
mask flooded with oxygen, his breathing was slowed, making
him feel light-headed.
     It took a few seconds more for James to take control of AN-
TARES again. He countermanded the computer's suggestion to
raise the seat upright-he would need several more hard turns
before he could get within firing range of his adversary and he'd
be in less danger of blacking out if the seat-back stayed down.
He began a hard seven-G turn back toward Cheetah, but by then
he had lost his advantage. Cheetah was in a dive at nearly Mach
one.
     DreamStar pulled in six miles behind Cheetah and James tried
for a radar lock, but Cheetah executed a vertical scissors and
darted away-even though Cheetah did not have DreamStar's
sophisticated high-maneuverabilities her large foreplanes and
temporary speed advantage allowed her to execute such a move.
DreamStar easily performed the same inverted vertical scissors
to pursue. Cheetah had moved out to nine miles by then, and
James ordered the throttle into min-afterburner in the descent to
catch up. With the throttles up in the steep descent, the lighter,
aerodynamically cleaner DreamStar fighter quickly regained the
speed advantage.
     Closure rate five hundred knots, ANTARES reported. James
"heard" the stream of computer-generated reports as if he was
listening to the sound of his own breathing. Range seven miles.
Action: High-maneuverability configuration, maintain speed ad-
vantage, ANTARES infrared pursuit, deactivate attack radar, la-
ser lock, attack, close to gun range, attack, constant AOA wing
mode, maintain gun range, attack. The messages began to re-
peat, informing him of altitude, closure rate, weapons status,
external heating, stress factors, power demands, air-conditioning
faults. James accepted ANTARES' engagement suggestions-
the computer had already decided how the battle would be fought
several minutes in the future-why not let it go?
     
Using its infrared tracker and laser rangefinder, ANTARES
had predicted the moves Cheetah could make in its present flight
attitude and airspeed and had devised an attack for those ma-
neuvers. There were also reversals Cheetah could make, and
ANTARES had computed how to defeat them. The final moves
of this aerial chess game were now being played. Cheetah was
making a hard left turn, but DreamStar had the cutoff angle and
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           83
the power advantage. DreamStar did not need to snap over in a
hard bank to make the kill-her high-maneuverability canards
and strake flaps pulled the laser rangefinder onto target and held
it there. Cheetah tried another hard turn, this time to the right,
but the XF-34s guns were locked on solid now-Cheetah was
just burning up airspeed in each high-G turn. DreamStar was
flying "uncoordinated," sideways and downward at the same
time-
     Suddenly James heard McLanahan over the interplane chan-
nel: "Storm Flight, knock it off, knock it off! Storm Two, pull
up! I I
     Ground-map radar, James immediately ordered. The phased-
array radars snapped on . . . revealing a sheer rock cliff no more
than a thousand feet away and straight ahead. Cheetah had flown
directly at two tall buttes, diving and banking away just before
reaching them. ANTARES faithfully computed the deadly
news-DreamStar would impact in exactly eight-tenths of a sec-
ond.
     Which was like eight minutes to the ANTARES computer.
James canceled high-maneuverability mode and threw Dream-
Star into a hard left bank. DreamStar's large canards and
computer-controlled rudders kept her nose from pushing in the
opposite direction in a hard turn, and she slipped between
the twin towering buttes. ANTARES reported the data from the
ground-mapping radars: DreamStar had missed the right butte
by eight feet.
     James cleared the left butte and rolled to the right, only to

find Cheetah directly in his gunsights less than two miles away.
He quickly lined up on him, switched to his twenty-millimeter
cannon to activate the gun camera and called, "Fox four, Storm
Two, your six-o'clock."
     "I said knock it off!" McLanahan ordered. "Storm Flight,
route formation, station check. Weapons on standby. Move."
     James raised his ejection seat back out of the reclined anti-G
setting and activated the radars that would help keep DreamStar
in formation with Cheetah. "Two has twelve minutes to joker,
all systems nominal."
          "Lead's in the green, nine minutes," Powell reported.
     "Storm Flight, right turn heading zero-four-three, direct bea-
con red five at ten thousand feet. " Powell executed the turn, and
DreamStar stayed with him in route fon-nation.




84                        DALE BROWN
     "What the hell happened, Ken?" McLanahan said as they
rolled out on the new heading. "You passed out of theta-alpha
for a few seconds but you pressed the attack anyway. We watched
you side-slip behind us right into that butte. You almost got
yourself killed and destroyed--
     "I had contact with the ground at all times," James lied. "I
was conscious during the entire attack, except at the bottom of
my loop when ANTARES took over. I had clearance between
the obstructions. " Another lie-James would not soon forget the
rivulets of ice and the lichens he saw growing on the sides of
the rock . . . he was that close to it. If Patrick hadn't yelled
out . . . "I had the last shot after passing between the buttes," he
insisted, "and I processed the shot before you called--
     "Save it for the debriefing," Patrick said, "and the data tapes.
Storm Flight, fingertip formation. Prepare for penetration and
approach. "
     DreamStar and Cheetah were now to demonstrate their land-
ing abilities. Powell redeemed himself for his poor takeoff.
Keeping Cheetah in perfect balance, he guided the fighter to a
pinpoint landing and stop within five hundred feet-he could
have landed Cheetah on an aircraft carrier without the use of a
tail hook or arresting cables. But DreamStar's landing was even
better-it was as if the one hundred-thousand-pound fighter was
a bee alighting on a flower. The combination of the large ca-
nards, mission-adaptive wings in their long-chord, high-lift con-
figuration and thrust-vectored nozzles, all controlled by the
fastest "computer" extant-the human brain-and James had
DreamStar stopped within four hundred feet of touchdown, a
hundred feet better than Cheetah.
Hal Briggs replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to General
Elliott, who was watching the landing through binoculars from
on top of the portable control tower. "Those Russian birds are
still several minutes from their flyby," he said. "Good thing our
guys landed early-"
     
"The hell it is. They even knew when the test was supposed
to terminate. If they had landed on time the satellite would've
been right there taking pictures and there'd be nothing we could
do about it." He ran his fingers through silver hair that, Briggs
noted, seemed to grow thinner every year. He turned toward
Briggs. "I want you to pull out all the stops, Major." The tower
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            85
controllers as well as Briggs caught Elliott's ominous tone. "Do
whatever you have to do to find the leak on this installation. You
have an unlimited budget, unlimited resources, and very little
damn time. Search anywhere and everywhere. Go off-base with
federal authorities to investigate-I'll back up whatever you do.
I want answers, Briggs. Fast."
     Briggs knew that at least off-base activities needed huge
amounts of cooperation, hard to come by, from state and federal
law enforcement. He needed some clarification, but now wasn't
the time to ask for it.
     Elliott thumbed the microphone on the command frequency.
"Storm Flight, taxi without delay to parking. Over."
                   "Lead.
     Two.
Ken James had been disconnected from his fighter and hoisted
out of DreamStar's cockpit. He was wheeled to an air-conditioned
transfer van that drove McLanahan, Powell and him to the proj-
ect headquarters, where the special flight suit was removed from
James' sweat-soaked body. The two test pilots went to the locker
room nearby, said not a word to each other. They were dressing
when Patrick McLanahan walked up to them. "Both of you are
off flying status as of right now."
     James exploded. "What?" There was panic mixed in with
outrage, but it belonged to Maraklov the agent, not to Ken James
the pilot. Lately Maraklov had felt his alter ego taking over-
this pronouncement jolted him back, some . . .
     "There's a difference between evaluating the aircraft and'
pushing the limits to the danger level. You two cross it every

time you fly together. I'm grounding you both until I figure out
what to do about it."
     "Then give me another chase pilot," James said quickly.
"Canceling all flying isn't the answer, Colonel."
     "You're assuming that Powell is the problem," and he started
to walk away.
     "There are a dozen guys who can fly Cheetah," James said
behind him. McLanahan turned. "There's only one who can fly
DreamStar. Me." James realized how this sounded and tried to
soft pedal .    "The project doesn't have to suffer, sir. I think
we can continue . . . "
     "Listen, hotshot, I've got six guys training to fly DreamStar.




86                        DALE BROWN
I'd rather put this project on hold for eight months until they're
ready than risk that machine and this project. You read me?"
     " Yes, sir. Sorry . - . " Six guys, eight months ... More of
a shock ... time was running out ...
     Meet me in my office at two o'clock, both of you. The data
tapes should be ready to review by then. General Elliott might
be interested in what they show." @
Patrick McLanahan was waiting for an elevator up to his office
when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned irritably. "Yeah?"
     "Charming," Wendy Tork said. "Next time I'll do that with
a pole."
     He managed a grin and kissed her.
     "Long day, Colonel?"
     "You could say so."
          "You had an early morning go, didn't you?"
     The elevator arrived, and Wendy cut off the exchange, know-
ing that Patrick would not talk about his project in an unsecure
elevator. She waited until they returned to Patrick's office and
he closed the door. An electronic grid in the walls and floor,
she knew, would activate when that door closed, which would
offset wiretapping or any other electronic eavesdropping.
     He dropped into his chair. "I've got two pilots butting heads.
     "I like them both, but I can see both of them being very
competitive.
     "At least James comes right out and says it. He's an excellent
pilot, and he's the only one right now who can fly DreamStar.
   sits there utting on an innocent and contrite act, but he's
as big a show-off as James. " He rubbed his eyes. "I can't afford
to lose either one of them, but . . . "
          'What will happen if you transfer either one of them?"
     'I -can get someone to fly Cheetah-hell, I've got enough
hours, I could probably fly the thing. If I ground James, the
project gets set back six months, maybe more. I told him I have
people training on DreamStar. Who can be sure when or if they'll

be ready? I exaggerated some to take him down a bit. Brad
Elliott will hit the roof. The security leaks-or what seem like
security leaks-are already turning him sour."
     ' 'Are you saying you'll have to transfer or reassign    if
they don't get along?"
     "I suppose. But Ken knows he's the only guy who can fly
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            87
DrearnStar. That would be like giving him a veto in almost every
other matter that comes up during this project from here on. I
ended up grounding both of them, until I have a chance to talk
to the general."
     Wendy smiled. "Eight years ago you were just a captain,
responsible only for a radar scope in the belly of a B-52 bomber.
Your big worry was your next emergency procedures test.
Now, you're a lieutenant colonel in charge of a hundred men
and women and two of the hottest jets there are . . . We'll put
it all on hold for a few hours. I'm here to take you to lunch. You
probably don't have time to take the helicopter to Nellis, do you?
General Elliott has got to have some decent restaurants built out
in this desert."
     McLanahan grabbed his flight cap. "We've got time to take
the Dolphin into Nellis if we hurry. I'm not expected back un-
til-" The desk phone rang. He looked at it, then at Wendy.
                 "Let's go."
     She smiled, shook her head. "You'd hate me in the morning.
     He picked it up@ "McLanahan.....          Hi, Sergeant Clinton . . .
The data tapes are ready now?.....    Yeah, we had some maneu-
vers that may have overstressed the canards . . . how bad? All
right, I'll be right down." He dropped the phone back on its
cradle. "I knew it. My two hotshots may have bent DreamStar
some. I've got to take a look and prepare a report before this
afternoon's meeting. " He circled his desk, gave Wendy a hug
and a kiss. "Rain check?"
     "Anytime." Especially on flying days, she reminded herself,
dates were always crap shoots. She watched as Patrick hurried

off.
          "Wendy?
     She turned and found Captain Kenneth James standing behind
her. His bright blue eyes sparkled, as usual. He was a head taller
than Patrick, less broad-shouldered but still athletically built.
They looked at each other for a moment. Be honest, Wendy
Tork, she told herself, Ken James is a charmer. Plus he has a
magnetism, a sort of masculine grace, and he's not arrogant or
cocky or condescending. He also had this way of making a
woman feel special, as if he had been waiting all his life just to
say hello to her.
     She had met him eighteen months earlier when he first joined
the High Tech Advanced Weapons Center at Dreamland. He




88                        DALE BROWN
wasn't like many of the other jet jockeys in and around Nellis
Air Force Base. Getting an assignment to HAWC was the top
achievement for any young officer, and most new test pilots
seemed not to be able to let you forget it. Not Ken James. He
took the time not only to get to know senior officers but non-
commissioned officers as well. He seemed just as interested in
the engineering and technical parts of the job as the flying. He
quickly established himself as the best pilot at HAWC . . . a
scholar of flying and aerospace, not just a participant. Quite a
package. And no wonder they had become good friends.
  "If you're looking for the old man      . ." he paused at the
intentional slip, smiling winningly       "I mean, the colonel,
he just left."
  "I know. "'
  Maraklov understood, as everybody did,  the special relation-
ship between Wendy Tork and the colonel. Which, of course,
was the chief reason for making her his friend. And it was not
exactly hard duty. Tall, good figure, brunette with hints of gray,
still foxy for a woman going on forty. But be careful, he re-
minded himself. And helped himself do that by remembering
the research on her. A considerable dossier: Wendy Tork, Ph.D.,
electrical engineering. Chief of DOPY5, the cryptic office sym-
bol of HAWCs Director of Penetration Aids, Project Y5-the
Megafortress Plus, the super-bomber and strategic escort battle-
ship. This woman had developed many of the twenty-first-century
electronic jammers used on American military aircraft, includ-
ing new jammers that could electronically defeat infrared- and
laser-guided missiles. She had built a jammer the size of a toaster
that could disrupt much of the known electromagnetic spectrum
for thirty miles in every direction. Considered a sort of outsider
in HAWC because of her former independent contractor status,
she tended, except for the colonel, to keep to herself. Scuttlebutt
said that started after the mysterious Old Dog mission that she
and most of the brass at HAWC were involved with eight years

before. It seemed to have affected her more than the others.
     In any case, possibilities here, he had decided, for a special
source of information. "How about lunch?" he said easily.
     "Do you have time? Don't you have a meeting this after-
noon? "
     "I think they'd rather not have me at this particular meeting,"
he said, pretending embarrassment. "I'm sort of in the dog-
                      t
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             89
house. But it's my lucky day. I don't have to be back until late,
and I have a pretty lady to share lunch with. If she'll give me a
break.
     For a moment she hesitated, then decided why not .              they
were, after all, friends.
If there was room on one of the shuttle helicopters that flew
hourly to and from Dreamland, it was open for anyone at HAWC
to hop a ride for the twenty-minute flight back to the "main-
land," as people from Dreamland called Nellis Air Force Base.
But Maraklov had a different plan. When he climbed aboard the
Dolphin transport helicopter he went forward and spoke briefly
with the crew. Then as the helicopter touched down on the broil-
ing tarmac at Nellis, Ken touched Wendy's arm as she began to
unbuckle her seat belt.
     "We're not there yet," was all he said.
The helicopter lifted off once again and sped northwest. Ten
minutes later it touched down on another military-looking air-
field. As they left the chopper Wendy noticed the helicopter
landing pad had been painted with a stylized Indian thunderbird
symbol.
     "What's this?
"One of the best-kept secrets in the Air Force," he told her.
'Indian Springs Air Force Auxiliary Field. This is where the Air
Force Aerial Demonstration Team, the Thunderbirds, work and,
practice even though the unit is based out at Nellis. You know,
the Thunderbirds do a lot of demonstrations for the brass and

foreign dignitaries here-not to mention that the Thunderbird
pilots get the best of everything, being on the road so much-
so Indian Springs is an oasis for them out in the middle of no-
where. The base is open to all military personnel, but that's not
widely advertised. I knew the Thunderbirds were gone so I asked
the Dolphin pilot to get us permission to land."
They walked past immaculately groomed desert landscaped
yards and freshly painted buildings to a Spanish-style stucco
building with red tile veranda and cane-ceiling fans. They were
seated at a table on the veranda.
"I've been coming to this area for eight years," Wendy said,
and I've been at HAWC for three years, and I never knew
about this, or only vaguely if at all. Patrick and I are both so
busy




90                       DALE BROWN
     He nodded. "The Dolphin pilot enacts a toll for side trips-I
think he's got a Chris Craft on Lake Mead that needs refinishing.
Guess who'll get asked to help."
     "Well, it's delightful and I'm glad we came."
     "You'll have to tell Patrick about it, if he doesn't know."
     "Believe me, I will. I know how important his project is to
him, to all of you, but I do wish he'd slow down just a little.
Actually I don't know if he'd take advantage of a place like this
even if he knew about it."
          "Sure he would ... but he is a busy man."
     Over lunch he said, "Most people here thought you two would
be married by now. You've known each other for seven years?
Eight? "
     ' 'Eight," Wendy said. "Ever since the Old Dog flight ...
God, has it been that long?"
     "That must have been some mission," Ken said. "I've heard
about it, of course, but mostly scuttlebutt. I'd like to get the
whole story from you someday."
          She only nodded, smiling briefly.
     "Well, the colonel joined HAWC a short time after that proj-
ect . . . ended. What about you? You didn't join HAWC until
recently, a little before I came here."
     "I still had a civilian position in my own laboratory. Much
as I wanted to, I couldn't just leave or get reassigned to Drearn-
land. I started to work more closely with General Brad Elliott
and his group, but my home base was still in Palmdale. I visited
every chance I could, but Patrick and I were still apart. When
they announced the reactivation of the Old Dog project I saw
my chance and got assigned to HAWC permanently. What I
didn't expect was that Patrick was going to shoot up like he did
under General Elliott. Don't misunderstand. I knew Patrick was
good, very good, but when I first met him he was, believe it or
not , thinking about leaving the Air Force and working his fa
mily's business in Sacramento. It's hard to get promoted by just

being the best navigator around. And that's all I thought he
wanted to be. I was wrong. In two years he went from being
just another non-technical test-flight crewmember to a project
director. He got promoted so fast you'd think there was a time
warp. One year after becoming director of his first program he
was made chief of a full-blown flight-test development program
with state-of-the-art hardware. In another five or six years he'll
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           91
have his first star and probably be chief of HAWC soon after."
Through most of this she'd been looking down into her napkin.
Now she looked up abruptly. "God, if I sound like I'm com-
plaining, I'm not. Or I don't mean to. Just for the record, I
happen to love McLanahan even more than I respect him ...
Okay, enough of me, what about you? There's an army of ladies
in Vegas waiting to snag someone like you. When are you going
to ta ke the fall?
     He laughed. "The right woman is hard to find, even in the
sun belt."
"But you're having a good time looking, right?"
     "I confess ... I'm not suffering." It had gone well, very
well, he thought.
The waiter reappeared with the check and a message.
"Helicopter's on its way," he said. "We should head back."
     As they waited on the helicopter landing pad a few minutes
later, Wendy took a deep breath of warm yucca-scented desert
air and looked out at the mountains surrounding the tiny base.
"I enjoyed it, Ken. The lunch and the talk. I haven't gone on
like this for a long time. Thanks."
"We'll do it again some time."
     "I don't want you to spend too many weekends refinishing
some chopper pilot's boat. "
"Believe me," he said, watching her, "it's worth it."
     Yes, she could be another source of information . . . on the
new ECM gear, for example.




t





East Las Vegas, Nevada
Wednesday, 10 June 1996, 2007 PDT (2307 EDT)
MARAKLOV DIDN'T RETURN to his condominium in the east Las
Vegas subdivision of Frenchman Mountain until late that night.
The early start and the intense flying had taken their toll, and
the lectures he had received from McLanahan and Elliott dur-
ing the long debriefing didn't help.
     He locked his car in the carport, took his briefcase, and
trudged upstairs to his second-story entranceway. He wasn't able
to get on the Dolphin helicopter back to Nellis and had to bump
along in the electric shuttle bus from Dreamland to Nellis. Then
twenty hot, steamy minutes on the freeway just to go four exits
in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Maybe a cold shower, a cold beer,
a casino run.
     He punched his code in the lock's keypad. The door was al-
ready unlocked. He pushed it open a crack. No lights on. The
lights were programmed to come on in the evening when the
door was opened. Someone had overridden the programming.
Someone was inside his apartment . . .
     All he had for a weapon was his briefcase. Maybe he should
have gotten out of there and called the cops, but the less he had
to do with them, the better. He reached through the door and
flicked on the lights. He strained against the faint street noises
behind him but heard no sounds from inside. He flung the door
open, letting it bang on the doorstep. Still no sounds.
     He slowly crossed the threshold, looked down the hallway
into the living room. Stereo, TV, VCR all in place. Of course,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            93

a burglar was the last thing he was worried about-he'd almost
welcome that. There were others more dangerous.
     He moved to the fireplace, picked up a poker and made a fast
search of the apartment. Nothing. No sign of forcible entry,
nothing missing. One more place to check.
     He stood up on a stool and removed six books from the top
shelf of the built-in bookshelves in the living room. On the back
wall of the bookshelf he pressed on a board and a section sprang
open about a half inch, revealing a panel hiding the steel door
to a small wall safe. He had installed the safe himself shortly
after moving into the apartment-one of the precautions he had
taken years earlier, along with carefully arranging things in his
drawers to help detect intruders, when he got his assignment to
Las Vegas.
     Instead of opening the hidden panel fully, he reached behind
the panel with one finger and disconnected a wire leading from
the door inside to the combination safe behind the panel. The
wire was connected to an incendiary device inside the safe; if
the door had been opened more than a finger's width the device
inside the safe would incinerate the contents. The safe obviously
had not been-
     A faint, lingering odor. Cigarettes, or an old stale cigar. He
did not smoke. He turned . . .
     "Sloppy of you, Captain James. " The voice came from be-
hind him. He braced along the wall. A quick leap, a hard push
and-
     He heard the metallic click, and another voice: "Come down
from there, Maraklov, before you hurt yourself, or worse."
     Slowly he replaced the trip wire on the safe's hidden panel,
closed it and stepped off the stool. Turning, he saw two men,
one standing directly behind him holding a weapon, the other
man seated on his sofa. He noted the weapon-not a pistol but
a taser, a gun that shot small electrified darts. The darts, con-
nected to the taser gun by a thin wire, were charged with twenty
thousand volts at low amperage with the press of a trigger, caus-

ing instant paralysis. The dart only buried itself a fraction of an
inch into the skin, but with a strong electric current from the
taser short-circuiting the victim's nervous system, he was pow-
erless to pull or shake it free. A potent weapon-quiet, effective
but non-lethal. That last encouraged Maraklov. They wanted
him, but they didn't want him dead.




94                        DALE BROWN
     He turned to the man on the couch. Henry Kramer was fif-
tyish, short, bulky but not fat, thin dark hair and beady eyes.
He was dressed in a dark ill-fitting suit with a thin dark tie,
looking too much a caricature of what he was-a conniving So-
viet KGB agent, far more serious and dangerous than he looked.
     "What are you doing here, Kramer? " Maraklov tried to
control his anger as he also looked at the younger man with
the taser. "Put that away. Look, you people are crazy to come
here-"
     Moffitt, the younger agent, lowered the taser but did not put
it down. "We were worried about you, Captain James. And you
should have locked our door before searching your apartment.
We not only were able to get behind you, but found out where
your safe is. You seem to be getting complacent . . . "
     Maraklov forced himself to answer. He locked the front door
closed the blinds and began replacing books on the shelf. -No@
what are you really doing here?"
     "Captain," Kramer said, "people are displeased. The infor-
mation stream you have been supplying has become a trickle."
     "I told you why in my last report. Perhaps you've not had
time to read it. They're cracking down on security at HAWC like
never before. Major Briggs has been given the widest leeway to
stop security leaks, and they've been promised full cooperation
from the federal judges in Las Vegas. That means not only
searches of military property at Dreamland and Nellis but legal
searches of private non-military residences too. They could even
get, probably have gotten, authority for wiretapping, no-knock
searches and arrests at any time. I thought it was Briggs in here
already. "
     "We have connections at the federal courthouse," Kramer
said. "If there has been cooperation between the military and
the federal courts I'm sure' an anonymous tip to the Las Vegas
papers will stir things up. A report about widespread military
authority to search private residences? They go crazy over such

things here. Especially the press. Our perestroika caught some
of it." Kramer studied Maraklov. "Are you saying tightened
security is your reason for not supplying one photograph of the
XF-34A fighter plane or its components in over three weeks?"
     "They haven't let me be alone with the plane or its technical
data since then. I was able to be alone with a set of the aircrafts
technical layouts a week ago but discovered an unusual change
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            95
in the schematics that I didn't understand ... a dogtooth mod-
ification to the wings-"
     "A what?"
     "A special wing design that creates two differently perfon-n-
ing wing structures on one surface. On a mission-adaptive wing
like DreamStar's, the dogtooth might increase its capabilities
twenty percent."
     "A significant development indeed," Moffitt said. "Why
didn't you report this? If they left you alone with the specifica-
tions why did you not photograph them?"
     James turned to him. "Because I think it's a fake. Or it could
be. A plant. A trick. They may want me to see the dogtooth
wing-and then they want to see if the dogtooth shows up on a
satellite photograph of a Russian fighter at Ramenskoye or in a
supposedly secure telephone message to Moscow. The dogtooth
looks like a notch in the wings and is visible on satellite pho-
tography. It's not just me. I'm sure they showed something dif-
ferent to each of the key players-a tail modification drawing to
Powell, a nozzle mod to Butler . . . Major Briggs probably
cooked up dozens of these tests for security leaks. Mine was the
dogtooth . . . "
          "You are sure these are fakes?"
     Maraklov had to pause, even though he knew the hesitation,
no matter how slight, would make Kramer and Moffitt suspi-
cious. Then: "No, I'm not sure. The dogtooth design has been
incorporated in numerous advanced fighters-it would be pos-
sible for our designers to use a dogtooth wing without stealing

the idea from the Americans. But I'm sticking to my hunch: I
think the dogtooth wing is a fake. And that's why I didn't report
it. "
     "But if it is not," Moffitt said, "our own designers will be
that much farther behind in our designs. Don't you think you
should have at least reported this finding? It would have alerted
our agents that Dreamland has stepped up counter-espionage and
security effects. Don't you think that is worth a report?"
     "You people don't seem to get it. If I report this stuff as soon
as it happens it makes it that much easier for Briggs and his men
to hunt down the source of the leaks. I won't jeopardize my
cover or anyone else's over something like this. I must be able
to choose my own time, place and method of reporting activity
and transferring information."




                                                                 T_
96                        DALE BROWN
     "It seems you are becoming a bit squeamish, Captain James,"
Moffitt said.
     "You work with Harold Briggs and half the military security
police breathing down your neck all day .
          "That's enough. Both of you."
     Moffitt pressed. "I think Captain Kenneth James is becoming
comfortable in his surroundings," Moffitt said. "He makes a lot
of money, he has a nice apartment, attractive American women.
Could it be he does not want to risk losing his rich life for the
Soviet people?" Moffitt suddenly switched to Russian. "Re-
member, Captain? Your people? The ones you swore to protect?
The ones who gave you this mission-"
     "Speak English, dammit," Maraklov ordered. Anger and
confusion were in his voice. Moffitt looked at him with some
surprise.
     "Is it possible," Moffitt said in Russian, "you don't under-
stand what I'm saying? Or is this just a part of your little game,
Comrade Maraklov-?"
     "Don't use that name. " Maraklov lowered his voice, but the
anger was in his face. "My name is Kenneth James. I'm from
Rhode Island. I'm an officer in the United States Air Force--
"You are Andrei Maraklov, II Moffitt pressed in Russian. "You
are a Russian KGB deep-cover agent assigned to the top-secret
Dreamland research laboratory in the United States. You--
"I said speak English . . . neighbors, they could hear you-"
     "Can you hear me? What 'are you . . . an American or a
Russian-? "
     "I don't understand a goddamned word you Ire saying. - He
turned to Kramer. "You'd better get him out of here, Kramer,
before he ruins the whole deal."
     "You can drop the act," Moffitt said, this time in English.
"This is not a test in your Connecticut Academy--
     "That is enough," Kramer told Moffitt, on his feet now.

"Stop trying to bait him-he is trained to deny any knowledge
of his past. " He turned to James. "But our North American
Command is concerned, Kenneth. You give them less each con-
tact. We were ordered to investigate. An immediate face-to-face
meeting was necessary-"
     I 'Well, you've had it. I'll get the information, but tell them
I'm the only one who can control how and when I do it. It's
possible the level of security intervention is so high they'll be
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             97
forced to terminate the extensive searches soon. Otherwise no
one will be able to get any work done. But we've got to take it
easy. We can score a major espionage coup if we stay patient. "
He did not add that it was no act, his not understanding their
Russian. He really had lost it ... He hadn't quite realized. it
himself until now ...
     "We cannot afford to be patient," Kramer said. "Our charge
is to use every means to acquire this technology and build the
DreamStar fighter plane. Our development of the aircraft must
be parallel with the Americans'. A great deal has been invested
to put you in place. For two years they've been patient. Now
progress has stopped. Something must be done-"
     "If you're going to pressure me like this, I might as well stop
everything before I'm caught. You might as well bring me in-"
He shocked himself, saying it. It was the last thing he wanted.
Kramer looked at him. "An interesting suggestion."
     "What? The Command is considering bringing me in? That's
ridiculous-"
          "Why? "
     "It's what they call biting off your nose to spite your face. I
am in place here, Kramer. Fully in place. It would take another
generation to develop another agent placed so high in the top-
secret American military research organization . . ."
     Kramer took a deep breath. "The lack of information was the
last deciding factor, but the idea had started long ago-"
          "What idea? What the hell is going on?"
     
"Our project to build our own version of the DrearnStar air-
craft was virtually doomed from the start. We knew about the
F-15 fighter known as the Cheetah, of course-the Americans
took it to the Paris Air Show. We built our own version shortly
afterward, and with improvements it has become almost as for-
midable as the American version. But when we discovered what
the Americans had planned for the next generation of fighter
aircraft . . . no one believed that thought-controlled aircraft
would become reality in his lifetime. Now suddenly the Amer-
icans had one in the air. Naturally we did everything in our
power to learn about the technology, including authorizing the
plan to put you in the Dreamland research area-"
     "I don't see the problem, Kramer. Everything's going as
planned. "
               "Not exactly."




98                       DALE BROWN
     Moffitt broke in. "Those big thinkers in Moscow can't un-
derstand the data. They've got it piled up to their ears but can't
really decipher it. They have linguists, but the Americans use
words that have no Russian equivalents. They say there are elec-
tronic parts made of atomic elements . . . I think that's it ...
that even some of our best scientists have never heard of.
     "So it takes time. In a couple of years everything they don't
understand will be commonplace. Right now they have super
conducting circuitry that weighs two hundred pounds-in two
years or less they'll be putting superconductors in wrist-
watches-"
     "Our people will not wait two years to build a thought-
controlled aircraft," Kramer said. "In two years the Americans
can replace their European-based fighter force with these
DreamStar aircraft. With an aircraft like DreamStar opposing
our forces, our conventional-force superiority will be offset. We
got them to reduce theirs and still leave us with an advantage.
A plane like this DreamStar can undo all our advantages. "
     "But DreamStar is still in its early research phase. It won't
be ready for production for two years. They, might have a first
operational unit by the year two thousand but even that's an
optimistic estimate. " He looked at Kramer. "Whoever's feeding
you or the Command this stuff is dangerous, Kramer. They're
trying to push the Kremlin into making a false move, one that
could be embarrassing to the government and deadly for us. "
     "What would you know about it?" Moffitt broke in. "You
don't even speak Russian any more. You've lost touch with your
country. What would you know about what goes on in the Krem-
lin?
     Maraklov sidestepped the accusation to firmer ground. "I
know that someone has overestimated the progress on the
DreamStar project. You listen, Moffitt-this project is as much
mine as it is yours. It's my life if I get caught. I can be executed
or spend the rest of my life in prison. If you get caught you pull

out your diplomatic credentials and get yourself kicked out of
the country. Big deal-"
     "I said enough," Kramer interjected. "Orders have already
been received from Moscow. They are what prompted and jus-
tified this meeting with you. The Ramenskoye Research Center
in Moscow reported that your data, although revealing, is still
not sufficient for them to reconstruct the XF-34 DrearnStar air-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             99
craft. It is much more than copying the design and the compo-
nents-it seems they do not have the basic knowledge of the
technology involved with the craft. They estimate several years
before we will have the technology to duplicate the design with
sufficient quality to match the present-day aircraft." He paused,
then: "The KGB has been ordered to obtain the XF-34
vanced Weapons Center. Captain James, you are to steal
DrearnStar aircraft from the American High Technology Ad-
DreamStar and bring it to Moscow."
     "Steal DreamStar? Impossible! Crazy!"
     "Nevertheless, we have been ordered--
     "I refuse. You would jeopardize all this work, all this time,
in an attempt to get a fighter out of the most heavily defended
military reservation in the United States?"
     Moffitt finally let out what he had been thinking      "He has
been turned, just as I thought-"
     No hesitation, James rushed Moffitt, feinted with a right
roundhouse to Moffitt's head, stepped closer and put him on the
floor with a practiced kick in the groin.
     He could hear Kramer trying quietly as he could to order him
to stop. He wasn't listening. As Moffitt crumpled unconscious
on the carpet, Maraklov grabbed the poker and held the point
on Moffitt's throat . . . "The first thing I'll do if they ever turn
me," he said, pressing the sharp iron shaft into Moffitt's Adam's
apple, "is hunt you down and kill you. Don't give me an excuse
to do it before then."
     "Enough, " Kramer said, and grabbed away the poker.
     
Breathing heavily more from the adrenaline pui ping than
from any exertion, Maraklov told Kramer, "He knows too much.
Any man with as little common sense who can name agents in
the western United States is a major security risk-"
     Kramer looked at Moffitt, back to Maraklov. "We are not
unaware of the problem . . . diplomatic visas are being delayed.
I need him, for now." He noted Moffitt was beginning to come
around. "Now sit down, we need to talk about this."
     James went to the kitchen, brought two cans of beer. As he
opened his can he said, "The idea is impossible, Henry. I can't
conceive of a plane leaving Drearnland without authorization and
make it away from American pursuit. Never."
     "Dreamland is like a safe, correct?" Kramer said, looking
as Moffitt rolled up to his hands and knees, groaning and shak-




r
100                       DALE BROWN
ing his head. "The defenses there are to keep people out, not
to keep anything in.
     "Wrong. The defenses around HAWC can do both." James
stood and went into his bedroom, coming back moments later
with a Las Vegas visual navigation chart. He unfolded it and set
it on the coffee table.
     "Here. R-4808 North. Groom Lake. Emigrant Valley Road,
military only. Where the road meets the south edge of Groom
Lake is where the four aircraft hangars, offices, labs and weap-
ons storage areas are. Garrisoned right there with'the hangars
are a detachment of twenty combat-ready security police with
dogs, around the clock. They have an-nored vehicles, automatic
weapons, guided missiles-they could hold off a regiment.
Keeping one plane from leaving the security area would be a
simple exercise. The buildings are surrounded by a twelve-foot
concrete reinforced cyclone fence. You have to get past all that
just to get into position for takeoff on Groom Lake . . . But let's
say I make it and I managed to take off. Now I've got to get out
of Dreamland.
     "Dreamland has this country's only fixed surface-to-air mis-
sile sites. They're on Bald Mountain, on the Shoshone Mountain
range, Skull Mountain, Timber Mountain and Papoose Peak.
First-generation Rapier missile batteries, complete coverage from
surface to thirty-thousand feet within R-4808N. Single mobile
sites are located on Tonopah Test Range to the northwest and
China Lake to the southwest."
     Kramer took a sip of beer, grimaced at the taste, then pointed
to the chart. "So, you do not go that way."
     "There is no way to go. There are a dozen Navy and Air
Force fighter bases within a thousand miles of Dreamland, and
I guarantee you, every one of them will launch aircraft in pur-
suit. If each base launches only two aircraft, that still means
there will be twenty-four advance fighter planes looking for me.

Where do I run, Kramer?"
     The agent studied the chart. "Mexico is only three hundred
miles away . . . "
     "True. But the Mexican government would allow American
fighters in hot pursuit across their borders. And that's if
DreamStar could get across the border. There are four fighter-
interceptor squadrons between here and Mexico, and both the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           101
Americans and the Mexicans conduct all-altitude surveillance of
the airspace near the border. It's impossible, Kramer."
     "You've had your nose in that plane too long. Relations are
strained almost to the breaking point between the United States
and Mexico," Kramer.said. "The U. pressing Mexico on re-
payment of debts has turned them cold. And the pro-U. gov-
ernment is being accused of selling out the country to Uncle
Sam. The Soviet Union is the beneficiary. We have a carefully
developed cordial relationship with the rest of Central America
too. We can ensure that any American pursuit of DreamStar
across the border will not be allowed, that Mexican military
forces will interdict American aircraft penetrating their airspace.
They're very proud, you know . . . Anyway, that should allow
you time to evade pursuit. After that we can arrange an emer-
gency refueling somewhere inside Mexico."
     "Even if all you say about their feelings toward the U. is
true, the Mexican government would never agree to that."
     "There are thousands of square miles of the interior that could
serve as a temporary base," Kramer said. "From what you have
described, your DreamStar aircraft could land and take off any-
where-on a dirt road, a grass strip, a plateau-"
     "I'm not going to try to land DreamStar on some grass
strip . . . "
     Kramer looked closely at him. Maraklov sounded like he was
talking about a personal possession. He filed it away and decided
not to use it for the moment . . . "We have Mexican transport
companies on private contract-they of course do not know that

their contract is with the KGB-that can fly our teams in to
service your aircraft without arousing the authorities-"
     "And then what? I can cruise a little over a thousand nautical
miles on full tanks-no air combat, no external stores, no low-
altitude flight. I'd have to cross the Gulf of Mexico undetected
to be able to make it into . . . Cuba. That's impossible. We both
know the U. can track every aircraft over the Gulf unless it's
down at low altitude. I'd be jumped after I went a hundred miles.
If I tried to make the flight at low altitude I'd flame out before
I made dry land."
     "Then forget Cuba, go somewhere else . . . Nicaragua, for
instance. "
     "Nicaragua? Great. And how do I get out of Nicaragua? The




102                      DALE BROWN
U. Navy would seal off that whole region tight. I'd fly right
into a trap--
     "You are being very uncooperative-"
     "I'm being realistic. I'm not going to consider this deal with-
out a detailed plan. You expect me seriously to consider this
half-baked idea? I'm supposed to put my life on the line for some
bureaucrat's wet dream-?"
     "The North American Command has issued its orders-"
     "And I'm countermanding them. I'm the commander of the
Dreamland mission. That gave me the authority to decide how
my operation proceeds. Unless I receive specific orders I am not
going to consider any such operation. " He stood, facing Kramer
and now Moffitt, who had struggled to a seat. "I'll keep you
updated on any developments-about DreamStar, security and
the rest. Meantime, don't contact me in my apartment again."
     "You'd better reconsider," Kramer said. "An order from
Moscow cannot be ignored. You know that."
     "I'll consider it, but only when the situation justifies the tre-
mendous loss of a trained agent in place. As of now, it doesn't.
All that's indicated is that the operation proceed with extreme
caution, which is what I intend to do. " He motioned toward t
door. "Now get out. And you'd better not return directly to your
consulate in Los Angeles. There's a good chance that you'll be
followed." He paused, then said: "Go visit your buddies in
Mexico."
     Moffitt left first to check the parking area and driveway for
tails. Kramer paused inside the front door.
     "I will report what you have said. I warn you, do not separate
yourself from the Command any further."
     Maraklov said nothing as Kramer looked out the door, got an
all-clear flash from Moffitt's cigarette lighter, went out.
     After the agents had departed, James locked and bolted the
door-and suddenly felt as if he was suffocating . . .
     His mind's eye could see unmarked cars roaring up the drive-

way toward his stairway, plainclothes FBI, CIA and DIA agents,
led by Major Hal Briggs, coming up the stairs, kicking in his
door, hauling him away in handcuffs, thrown into the back of a
van with Kramer and Moffitt, who must have been arrested al-
ready . . . The federal authorities would interrogate them, sep-
arately, of course. He could trust Kramer to keep silent, insisting
that he and Moffitt be returned to their consulate, but he was
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           103
positive Moffitt would spill his guts just for an opportunity to
get back at him.  He would be identified as a Soviet agent and
taken into custody, charged with espionage. His career was ru-
ined. He'd never fly DreamStar again, never experience the in-
describable experience of becoming one with that amazing
machine . . .
     Should he just sit here waiting, or escape right now? Activate
his safe's incendiary device himself so as to not risk Briggs or
one of his men discovering the trip-wire and disarming the de-
vice? He'd take the money he'd hidden, go to Mexico, maybe
further south, maybe to the wild interior of Brazil, out of reach
of both American and Soviet intelligence units. He'd contact
Moscow in hiding until he could be sure he was safe-from his
own people as well as the Americans . . . He removed two of
the books on the top shelf in front of the hidden wall safe. In
case someone tried to break in he could reach in between the
books, pop open the hidden panel and activate the incendiary
device. He then shut off the lights, poured himself a glass of
Scotch whiskey and sat down in the darkened living room.
     Half a glass of Scotch later, sleep finally overtook him, but
he was not getting any rest. For the first time since those first
few months of his new life in America, Andrei Maraklov as Ken
James remembered what real fear, real terror was.
Now that she was a senior civilian contractor on a small military
installation, Wendy Tork's hours were much more regular than
in the early years when she had spent days in her laboratory,
working on some irritating software bug. She remembered slav-

ing over a computer terminal, staring at a screen full of lines of
computer code. In the early eighties debugging software and
artificial intelligence-based computerized programmers were
practically non-existent-human programmers, sometimes ar-
mies of them, had to disassemble a compiled routine, then read
thousands of lines of code to try to find an error. One never
knew if the error was on the screen or a hundred lines away or
in a completely different sub-routine. Once the error was sup-
posedly found, the code was reassembled into its compact faster
form and run. It was a wonder anything as sophisticated as the
B-52 I Old Dog's electronic countermeasures equipment, Wen-
dy's first major military project, ever worked in the laboratory-
not to mention in combat. Now she had computers that designed




104                        DALE BROWN
other computers' programs, and computers that checked and de-
bugged those computers' work, and a master computer that su-
pervised all of them. Her job was mostly telling her computers
what their jobs were and receiving reports from them on their
progress - What had taken dozens of scientists and engineers years
to accomplish now took one person a few days. Because of all
that she could keep regular hours, enjoy a four-day work-week-
most of the industrialized nations of the world had switched to
a four-day work-week by 1994-and spend more time at home.
     But if most of the world had gone to the four-day work-week,
the military, especially military aviators, had not. It seemed to
go double for Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan. Since
Wendy joined HAWC and moved in with him, her nights had
often been long and lonely. Patrick had become an important
administrator and commander at Dreamland research center, and
it was not long before Patrick would call if he was going to be
home more or less on time.
     Tonight was one of those. He'd be home around seven, an
early quitting time. Wendy doubted it and was right. She was
wide awake when he finally did arrive home. He walked quietly
as he could to the bedroom, tried to fumble his way, undressed
without the lights.
     "Hi."
     He threw his flight suit into the laundry hamper. "Sorry if I
woke you. "
          II Tough day?"
     "You could say so." He went into the bathroom briefly, then
got into bed beside her. At first as he moved she pulled back
with a shiver. His whole body was like ice-he'd taken one of
his two-minute Navy shower sponge baths.
          "You are freezing."
     "Sorry." She allowed him to curl up beside her, his warm
breath on the back of her neck, punctuated by a kiss, then an-
other. A moment or two later he asked, "How was your day

today? "
     "The morning was busy-I finally finished the software up-
grades for the Megafortress. Pretty quiet this afternoon, I came
home early."
     "Sorry about standing you up for lunch."
     "That's okay. It looked like you were pretty busy. Anything
serious with the plane?"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            105
     "No. Some over-G warnings showed up on the computer
readouts, but we couldn't find any damage. We worked right
through lunch. I could have used some of the Nellis O-Club's
roast beef after that flight this morning.
Wendy hesitated. "I didn't have lunch at the Officer's Club."
      ate at the cafeteria at HAWC?-
"No . . . I had lunch at Indian Springs
     She could feel his body tense. "Indian Springs? What's at
Indian Springs?
     "The Thunderbirds Club."
     "You went to Indian Springs Auxiliary Field? How did you
get there? "
        "The Dolphin dropped us off."
                    "Us?"
     "Ken James and me."
     "Ken James took you to Indian Springs Field for lunch?
Why?"
     "Why not? I've never been there before. Ken made it sound
like he goes there all the time."
     "I didn't know the Dolphin ever stopped out there ... Honey,
I don't think it would be a good idea to go to Indian Springs
again. "
                    "Why?
     "Well, it's a restricted-use field. It's supposed to be for official
business-"
     "Sure. Whatever you say, Patrick, but Ken seems to go there
a lot."
     
"Indian Springs is the fighter pilot's hangout. But Ken also
has a habit of stretching the rules. I don't think there's any prob-
lem, but let me check it out - - - "
     "Okay." She hoped it ended there. She was already sorry
 she'd brought it up at all. "Damn it, if James can even find a rule, he'll stre tch it every
             Jast inch he can."
     "He says you grounded him and    JC. Powell today."
     "He said that? Damn it, that stuff is supposed to be classified.
He and    came close to killing each other this morning. I
should bust them both but I can't.    is maybe the best pilot
in the unit and one of the few that can keep up with DrearnStar
in our flights. And James is the only one that can fly Drearn-
Star with any effectiveness - I can't even officially reprimand them




106                      DALE BROVrN
until the project is declassified. I don't know if it's possible to
train another pilot for DrearnStar, and I can't afford to put this
project any more behind schedule. So, I gave them a slap on the
wrist . . . they're only grounded until the next scheduled sortie.
Next week . . . So to celebrate, James takes you to lunch at a
restricted base and I have Elliott giving me the hairy eyeball all
afternoon .
:'I'm sorry. It's just that-"
     'And I'm sorry to sound like a pompous, jealous . . . except
when you're concerned . . . "
     And then she was in his arms, and there was no more time-
or need-for talk.
Dreamland
Thursday, " June 1996, 0712 PTD (1012 EDT)
"You realize, Patrick," Dr. Alan Carmichael said, "that noth-
ing at all may happen."
     McLanahan and Carmichael were in a special steel-lined
chamber early the next morning. More a huge underground vault,
the chamber contained the original laboratory version of the AN-
TARES thought-controlled flight-and-avionics system. Con-
cerned more with performance in the early years of the project
than size, the chamber housing the ANTARES system was mas-
sive-the size of a basketball court. The complex was controlled
by its own superfast CRAY computer that, even though encorn-
passing state-of-the-art very high-speed integrated circuits,
artificial-intelligence electronics capable of performing billions
Of computations a second, was larger than a refrigerator and had
to be cooled with liquid nitrogen at two hundred seventy-five
degrees below zero.
     In the center of the three -story chamber, dwarfed by massive
banks of electronics gear and environmental system ducts, was
an F- 15 single-seat fighter simulator. It had none of the advanced
multi-function displays and laser-projection devices of Chee-
tah-it still used ordinary electric artificial horizons and pneu-

matically driven altimeters and tum-and-slip indicators, and most
of those were barely functioning. The ejection seat was an old
Mark Five "Iron Maiden--type seat from the early 1980s, stiff,
straight-backed, and uncomfortable, its special anti-G padding
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           107
and shoulder harnesses having been cannibalized for spare parts
                  long ago.
     Patrick was not secured in that ejection seat, but neither was
he free to move. He was wearing an early non-cushion version
of Ken James' metallic-thread flight suit. It was far more bulky
than the actual operational model, with thick fiber-optic bundles
interwoven all around the suit, circuit boxes attached to every
conceivable inconvenient point on Patrick's body, and, unlike
James' suit, this experimental model had no integrated cooling
systems built into it. Icy blasts of cold air were directed on
Patrick to help keep him cool, and when the skin's resistance
was completely unbalanced by sweat and vascular dilation on
account of the extreme temperatures inside the suit, the session
would be ended.
     "I've been trying out this system for a few months now,"
Patrick said. "My brainwaves or whatever they are .
     "Theta signal threshold complex."
     "Yeah, right. Anyway, they should start working, shouldn't
they? I I
     Carmichael shook his head. "If it was that easy, we'd have a
squadron of ANTARES pilots now. We don't fully understand
how ANTARES works, how the neural interface is achieved.
We can get it to work but we're not sure, for example, why it
works with James and nominally for you and    and not for
anyone else. We're getting closer to the answer but it'll still take
some time."
     "What is it with James?" Patrick asked. "I can't mentally
control an itch on the back of my neck. He can control a two
million dollar fighter at Mach one."
     Carmichael ran a hand up his forehead and across the top of

his bald head-even though it was the style of the mid- 1990s for
some men to have a shaved head, Carmichael came by his nat-
urally, involuntarily. "The sheer strength of his mind is enor-
mous. The ANTARES interface is another addition to his mental
gymnasium, so to speak. He's strengthened by it every time he
uses it. We're learning a lot from him."
          "But he's not any smarter than anyone else at HAWC."
     "I'm not talking about intelligence . . . stop squirming.
Carmichael motioned to one of his assistants, who ran a cool
towel over Patrick's sweaty face. "He's quite intelligent-an
I. of well over one-fifty. But what counts more is that his




108                       DALE BROWN
mind is fluid, adaptable, agile. Are you at all familiar with taek-
wondo, Patrick? "
          "Taekwondo? You mean martial arts?"
     Carmichael nodded as he scanned an instrument panel beside
the simulator. "A special form of the martial arts that combines
karate, kung fu and judo-James happens to be a black belt in
taekwondo, by the way . . . did you know that? Almost made
our Olympic taekwondo team. It's not an offensive, attack-style
of fighting. In taekwondo the attacker is allowed to engage-as
a matter of fact, there are few moves in taekwondo that can be
perforrned unless in response to an attack."
          "Get to the point, Alan."
     "The point is, James' mind works much the same way as the
taekwondo style of combat. He allows the flood of information
created by ANTARES to invade him. He opens up his mind to
it-exactly the opposite of the normal reaction to such an inva-
sion. Most of us build barriers against such an onslaught-James
allows it to move in, even expand. But he doesn't surrender to
the information that bombards him. Once ANTARES unlocks
the inner recesses of the mind, the ones we have no conscious
access to, he's somehow able to reassert his conscious will. At
first it's little more than gentle mental nudges, but then he's able
to control ANTARES, steer the mass of information his way.
it's the mental equivalent of a single tree changing the course of
a raging river."
          "You're talking in riddles."
     "For a good reason." Carmichael's features turned stony.
"I've already said there's a lot we don't understand about AN-
TARES. We're tinkering with this technology before it's fully
understood, but neither of us has the authority to stop it. I just
hope I can learn enough before some disaster happens."
     He studied McLanahan. "That was meant as a disclaimer,
Patrick. You've been strapping this stuff on a few times a month
now, probably with faith in me and all this high-tech government

equipment. We use it because it works. Period. We don't know
why it works, and so we won't know what happened if some-
thing goes wrong." He picked up a very large, bulky helmet
with all sorts of cables and wire bundles leading to the banks of
computers below. It was a much larger version of the AN-
TARES flight helmet, obviously not designed for flight-its
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            109
wearer would be completely immobilized by its sheer size and
bulk. "Still want to subject yourself to this, Colonel?"
     Patrick shrugged. "Here's where I'm supposed to say 'I regret
I had only one brain to give to my country.........
          "You're the project director, it's not your job .
     'It's not my job.' That's the most over-used and annoying
phrase in the Air Force." Patrick stopped, looking at the men-
acing ANTARES helmet as if it was some medieval torture de-
vice, then nodded. "I need to know how it works. I need to
understand what it does to the pilots that I'll order to wear this
thing. Let's do it."
     Carmichael and an assistant proceeded to lower the heavy hel-
met onto Patrick's shoulders and fasten it in place.
     The helmet was very tight arfd heavy. Once attached to the
clavicle ring on his flight suit the device pressed down on his
breastbone and shoulders like a heavy yoke. The superconduct-
ing antennae pressed unmercifully on several spots on his head
and neck, corresponding to the seven areas of the brain that were
constantly being scanned and measured by the ANTARES. There
was a smoked glass visor in the helmet, but Patrick could barely
see anything outside. The thick rubber oxygen mask that en-
closed his mouth and chin was hot and almost suffocating.
     After a few seconds, Patrick could hear the faint click as the tiny
headphone in his helmet was activated. "Patrick? All set in there?"
          "Check the oxygen flow. I'm not getting any air."
     "You've got a good blinker and all switches are set," Car-
michael replied. Just then Patrick's oxygen mask received a
steady flow of cold, dry air. "I gave you a shot of oxygen. I

can't give you too much or you could hyperventilate. Try to
relax. Start anytime you're ready."
     Patrick sat back in the hard ejection seat and began the relax-
ation routine taught to him by Carmichael over a year earlier
when he'd first begun experimenting with an ANTARES trainer.
He began the familiar process, letting the spurts of pure oxygen
in his mask slow his breathing and force the tension from his
body. In his case it was his toes and calves that seemed to be
perpetually clenched, like a swimmer on the starting block, as
if he was always trying to grip onto something. It was refreshing
to feel how good his feet felt after forcing them to relax.
     Slowly, he worked his way up his body, ordering each muscle
group to relax. One by one he managed to relax his body parts,




110                        DALE BROWN
letting the stiffness of the metallic flight suit support him in the
ejection seat. He knew he'd have to reexamine his leg muscles
now and then, but after dozens of these sessions his relaxation
technique was getting much better.
     "Very good," he heard Carmichael say, "much better. Min-
imal beta activity. Very steady alpha complex."
     "It seemed to go easier this time," Patrick said. "How long
did it take? "
     "You did pretty well, only one hundred and thirty minutes
this time. "
     "Over two hours . . . ?
     "Easy, easy, maintain your alpha level
     Patrick fought to regain his body-relaxation state, despite his
sudden confusion and disorientation. "I thought I was getting
better, it seemed like just a few minutes."
     "A good sign. You enter a state of altered consciousness,
much like hypnosis but more so. Losing track of time is a good
sign-if you had said it took two hours it would mean your mind
is still focused on external events like time-"
     And then he felt it, a tiny jolt of electricity shooting through
his body. It was like diving into an ice-jo-ld pool of water-the
jolt didn't start or stop anywhere in particular but it shocked his
entire body all at once. It was not totally uncomfortable, just
unexpected-more attention-getting than painful, like a mild
static electricity shock. His body jerked at the first jolt, and he
fought to relax his body again. Surprisingly, he found it much
easier to relax this time.
     "Just relax, Patrick." Carmichael sounded as if he was call-
ing from the bottom of a deep well. "You're coming along fine.
Relax, Patrick . . . "
     Another jolt of electricity, harder and deeper this time, cre-
ating a shower of sparks before his eyes. There was real pain
this time, completely different from the first. Patrick remem-
bered the three deadman's switches rigged to the seat-one on

each hand and one on the back of his helmet, where all he had
to do was release his grip on the handles or move his head in
any direction and the power to the simulator box would imme-
diately cut off. The electricity was still there, still intense
all he had to do was hold on long enough to command his hands
to move . . .
     "Remember tackwondo, Patrick," he heard a voice from no-
                    VP__
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             ill
where say. "Allow the fight to come to you. Accept it. Be pre-
pared to channel it."
     Another surge of energy, powerful enough to make Patrick
gasp aloud in his mask. There was a brief shot of oxygen, but
now it felt blasting hot, like opening an oven door . . .
     "Don't fight the energy. Relax
     "The pain.....    I can't stand it .
     "Relax.....         regain theta-alpha.
     Another intense wave of electricity, and he involuntarily
grunted against the pain. The shimmering wall of stars washed
over him-but they were different this time. The lights remained,
and amidst ever-growing jabs of pain throughout his body the
stars began to coalesce into images. Faint, blurred, unreadable-
but they were not just random stars. Something was forming . - .
     Here was finally something to latch onto, to grasp and hold
firm, for no other reason than to preserve his sanity and keep
from screaming out in terror and pain. When the pain increased
in severity, Patrick let it hit him head-on, enduring it long enough
just so he could reexamine the sparks of pain floating in his
mind's eye and form another concrete mental image.
     He was experiencing what James already'knew and had gone
through . . . His whole body was on fire. The pain was contin-
uous, but so were the sheets of light-and they were definitely
taking shape. Flashes of numbers, some logical, others unintel-
ligible, zipped back and forth in his subconscious mind. The
images were beginning to organize themselves-there was now

a sort of horizontal split-screen effect, with darkness above the
new horizon and floating, speeding numbers and polyhedrons
below. He could hear short snaps of sound, like a stereo receiver
or short-wave radio gone haywire.
     The sounds were the key - Patrick now began to concentrate
against the pain, channeling it along with the confusion, trying
to slow the jumble of numbers and letters and shapes into one
positive, concrete form. With each push in the desired direction,
ANTARES would give him a burst of pain for his trouble. But
the pain didn't matter any more. There was an objective now, a
goal to reach, if a childishly simple one . . . three letters-A,
B, JC.-and one device-the simulator's intercom.
     The letters were becoming as large as the lower half of the
split screen, but they were finally becoming solid, aligning them-




112                      DALE BROWN
     selves beneath the blackness. Soon they remained steady, and
even began to slide away from the center toward the-
     Patrick?
     The voice was like a distant, relaxing whisper, like a church
bell off in the distance, like the friendly toot of a boat horn on
the Sacramento River back home. "Powell?"
     "Welcome back, boss. Have a nice trip?"
     "Not sure. I've got a lot of pain. Dr. Carmichael?"
     "Right here."
     "How long did it take this time?"
     "You tell me."
     Patrick tried to remember back through the interfacing period,
through the waves of rolling pain, through the fleeing mental
images. "I felt out of control, it must've taken another hour."
     " Try nine seconds,"    JC. Powell said.
     "Nine seconds?"
     "Nine seconds on the dot from the moment you went into
theta-alpha, " Carmichael said happily. "Even faster than Ken's
ever done it, although he doesn't take two hours to get to theta-
alpha.
     Patrick tried to turn his head, but found it impossible-it wds
as if two red-hot hands held his head cemented into place. "How
can anyone function with all this pain? I feel like I'm being
microwaved, I can't move a muscle."
     "All I can say is that Ken James is different. He's also been
using the ANTARES system for a long time. Don't focus on the
pain, and don't worry about being able to move around. Relax
and try to enjoy the ride."
  A moment later, Carmichael clicked the intercom back on.
"We've repositioned the simulator at thirty-five thousand feet
and five hundred knots. Take the aircraft when you're ready,
Colonel."
  Patrick concentrated as hard as he could on the image of the    
instrument panel. He had managed to slide the image of the

intercom channel off to the left, but the rest of the panel was
blank. Like a television screen with nothing but snow across it.
  Okay. Aircraft attitude was important. Maintain control. Keep
the airplane flying.
  Instantly an oval drew itself on the upper half of the cockpit  
image. It was sitting horizontal across the windscreen, a deep
     white line bisecting it, forming a horizon. In the exact center of
the oval was a wide T, representing the aircraft.
     "Release me," McLanahan said.
     The T jumped up and to the right just as Carmichael said,
"You're moving."
     Patrick concentrated on keeping the T in the center of the
oval. Slowly the T moved back in the center.
          "Good start at least, now where the hell am I going?"
     The oval disappeared, replaced by the image of a long rib-
bonlike street on the upper portion of the screen. The street was
straight for a distance, but Patrick could see a few gentle twists
and turns in the distance. At the bottom of the screen was a tiny
picture of a jet fighter plane-it appeared to be resting right on
the road.
     "Hey, I've got the flight-plan depiction."
     "Good," Carmichael said. "That's a major flight image. Fol-
low it as long as you can. How's the headache?"
     "It went to splitting migraine long ago, Doc, but as long as
I keep my mind off the pain it'll be okay."
     Keeping the simulator flying upright was more difficult with-
out the artificial horizon, but no amount of mental effort would
bring it back, so Patrick used the visual cues on the road itself-
the recommended altitude was to surface on the road itself, which
also represented the proper pitch and bank to follow; as long as
he kept the little fighter model on the road he would be following
the computer's recommended flight path. The road's curbs rep-
resented the allowable lateral flight corridor to follow, and tiny
signposts represented planned tum-points and recommended
altitude-changeover points.
     
As long as the "road" was straight and flat, the ride went
well. But after a few moments the road began to make small left
and, right turns, and the going got much tougher. The tiny fighter
icon penetrated through the road several times, porpoising up
and down through the recommended altitude block, and Patrick
had to apply harder and faster corrections to keep the plane
steady.
     "Stabilize, Patrick," he heard from    JC. Powell.
     "I'm trying." The fighter icon slid through the right wall of
the road, skidded sideways, then entered an uncontrolled spin.
     "Let the computer recover the plane," Powell said. "Don't
try to fight it."




114                       DALE BROWN
     Patrick forced himself to go along. He concentrated on the
surface of the computer-generated road without thinking about
the aircraft control. Suddenly he knew that ANTARES had
placed both mission-adaptive wings in high-lift modes and de-
ployed both dorsal and ventral sets of rudders to maximize di-
rectional control. The fighter icon dove through the right side of
the flight path depiction, but by rapid lift, power and drag
changes under precise computerized control, the fighter was soon
out of its uncontrolled spin and stabilized in a steep dive. A few
moments later the fighter slowly leveled out and returned to its
desired flight path once again.
     "Good recovery," Carmichael said. "ANTARES will always
try to save the air-craft whenever possible, but you still have to
tell her where you want to go, even in an uncontrolled situa-
tion. "
     After a few minutes of straight-and-level flight to get his
confidence back, Patrick accomplished a few turns, with bank
angles and altitude changes mixed in. "I think I've got the hang
of it again," Patrick said.
     "Still have those headaches?"
     "Now that you mention it, yes, but they seem to become less
noticeable when I'm concentrating on something else."
     "Good. How about some formation flying? We can put up
another fighter and let you fly off his wing for a while.
          "No, bring up a hostile."
     "Getting cocky now, aren't we, sir?" Powell cut in. "Five
minutes ago you couldn't make a ten-degree turn without going
out of control. Now you want to do some dogfighting."
     "That's what the damned simulators are for,    Bring up a
high-performance model, too."
     "You got it."
     There was no change in the simulation after several long mo-
ments. He was going to ask if they had put up a hostile when
he remembered-none of his fighter's offensive or defensive Sys-

tems had been activated-
     But that realization was enough. Immediately a computer syn
thesized voice announced, "Attack radar activated . . . elec-
tronic countermeasures activated . . . tail warning systems
activated.
     And there it was, a laser-projected image of a fighter in the
upper right comer of the screen. Patrick immediately corn-
manded the simulator's laser-trucking system to lock onto the
hostile aircraft, and deactivated the attack-radar as soon as the
laser had illuminated the target. But it wasn't fast enough. Flight
data on the hostile aircraft showed that it had altered course and
was on a head-on intercept course. The hostile had detected Pat-
rick's brief radar emission and had turned to start the fight.
     As the two aircraft merged into a nose-to-nose flight path,
Patrick was suddenly flooded with information. His laser-
projection screen was filled with electronic depictions of dozens
of options, only a few of which included a full head-on pass.
There were so many options that he lost count. His headache
had come back full-force now. Beads of sweat obscured his vi-
sion, blood pounded in his ears. He was conscious, his mind
still sharp, but the pain, intermingled with hundreds of bits of
data predicting the outcome of dozens of maneuvers by both
aircraft soon overwhelmed him.
     The ANTARES simulator suddenly went inverted and pulled
a heart-stopping eight-G descent. The simulator had activated
the all-aspect radar as it descended, and Patrick could easily
"see" his pursuer descend with him. But that was what AN-
TARES had been expecting. The simulator continued its in-
verted loop, using its high-lift canards to pull the nose up through
the horizon. The throttle went to max afterburner as he went
through the vertical-and Patrick had no doubt that he would
have been squashed like a grape if he had been in a real jet
aircraft.
     As the nose dove through the horizon once again he found
that the pursuer had become the pursued. Whatever kind of air-

craft they had put up against him, it couldn't keep up with AN-
TARES. Patrick found himself directly behind his adversary,
and ANTARES had already an-ned four laser-guided missiles
and was waiting for orders to fire. Patrick issued those orders a
split second later. Meanwhile, ANTARES had switched to the
internal twenty-millimeter multibarrel cannon and was waiting
for orders to fire as the simulator closed in on the hostile, but
there was no need to open fire-all laser-guided hypervelocity
missiles had hit their target.
     "Ground position freeze," Dr. Carmichael ordered. Patrick
heard footsteps on the catwalk around the simulator's cockpit as
the cockpit indicators and the deluge of information in his head




116                        DALE BROWN
abruptly ceased. "Patrick, this is Alan Carmichael. Can you
hear me?"
     He found himself frozen in his seat, unable to move a muscle
and barely able to move his lips . . . "Yes."
          "We're going to disconnect ANTARES. Hold on."
     Even though the simulator had stopped, the pain inside Pat-
rick's head was steadily increasing. He could feel the fighter
doing some lazy rolls and spins but didn't have the strength to
. sue the orders to maintain straight and level flight.
IS - 1 . . . I'm losing it . . ."
     "Let it go, Patrick," Carmichael said. "You're off the sim-
ulation. Relax. Don't worry about the controls."
     It was like telling a man hanging from a cliff to cut his lifeline.
Slowly, using every last ounce of strength he had, Patrick fought
the urge to counteract the spinning aircraft. But the more he let
go, the more he was drawn to what was happening. As the air-
craft's altitude began to decrease, he received the aircraft alti-
tude, "heard" ANTARES' reports on terrain, engine
performance, structural loads. The closer the fighter got to earth,
the faster the reports came. When the fighter shot through five
thousand feet above the ground, ANTARES recommended it
take over. Patrick did not respond. At three thousand feet above
ground, ANTARES issued the order to eject. Again, Patrick
ignored it.
     He just sat, transfixed, as he listened to ANTARES' neural
'screams." The computer was literally begging its human oc-
cupant to do something, anything, to save it. The more the com-
puter blasted McLanahan with pleas to issue an order to recover
the aircraft, the more the pain increased and the more Patrick
was unable to do anything. Carmichael was reaching to discon-
nect the superconducting helmet from Patrick's clavicle rin
when the simulator slammed into the ground at nearly two
thousand miles per hour.
     When the helmet was finally lifted from McLanahan's shoul-

ders and Carmichael saw his face, even he was shocked. Mc-
Lanahan's face was a mask of pain, as in a man tortured to the
very brink of tolerable agony.
     "Patrick, snap out of it, it's over!" Carmichael was yelling
at him. Technicians had jumped up on the catwalk beside Car-
michael, and others were unfastening the shoulder harness and
loosening the heavy connectors and relays on the metallic flight
suit. Carmichael looped an oxygen mask over Patrick's face.
"It's over. Wake up, dammit."
     No response. Technicians were still trying to remove the heavy
metallic gloves from Patrick's hands and undo the suit's fasten-
ers, so Carmichael bent lower over Patrick and put his ear to his
mouth.
     "He's stopped breathing, cut the suit off-- An assistant hes-
itated, looking first at Patrick, then Carmichael. "I said cut it
off. Now." Carmichael put'his face up to Patrick's. "Patrick,
wake up, dammit! " He grabbed a pair of steel cutters from one
of the technicians as the medical team removed the oxygen mask
and inserted a breathing tube down Patrick's throat, then grabbed
a wire-laced seam of the suit and made a twelve-inch cut across
Patrick's chest with the ultrasonic cutting tool, exposing the thin
cotton undergarments soaked with sweat. "Get a heart monitor
over here!" He ripped open the underwear to expose Mc-
Lanahan's chest. He studied Patrick's face as the airway was
opened and the respirator started. The eyes were fluttering and
his facial muscles were contorting as if he was locked in some
nightmare.
     Then    JC. Powell stepped up on the catwalk opposite Car-
michael. As the electrocardiogram leads were taped to Mc-
Lanahan's chest, Powell took Patrick's head in his hands and
bent down to his left ear:
     "Wake up, boss," he said in a firm, quiet voice. "Show's
over, Colonel. Wake up."
     Carmichael studied the EKG readouts. "No pulse. Straight
line. Charge the defibrillator units. Powell, get out of the way. "
        
ignored him. "Patrick, this is    I know you can hear
me-"
     "He can't hear a damn thing, " Carmichael said. "Now stand
clear-"
     "He can hear me, he knows what's happening. He can feel
everything. He just needs a direction-"
          "What the hell are you talking about?"
        did not answer. Instead, he placed both of Patrick's hands
on his shoulders, moved as close as he could and said, "Patrick,
you can hear me. Listen to me. ANTARES isn't in charge now.
You are in control. Wake up.
     "He's been unconscious too long, Powell," Carmichael said.




118                       DALE BROWN
A medical technician handed him two electrode paddles from
the heart defibrillator. "He'll die if we don't revive him."
     "And you'll kill him if you shock him with that. " Powell
grabbed Patrick by his flight suit and hauled him up as far out
of the ejection seat as he could. "Patrick!" he yelled. " Dammit,
I said wake up!"
     Suddenly McLanahan's eyes popped open. He grabbed   's
shoulder in a crushing grip that made Powell wince. He gagged
on the resuscitator tube in his throat and pulled it out, his chest
heaving. Powell eased him back into his seat.
     "Sinus rhythm," one of the paramedics reported. "Blood
pressure high but strong. Heart rate, respiration okay."
     "Are you'all right?"
          "I . . . I think so."
     Carmichael started to put the oxygen mask on his face again
but Patrick pulled it away, choosing instead to take occasional
deep breaths from it.
     "It was so weird," McLanahan said, trying hard to control
his breathing. He seemed to be reviewing, reliving, the scene in
his mind. "I was watching the intercept and the kill like a spec-
tator. ANTARES was doing it all. It was like I wasn't there.
But I felt the pain building and building, and ANTARES getting
stronger and stronger, along with the pain. But then I couldn't
do anything. I knew I still had to fly the aircraft on ground-
position freeze but I couldn't give any commands. I felt like . . .
like a million hornets were buzzing all around me.'I knew those
hornets carried information, important data I need to know, and
I knew something was wrong. But with the pain, I couldn't do
a thing . . . Suddenly everything was dark and empty. I didn't
have a body, just a brain. I was searching for a way out of a
room but didn't know how I was going to make it even if I
found an exit. That's when I heard   's voice. The more I
heard, the more . . . alive I felt. I followed his voice . . .
I . . ." His voice began to fade, and he appeared to be drifting

off to sleep.
     "Get him out of here," Carmichael ordered.
He woke up later to find Wendy Tork asleep in a chair beside
his bed, a magazine across her lap. "Wendy?"
     She came upright. "Patrick? You're awake! How do you
feel?"
     "Tired. Thirsty. " She poured him a glass of water from a
plastic pitcher, then rang for the nurse. "I feel like I've just
paddled a kayak across the Pacific. " He found he had the
strength to sit up and take the cup in his hands. "What time is
it? "
                 "Nine P."
     "I've been asleep for twelve hours?"
     "Patrick, it's nine P. on Saturday. You've been asleep for
forty-eight hours. "
     The water glass began to tremble in his hands, and he quickly
set it on the bedside table. "Was I in a coma?"
     "No-well, technically, yes," Wendy said, moving close to
him and taking his hands in hers. "They called it extreme ex-
haustion and depletion. You lost seven pounds while you were
in that simulator. You could have hurt yourself even without the
strain that . . . that thing put on you. Are you sure you're okay?"
     He sat up and took a few sips of water. Nothing was said until
he asked, "How long have you been here?"
     "I never left. I . . . I wanted to talk some more about the
other night. I know how it is for you-"
     "Works both ways, kid." He let out a tired sigh and his head
dropped back to the pillow. He managed a short laugh. "I think
I know why Doctor Jekyll drank his own potions. You want
something to be so successful that you'll try anything, even mak-
ing yourself into your own guinea pig. I never should have
strapped myself into that simulator. I wasn't ready for it."
          "It must have been terrible."
     "It was . . . different," he said uneasily. "I have to give guys
like James and Powell all the credit in the world for flying the

real thing, never mind the simulator. It's an awesome contrap-
tion if you can keep yourself from going crazy."
     "Talk about going crazy," a voice said behind them. They
turned to see General Elliott and Hal Briggs enter the hospital
room. Hal went over to Patrick and clasped hands with him.
"You had the'whole place going crazy, brother."
     McLanahan thought that Elliott looked drawn, tired, as if he
hadn't slept in days. His blue blouse was sweat-stained and rum-
pled, and he seemed to favor his artificial leg more than usual.
"How do you feel, Patrick?"
     "Fine, sir." A damn lie.



120  DALE BROWN
     Takin' a nap for a day and a half, you should be fine," Hal
put in.
     "We can do that SPO conference tomorrow after I get out of
here," Patrick said to Elliott.
     "I think we've all had enough for the weekend, Colonel,"
Elliott said. "I've scheduled a meeting with the senior project
officers and the engineering staff for Monday morning. You're
on sick leave until then. Clear?"
     But something else hung in the air-Elliott was showing more
than just concern for him. Elliott turned to Wendy. "Can I have
him for a few minutes?"
     "Visiting hours are over." She went to Patrick and kissed
him. "I'll come by at nine to bail you out." Wendy nodded to
Elliott and left. Briggs took a big glass of Patrick's ice water
and moved unobtrusively in front of the door, casually but ef-
fectively blocking it.
     "You gave us a scare, Patrick," Elliott said. Patrick sat up
and watched as Elliott began to pace the small room. This, Pat-
rick thought, was not an ordinary get-well visit. "I hope you'll
forgive me for suggesting that you train in the ANTARES sim-
ulator for this project-"
     "On the contrary, General, I wanted to do it. It was a part of
the project. I think we should continue-"
     "You're not expendable. I can't go on using my senior offi-
cers for experiments-"
     "I'm a flyer first," McLanahan said quickly. "You needed
someone with operational experience to see how well a non-
ANTARES-trained person could adapt to the system. I was a
logical choice."
     "We've got flyers lined up around the block for a chance to
do that. I can't risk you again. From I here on out, no more
ANTARES simulator for you."
     Patrick was just too tired to argue. "Who then?" he said. He
turned to Briggs. "Hal, you've got the latest clearance-list of

applicants. Bring the list by my office and I'll--
     "I had a talk with Dr. Carmichael early this morning," the
director of HAWC said. His tone was low, somber, like he was
delivering a eulogy. "At this stage of the game we could put a
hundred men through that system and we wouldn't be any closer
to understanding how it really affecIs the human mind. There
are just too many unknowns. And we just don't have the re-
sources to study each and every one of thern-"
     "All it takes is time and training. I've been working with
ANTARES for just a few months-"
          "And it nearly killed you," Briggs cut in.
     "I flew it in combat after only four months of work," Mc-
Lanahan said. "I'm not a pilot but I flew the hottest jet in the
world with only four months' training."
          "It's not the same and you know it, Patrick .
     "I've made progress. I've taken the worst that machine can
dish out. I can control it now. Besides, I'm an old fart. I'm forty
years old. A guy half my age could master that machine a lot
easier. Don't judge the whole program because of what hap-
pened to me-"
     "Unfortunately we must," Elliott said. "We aren't getting
the information we need from only one successful pilot in the
program. We were hoping the progress you and Powell had made
could clear the way for a more extensive ANTARES training
program, but now it appears that we can't adequately quantify
the experiences of any participant. What happens to you, or
rather why it happens, is an unknown. We can't have training
based on hit-or-miss procedures-we'll end up killing half the
trainees."
     McLanahan shook his head. "So you're really considering
canceling the DreamStar project because of my incident the other
day?"
     "There are other considerations, which you're aware of. We
do spend half a billion dollars a year for a plane that many
congressmen may not ever see fly in their lifetimes. They hesi-

tate continuing the funding, especially if there's some pork-barrel
projects in their home districts that could get them a political leg
up in this lifetime . . . And of course there's the security ques-
tion. " Elliott glanced at Briggs, who remained stone-faced. "Our
security problems have tended to overshadow our advances. The
way of least resistance for these Pentagon officials is simple-
terminate the project, continue lower funding levels for research
into the ANTARES interface but discontinue all flight operations
and plans for development and deployment."
     "But DreamStar's up and flying-that's a fact. We've only
tried the ANTARES interface with a handful of pilots. We can't
give up now."



122                        DALE BROWN
     Elliott nodded. "That's the argument I used, Patrick. We'll
have our answer on Monday. Meanwhile, get some rest."
     Hal Briggs stayed behind. "   was by to see you, said he'd
catch you tomorrow some time. Haven't seen much of James
since the test flight. "
     Patrick shrugged. "He likes to get away from Vegas on the
weekends.
     A somewhat strained silence, then Briggs smiled and said,
"You look like two miles of bad road, Colonel, but it's good to
see you up and around."
     "I've seen you look better too, buddy," McLanahan said.
"The general getting on your case?"
     "It's, beyond Elliott," Hal said uneasily. "It's even beyond
major command level now. Air Force and, I guess, the Joint
Chiefs want to keep Dreamland open but close down flight op-
erations for DreamStar-they're more concerned with the set-
backs in the operations area. The White House thinks Dreamland
is a classified infon-nation siphon that flows directly to the So-
viets, and they want to clo- se down the whole outfit."
     "Which wouldn't look so hot for Dreamland's chief of se-
curity.
     Briggs tightened. "Look, I hate lettin' the old man down-he
took a chance on me ten years ago, and he really stuck his neck
out when he made a brand-new major the chief of security at the
Air Force's most top-secret research center. I'd hate to repay the
guy with a forced retirement because I screwed up. "
     "I don't think you're screwing up, Hal. We've obviously
dealing with very deep, very professional agents at the highest
and most top-secret levels of the program. It might be a
command-wide infiltration, or even a headquarters compromise,
in which case we might never find the ones responsible-"
     "It has to be here in Dreamland or Nellis, " Hal said angrily,
punching a palm with his fist. "The quality of the stolen mate-
rial, and the speed with which our stuff shows up over there,

tells me it comes directly from here, not through headquarters
of systems command. I have got to plug this leak before the
whole dam bursts wide open."
     "Well, keep trying . . . but I do have to say I don't think
your idea to plant phony changes in DrearnStar's design will
help. "
     Hal looked uneasy. "You figured that out?"
     "It wasn't too difficult to notice those changes were out of
place, Hal.  If they're smart enough to recognize the changes
they'll be smart enough to see that they don't make too much
sense. With all the other security crackdowns you've imple-
mented, it does smell like a setup."
"If you don't mind, I'll keep it in," Hal said evenly. "Maybe
our spy isn't as all-fired smart as you think he is."
"Maybe. "
There was a rather strained pause, then Hal asked, "How's
Wendy?"
     "Fine."
     Hal nodded She looked great, really great.  " Again a pause
     "Something on your mind, Hal?"
     He took a deep breath. "Hope you don't mind me asking, but
. . . how are you two getting along?"
"Jesus Christ, Hal - - ."
"Darnmit, Patrick, you know why I'm asking, and you know
I wouldn't ask unless it was important."
     "So we're peeking into bedrooms to find a spy now, is that
it?"
     "Easy, pal. You knew all about Elliott's orders to expand the
search for these security leaks. I briefed the senior staff and
outlined exactly what guidelines I'd follow and what steps my
staff would take. Wendy and Ken--
     ' 'What the hell do you mean, Wendy and Ken . . . ?"
     "Do you know she was seen at Indian Springs Auxiliary Field
the other day?"
               "Yes, I know."
     
"With Ken James?"
     "So what? This is getting far out-"
     "You're getting defensive," Briggs shot back. "What's the
story?
     "The story is they went to lunch."
"It's James' little hideaway. It was the day of the last air combat dry-fire test.  
I was held up by the flight data lab, so?"
     "At Indian Springs?"                                 
James took her to lunch. Apparently he regularly cons the Dol-
phin pilot into taking him. Any more questions?"
     Briggs nodded-that was the same story he'd gotten from the
Dolphin pilot. "Patrick, please don't make this any tougher for
me-"



124                       DALE BROWN
     "Tougher for you?" McLanahan propped himself up in bed,
He was about to get up but paled and decided against it. "What
the hell are you saying? Is Wendy or Ken under suspicion?"
     "Everyone at HAWC is under suspicion, even the Ops per-
sonnel-especially the Ops personnel. But when DreamStar's
only pilot starts hanging around with a chief scientist from a
completely different section of HAWC-who also happens to be
the very close friend of the DreamStar project directors bell
has to go off-"
          "She lives with me, Hal. Come on.
     "Do I really have to spell this out? What if you guys were
having a major league argument? What if she left or you told
her to? What if ... dammit, Patrick, you know what the hell
I'm talking about."
     "I do, and it stinks."
     "The leaks started when she got to Drearnland--
     "Which is also when the DreamStar project went opera-
tional," McLanahan interrupted.
          "It's also the time Ken James arrived."
     "Along with a dozen other people," Patrick shot back.
"You're spinning your wheels, Hal. Wendy's undergone gov-
ernment security background checks since she was a senior in
college. Ken James is an Academy grad. He's undergone far
more thorough background investigations than just about anyone
at HAWC, including me."
          "He's also had a pretty rough family life .
     "Which doesn't make him a spy. I know all about his past,
his father, his mother's suspicious death in Monaco while he
was in the Zoo. But the guy's been polygraphed, examined,
questioned, investigated and scrutinized on a regular basis by a
dozen different agencies since entering the Academy. If he's got
a questionable past it would have surfaced by now."
     "Well, I've still got to check every scrap of info that's not
there, Patrick. You'll end up hurting security, not helping," Hal

said, not wanting to press it further at the moment. "Gotta go.
I'll see you on Monday."
     When the door to his hospital room closed, Patrick felt more
alone, more isolated than ever before. Mercifully, his body's
total exhaustion forced him to drop into a deep sleep.
Ken James was in DreamStar's cockpit. He had no flight suit, no
helmet. 7he canopy was closed and all power was off. He was
trying.to decide how to activate his fighter without ANTARES op-
erating when a brilliant beam of light hit the cockpit ftom some-
where on the ramp ... Hal Briggs was holding a huge spotlight
on him. Patrick McLanahan was carrying a bullhorn. Wendy Tor*
stood beside McLanahan crying. She was motioning to him to come
out of DreamStar ... He lifted the canopy. It weighed only eighty
pounds but it would hardly budge. He had to stand on the ejection
seat to get better leverage. But as he struggled to lift the heavy
plexiglas windscreen, McLanahan rushedforward, carrying a huge
ffty-caliber machine gun. 77ten Briggs hit him in the face with the
brilliant beam ftom the spotlight and McLanahan raised the ma-
chine gun. "Hold it right there - - - "
     James' eyes snapped open. He was confused, disoriented.
Then he heard the sounds of footsteps, coming closer, only a
few feet away ...
     He scrambled for the tiny transmitter on the nightstand beside
his bed-he had rigged the wall safe with a remote-control trig-
ger to incinerate its contents from anywhere in the apartment.
With his other hand he felt for the Beretta automatic pistol hid-
den under his pillow ...
     ". . . Don't go away, because you're listening to the solid
gold voice of the solid gold strip, FM one-oh-two - - - "
     Ken pulled his finger away from the button just in time.. It
was his clock radio, set for the station with the two early-morning
DJs with their taped sound effects. The bedroom lights, also
preprogrammed to come on when the alarm clock went off, were
glaring in his face. Swallowing hard, his ears ringing from ten-
sion, he carefully held the hammer of the Beretta with one hand

while pulling the trigger, letting the hammer slowly uncock.
     It had been another nightmare night, another confused awak-
ening. For the past two nights he had lain in bed, dressed in
shorts, shirt, and sneakers, with one finger on the remote-control
detonator and one hand on the Beretta pistol beside him. Sleep
had been almost impossible. Every noise, every creak, every
voice outside shook him awake in an instant, and he would lie
there, listening for the sounds of police feet pounding up his
stairs or the sight of flashing red-and-blue lights outside his win-
dow. Each time he had decided to escape, to get out of town
and head off to Mexico before they came and arrested him for



126                       DALE BROWN
espionage, but he would always talk himself out of it, out of
deserting DrearnStar. He would manage to drift off to sleep, only
to be awakened an hour later by another sound. He had managed
only a few restless hours of sleep all weekend.
     Now he half-walked, half-stumbled to the bathroom. The ten-
sion was taking its toll, all right. He had dark circles under his
eyes, his face was pale, his lips cracked and dry despite the
beads of sweat rolling down his face. He turned the shower on
full cold and stepped into it, forcing himself to stand in the icy
water a full minute before feeding in warm water. He stood
there, hoping that it would wash his nightmares away. It did not.
     Still, once into his morning routine, his mind began to analyze
the situation more rationally. He had holed himself up in his
apartment all weekend, afraid to leave but afraid he would be
arrested by military intelligence. The fact that no one had come
to him or called was reassuring. Perhaps no one had noticed
Kramer and Moffitt, the two Russian agents based out of Los
Angeles, at his apartment after all. Maybe Briggs wasn't con-
ducting round-the-clock surveillance of his apartment . . .
     His mood was bolstered later that morning as he drove through
Nellis toward the waiting area for the shuttle bus to the HAWC
research area. None of Briggs' men made a move for him. There
seemed no added security other than the forces that had been
added weeks earlier when the initial crackdown had been
started-if anything, the added security forces seemed more dis-
persed and less obvious. He felt relief as he stepped aboard the
bus that would take him to Dreamland. Surely Briggs wouldn't
let him go to Dreamland again if he had discovered his meeting
with Kramer and Moffitt.
     Despite the outer calm of the place, however, there were a lot
of worried faces and hushed conversation in the hallways and
offices of the HAWC research center when James arrived. He
poured himself a mug of coffee and began to go through his
mailbox in the test squadron's mission-planning room. Among

the half-week's worth of mail were several notices telling about
a Center-wide briefing for all personnel at eight A. The topic
was not specified.
     It was almost eight-thirty, so he put the meeting out of his
mind. He took a sip of coffee and was discarding most of the
small pile of mail in his box when    JC. Powell appeared in the
doorway.
     "Ken, where you been?"
     "I just got in. What's up?"
     "You missed the meeting
     "I just heard about it. What was it?"
     "I've been trying to reach you all weekend. Your phone's
been off the hook or something."
"They're installing videophone in my apartment complex,
he lied. "The phones have been screwed up ever since."
"Patrick's in his office. We better go see him."
"Now? What's the big deal?" He took another sip of coffee
It was pretty unusual to see Powell so wound up. "The Rooskies
declare war or something?"
     "Worse,"    said.' "They've canceled the DreamStar
Project."
     James promptly poured a mouthful of coffee down into his
lungs and nearly fell out of his chair. -What . . . ?
     "You heard me. Let's go."
     They hurried down the hallway to McLanahan's office and
burst in on the project director as he was signing a stack of
                  letters.
     "Glad you could be with us today, Ken," Patrick said, fin-
ishing his paperwork and dismissing the squadron clerk. He
studied James for a moment. "You look like hell, Captain.
Hanging out in the casinos all night again?"
     Powell dropped into a chair to watch the spectacle. James
blurted out, "What's this about the DreamStar project being can-
                  celed? "
     "If you'd check your mailbox or put your phone on the hook

you'd hear about these minor news flashes-"
     "What the hell are you joking around about?" James' hands
were on the colonel's desk. "Who canceled the project? Why?"
     "The project was officially canceled by the Air Force this
meaning, " McLanahan said wearily. He picked up a red-colored
folder containing a single message-letter. "There are too many
gaps in the scientists' knowledge of ANTARES to justify fund-
ing . . . at least in the opinion of the top brass. The flying phase
of the project is being canceled until the gaps get filled in .
     James stared at McLanahan. "What do you mean, gaps? I can
make it work. I don't get it - . - "
     "The bottom line is that there's still only one person who can
fly DreamStar-and that's you.    can't fly it, at least not




128                       DALE BROWN
past anything more complicated than takeoff and landing. I've
been trying to learn how to use it and I flunked. Carmichael and
his lab can't really say why it works with you and so far not
with anyone else. After my last flight in the ANTARES Simu-
lator," 
     "You were flying in the simulator?" He sounded as if the
colonel had committed a major trespass on his territory, his baby.
"You tried to fly ANTARES? Why? I'm DrearnStar's pilot,
you're the project director, you-"
     "I've been training in ANTARES for several months. I
thought I had it down, but-"
     "That wasn't a very smart idea, Colonel," James said. His
voice was not sympathetic. "ANTARES can be very unpredict-
able . . . "
     "Yeah, it damn near killed him," Powell put in.
     "So you submitted a report saying that ANTARES was dan-
gerous, and headquarters canceled the project?"
     "That's not the way it went down, Ken. The project was
slated to lose its flight-phase funding at the end of this fiscal
year. The cancellation was going to happen anyway. My . . .
accident only moved up the timetable a few months."
     James turned away, tried to control himself, but his mind was
working overtime in its reaction to this information. He had just
told Kramer and Moffitt that everything was going as planned,
that he was even going to countermand the KGB's order to steal
DreamStar . . . Now the project was going to be canceled. The
KGB would never believe that he didn't know about the cancel-
lation. His creditability would be totally destroyed-they would
think he was double-crossing them for sure.
     "Sony, Ken," McLanahan was saying, "but it seems like
they only needed an excuse to shut it down .
          "What will happen to us?"
     "We're reforming the Cheetah ATF program.    will be
the senior pilot. I imagine they'll ask you to stay on in the AN-

TARES project. They'll want to continue their research in the
laboratory . . . "
          "I won't fly any more?"
     "Only enough for flight-time currency. You'll get your re-
quired twenty hours a calendar quarter in the T-45A trainer, plus
a lot of time in the ANTARES simulator. You'll .
     "You mean I'll be reduced to a guinea pig?"
     "I don't think you have any choice, Ken," Powell said. "Be-
ing the only guy who can fly DreamStar can be a curse as well
as a blessing. Carmichael and his people need you to continue
their research. They can't figure out how to teach others to learn
the ANTARES interface unless they figure out how you accom-
plished it."
     Things were going to hell very, very quickly, James thought.
"How soon before we stop flight operations? Will there at least
be time for one more flight?" And added quickly, "I hate to
see it go out this way . - - "
     McLanahan rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "I
had to fight like crazy to get Air Force to agree to let us complete
the weapons-mating test. They wouldn't buy off on any more
flight tests, though. Absolutely no way."
          "But they are going to finish the mating test?
     "They've been working all weekend on it," Powell said.
"They should have it finished by tonight or tomorrow morning
and then start offloading the Scorpion missiles right after that. I
wanted to get some pictures of DreamStar with Scorpion missiles
on it-it may be the only time we'll see that for years."
     The weapons-mating test-James had his answer . . . "What
a waste, Colonel," he said, trying hard to act more subdued
while formulating his plan .        "An incredible waste. All this
time, all this effort . - - "
     McLanahan started shuffling papers, a wordless signal to both
pilots that the meeting was over, he had nothing more to say.
     "One thing's for sure," Powell said to James as they headed
for the door. "You'll go down in the books as the first pilot of

a thought-controlled aircraft."
     James only murmured something and nodded. His mind was
a long way away-on plans for the last flight of DreamStar.
Unlike most times, it was still light outside when McLanahan
returned home that evening. Still more unusual was finding that
he had actually beat Wendy home-but then he heard a faint
sound from the bedroom. He opened the door and found her
sitting cross-legged on the bed, her arms pulling her knees to
her chest. She had the shades drawn and the room was in dark-
ness-she must have overridden the automatic lights.
     "Wendy? What's wrong? How long have you been here?"
     "Not long . . . how do you feel?"



130                       DALE BROWN
     "I feel fine ... anything wrong?"
      "No."
     No tears in her voice, no sadness, but it was hardly like her
to coop herself up like this. "Why are you sitting here in the
dark?
     "Thinking.
     'About what?"
          She remained curled up, staring toward the windows.
     He put the light switch back on AUTo and the lights snapped
on. He sat down beside her. "All right, Wendy. What's going
on?" Still no answer. "Something at work? Something with the
Old Dog project?"
          ". . . I had my flight physical this morning."
     The smile disappeared from his face. "All right, enough damn
mystery. Out with it." And then he saw the pamphlet in the
wicker wastebasket beside the bed. Even upside down and crum-
pled he could read the title: "Facts About Your .
     "Pregnancy? You're pregnant?"
     She looked apologetic. "Patrick, this is all wrong . . . I'm
sorry-"
          "Sorry? What are you sorry about?"
     :'This . . . that . . . oh, damn . . . "
     'Wendy, you're babbling. Tell me what in the world you're
so sorry about."
     "I don't want you to think that I . . . I did this on purpose,
trapping you or something-"
     "Of course I don't think that." He slid over and put his arms
around her. "Don't be silly, I'm trying to absorb it, but I'm
delighted- "
     She seemed to stiffen. She backed away and looked at him,
hard and long. "Do you mean it? Because if you're just saying
it-"
     "Of course I do. Hey, I love you .
     She collapsed in his arms. "I was so worried . . . afraid you'd

think I was trying the last dodge-"
     He shut her up by kissing her. "Like I said, I happen to love
you, I want you and I want our son . . . daughter .          And he
began to kiss her again.
She pulled herself free.  "I want you to make sure, Patrick.
This is so important-"
"Then it's settled. Let's go.
              "Go? Go where,?"
                "Downtown. "
     "Downtown? Why do you want to-?" And then she under-
stood.
     "We're living in Las Vegas, a lot of people get married
here every year, some even at nine o'clock on a Monday eve-
ning- -
     "What about ... ?
     "Family? My mother's gone, and my brothers and sisters will
be thrilled-relieved I finally got my act together and married
you after all these years. What about your parents? You need to
decide, Wendy. It's up to you .
     Her answer was to reach out to him and draw him to her .
all the answer he needed.
At eleven o'clock, Maraklov left the Silver Dollar casino on Las
Vegas' Fremont Street and made his way to the taxi stand down
the block near a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. He searched
up and down the long line of taxis, then carefully checked around
him. Satisfied, he ambled down the line of taxis until he was
beside one that had its roof light off, signifying that it was al-
ready hired.
     Maraklov got into the front seat of the cab.
     "Well, well, General Big-Shot," Moffitt greeted him.
"Dobriy vyechyer . . . looks like you have some sort of a
problem-"
     "Stuff it, Moffitt." He turned toward Kramer, sitting in the
back seat of the cab with a copy of the Wall Street Journal.
"They're deactivating the DreamStar project. In two days."

Kramer appeared not to have heard him. "Did you hear what I
said? "
     "I do not think he believes you, tovarisch," Moffitt said.
     "Speak English, asshole. Better yet, keep your trap shut.
Kramer, listen to me. We've got to get DreamStar out of Ne-
vada."
He did not look up from his paper.
     Maraklov grabbed the newspaper away from Kramer and
crumpled it up. "What the hell's wrong with you, Kramer?"
     "With me? Nothing is wrong, Captain-except I have just
conveyed your previous message to Moscow, how you have
countermanded their order. Now, you tell me that you were



132                      DALE BROWN
wrong and that the KGB's original plan must be implemented.
Am I now supposed to happily embrace your idea?"
     " Hey, I just found out about this today. The damned project
director was screwing around in the simulator and got himself
hurt. He filed his report-"
     "And the Joint Chiefs canceled the project," Kramer inter-
rupted, "overriding the Air Force's recommendation for lower
levels of activity.
          "You know about this?"
     "We heard about the Pentagon's recommendation over the
weekend," Kramer said. "Our superiors contacted us immedi-
ately, wanting us to explain the disparity between your conten-
tions and the announcement. I could offer none."
          "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
     "We needed time to evaluate the situation," Kramer said.
"Besides, your phone was not working." He had had it off the
hook all weekend, afraid of contact with anyone that might have
seen Kramer and Moffitt at his apartment. "But it did not matter.
We knew you would contact us tonight."
     "Well, this new development changes things, makes your
original plan not only necessary but, if I can pull it off, one that
will give us a significant advantage. They stop, we go on . . . I
think it can be done. I'll need refueling support, somewhere in
Mexico. I won't know exactly where or when, so you'll have to
be flexible. Arrange for a transport plane carrying fuel and sup-
plies. You said you had some private company in Mexico, noth-
ing connected with the KGB or anything governmental .
          "It can be done."
     "If I get a refueling I can fly either to Cuba or Nicaragua. I
think Nicaragua would be safer, further from the U., less or-
ganized. After landing in Nicaragua we can make preparations
to fly it to Russia with an escort."
     "So now you believe you can get this aircraft out of Nevada
successfully," Kramer said. "You were sure that you could not

do this before."
     "They're, talking about mothballing my fighter. I'm not going
to let them do that. No way. I'll crash the thing before they take
it away from me." He immediately wished he could take back
those last words.
     Kramer was silent for a few moments, then: "The Command
is concerned about you, about your motivation. They believe
that you do not seem to care who has control of the fighter as
long as you have it. This worries them-"
     "They don't have'to worry about a damn thing. Just make
sure they have a tanker in Mexico when I get there, and make
sure they have a secure, protected place to keep it in Cuba or
Nicaragua or any other damn place I make it to. I'll get the
fighter to Russia in one piece. You can bet on that .



High Technology Advanced Weapons Center
(Dreantland), Nevada
Wednesday, 17 June 1996, 0400 PDT (0700 EDT)
"GOOD MORNING, LADIEs and gentlemen," Brigadier General
John Ormack, the deputy commander of the High Technology
Advanced Weapons Center, began. "This is the operational test
flight briefing for Mission Three Sierra, first full-crew opera-
tional combat test flight of the B-52 M-model Megafortress Plus
bomber.
     "Our landmark mission today consists of an AIM-120 air-to-
air missile test engagement, AGM-132C Tacit Rainbow III anti-
radiation cruise missile test launch, and AGM-98 air-to-ground
laser-guided missile weapon release."
     To an outsider it hardly seemed like something to cheer about.
To those assembled in the briefing room, it was something to
applaud. That was especially true for those seated at the place
of honor in the front row-General Bradley Elliott, Patrick
McLanahan, Wendy Tork, and Angelina Pereira, surviving.
members of the original Old Dog's B-52 flight crew. Ormack
himself had been the copilot aboard the first flight of the origi-
nal Megafortress and the project director for the newly redesigned
Megafortress Plus. He seemed to have grown younger since their
amazing mission eight years earlier-many members of his
Megafortress Plus project half his age had difficulty keeping up
with him.
     "The purpose of this mission is twofold," Ormack went on.
"First, it's the final operational check flight for this B-52 after
extensive repairs, and second, it's an operational evaluation of
the Megafortress Plus weapon system, pending development au-
thorization. The Megafortress Plus system seeks to provide long-
range strategic defense suppression and attack using heavily
armed B-52 bombers. These B-52s would carry air-to-air mis-
siles, anti-radar weapons, cruise missiles, shorter-range standoff
missiles, gravity bombs, and a wide array of electronic jammers
and countermeasures to destroy or disrupt all kinds of enemy

defenses, thereby allowing other strategic or tactical attack air-
craft to transit the forward edge of the battle area and complete
their missions.
     "HAWC has four B-52s undergoing modification to Megafor-
tress, including one"-Orinack motioned to a tall officer in the
rear of the conference room--commanded by Major Kelvin
Carter, that will act as backup aircraft for this test. " Carter's
copilot, a young female captain named Cheshire, gave Ormack
a look. "You included, Captain Cheshire," Ormack added
quickly.
     "Can it, Cheshire," Carter whispered to his copilot.
     "Then don't you be hogging all the glory," she whispered
back, trying to keep a straight face.
     "Roll call for Mission Three Sierra: aircraft commander will
be myself," Ormack went on. "Colonel Jeffrey Khan will be
copilot, and in the instructor pilot's seat upstairs will be Mr.
George Wendelstat from the House An-ned Service Committee,
acting as safety observer. Welcome, Mr. Wendelstat." Several
in the room wondered how they'd manage to shoehorn Wendel-
stat in through the entrance hatch.
     "Rounding out Dog Zero One's flight crew is radar navigator
Major Edward Frost, navigator Major Linda Evanston, elec-
tronic warfare officer Dr. Wendy Tork, and fire control officer
Dr. Angelina Pereira. Good luck to us all."
     McLanahan had to choke down his feelings. It seemed so
strange for him to be left out of the crew roster for the Mega-
fortress' first combat-exercise flight. But it was no longer his
project. He had safely flown the Old Dog from Nome back to
Dreamland eight years ago, and had not stepped inside her since.
It was like being reunited with an old friend who didn't recog-
nize him any more.
     The huge flat-screen liquid-crystal monitor behind Ormack
changed to a digital time face. "Time hack, coming up on
twelve-oh-four Zulu in fifteen seconds . . . five, four, three, two,
one, hack. One-two-zero-f6ur Zulu."




136                       DALE BROWN
     This day had been years in the making-two years of rede-
signing and computer testing by the engineers after the plane
had returned to Dreamland; three years of rebuilding by a bat-
talion of workers, and three years of experimentation and testing
by the engineers and test flight crews. Now, the first newly re-
designed B-52 bomber called the Megafortress Plus was ready
to break its cherry.
     A weather map came up on the screen and Lieutenant Colonel
Jacobsen, HAWCs staff meterologist, stepped to the podium.
"Good morning, General Elliott, General Ormack, ladies and
gentlemen. You picked a wonderful day for this flight." A re-
gional surface weather map came on the screen. "Strong high
pressure dominates the region. This high pressure dome has re-
duced visibilities in the restricted areas in the past few days, but
some overnight breezes have pushed most of the gook out of the
way. You can expect clear skies, perhaps some scattered thin
stratus at twelve thousand feet.
     "For the air-to-air portion of your flight: no significant weather
in R-4808 Pahute Mesa launch area. Possibly a few puffy clouds
on the east side of mountain ranges but otherwise no restrictions
to visibility. Winds forecast at twenty knots from the north at
fifteen thousand feet. For the air-to-ground portion of your flight,
excellent weather conditions will persist. Visibility may be as
low as twenty miles on the surface, with winds light and varia-
ble. Bombing range area will be 'severe clear,' possibly some
hazy conditions, temperature seventy-eight degrees. Good luck
and good hunting."
     Ormack took over as the screen changed again. "Status of the
chase aircraft are as shown. Everyone's in the green as of this
hour. Please report maintenance delays to job control on present
channel eight. Colonel Towland is the operations controller in
the command post and he will reassign backup aircraft as nec-
essary."
     The screen changed to a detailed high-resolution map of the

restricted areas around Dreamland. The map was put into mo-
tion by computer, drawing the flight path of the Megafortress as
Ormack spoke: "Route of flight is as follows: we will launch
via coded message and follow the Groom Victor One departure
to Angel intersection. Once at Angel, we will orbit as necessary
at thirty thousand feet until one-five hundred Zulu time, then
proceed downrange toward the intercept area.
     "Once in the intercept area two AQM-175 tactical dome air-
craft launched from China Lake Naval Weapons Center will be
directed by airborne controllers to engage the B-52. The Mega-
fortress will carry two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles in wing pylon
canisters and will engage the drone aircraft at will. The engage-
ment will continue for one hour or until the drones are de-
stroyed. Flight crew personnel and airborne controllers will
follow standard rules of engagement for safe separation of air-
craft. All flight crew personnel will take directions from the
airborne controllers. If not destroyed, the drones will be recov-
ered by parachute, and the Megafortress will proceed to the
missile drop zone."
     The screen changed again. "The Tacit Rainbow anti-radiation
loiter missile drop test will be at twelve thousand feet, in roughly
the same area as the intercept zone. A simulated Soviet SA- 14
surface-to-air missile site will engage the B-52 . . . Dr. Tork? "
     Wendy Tork came to the podium. She was wearing a bright
orange flight suit and black leather zip-up flight boots-even the
baggy flight suit looked dynamite on her.
     "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," Wendy began, her
energy contagious even at the early hour. "We will be testing
the new array of strategic and tactical pulse-Doppler electronic
countermeasure jammers aboard the Megafortress Plus, as well
as the Tacit Rainbow mod three anti-radar loiter missile. The
purpose of this flight is to evaluate the Megafortress' capability
to penetrate sophisticated Soviet coastal defenses using its own
assets, and at the same time create penetration corridors for
other aircraft using the Tacit Rainbow anti-radiation missile.

These will lay the groundwork for fleet modernization of existing
B-52 aircraft as well as develop new capabilities for follow-on
aircraft such as the B- I Excalibur and B-2 Panther Stealth
bomber. "
     A high-resolution photo of the anti-radar missile flashed on
the screen. "First developed ten years ago, Tacit Rainbow is a
small winged aircraft with a one-thousand-pound-thrust turbo et
engine, a ring laser gyro inertial navigation unit and coupled
autopilot, a broad-band programmable seeker head with multi-
pulse and digital radiation capability, and a one-hundred-pound
high-explosive warhead. The missile is released within fifty miles
of a known or suspected enemy surface-to-air missile site. The
missile orbits the area using its inertial autopilot until it detects




138                      DALE BROWN
emissions from the nearby enemy radar. The missile then leaves
its orbit and homes in on the radar and destroys it. The missile
can orbit for as long as four hours and has a small enough radar
cross-section to avoid detection by hostile anti-air units. A B-52
bomber can carry as many as twenty-four of these missiles, al-
though we see these Tacit Rainbow missiles carried with a mixed
load of offensive missiles and gravity weapons aboard Navy and
Air Force strike aircraft . . ."
     Patrick realized how much he envied these men and women.
And listening to these briefings and organization of the Mega-
fortress Plus project tended to underscore his own apparent fail-
ure with the DrearnStar project, now on hold mostly because he
failed to keep tighter control on his test pilots and to recognize
the need for more complete and useful test standards and secu-
rity.
     He was in charge of nothing right now except cleanup. Sure,
he had been given the Cheetah program, but that was already a
thriving project nearing operational deployment. He was just
another caretaker, marking time.
     His eyes automatically sought out Wendy's, and he found her
looking in his direction. They exchanged faint smiles. She had
been watching him off and on the whole time. Better snap out
of it, you stupid mick, he told himself. She'll have enough on
her mind without worrying about you.
     The briefing ended and the flight crew moved toward the exits
and the bus ready to take them to the flight line. McLanahan
went to each crewmember and wished him or her a good flight.
     "You should be going with us, Patrick," Angelina Pereira
said, giving him a very unmilitary hug. "This is your plane.
You belong on her. You and General Elliott too."
     She was wearing the same orange flight suit as Wendy, and
she too looked dynamite in it despite being fifteen years older
than Wendy. Her hair was more gray then he remembered, but
her eyes still sparkled. Angie would always be a handful for any

man-she had married and divorced twice since the Old Dog's
first mission. He could still see her in the denim jacket she had
worn when she climbed aboard the Old Dog eight years earlier,
and he could remember her gratitude when the Russian caretaker
at Anadyr Airbase in Siberia gave her a full-length sealskin coat
in exchange for her denim jacket, even though at the time the
jacket was covered with General Elliott's blood. That coat today
had to be worth at least five thousand. She would not have parted
with it for five million.
     He could also remember her dropping into marksman's crouch
as she fired on that same Russian airbase caretaker after he dis-
covered who they were and ran off to warn the militia. One
minute she was eternally grateful to the guy; the next she was
trying to blow him away. She was one tough lady, all right.
     "Not this time, Angelina," Patrick said with a halfhearted
smile. "But I'll have the fire trucks and the champagne ready
to hose you guys off when you land."
          "It's your project as well as ours."
"Not any more. Besides, you guys did all the work
"No, you did. Back over Russia." Like him, she had been
thinking back to the Old Dog's first mission. "Even though you
won't fly with us your name's still on the Old Dog, on the crew
nameplate. It'll be there as it's flying." '
     "But I'm not the radar nav any more-"
     "No, you're not, you're the seventh man, Patrick. Sorry to
sound corny, but you're the soul of the Old Dog - "
     She squeezed his hand, picked up her helmet bag, and walked
off. He saw Wendy then, watching him once again from the back
of the conference room. He went over to her.
     "How do you feel, Mrs. McLanahan?"
     "Wonderful. Happy.. Nervous. Excited. I've got butterflies the
size of B-52s in my stomach . . . Are you going to be okay?"
                 "Sure. I I
     "Wish you were going with us. You deserve it more than
anyone else." She could tell he was unconvinced. She smiled at

him. "When should we break the news?"
     "At the post-flight reception tonight."
     "Can't wait." She gave him a kiss and hurried off to join her
crew.
     He called out behind her. "Good luck. See you on the
ground. "
     Wendy flashed him an exaggerated thumbs-up. "Piece of
cake," she called out as she rushed off to catch the crew bus
As the crew of the new Megafortress Plus headed off to begin
their mission, Staff Sergeant Rey Jacinto was nearing the end of
his tour of duty on the graveyard shift, on patrol guarding Han-



140                        DALE BROWN
gar Number Five at the flight line at Dreamland. It was the
absolute pits.
     He had done everything wrong. After four years as an Air
Force security guard he knew how to prepare himself for a
change in shifts-plenty of exercise, the right amount of rest,
not too much food, no caffeine or alcohol twelve hours before
the shift. But this time everything had gone to hell. His wife had
car trouble Monday afternoon and so he was up all morning
towing it to his brother-in-law's place. It had been hot, dusty
work and he couldn't resist a couple of beers at two o'clock in
the afternoon-that only violated the eight-hour rule by two
hours. No big deal.
     His body began asking him for sleep at three o'clock, but the
car needed a new water pump and his brother-in-law insisted
they could do it before he had to leave. Then, to top it all off,
he sat down at six o1clock for homemade pizza. Knowing that
he hadn't had any sleep in twelve hours and he wasn't going to
get any in the next twelve, he downed nearly a whole pot of
coffee after polishing off four huge, thick slices of pizza.
     Rey felt pretty good as he reported for duty at seven-thirty for
the shift-briefing, inspection, weapons checkout and post,
changeover, but when he parked his an-nored assault vehicle in
front of Hangar Number Five, things began catching up with
him. The combination of caffeine and lack of rest made his mus-
cles jittery. The night air was cold, so he turned up the heat in
his V-100 Commando armored car, which only increased his
drowsiness. He had brought his study materials for his bachelor-
degree class, but the thought of even trying to listen to an hour's
worth of audio textbooks on micro-economics was too much.
     By four A., four hours from changeover, Sergeant Jacinto
was struggling to stay awake. Everything was quiet on the ra-
dios-no exercises, alerts, weapon movements, nothing. With
the B-52 down the way in Hangar Three being readied for a
flight, a security exercise would be too disruptive and would not

be called. The engineers who had been working on the XF-34A
DreamStar in Hangar Five had long since departed, and the
munitions-maintenance troops weren't scheduled to arrive until
after his shift-change. Even nature was conspiring to screw him
up. Thin clouds blocked most of the bright moonlight, so the
ramp and most of the area were completely dark, and there were
no birds or animals making their usual noises on the dry lakebed
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            141
aircraft ramp. It was'a dark, quiet morning. If he didn't go
completely crazy he was going to die from the strain of trying
to stay awake.
     Rey had just completed his hourly walkaround inspection of
Hangar Five, checking all the doors and exits. He was so bored
that he even began to pick up scraps of paper and pieces of junk
on the ramp. He returned to his truck and keyed the radio.
     "Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot." Red Man was HAWCs
Security Control Center.
     "Go ahead, Five."
     "Requesting ten mike for relief."
     There was a pause, then: "Five, that's your fourth potty break
tonight. "
     "It's Rey's time of the month," someone else on the security
net chimed in.
     "Cut the chatter, " the security controller ordered. "Five Fox-
trot, unable at this time. Stand by. Break. Rover Nine, this is
Red Man. Over."
     "Rover Nine, go." Rover Nine was one of only two M113
armored combat vehicle-equipped crews that cruised around the
huge compound, doing errands and relieving the post guards as
necessary; they had numbers higher than two to hide the fact
that there were only two of these heavily armed roving patrols
on the flight line.
     "Five Foxtrot requests relief for ten mike ASAP.-
     "Stand by," came the reply in an exasperated voice. A few
moments later: "Red Man, we're at the shack getting coffee-

Five Foxtrot's been drinking the stuff like it's going out of style."
Rey Jacinto cringed as his code name was broadcast on the net-
boy, was he going to get it when this shift was over. Good thing
none of the other guards could leave their posts to get on his
case. "We'll be another ten here, then we need to check in with
the main gate. Ask Five Foxtrot if this is a number two or if he
can use the piddle pack. Over."
     Rey was fed up with all this-they weren't letting him off easy
tonight. He was just bored and sleepy. He keyed his micro-
phone: "Break. Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot. Cancel request
for relief. Request the comedians in Rover Nine bring some wa-
ter when they're done stuffing their faces at the flight line kitchen.
Over. "
     "Roger, Five Foxtrot. Rover Nine, you copy?"




142                       DALE BROWN
     "Affirmative. Advise Five Foxtrot to stop massaging his little
one-eyed helmeted reptile and stand by. Rover Nine out."
     There were a few more comments on the net-no one liked
to give the hot-dogs on Rover Nine the last word-but soon si-
lence once again descended over the area.
     By now Rey was struggling to keep his eyelids open. The
worst part of any guard's tour, no matter how well one prepared,
was the hour or two just before sunrise. It was a barrier, a psy-
chological one-the body demanded sleep at this hour no matter
how much rest it had earlier. Rey Jacinto's head was bobbing up
and down off his chest. He had already stripped off his fatigue
jacket, flak jacket and webbing so as much cold air could hit his
skin as possible. It wasn't helping.
     He was thankful to see the lights of a big blue Stepvan supply
truck check in at the outer perimeter. The blue "bread truck"
van, towing a missile trailer, headed right for him. He was feel-
ing a little ornery by now, and this was his chance to get his
blood pumping again. Quickly he pulled on his combat gear and
webbing as the truck pulled up.
     When the truck stopped in front of Jacinto's armored car, he
got out, carrying his M-16 rifle at port arms, and ran in front
and off to the driver's side of the van. He held up the rifle, filled
his lungs with cold desert air and yelled, "Driver! Stop your
engine, leave your headlights on and everyone out of the van.
Now! "
     The driver and one other man, both in Air Force green fa-
tigues, jumped out of the van and stood before Jacinto in the
glare of the van's headlights. The younger man, a two-striper,
was shaking. The driver, a burly technical sergeant, was sur-
prised but kept his composure as he raised his hands. "What's
going on?"
     :'Step away from the truck," Jacinto ordered. Both men did.
     'What's going-?"
     " Quiet! Don't move! " Jacinto still held his rifle at port anns-

his voice was enough to convince the two men. Jacinto rested
the automatic rifle on his hip with one hand and pulled his
walkie-talkie from his web belt.
     " Red Man, this is Five Foxtrot. Two males intercepted at
Five, driving a blue Stepvan with missile trailer. Executing full
nighttime challenge. Over."
     "Copy, Five Foxtrot," the security controller replied. There
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            143
was a hint of humor in the controller's voice-he knew Jacinto
was going to have a little fun with his visitors. "Do you require
assistance? "
              "Ne ative. Out."
The driver of the truck said, "Sergeant, would you mind-?"
"Silence. Tlim around. Both of you."
"I've got authorization-"
"I said turn." They did. "Where's your I. cards?"
"Back pocket."
     "One hand, two fingers. Remove your I.- They removed
wallets from back pockets. "Over your head. Remove your L D.
cards. " They did. "Drop them slowly, carefully, at your feet,
then take three steps forward." When they moved away Jacinto
said, "Now kneel. Hands on top of your heads."
"Give us a break, Sarge--
"Kneel.
     As they did, Jacinto walked over to the I. cards, picked
them up, and examined them. They were bent, dirty, grease-
encrusted and barely readable-typical maintenance troop's I.
cards. Jacinto stepped around the two kneeling men and shined
a flashlight in their faces. The faces matched the photos.
     "I need job slips now. Where are they?"
     "Upper left pocket."
     "Get them out." The two technicians pulled crumpled slips
of paper from their pockets and put them on the ramp. Jacinto
picked them up and checked them under the flashlight's beam.
He couldn't check the job numbers-he'd left his clipboard with

the job numbers from the squadron in his truck-but he checked
the MMS squadron supervisor's stamped signoff block on the
reverse side. The stamp and signature were the most frequently
omitted part of the job ticket, and both were required before any
work could begin on any of the birds on the line. But these guys
were on the ball-both had the required stamp with the familiar
signature of the MMS NCOIC.
     "Okay, Sergeant Howard, Airman Crowe," Jacinto said,
looping the M-16 back onto his right shoulder. "Everything
checks okay."
     "You're damned right it does," Howard said, hauling himself
to his feet. Jacinto held out the job tickets and I. cards to
them. Howard took his I. D. card and job ticket back with a snap
of his wrist; Crowe took his with relief.




144                      DALE BROWN
     "Why can't you bozos do your little games during the day?"
Howard said. He motioned to Crowe, who seemed to be ce-
mented in place. "Move it, Airman. We're behind schedule as
it is."
          "Wasn't expecting you till nine," Jacinto said.
     "I wasn't expecting to be here until nine," Howard said an-
grily. "So naturally I get a call in the middle of the night telling
me they want the plane in premaintenance right now. I know
better than to answer the damned phone after nine P."
     Jacinto nodded. "I hear that." He put his own wife and
kids on strict instructions not to answer the phone after nine
P.
     He walked back to his V- 100 just as a large green M 113 Ar-
madillo combat vehicle pulled up beside his. The back door
swung ope I n and two armed soldiers jumped out and took defen-
sive positions behind the ACV. Jacinto could see the roof turret
swing in his direction, the huge twenty-millimeter Browning
cannon and its coaxial 7.62-millimeter machine gun in the turret
trained on the Stepvan behind him.
     "Five Foxtrot, code two, report," a voice blared through the
Armadillo's loudspeaker.
     "Five Foxtrot, code victor ten victor, all secure," Jacinto
yelled back. The security crews had been given a code sequence
and number for the shift. When challenged, the guard would
respond with the proper code to advise the response crew that
he was not under duress. If he had responded with anything else
the snipers at the back of the truck and the gunner on top of the
armored vehicle with his cannon and machine gun would kill
anybody in sight.
     But Jacinto answered correctly. The guards behind the Ar-
madillo raised their rifles and slung them on their shoulders.
Jacinto walked over to the truck.
     "Pissing off the munitions maintenance troops again, eh,
Rey?"
     
"I gotta do something to stay awake, Sarge. These guys have
nonsense of humor."
     'Yeah. You gotta hit the head or what?"
     "Just let me refill my canteen and I'll be okay."
     Jacinto went to the back of the Almadillo and hacked around
with the two assault troops as he filled his canteen from the large
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           145
water can and hooked it back onto his web belt. He gave the
shift-supervisor NCO a snappy salute as the ACV drove away.
     His blood flowing once again, Jacinto did a quick walkaround
inspection of the hangar as the munitions maintenance troops
punched in the number of the code lock on the hangar door
opening mechanism. As the senior NCO went inside, the younger
man hopped back into the Stepvan and pulled it around so that
the rear was facing in toward the plane. Jacinto moved toward
the front of the hangar so he could watch the rear of the truck
and the driver. The young driver, obviously nervous around the
flight line, finally got into position after a series of jerks and
starts, maneuvering the missile trailer in beside the plane as
close to the hangar wall as he could. Jacinto decided to help him
out, and guided the driver in until the truck was ten feet from
the nose of the plane and the trailer was just under the left wing-
tip.
     "Thanks," the young airman said in a high-pitched voice. He
hopped out and trotted back to help his supervisor.
     "Better chock the truck," Jacinto called inside the hangar.
The airman froze. Sergeant Howard looked at Jacinto, then at
Crowe, and finally at the Stepvan.
     "Do as the man said," Howard yelled to Crowe. "You know
all vehicles are supposed to be chocked out here." Crowe ran
to the truck, pulled out a set of yellow wooden chocks and placed
them under the rear wheels.
     "And stop running around in the hangar," Howard yelled
once more. "You know better. Or should."
     Jacinto suppressed a smile. He remembered back to his first

solo guard duties while he watched the two technicians set to
work. He was a million times more nervous than this guy . . .
     His interest was quickly drawn to the amazing aircraft they
were servicing. He had never been any closer than this to the
plane, even though he had been guarding it for a year now, but
he was still amazed by the sleek, catlike aircraft. It looked even
more deadly now with its two huge air-to-air missiles hanging
on the belly on either side of the large intake. Jacinto had read
every scrap of unclassified information on DrearnStar and had
repeatedly asked for permission to look inside the cockpit but
was always denied.
     Sergeant Howard had wheeled a maintenance platform around
to the left side of the cockpit and locked it into place, then




146                       DALE BROWN
scrambled up the steps and opened the canopy. Meanwhile Crowe
had started up an auxiliary power cart in the back of the hangar
and was hauling air and power cables over to the receptacles
near the left main landing gear. A few moments later Howard
had flipped the right switches in the cockpit-the battery and
external power switches, Jacinto recalled from his reading-and
cockpit and position lights popped in all around DreamStar.
     Howard stepped off the maintenance platform and walked over
to the back of the truck. Noticing Jacinto watching him from the
front of the hangar, he waved him over. Jacinto, and soon Air-
man Crowe, moved over beside Howard.
     Over the noise of the power cart Sergeant Howard said, "Want
to take look inside?"
     Jacinto blinked in surprise. "Is it okay?"
     " Don't see why not. Ejection seat's been deactivated, half the
black boxes in the cockpit have been pulled out and the weapons
are all pinned and safe. No better time - "
     Jacinto nodded enthusiastically. He pulled the clip out of his
M-16, placed the clip in a pouch on his belt, checked the safety
on the rifle and leaned the weapon on the Stepvan bumper. "All
right, I been waiting to do this for-"
     A hand reached across his face, covering his nose and mouth
and twisting his head sideways. Jacinto tried to roll away from
the arms holding his head, but Howard had run up to him and
grasped his chin, holding his neck fast. A split-second later Ja-
cinto felt a sharp, deep sting on his exposed neck.
     Three seconds later he was dead.
     "Shto slochelosch? What the hell is the matter with you,
Crowe?" the man named "Howard" cursed at his young part-
ner. "Crowe" was staring at the body, watching Jacinto's death
twitch as the poison slowly destroyed the central nervous sys-
tem. "You almost let him get loose."
     Crowe did not reply. Howard slapped the young man hard on
the shoulder. "We must hurry, idiot. Time is running out."
     
Pushed toward the still-quivering corpse, Crowe began un-
buckling Jacinto's combat harness and webbing, jerking his hands
,away as the last of the dead, guard's tremors left his body. Mean-
while Howard swung open the back of the Stepvan, removed
several pins from the sides of the equipment racks along the
inside walls of the van, then hauled the racks away from the
wall.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           147
     Out from his hiding place inside the racks, wearing the AN-
TARES flight suit, was Captain Kenneth Francis James.
     "Nechyega syerchyanznaga, tovarisch. It is all clear, Com-
rade Captain. We are -ready."
     James raised the muzzle of the machine pistol and put the
safety on. "Speak English, you idiot. And help me out of here."
     Slowly, carefully, Maraklov was helped to his feet. Moving
as if his joints were locked in place, he slowly walked to the
edge of the Stepvan. Howard then lowered him to the hangar
floor, where he made his way to the maintenance platform still
set up beside DrearnStar.
     By this time Airman Crowe-real name, long unused and al-
most forgotten, was Andrei Lovyyev-had put on all of Jacinto's
combat gear and was just replacing the ammo clip in the M- 16
rifle. "Blouse your pants in your boots, Crowe," James told
him as he crawled up the ladder. "And keep out of sight. You're
at least thirty pounds smaller than Jacinto, someone is bound to
notice. "
                 "Yes, sir.
     "Remember, your call sign is Five Foxtrot. The duress code
number is twelve and the duress prefix and suffix is victor."
             "I remember, sir."
     He turned to Howard. "You both have been briefed on the
pickup location?"
          "Yes, Captain. Good luck to you, sir."
     James balanced himself on the cockpit sill of DreamStar and
swung his legs inside the cockpit. Then with Howard's help, he

connected the maze of wire bundles from his flight suit to
DrearnStar's computers, set the heavy ANTARES superconduc-
tor helmet on his head and fastened it into place. By this time
he was breathing hard, he could feel drops of sweat crawling
down his arms and neck. Howard's hands trembled slightly with
excitement as he fastened the thick shoulder straps around the
metal-encased pilot and pulled them tight. "Tighter," James
said in a voice muffled by the helmet. Howard braced himself
and hauled on'the straps as hard as he could.
     "Thank you, Sergeant Howard," James said. "You pulled
this off very well."
     "Nyeh zah shto. " Maraklov had been James too long. He
could barely understand a word, but the KGB agent's soft tone
of voice gave him the idea. The man was obviously pleased by




148                       DALE BROWN
the compliment. He rechecked James' connections and climbed
off the maintenance platform.
     Meanwhile Crowe had climbed inside the armored vehicle
outside the hangar, scanning the flight line-Howard could see
his head jerk at every crackle of the radio. It had, he now real-
ized, been foolish to bring such a youngster on a mission like
this-it was Lovyyev's first full-scale job since sneaking across
the border from Mexico via El Paso and setting up residence
under cover in Las Vegas three years earlier. To put him in the
lion's den like this was taking a big risk.
     But it was too late for second guessing. Howard disconnected
the missile trailer from the Stepvan truck and moved it out of
the way inside the hangar, closed the van's rear doors and moved
it out of the hangar and clear of DreamStar's taxi path. Next he
took several large orange-colored traffic cones marked "DANGER
HIGH EXPLOSIVE" out of the van and arranged them in a wide
arc around the hangar doors. This was a normal procedure-the
cones were a warning to anyone else on the flight line that work
on live weapons was going on inside. But these cones were dif-
ferent. Each was a miniature mortar-launcher, operated by re-
mote control. When activated, each would fire a high-explosive
magnesium flash bomb a hundred yards away. The concussions
and blinding white light produced by the mortar rounds would
slow and presumably stop any quick-reaction forces from mov-
ing in until DreamStar was clear of the hangar.
     After carefully aiming the disguised mortars at response roads
and likely targets around the hangar-being careful not to crater
DrearnStar's taxi route or exit-Howard stepped inside the han-
gar once again and rechecked that all safing pins and streamers
were removed from the aircraft and weapons. He then walked
to the truck, retrieved a M-16 rifle with a M-203 forty-millimeter
grenade-launcher under the barrel, a metal box full of grenades
and a bag of five thirty-round clips, and went back into the
hangar to wait.

His legs were aching, sweat was pouring into the metallic flight
suit. Conditioned air from the external power cart was trickling
into the suit but was hardly enough to change the temperature.
     Through the canopy he could see Crowe nervously fidgeting
inside the armored car, looking as if he was going to shoot
himself in the face with his M-16 any second. He could also
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           149
watch Howard's careful preparations for the massive assault they
knew had to come. Despite their plans, the moment they tried
to start engines the full force of Dreamland's security forces
would be on top of them. Nearly fifty armed soldiers and two
heavily armed tracked combat vehicles surrounding the flight
line would be let loose to blow DreamStar to hell.
     Amid it all James had to convince himself to relax, to empty
his mind of all thoughts, to clear a path for the sleeping AN-
TARES computer to worm its way into his subconscious. Self-
hypnosis, consciously forcing each muscle group to relax, was
the simplest and usually the most effective way of achieving
theta-wave state, but that seemed impossible. Muscles ached
from the long climb up the platform, and the lactic acid that
collected in his muscle tissue from heavy exertion would act like
halon gas on a fire, blocking any conscious efforts to relax those
muscles.
     His mind kept straying to the thoughts of Major Briggs' se-
curity forces-he had inspected those forces many times, acting
only partially interested in them at the time when in fact he was
taking careful notes on the exact numbers, equipment and de-
ployment. He had examined the weaknesses of the force and
planned possible escape routes out of Drearnland for himself
should that ever have been necessary. He had devised several
escape plans, depending on what, if anything, he was taking
with him-one route was to be used if he was alone and on foot,
another if he was driving a car, another if driving a truck, an-
other if he was carrying a "black box" or another unit. But
never had he expected to take DreamStar with him. Compo-

nents, drawings, computers, electronic media, yes-never the
whole plane.
     Only one mind-set seemed to make sense-that morning in
the cockpit he told himself he wasn't going to make it but it was
worth it to die trying. If he did beat the odds and lift off, he had
to buck even greater odds to fly the eight hundred miles from
Dreamland to the deserted airstrip in central Mexico for the re-
fueling planned by his KGB contacts in Los Angeles and Mexico
City. Then he'd have both the American and Mexican air forces
to beat on his way to Nicaragua, plus American forces based on
El Salvador and Honduras-none of them very large or effective
forces, but a deadly threat to a battered and weaponless
DreamStar.




150                      DALE BROWN
     But he had no choice. If he couldn't have DreamStar, better
to die in her cockpit trying to deliver her to the Soviet Union
than let the Americans mothball her while they continued to
perfect their research into the ANTARES interface. Were there
other areas he could infiltrate, other research programs whose
information could be vital to the security of the Soviet Union?
Was there any other program that, if he lived, he could collect
information on as valuable or as rare as his DreamStar? His?
Yes, damn it, his . . .
     The answer to all was no. Strangely, coming to that grim
conclusion put him at ease, allowing him slowly to relax his
knotted muscles and control his adrenaline-fired pulse and
breathing.
     "Do you want to live forever, Andrei Ivanschichin Marak-
lov?" James said into his face mask. And with that he felt his
body go totally relaxed, almost limp, held upright only by the
tight body harness that secured him.to DreamStar's ejection seat.
it was the first time in some ten years that he had spoken his
given name. The words surprised him-it was such a totally
Russian name. And right now he liked it, was proud of it. "Ken-
neth Francis James" sounded weak. He would not use it again.
     He did not realize, though, that it had taken two hours for
him to speak his Russian name to himself. Without warning the
ANTARES interface had taken hold. He was once again one
with DreamStar . . .
Patrick McLanahan could only stare. General Brad Elliott and
Hal Briggs couldn't speak. Applause broke out from somewhere
behind them as they stared at a reincarnation.
     The doors to Hangar Three of the HAWC research flight line
were opened, and a yellow "mule" tow-tractor slowly chugged
out of the massive structure. The mule pulled a hulking dark
beast from its lair, an aircraft so large that it seemed to blot out
the faint glow of the rising sun on the horizon. It seemed to take
forever to move the giant machine from the hangar, but soon

there it was, sitting on the concrete ramp like a winged black
dragon.
     " 'Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it,' "
Angelina Pereira quoted. McLanahan and Briggs turned toward
her. "Alan Valentine," she added.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          151
     "Whoever ... but that's one mean-lookin' mother, " Briggs
said.
     On-nack began his walkaround inspection of the Megafortress
Plus, General Elliott and other members of the crew following.
Actually Ormack and the engineers had already completed an
extensive walkaround hours earlier before the crew briefing, and
all items of the before-engine-start checklist had already been
performed by ground crewmen and technicians. But no matter
who performed the inspection, or when, Ormack could not resist
the urge to do one last visual inspection before climbing aboard-
as much a ritual as a race car driver's kicking the tires of his car
or a marksman's rubbing the front sight of his rifle.
     Elliott pointed at the Old Dog. "I still can't believe what I'm
seeing," he said to Ormack, once its copilot. What he was
pointing at was the most radical change in the Old Dog's ap-
pearance-her huge wings. Instead of drooping in a huge down-
ward curve from the fuselage to the wingtips, the wings stood
straight out, tall and proud instead of arched and aged-looking.
     "The newest in composite materials went into her," Ormack
said. "We replaced the main wing spar, the spine, the tailplane
spars and other skeletal components with fibersteel beams, the
largest and thickest composite structures ever cast. I remember
being called out to the hangar in Alaska when they put the wings
back on-it looked like a damn optical illusion, those twenty-
ton wings sticking straight out like that. They sagged when we
filled them up with fifty tons of fuel, though-sagged a grand
total of two inches. We used to be able to look into the outboard
engines just by standing on tiptoes-now, they're all so high off
the ground we need a ladder to look into them. The takeoff

distance has decreased by thirty percent. It used to take forever
for the Buff to lift off because those huge drooping wings would
'take off' first, leaving the fuselage still rolling on the ground.
No more, Brad. When this beast hits takeoff speed, it's airborne.
Period. "
     Ormack continued the walkaround inspection, pointing out
various new changes in the huge bomber. "Only two AIM-120
Scorpion missiles on this flight, but Carter's Dog Zero Two can
take up to ten on each wing now, instead of only the six we had
on our first mission-that's twenty air-to-air missiles total, the
same as on five F-15 fighters. And computer-controlled fuel
management helps us avoid the fuel problems we had on our last




152                      DALE BROWN
flight when damage forced us out of the automatic mode. No
more wing spoilers that dragged in the slipstream for aircraft
control and wasted so much energy. Now we use engine-bleed
air-thrusters on the wings for roll control. It allows us much
faster turn control, eliminates adverse yaw."
     He pointed at the Old Dog's wingtip, which had a long,
pointed oblong device trailing aft from the wingtip. "No more
twin tip-tanks on this baby. With fibersteel construction we were
able to build large single jettisonable fuel tanks with greater
capacity that are lighter, stronger and more aerodynamic than
the twin tanks. We've also taken off the wingtip wheels-even
fully fueled there's no danger of these wingtips ever striking
ground. Another weight saving."
     Hal Briggs turned to On-nack. "General, someone might think
you're a lieutenant on his cherry ride." As he spoke Briggs
glanced over Ormack's shoulder down the flight line and, by
force of habit, checked the guard posts.
     "I have to admit, I get clutched every time I see this beast,"
Ormack said. "I've seen her blown up, crashed, broken, shot
up, cut up, disassembled, and now I've seen her better than
before. A regular phoenix, this bird."
     They walked around to the bomb bay and peered inside at the
mix of glide-missiles and laser-guided smart bombs. "If this
flight is a success," General Elliott said, "this could be the
beginning of a new day for the B-52 bomber. Even with all one
hundred B-I Excalibur bombers operational and the first B-2
Panther Stealth bomber squadron finally operational, the anti-
air, standoff and border penetration capabilities of the Megafor-
tress Plus may mean the refitting and reactivation of all the
G-model B-52s that were retired last year. A few squadrons of
B-52 Megafortress Plus bombers could fly along with the strike
bombers, clear a path for them and then return to be used in
reserve or for other long-range strike missions. It's a new con-
cept-armed flying battleship escorts for strategic bombers."
     
Hal Briggs listened but his attention was continually drawn to
the guard posts down the flight line. Everything appeared nor-
mal, but something somewhere was out of place . . .
     At first Briggs dismissed the feelings. All six high-security
hangars had the proper guards stationed around them-six
V-100 Commando assault cars positioned properly. Straining, he
could make out all six guards at their posts, a few standing to
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          153
watch the crowd around the B-52, a few sitting in their V-100s.
A roving patrol in an M113 Armadillo assault vehicle was mov-
ing up and down the center of the ramp, cruising slowly, a cou-
ple of SPs hanging out of the gun turret on the roof to watch the
Megafortress roll out. They had taken the twenty-millimeter ma-
chine gun off its mount so two guys could squeeze up through
the roof to get a better look-he'd have. to get on their case for
that. But overall, it appeared normal. So what was it . . . ?
     "Hal?" McLanahan had stepped beside the security police
commander and was scanning the flight line with him. "Prob-
lem? "
     Hal noticed that Ormack, Elliott, Khan and Wendelstat had
moved off toward.the tail; he and McLanahan were alone beside
the Old Dog's bomb bay. "No . . . nothing. I'm gonna chew
some butt-those guys rubber-neckin' in the Armadillo over
there." He looked at the colonel. "Where you going?"
     "Take a ride out to the range, I think. Get a good seat near
the ground target before the fireworks start. I was going to ask
if . . . "
     But Briggs wasn't listening; he was staring down the flight
line toward Hangar Five, Sergeant Rey Jacinto's post. He was
still sitting in his V- 100, doors closed. He wasn't asleep-Jacinto
was too good for that, and besides, Briggs could see him moving
around inside . . .
     "Hal? What about it? Can I get a ride out to the range?"
     . . . but Jacinto was a high-tech aircraft freak. He knew all
there was to know, all he was allowed to know, about the B-52

Megafortress Plus and the XF-34A DreamStar. He would,
though, gladly give his right nut to get a look at either bird up
close. Jacinto had guarded Hangar Three before, but he had
never been inside . . .
     "He's never seen the Old Dog. before," Briggs mumbled.
                   'What?
     "One of my troops. Jacinto .
     "Rey? Yeah, nice guy. You keep on bouncing back his re-
quests to take a peek at DreamStar. You ought to let him before
they mothball her. Is he on duty this morning?"
"Hangar Five."
McLanahan squinted through the semi-darkness toward
DreamStar's hangar. "I don't see him."
"He's in the Commando."




154                       DALE BROWN
     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
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            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                       DALE BROWN
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.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           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                      DALE BROWN
     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
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          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                       DALE BROWN
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
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            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                       DALE BROWN
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
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                              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.
     Orlov swung the V-100 toward them, trying to rake the fence
with fire to pin them down, but the Americans refused to stop.
Orlov caged the fifty-caliber forward and headed for the lock
mechanism, spraying the area with bullets. But that lasted for
only a few seconds-the shell-feeder on the machine gun
jammed.
     It was too late. One guard was dead but the other threw the
handle on the locking mechanism and dropped the steel post
into place.




164                      DALE BROWN
     One chance left. Keeping the throttle full open Orlov aimed
the Commando right at the gate opening. If the lock could be
broken and the gate dislodged from the piling he could use the
V-100 to push the gate far enough open for the XF-34A to get
through.
     Under a hailstorm of bullets from all sides, Orlov's V- 100
plowed into the gate's locking mechanism at well over sixty miles
an hour-the four-ton armored car had built up enough force to
demolish a house. But it was still not enough to snap the five-
inch steel post securing the gate. Instead, the force of the impact
snapped the motor mounts off the armored car, and the heavy
armored plating in the car's nose acted like a giant piston, driv-
ing the engine and transmission into Gekky Orlov's body. The
bones in his body were pulverized like dry twigs under a steam
roller. The V-100 exploded, starting a fire in the electric and
hydraulic lock systems and killing the second security guard.
But the gate held fast.
     And DreamStar was trapped.
A quick mental command, and DreamStar's attack-radar flashed
on, then off, at precisely two hundred and twenty yards from
where Kenneth Francis James, Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov,
had stopped his fighter short of the burning gate ahead. Six hun-
dred and sixty feet, then over a twelve-foot-high obstacle. An-
other mental command: DreamStar's computers sampled the
external air temperature, inertial winds, pressure altitude, relative
humidity, aircraft gross weight, engine-trim-and-performance var-
iables, then computed takeoff data at max performance best angle
of climb over the obstacle.
     Not good enough., DreamStar reported that it needed at least
one thousand feet to clear the obstacle.
     James' reaction was instantaneous. He brought DreamStar's
turbofan engine to full power, moved the vectored thrust-nozzles
to full reverse and released the brakes. DreamStar began to move
backward toward the taxiway throat leading to the ramp in front

of the hangars-back toward the melee he had just escaped from.
At the same time he activated DreamStar's radar system, which
scanned in every direction around the fighter.
     DreamStar had moved only a hundred feet farther from the
e when he "saw" the first M113 armored vehicle approach.
gat
It was moving fast, nearly forty miles an hour, past the,burning
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            165
piles of debris scattered around in front of the now-abandoned
Hangar Five, less than a hundred yards away.  He hit the brakes
just as the superconducting radar detected the M 113's twenty-
millimeter cannon open fire.
"Hal, what's your situation? " General Elliott called over the
security net.
     Hal Briggs grabbed a handhold on the M 113's door for support
as he keyed his microphone: "We're approaching the plane from
the left. It's now about three hundred feet in front of us, facing
down the throat toward the gate. Id swear the thing backed up
or somethin' . . . Over."
     Elliott, now in a staff car with McLanahan at the wheel, was
racing down taxiway delta toward the hangar area, careening
over ditches and weaving through gates to get back to the ramp.
McLanahan looked at Elliott. "Did he say DreamStar was back-
ing up?" Elliott had no answer. "Hal," Patrick said, "what's
DreamStar's range to the gate?"
     "Hard to tell until we get closer, but I'd say less than three
hundred yards."
     Elliott looked at Patrick. "Is it enough . . . ?"
     McLanahan didn't dare take his eyes off the road, floored the
gas pedal and gripped the wheel tighter. "Cool morning, half a
fuel load, a little headwind . . . it's enough."
     "God damn. Who the hell's flying it?" Even then, Elliott
could not believe that James, one of only three men alive who
could possibly fly DreamStar, was in the cockpit. "How the hell
did he get in there?" Elliott pressed the mike switch hard enou h

to turn his finger white. "Shoot out the tires, Hal. If the plane
moves, shoot to kill. If DreamStar moves ahead, destroy it.
     Eight hundred twelve point seven feet. Now.
     Keeping the brakes on hard, James commanded the throttles
to full power, let them stabilize for a few seconds, then pushed
them to max afterburner. He allowed another half-second for the
computer to perform a single full-power engine-trim adjustment,
then opened the dorsal engine louvers. DreamStar's aft end
pitched down and the nose shot up at a steep angle. He set the
flex wings and canards for high lift and max performance climb-
out . . . then released the brakes.
     DreamStar had not rolled more than a hundred feet forward




166                       DAIE BROWN
when he realized he was not going to make it. He knew it even
before the performance computer, receiving data from radar on
range to the obstacle, reported a collision warning and recom-
mended an immediate takeoff abort. Maraklov overrode the rec-
ommendation with the thought: this is how I'll die? Not after a
dogfight trying to steal and save DreamStar. Dying in a fireball
crashing into the security gate, trying something that I knew had
no chance from the beginning . . .
     Five hundred feet to go. All wheels still firmly on the ground,
airspeed hardly registering. Maraklov could feel the absence of
lift on his wings, the absence of the familiar twist that the com-
posite flex wings underwent during the takeoff acceleration.
Countering the wingtip twist was a simple computer-controlled
correction, as simple as swallowing, as simple as-
     He cut short his gloomy predictions. The wingtip twist . . .
DreamStar automatically neutralized the twist in the wingtips
because the twisted wing created vortices under the wing and
fuselage, which created turbulence, which increased drag and
lengthened takeoff roll distances. But the turbulence under the
fuselage created something else-ground effect. And the power
of ground effect would be to cushion the plane a few feet off the
ground, just below flying speed but still airborne. If that was
true . . .
     Four hundred feet left . . .
     Maraklov overrode the order to counteract the wingtip twist.
In response, the tips of DreamStar's wings curved even more,
creating two hundred percent more lift as well as two virtual
tornados of wind that swirled counterclockwise from the wing-
tips down and under the wings and across the fuselage. He felt
the vortices slam into the fuselage and fought for control.
DreamStar felt sluggish, unresponsive, out of pilot control.
     Ninety knots. Three hundred feet remaining . . .
     A loud creak from the left wingtip, and a "CONFIGURATION"
warning flashed in Maraklov's conscious mind. He ignored it.

The wingtips were now being buffeted by winds nearing hurri-
cane force, while the rest of the wing was wallowing in relatively
calm winds nowhere close to takeoff speed. Maraklov stiffened
the wings by twisting the inner surfaces, allowing the power
being generated in the wingtips to flow to the lazy parts of the
wing. The aircraft rumbled in protest. He was receiving "CON-
FIGURATION" and "COLLISION" warnings, and had to struggle
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           167
not only to ignore the warnings but to prevent ANTARES from
taking command and aborting the takeoff. DrearnStar's artificial
brain was programmed for self-preservation at all costs, not self-
destruction.
     One hundred knots, two hundred feet remaining . . .
DrearnStar's nose gear popped off the runway, held aloft by the
large canards and by the force of the upwardly directed thrust
from the dorsal louvers. DrearnStar was in takeoff attitude but
she was still far, far from lift-off speed.
     One hundred fifty feet . . . one chance left-he commanded
the landing gear up.
     One hundred feet, one hundred ten knots. An ANTARES-
generated warning from the flight-configuration computer flashed
in Maraklov's mind, warning him that the landing gear safety
switch still showed pressure on the gear struts-DreamStar was
still on the ground. Instantly he overrode the warning, com-
manded gear up, then closed his eyes and waited for DreamStar's
tail to hit the runway.
     Seventy-five feet, one hundred fifteen knots-liftoff speed for
this takeoff configuration. The tail did not hit the runway.
     -Zero feet left . . . With the tall, bulky landing gear retracted,
DreamStar accelerated to one hundred thirty knots, and was able
to use the extra airspeed to lift its nose even higher, clawing for
every last bit of altitude. A shower of sparks erupted from the
top of the steel gate as DrearnStar scraped past the reinforced
barbed wire, tearing apart the two ventral rudders that had au-
tornatically deployed in DreamStar's slow-flight mode-Marak-

lov did not think to retract those low-speed rudders in time.
DreamStar shuddered as the rudders ripped off her belly, but she
did not stall or hit the ground.
     DreamStar was airborne.
McLanahan and Elliott had just reached the hangar area as
DreamStar lifted over the gate, the aircraft flying so slowly and
at such a steep climb that it seemed almost suspended in midair,
an apparition at the end of a shaft of fire. It also appeared to be
failing slightly, but this was mostly an illusion; DreamStar's nose
dipped slightly to build up valuable airspeed, and it began to
accelerate at it crossed the deserted runways and climbed slowly
into the dawn.
     McLanahan slammed on the brakes in time to avoid an M113




168                       DAIE BROWN
combat vehicle that continued to fire heavy caliber rounds into
the sky until DreamStar was completely out of sight. A few
moments later Hal Briggs climbed out of the ACV, head tightl
bandaged and carrying an M-16A2 rifle, and moved over to
McLanahan's sedan. After Elliott opened a door for him, he
nearly collapsed in the backseat.
     "Sorry," Briggs gasped, painfully hauling himself upright.
"Couldn't . . . couldn't stop him." Before Elliott could speak,
Briggs had pulled out a walkie-talkie. "Red Man, this is Hotel. No-
tify the four-seventy-fourth tactical fighter wing at Nellis. XF-
34A fighter aircraft stolen from this location. Aircraft is armed
with air-to-air missiles and must be -considered hostile. Orders
from Alpha are to search and destroy,"
          "Copy, Hotel. "
     "Break. All Drearnland security units, this is Hotel. XF-34A
aircraft is airborne, last seen heading southwest out of Dream-
land at slow speed. The aircraft has been hijacked by unknown
persons. It is equipped with air-to-air missiles only. Air defense
units have authorization to engage and destroy at will; report
detection or engagement to Red Man, Nellis and Las Vegas Air
Traffic Control Center ASAP. Repeat: all units, engage and de-
stroy at will. Hotel out." He dropped the walkie-talkie into his
lap as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
     " Take us over to Hangar Five, Patrick," Elliott said. He
turned to Briggs, gently lifting up the bandages to check his
wound. "Cancel that. Take us to the infirmary."
     "I'm all right," Briggs said, gingerly touching the top of his
hairless head and checking his hastily applied bandages. "The
guys on the ACV fixed me up."
     At least for the moment, Elliott didn't want Briggs in the
hospital any more than Briggs wanted to be there. As Mc-
Lanahan headed for the hangars he asked, "What the hell hap-
pened, Hal?
     Briggs wiped stinging sweat from his wounds and bums. "It

all happened so fast, General. The Foxtrot guard posts didn't
look right. I had them report in. Whoever was in Five Foxtrot's
Commando, it wasn't Jacinto. I headed over to check it out when
I got hit by the fifty cal. I barely made it to Rover Nine when
flash grenades start popping. Before I knew it DreamStar was
out in the throat. I've never seen anything like that takeoff, who-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          169
ever did it. It was like he levitated right over the gate.  I didn't
think he'd make it  . . ."
     They drove up the entrance of Hangar Five. Rover Seven, the
second M113 armored combat vehicle, was positioned in front,
with guards covering both the front and back. Rover Seven was
also aiming a huge spotlight inside the hangar.
     "Seven, this is Hotel. Is the hangar secure?"
               "Affirmative."
     "Roger. Sergeant Macynski, follow me in. The rest cover
us ."
     Briggs got out of the sedan, flipped off the safety lever on his
M-16 and ran over to the M113. He met up with Macynski,
outlined a brief tactical plan to the NCO, then approached the
hangar door at a dead run. They scanned the interior of the
hangar, quickly sweeping their rifle muzzles around the hangar
while sighting through them, ready to fire at any sound or move-
ment. Nothing. Briggs ordered the M113 in closer to secure the
hangar, then headed back to the sedan.
     In the backseat he said into the walkie-talkie, "Red Man, this
is Hotel. I want an investigation unit in Hangar Five and one on
the Commando ACV on the ramp gate on the double. Break.
Rover Nine, secure the V-100 that crashed into the gate. Recover
any bodies from the wreckage for the investigation unit. I want
an 1. D. on the occupants ASAP. "
     "Roger, Hotel," the security controller replied. "Hotel, be
advised, Lance One and Lance Two F-16Fs airborne from Nellis
at five past the hour. Two F-14 units from China Lake also report
airborne. CATTLECAR is their controller. You can meet them on

channel one-one. "
     "Roger, Red.Man. Get all Dreamland air defense units on
channel eleven and help coordinate an intercept with CATTLE-
CAR. The last thing we need is for our guys to take shots at those
F-   14s or - 16s.  "
     "Switching all units to eleven, sir," the security controller
said. "Simultaneous voice and data." Briggs switched his
walkie-talkie over as well.
     CATTLECAR, this is Hotel on channel one-one. Over.
     "Hotel, this is CATTLECAR," the radar controller replied.
"HAWC anti-air units are reporting in now, sir. All assets should
be on-line in sixty seconds."
     "Any airborne radar platforms up?"




                     T_
170                      DALE BROWN
     "Not yet, sir. Nellis' 767 AWACS is not an alert bird. I've
requested the tac fighter unit to recall the crew, but that may
take some time."
     "
of We'll lose him without an AWACS up there to dig him out
the terrain," McLanahan said. "Ground radar won't pick him
up if he stays low."
     "Hotel, this is CATTLECAR. Radar contact on your hostile. I'm
directing all HAWC anti-air artillery units to engage. Any fur-
ther instructions?
     Briggs stopped and looked at Elliott. The general inwardly
flinched but did not hesitate. "If they've got him, destroy him."
     Briggs nodded and raised his walkie-talkie. "CATTLECAR,
message confirmed through Alpha. Engage at will and shoot to
kill. Out."
Maraklov was no more than two hundred feet above ground
when ANTARES began to report the emitters all around him.
As Maraklov scanned outside the cockpit, visual images were
supplanted by ANTARES-generated images of catalogued ter-
rain features around which multicolored arcs or bands undu-
lated, disappeared and reappeared in kaleidoscopic waves. The
colored bands were beams of radar energy-search radars, track-
ing radars, and data-links-all searching for him.
     Most of the waves of color were above him, like curtains of
fire stretching across a ceiling, but a few seemed to slice right
through DreamStar. Maraklov had to avoid those bands. The
green bands were search radars, not deadly in themselves, but
they would give away his position to the searchers. The other
bands of energy were yellow-tracking radars that would pin-
poini his location and would begin to feed targeting information
to surface-to-air or air-to-air missiles. If the yellow bands turned
red, it meant that a missile had been launched. If he was inside
the red band, he was within the missile's lethal envelope and

would probably die within seconds unless the missile could be
outmaneuvered-DreamStar carried no jammers, no decoys.
Maraklov had to outrun, outmaneuver or kill his attackers, or it
was over for him.
     He was finally free of the dry bed of the Groom Lake area,
heading south and almost into Papoose Canyon northwest of
Emigrant Valley, when a single finger of green light snapped out
between a narrow gap between two rocky buttes and hit
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           171
DreamStar broadside. One of the search radars had found him.
The band immediately turned to yellow, but one of the buttes
blocked the energy and the band turned green once again as the
beam continued its three hundred and sixty degree sweep. But
they now knew where he was-and were closing in on him.
Maraklov dodged further away from the butte, hoping to stay in
the butte's radar shadow as long as possible.
     It wasn't working. The terrain was forcing him to climb, but
the beam of green energy above him wasn't rising with him. He
had no time to react. The green beam of energy, completing a
full revolution every six seconds, hit him once again as
DreamStar crested a rocky ridge line. This time, it turned yellow
and stayed on him. DreamStar's threat-warning receiver imme-
diately reported the contact, and after a few seconds analysis
concluded that a British-made Rapier surface-to-air-missile was
locked on.
     The computer suggested a heading, altitude and airspeed to
escape the Rapier missile's lethal radius, and Maraklov ordered
the evasive maneuver just as the band of energy went from yel-
low to red-the Rapier had gone from search to missile-uplink
in seconds. The missile was in the air. There was no time and
no room to move. DreamStar was bracketed by hills and moun-
tains.
     Sensing Maraklov's confusion, ANTARES canceled the first
suggested maneuver, immediately deployed the canards into their
high-lift configuration and ordered a hard, tight Immelmann-a

fast inverted'half-loop-directly into the short rocky butte they
had just passed. ANTARES also activated the superconducting
radar, which showed the butte only three-quarters of a mile di-
rectly ahead. They would impact in less than four seconds ...
     A flash of light erupted off the right wing, and suddenly
DreamStar banked hard right, pulling nine Gs in the tight turn.
The Rapier missile had missed by only a few short feet. Mar-
aklov tried to search the sky for another missile, but the hard
nine-G turn had blurred and tunneled his vision. Another explo-
sion off to his right-there had, indeed, been a second Rapier
missile launched at him, but that one had exploded on the butte
not three hundred yards behind him.
     As his ejection-seat back began to recline automatically, which
would help blood to flow back into his brain while ANTARES
completed evasive maneuvers, Maraklov watched as the colored




172                       DALE BROWN
bands surrounding him switched back to green. The older Rapier
missile systems surrounding Dreamland carried only two mis-
siles on each launch platform, and the system had switched back
to search mode while the Rapier crew reloaded.
     Maraklov watched, fascinated, as ANTARES automatically
increased power to full thrust, and began to use short bursts of
its multi-directional radar to scan the terrain around DreamStar
and fly as close to earth as possible. His ejection seat slowly
returned to its upright position as the G-forces subsided, and he
actually could relax . . . he would be long gone from the range
of that Rapier site by the time it was reloaded-
     A warning beep sounded in the upper-center part of his cock-
pit, and with it a blue-triangle icon appeared, with a long green
triangle protruding from the front end. Answering his mental
query, ANTARES reported what it was: an F-16 Falcon fighter,
sweeping the skies below with its new AEG-91 look-down radar.
Although pushing age twenty-five, the F-16 had undergone so
many modifications that it could hardly be considered the same
aircraft as twenty-five years earlier. Not originally designed for
look-down, shoot-down, low-altitude engagements, it now
sported a multi-purpose "cranked arrow" effect, with huge delta
wings, and was capable of attacking air or ground targets at any
altitude. Its new capability was in evidence as its green triangle
swept down from the sky and in moments DreamStar had once
again been discovered.
     Maraklov commanded an immediate hard bank and searched
for terrain to hide in. He knew the F-16s rarely worked alone;
only one would activate its radar, while one or two others would
take vectors from the leader and close in on their prey, activating
their attack radars at the last possible moment . . .
     Another mental command . . . and Maraklov's heart sank. At
its present low altitude, DreamStar was gulping fuel. He could
not afford to get into a situation where he'd have to waste time
and fuel dodging missiles from the F-16s, let alone any sort of

protracted aerial battle with them. Reinforcements were surely
on their way-very likely F-15s from the Air Force Reserve base
at Davis-Monthan in Tucson. Maraklov's options were running
out. There was only one real choice left to him.
Run like hell.
     At a single request, Maraklov discovered the single best alti-
tude to use to clear all terrain within five hundred miles-six
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           173
thousand five hundred feet. He ordered the computer to maintain
that altitude and set best-speed power settings for the engines.
As fuel was burned off and gross weight decreased, the com-
puter would pick the best speed versus drag settings of engine
power, trim, and wing configuration to achieve the fastest pos-
sible speed. He could afford no more power changes, climbs,
descents, terrain avoidance or defense maneuvers. His only op-
tion was to stay at zero Q-where the sum of all aerodynamic
forces on his aircraft remained zero, the highest possible cruise
efficiency-and run for the border.
     A fast mental inquiry and the GPS satellite-navigation system
checked DreamStar's osition, computed a likely flight path
around known population centers and defense areas, measured
the distance between present position and the tiny dry lake, La-
guna de Santiaguillo, where Kramer and Moffitt in north central
Mexico were supposed to be waiting with a fuel truck. Laguna
de Santiaguillo was an abandoned training facility (KGB assets
utilizing locals equally receptive to rubles and dollars) in the
foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, well within
range of two Mexican fighter bases at Mazatlan and Monterrey.
A lousy location, Maraklov thought, but the only one possible
on such short notice.
     The computer had his answer after a relatively long two-second
pause: three hundred miles to the Gulf of California, another
seven hundred fifty miles along the west fidge of the Sierra Ma-
dre Occidental mountains, then across the Remedias River valley
to Laguna de Santiaguillo. He was traveling at one point one

Mach, about nine hundred miles per hour, and was consuming
twenty thousand pounds of fuel an hour. He had exactly twenty-
two thousand pounds of fuel remaining. Which meant, at his
current setting, he would flame out right over Laguna de Santia-
guillo. He would have more fuel available if he used an idle-
power descent and a long glide for landing, but he'd have less if
he had to dodge any more missiles or if he had to use after-
burner.
     Another mental command and he checked the two AIM-120C
Scorpion missiles, then tried a test arming. Both were fitted with
instrumented warheads, but otherwise would launch and track
like fully operational weapons. He could use them if he got
himself comered. He would, though, have to shoot very care-




                      7
174                      DALE BROWN
fully-without explosive warheads there would be no proximity
detonation; each shot had to be a direct hit.
     But up here, the possibility of anyone touching him seemed
unlikely. There were still search radars all around him, resem-
bling huge green cones rising out of the terrain, but there were
large gaps between the radar cones and he was picking his way
through them, using slight heading changes to put a mountain
or ridge line between himself and the radar cones. Smaller yel-
low blobs, giant mushrooms, appeared now and then-the lethal
envelope of surface-to-air missiles stationed below-but he was
avoiding them as well. Now he was almost out of the Dreamland
complex, accelerating past one thousand miles per hour.
     Speed and stealth meant survival more than fancy flying or
superior weaponry. The first time he had decided to steal
DreamStar he'd imagined himself taking on the air might of the
whole southeastern United States, flying rings around the best
fighters and the best pilots in the world, winning out over a
billion dollars' worth of hardware. Well, it wasn't going to hap-
pen that way. He was going to sneak out, hiding behind every
shadow, measuring every quart of fuel.
          Whatever it took . . .
     For the first time he really allowed his body to relax. He had
stolen DreamStar right out from under the noses of the people
who wanted to give up on his baby. And now he even dared to
think that he might actually make it all the way.
     He was allowed that heady thought for precisely forty sec-
onds. From out of nowhere, a green triangle of energy appeared
in front of him. There was no time to evade. The green triangle
enveloped him, and instantly turned to yellow . . .
This thing was truly amazing, Major Edward Frost, the radar
navigator aboard the B-52 Megafortress Plus, marveled. A god-
damned B-52 bomber with more gadgets and modes and func-
tions and bells and whistles than L. Air Traffic Control.
     
Frost was studying a fourteen-inch by ten-inch rectangular
video display terminal set on one-hundred-mile range. A circle
cursor, automatically laid on a radar return that matched the
preprogrammed parameters set by Frost, was tracking a high-
altitude, high-speed target dead ahead. You told the system what
you wanted to find and it did the searching. It was a hell of a
lot different from only a few years ago when radar navs on B-52
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         175
bombers concentrated on terrain and cultural returns-moun-
tains, buildings, towns. This B-52 was different.
     Major Frost hit the mike button near his right foot. "Pilot,
radar. Radar contact aircraft, one o'clock, eighty-five miles."
He punched a function key on his keyboard. "Altitude six thou-
sand five hundred, airspeed . . . hey, he's moving out. Airspeed
one thousand one hundred knots."
     He hit another function key, and the display changed to a
maze of arcs, lines, grids. The computer had presented a series
of options for approaching the target.
     Frost shook his head. Here I am, sitting in a B-52 bomber
planning to attack a high-speed fighter!
     "Turn right heading zero-five two to IR intercept in six-two
nautical miles. Automatic intercept is available." Then to An-
gelina Pereira: "I'm aligned for guidance-mode transfer at any
time-"
     "Belay that," General John Ormack said over interphone.
"Weapons stay on safe-that's our damned plane out there,
Frost. "
          "Sorry, got carried away."
     "Auto-intercept coming on, crew. " Ormack connected the
digital autopilot to the intercept computer and monitored the Old
Dog's turn, pushing the throttles up to ninety five percent power
to keep the angle of attack low. The autopilot made several small
corrections farther to the right as the distance between the two
aircraft rapidly decreased.
     "Exactly what are we trying to accomplish here, General?"

George Wendelstat, the safety observer asked. Wendelstat was
firmly strapped into the instructor-pilot's seat, wearing a
backpack-style parachute on his beefy shoulders. His face was
cherry red and he was sweating in spite of the B-52's cool in-
terior temperature. "Do you mean to attack that aircraft?"
     "What I mean to do is everything I possibly can to turn that
aircraft back," Ormack said. "If I can't get him to turn around
I mean to delay him long enough for help to arrive. "
     "But this is suicide," Wendelstat protested. "A B-52 against
this DreamStar? That's a fighter plane, isn't it?"
     "It's also a stolen aircraft from my research center," Ormack
said. "I'm not going to let this guy go without trying to do
something-"
     "Including getting us all killed?"




176                      DALE BROWN
     "I know the limits of this crew and aircraft," Ormack said.
"We have the capability to engage DreamStar and hopefully de-
tain him long enough for help to arrive. I won't go beyond the
limits of my responsibility or common sense-"
     "You already have. He can launch a missile against us at any
second--
     "Seventy miles and closing fast, General."
     "Wendelstat, sit back and shut up, " Colonel Jeff Khan, the
copilot, broke in. "The general knows what he's doing."
     Ormack reached up to the overhead communications console
and switched his command radio to channel eleven. "CATTLE-
CAR, this is Dog Zero Two. We have the hostile at our twelve
o'clock, seventy miles. Closing on an intercept course. Request-
ing instructions from HAWC Alpha as soon as possible."
     "Break. Zero T\vo, this is HAWC Alpha. You can't do any-
thing up there, John. We're vectoring in the F-16s now. Get out
of the area as fast as you can. Over."
     "I've got a lock-on and I'm turning for an I. intercept,
Alpha," Ormack answered back. "I can turn it into a radar pass
at any time. Just say the word."
          "Sixty miles."
     "He's got two Scorpion missiles, John," Elliott said. "Re-
peat-he's armed with two live Scorpions. You won't have a
chance. Disengage and leave the area-"
     "I've got two Scorpions too, General. Plus I've got jammers
that can counter the Scorpion's active radar. He doesn't.
     "He can fly circles around your Scorpions--
     Ormack interrupted again. "I can engage him, maybe force
him to turn back, maybe knock the sonofabitch down. Or I can
let him fly our plane to Central America or wherever the hell
he's going. Which is it going to be?"
No immediate reply. Ormack nodded-he'd otten his answer.
                      9
"Radar, change to Scorpion-attack profile. Crew, prepare to en-

gage hostile air target."
     Frost had his finger on the function key and hit it even before
Ormack finished giving the order. Immediately the Old Dog
heeled over into forty degrees of bank, then abruptly rolled out.
It was now aiming for a spot several miles along DrearnStar's
flight path, projecting out to intersect the fighter's path at the
AIM-12OC's optimum flight range. Ormack pushed his throttles
up to full power, then reached over to his left-side panel and
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          177
flipped a gang-barred four-way switch. "Guns, you have Scor-
pion missile launch consent."
     "Confirmed," Angelina Pereira replied. "Left pylon on au-
tomatic launch, missile counting down ... twenty seconds to
launch.
     On the UHF radio Ormack said, "CATTLECAR, this is Dog
Zero Two. Clear airspace for red fox engagement. Be advised,
red buzzer activity on all frequencies. Dog Zero Two out." On
interphone Ormack said, "Defense, clear for electronic coun-
termeasures. Crew, prepare for air combat engagement."
     "Fifteen seconds . . ."
     Suddenly a metallic, computer-modified voice cut in on the
frequency: "Dog Zero Two, disengage. I'm warning you."
     Khan looked puzzled. "Who the hell was . . . ?"
     "ANTARES. The master computer on DrearnStar. " Ormack
flipped to the channel. "This is Dog Zero Two. Who's this?"
     "This is Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov, General Or-
mack. " Maraklov thought before continuing: should he give his
American name? But he @was never going to return to America-
the KGB or the CIA would see to that-and they would find out
anyway. "You know me as Captain Kenneth Francis James, sir. "
     Ormack swore through his oxygen mask. "Goddamn-Ken
James stole DreamStar." He switched his command radio to
channel eleven. "Alpha, monitor GUARD channel. Urgent." He
then quickly switched his radio to the universal emergency fre-
quency, GUARD.
     
"James-Ken-Mara . . . whatever the hell it is . . . land that
plane immediately. I have orders to attack." On interphone he
told Angelina Pereira to get ready to cancel the auto attack.
          "Yes, sir . . . ten seconds."
     "Turn off your attack radar immediately, General Ormack,"
the computerized voice of Maraklov on the emergency channel
said, "or I will have no choice but to defend myself."
     "Damn it, James, you're about ten seconds from getting your
ass blown out of the sky. Decrease speed and lower your landing
gear or I'll engage."
                  No reply.
     "Five seconds . . . four . . . three .
     "Any change in his airspeed or heading?"
     "Negative," from Frost. "Still goin' full blast .
     "Launch commit," Angelina said.




178                      DALE BROWN
     There was a muffled screech of rocket exhaust from the left
wing, as the first Scorpion missile raced out of its streamlined
canister. It ran on course toward its quar . Unlike previous
ry
air-to-air missiles, the JC.-version of the Scorpion did not glide
or cruise to its target; even though it was still considered a
medium-range missile it stayed powered throughout its flight.
     "Uplink tracking . . . missile now tracking . . . dead on
course .
The bands of yellow, signifying the B-52's tracking radar illu-
minating his aircraft, suddenly changed to red. Maraklov caught
a chill. This was real, Ormack wasn't bluffing. This Dog Zero
Two had live missiles on board, and he was under attack. By a
B-52 bomber . . .
     He activated his attack radar. The radar imag o the B-5
still over fifty miles away, seemed the size of a flying mountain.
His radar wasn't picking it up but he knew the missile was only
seconds from impact. His reactions were executed at the speed
of thought . . .
     He turned right toward the B-52, exposing only the minimum
radar cross-section of his aircraft possible. He then began a se-
ries of high-speed reversals using the canards in their high-
maneuverabilit mode, not rolling into each turn but side-
stepping, darting back and forth, keeping only DreamStar's front
cross-section aimed toward the B-52. The B-52 would be carry-
ing AIM-120C, same as DreamStar. The AIM-120 was a fabu-
lous weapon, with big fins to steer it toward its target. But its
developers ten years earlier had never envisaged an aircraft that
could move sideways like DreamStar.
     Maraklov continued to shoot back and forth for another two
seconds, completing two full horizontal S-slides, making each
dodge wider than the other, using his high-maneuverability ca-
nards to keep DrearnStar's nose pointed at where he thought the
missile would be. It was a gamble. With each turn, he hoped,

the Scorpion missile would have to make bigger and bigger turns
to maintain lock-on. As DrearnStar's side-steps got bigger, the
missile's turn rates had to increase even faster to keep up-not
fast enough, he hoped, for the missile to track its target at close
range.
     He was at the top of a right ninety-degree bank and about to
execute another hard left break when he heard and felt a sharp
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           179
bang to his left. He had been very lucky this time. Forced farther
and farther out of phase, the missile was opposite his canop '
when its proximity warhead detected it was within lethal range.
Maraklov waited for the concussion and flak to hit, but nothing
happened and all systems reported with a good status check
when queried by an instantaneous mental command. Then Mar-
aklov realized the Megafortress must have been on a test flight
and so would not have live warheads in its missiles. Which di-
minished but hardly eliminated their threat.
     He had never paid much attention to the Megafortress Plus
project, thinking of it as just another one of Elliott's eccentric
boondoggles. Another underestimation . . .
     A quick flash of his all-aspect-attack radar showed the B-52
maneuvering hard right, moving back into attack position, its
huge wings pulling it easily around and behind him. The enor-
mous plane had to be pulling at least four or five Gs, Maraklov
thought. It was enough force to rip the wings off any conven-
tional bomber and many fighters as well. Ormack obviously
meant business, and he had the hardware to back him up. This
was no place for a fight, even with a supposedly decrepit B-52.
     ANTARES, however, always favoring the offensive, was beg-
ging for a fight and had recommended a high yo-yo maneuver-
a hard vertical pull, zoom over the top, then an inverted dive to
lock-on-to pull behind and above the B-52 to get into missile-
firing position. Maraklov queried about fuel: now he was two
thousand pounds below the fuel curve instead of two thousand
pounds above it. He had no time to waste with a missile pass.

Every time ANTARES activated its attack radar, even in small,
frequency-agile bursts, the B-52 would jam it. ANTARES was
being forced to use older and older data to process an attack.
Besides, if the B-52 could jam DrearnStar's phased-array radar,
it could easily jam the AIM-120's conventional pulse-Doppler
active radar. It was definitely time to bug out. Maraklov can-
celed the right high-G yo-yo and pulled into a sharp left turn,
using radar to clear terrain until he could get established on
course again.
     ANTARES tried to tell him, but Maraklov wasn't listening-
tried to tell him that a left turn was precisely the wrong thing to
do.
     He barely had time to roll wings-level when the missile-launch
warning hammered into his consciousness. This time it wasn't




180                       DALE BROWN
a head-to-head engagement-the B-52 was in missile-launch po-
sition, behind and slightly to the left, the cutoff angle estab-
lished, the missile already aiming ahead of its target's flight path.
Radar, infrared, laser-whatever he had, DreamStar was wide
open. The Scorpion missile was even close enough to be picked
up on radar . . .
     But ANTARES, literally, did not comprehend the meaning of
surrender-it would compute escape and attack options until it
ran out of power to energize its circuitry. And Maraklov, feeling
he had no hope of survival, had surrendered control of DreamStar
to ANTARES.
     The computer took over. Using its high-lift wings and full
canard deflection, DreamStar executed a sharp ninety-degree
pitch-up at max afterburner. The Scorpion missile overshot but            t
turned precisely with DreamStar, arcing nearly up to twenty-
thousand feet before following the guidance signals from the Old
Dog and pitching over hard for the kill. The missile was now
aimed straight down, passing Mach four, locked on, closing in
again on DrearnStar's tail.
     With its canards again in high-lift configuration, DreamStar
continued its inverted roll, screaming below, then back up
through the horizon. It was now clawing for altitude, skimming
across the high desert floor by only a few feet. The Scorpion
missile tracked every move, following DreamStar's high-G loop.
The missile broke Mach five as it closed in on its target . . .
     Which suddenly stopped in mid-air, then climbed five hun-
dred feet straight up. The missile could make a fourteen-G turn
far greater than any fighter yet designed, but not even this high-
tech missile could discontinue a Mach-five diving loop and then
turned a ninety-degree corner. The Scorpion missile tracked per-
fectly, but at such close range, and moving at almost a mile per
second, its turn radius was several hundred feet greater than its
altitude above ground. The missile exploded into the Amargosa

Desert, just a few yards from a truck stop northwest of Jackass
Airport off highway 95.
     The threat gone, the maneuver accomplished, ANTARES
switched to offense in less time than it took for the last of the
Old Dog's missiles to disintegrate into the hard desert floor.
With its attack-radar activated, it quickly searched for the en-
emy. At such close range even the Stealth fibersteel skin and
radar energy-absorbing honeycomb arrays couldn't diminish the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           181
huge radar cross-section of the Megafortress Plus. Lock-on, data
transfer, active seeker lock-on, missile stabilization test, unlock,
motor firing, launch.
     The thing was done before Maraklov really knew it-missile
flight time was barely four seconds . . .
"Missile launch, " Wendy called over interphone. "Break right.
     Ormack yanked the control stick hard right, all the way to the
stops. Roll-control jets pushed the right wing down and pulled
the left wing up, and nose and tail thrusters counteracted the
adverse left yaw, which increased the roll rate even more. At
fifty degrees of bank the B-52's right wingtip was no more than
two hundred feet above ground. Ormack pulled back on the stick,
letting the Old Dog's twin-tails pull the nose around even faster.
     At the same time, Wendy released five rocket-powered decoys
from the left ejector racks under the tail. The rockets spewed a
huge globe of radar-reflecting tinsel a hundred yards from the
B-52, followed by the blinding hot glare of phosphorous flares.
Simultaneously Wendy activated her electronic jammers, present
to the frequency of both DreamStar's track-while-scan phased-
array radars and the Scorpion missile's seeker-radar, and pumped
over a hundred thousand watts of energy across that frequency
band.
     The B-52s decoys flew past the missile's active radar seeker
undetected-it had a solid lock on the B-52 itself. The seeker
radar was blinded by the intense jamming, but in a millisecond
it switched to the most accurate and reliable of its four backup

modes: track on jam. The missile homed in on the center lobe
of the jamming energy from the B-52, following the energy beam
the way a hungry bat follows the echo of its hunting screech,
straight to its prey. The missile flew under the B-52's tail, past
the ECM emitter and under the fuselage to the right wing, im-
pacting on the number-three engine pod.
     The right wing, made of composite materials far stronger than
any metal, held fast, but the number five and six engines disin-
tegrated in a cloud of flying metal and a huge fireball. The fire-
ball lifted the right wing fifty feet into the air, then dropped it,
stalling it out. The left four engines pulled the Old Dog around
in a clockwise spin. None of its huge wings was generating lift
now; the plane was being held aloft only by its forward momen-
tum, like a chewed-up Frisbee tossed awkwardly into the air.




182                      DALE BROWN
     Engine-compressor blades from the number-five engine acted
like huge, powerful swords, chopping through the crew com-
partment. Jeffrey Khan and Linda Evanston, sitting on the right
side of the plane, were pierced by hundreds of shards of white-
hot metal. Wendy Tork, thrown sideways in the blast, was hit by
several pieces of metal.
     Ormack pulled the control stick to the left and stomped hard
on the left rudder pedal. Fibersteel screamed in protest. The flat
spin slowed almost to a   stop, but so did the Megafortress' air-
speed. Ormack knew he had pulled the plane out of its spin, but
the sudden negative Gs told him that the Old Dog was never
going to fly. Wendelstat was screaming, clawing at his lap belt,
face distorted. Blood was coming from places all over his body,
his helmeted head tattered from the impact of flying metal.
     Ormack reached over to the center console, finding that the
centrifugal forces were gone-it felt as if he was riding a gentle
elevator down to the first floor. Lowering his head caused the
cockpit to tilt violently, but he fought off the sudden vertigo and
flipped the EJECT WARNING switch to EJECT.
     Downward ejection for the two navigators in a B-52 bomber
was a crap shoot in the best of circumstances, and Major Edward
Frost knew it. Driven by years of experience, it took him only
a few seconds to get his hands on the ejection ring, get his back
straight, chin down, knees and legs braced, elbows tucked in.
He pulled his ejection handle the instant he saw the red EJECT
warning light illuminate. But even then it was too late. The zero-
point-two-second drogue-parachute ripped Frost's ejection seat
free, automatically pulling the zero-second ripcord, but his main
parachute barely had time to deploy fully from its backpack be-
fore Frost hit the earth.
     Angelina Pereira had pushed Wendy back upright in her seat
when she saw the bright red EJECT light. Still holding Wendy in
her seat with her left hand, she carefully rotated Wendy's right
ejection lever up and pulled the trigger. The fingers of her left

hand broke as Wendy's armrest smashed into them, but she didn't
notice the pain as she watched the seat blast skyward. Then she
slammed herself back into her own seat, raised her arming lev-
ers, and pulled both triggers.
     Her seat malfunctioned. Nothing happened. She reseated her
triggers and activated the backup ballistic acutators, but by then
it was too late . . .
                      t
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          183
     Ormack heard the loud pops and surges of air as ejection seats
left the plane-at least someone might make it out alive, he
thought. Wendelstat had finally collapsed. There was nothing to
do for him-no time to haul him downstairs for manual bailout.
But Khan had a chance. He yanked up on Khan's left ejection
lever and hit the trigger, watching as his long-time copilot and
friend blew clear of the crippled bomber. Ormack now rotated
his own arming levers and pulled the ejection triggers . . .
     Khan had promptly been grabbed by the Old Dog's exhaust
and blown several hundred yards back, away from the impact
area, but Ormack had spent precious time rescuing Khan. He
was a hundred feet above ground, his chute filling with wind
and inflating rapidly, when the Old Dog slammed into the Aniar-
     0     own,
g sa Desert valley floor. Directly over the aircraft, face d'
in position to watch the end of the B-52 Megafortress Plus,
Ormack was engulfed by the two-mile wide fireball that blos-
somed over the desert, consumed by the flames of his beloved
aircraft.
     His last thought was that somebody had to get that son of a
bitch James . . .




Over the B-52 crash site, Amargosa, Nevada
Wednesday, 17 June 1996, 0712 PDT (1012 EDT)
IT RESEMBLED THE aftermath of a fire bombing. Even from five
hundred feet in the air, everything within sight was black-the
rocky hills surrounding the crash site had been blackened by
fires and debris. Huge craters in the earth contained burning
sections of the mighty B-52 Megafortress Plus, the heat of the
fireball hot enough to melt even the B-52's thick carbon and
fiberglass skeletal pieces. A mile away the center-wing junction-
box and forward fuselage, the piece that joined the wings to the
fuselage and the largest section of the B-52 still intact, was burn-
ing, so hot and so smoky that firefighters could not get within
two hundred yards of it. Debris was scattered in a ten-square-
mile area of devastation, and thick black smoke obscured half
the sky.
     The helicopter crossed perpendicular to the axis of impact,
paralleling route 95 near the evacuated town of Amargosa. A
large building, a restaurant-and-truck-stop complex, was burn-
ing fiercely-one fire truck was spraying surrounding fuel pumps
with water to prevent any massive explosions. Several hundred
feet from the edge of the area a knot of police cars and an
ambulance had pulled off the highway and encircled several dark
objects lying in the charred sand.
     "That's it," McLanahan shouted, not bothering to use the
helicopter's interphone. "Set it down there."
     The chopper pilot nodded, spoke briefly on the radio, then
turned to Brad Elliott. "Sir, I can't touch down-Ive got wheels
instead of skids. I'd sink up to the fuselage in that mess-"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            185
     "Then hover and drop me off," McLanahan shouted.
     "The medevac helicopter is only a few seconds from-"
     "I don't give a damn, take me down there. Now. " Elliott
nodded to the pilot, and the chopper pilot reluctantly circled the
area once, then set the helicopter in a gentle hover, wheels up,
only a few inches from the ground. McLanahan leaped out the

side door and ran through the burning debris and gasoline-fired
desert to the patrol cars.
     It was obvious that Wendy Tork McLanahan had been under
her parachute only a few seconds before hitting ground; the ejec-
tion seat was just a few yards away. Wendy was lying on her
side, seemingly buried in the dirt and blackened sand, her half-
burned parachute trailing behind her. Her flight suit, gloves, face
and hair were black from the heat and falling debris-from the
air she had looked like another burnt piece of the dead B-52
bomber. Her helmet and one boot were nowhere to be seen-
they were usually lost during ejection unless secured uncom-
fortably tight during the mission. Her left leg was twisted
underneath her body, her left shoulder, half buried in the dirt,
appeared to be broken or at least separated.
     TWo Nevada State Troopers were maneuvering a spine board
into place when McLanahan ran over to them. He dropped to
his knees in front of her.
     "You from the base?" one of the troopers asked McLanahan.
Their voices were muffled by surgical masks.
                "Yes . . . "
    "What the hell hit out here? A nuke?"
               "An aircraft."
     They had dug a trench behind Wendy's back and were moving
the board along her back. Patrick carefully swept bits and pieces
of metal off Wendy's face. A few stuck fast, and pain shot
through his own body, as if he was feeling the pain for her, with
her.
     "Get with it," one of the troopers yelled, "grab those straps
and pass them over." They routed several thick straps under
Wendy's body, and Patrick carefully passed them back through
the brackets on the side of the board. They tightened the straps
until Wendy's back was tight against the board. Several wider
stra s were secured over her forehead and chin, a cervical collar
@p
placed around her neck, her head immobilized on the board as




186                      DAIZ BROWN
     well. The troopers began working to free and immobilize her
legs as the medevac helicopter touched down a few yards away.
     Let the paramedics in there, pal,." the troopers told Patrick,
pulling him up and away from Wendy. Three paramedics rushed
over. In moments they had oxygen, a respirator and electronic
vital-sign monitors in operation. They finished securing thick
plastic splints on her legs, placed her on a gurney and carried
her to the helicopter. Patrick ran over with the gurney but was
pushed away.
     " No room. We've got more injured to pick up from the truck
stop." The doors closed, the helicopter jumped skyward and
was quickly out of sight.
     Patrick's leg felt ready to buckle . . . one survivor out of a
crew of seven. He'd seen the entire crew alive and well not an
hour earlier. Wendy . . . his last thought of her was the thumbs-
up she'd given him before heading out to the crew bus. Piece of
cake, she had said.
     Another aircraft appeared out of the smoke-obscured sky, not
another helicopter. Resembling a remodeled JC.-130 transport,
the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport swooped down out of the
sky barely a hundred feet above the ground. Suddenly, with a
roar of turboprop engines, the engine pods on the wing-tips be-
gan to tilt upward until the blades were horizontal. The aircraft
then began a soft helicopter-like vertical descent, landing only
yards from Patrick.
     The rear cargo doors on the Osprey popped out, disgorging a
dozen heavily armed security troops in full combat gear and
backpacks, along with an M113 armored combat vehicle. The
M113 rolled off toward route 95, and the guards began to station
themselves a hundred yards apart along the perimeter of the
Megafortress' impact area.
     "Patrick        He turned at the sound of his name. Hal Briggs
was standing over him, Uzi submachine gun in hand.  He was
wearing a Kevlar helmet with a one-piece communications head-

set in place. Now he dropped down beside Patrick and moved
his face closer to his so they could talk over the roar of the
Osprey's rotor-props. "You okay?"
     :'Wendy . . . "
     'I heard, I'm glad she made it out," Briggs shouted. "They're
taking her downtown to the bum unit . . . she'll be okay, they
think.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           187
     "Unbelievable ... it was James,        Patrick muttered. "Stole
DreamStar, shot down Old Dog .
     "We gotta get you out of here. I'm securing the crash site.
The general is assembling an investigation unit. He wants you
to help him set it up."
     "Investigation unit? What about DreamStar? James is getting
away with DreamStar-"
     "He's heading south, right into the F-15 interceptor unit out
of Tucson. They've got a squadron ready to shoot his ass down.
Now let's get going."
     He helped McLanahan to his feet and led him to the open
cargo ramp at the rear of the Osprey. He was strapped in beside
Briggs at the flight-engineer's station.
     "Headquarters building," Briggs radioed to the pilot. "Hel-
ipad one should be big enough for the Osprey--
     "No," Patrick said. "I want to go to the hangar ramp. Right
now. "
          "General Elliott is waiting-"
     "I'm not going to supervise a bunch of guys crawling around
in the mud, putting little flags on chunks of metal and body
parts. We know what happened to the Megafortress-James shot
her down, he killed six people, he damn near killed my wife .
I want to go to the hangar ramp right now. That's an order. "
     Briggs shook off his immediate surprise at Patrick calling
Wendy his wife. He pushed his boom microphone away from
his lips and bent closer to Patrick. "You know me better than
that. I take 'orders from Elliott, and sometimes not from him.

It's how I do my job. Tell me what you want and convince me
it's better than what the man with the four stars wants."
     "Hal, believe me, DreamStar will blow right past the F-15s
out of Davis-Monthan."
          "Eight jockeys in Eagle Squadron won't buy that."
     "Listen, I've flown against DreamStar for a year. If DreamStar
has any more weapons on board, a whole air wing of F-15s
won't be able to bring him down. Even if he doesn't, James has
the skill and the hardware to evade them. Those pilots have never
seen DreamStar in action. If the F-15s can't bring him down
before he enters Mexican airspace, he'll lose them."
     "So what are you going to-?" Briggs cut himself off. It
wasn't hard to figure out what McLanahan wanted to do--you're
gonna take Cheetah . . . ?"




188                        DALE BROWN
     It's the only fighter that can take on DreamStar head-to-
head. And    JC. Powell is the only pilot that can do it. I want
Powell and Sergeant Butler to meet me at Hangar Four with a
fuel truck. If he can, I want Butler to get MMS out there with
missiles or at least some twenty-millimeter cannon shells."
     "And then what? Chase him down? He's got a huge lead on
you, you won't stand a chance-"
     "He's only got two hours' worth of fuel on board, maybe
less," Patrick said. "He's got to land it somewhere."
     :'How the hell are you supposed to know where?"
     'Those air defense units will be tracking him. They'll be able
to pinpoint his location, even three or four hundred miles into
Mexico. If he tries to land we'll know about it. And unless he's
removed or deactivated them, Cheetah has telemetry and track-
ing equipment on board that can direct us toward him. But we
need to act now, Hal. If we wait he could get clean away. The
Mexicans aren't going to be much help. They don't exactly love
us anymore."
     Briggs paused. McLanahan was obviously beside himself over
the crash, and about Wendy-did he say his wifie?-but what he
was saying did make sense. If Dreamland's security forces
couldn't stop DreamStar, there seemed little chance that a squad-
ron of Air Force reservists from Arizona could do it.
     Hal looked at Patrick. "You said your wife?"
     "We were married two days ago. We were going to tell ev-
erybody tonight." They were both silent for a moment, then
Patrick asked: "How about it, Hal?"
     Briggs thought about it a few moments longer, then nodded.
"Hey, you're a colonel, Colonel." He reached over to the flight-
engineer's console, flicked a switch on the communications
panel, dialed in channel eight-the discrete channel for the flight-
line maintenance section. "I was told to deliver you a message
from the general and assist you in complying with those orders.
You can do anything you want. Talk on the radio, tell Butler to

do something. Look here, this radio was even on Butler's fre-
quency, you can plug in and talk to him any time you want."
     Briggs swiveled his microphone back and hit the interphone
button. "Pilot, looks like I might have miscalculated. This Os-
prey is too big to land on the Headquarters helipad.-
     "No, Major," the pilot radioed back. "It's plenty big enough.
I can-"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             189
     "I don't think we can chance it. Some pretty strong gusts
kicking up out there."
     -It's clear and calm, Major Briggs."
     "Better not chance it. Drop us off at the hangar ramp."
     The pilot shrugged, keyed his radio button to request different
landing instructions.
     McLanahan clicked on the radio. "Delta, this is Charlie on
channel eight. How copy?"
     A few moments later Sqrgeant Ray Butl r replied: "This is
Delta mobile, sir. Go ahead."
     McLanahan glanced at the navigation readout on the flight
engineer's console. "I'm fifteen minutes from touchdown on the
hangar ramp, Ray. Meet me at Hangar Four. Repeat, Hangar
Four in fifteen mike. Urgent. Over."
     "Fifteen mike at Hangar Four. Copy that," Butler replied.
"Does this have to do with our recent fireworks here, sir?"
     "It does, Delta. You may want to see that the ramp is clear
in front of Hangar Four. Over."
          "I understand, Charlie. I'll be ready. Delta out."
     TWelve minutes later the Osprey set down in the center of the
hangar ramp and carefully taxied over to Hangar Four. Mc-
Lanahan disembarked the cargo ramp and found an army of
maintenance trucks surrounding the hangar. Cheetah had al-
ready been rolled out of the hangar and a fuel line had been
hooked up to its single-point refueling receptacle on the left-side
service panel.
     Sergeant Butler trotted up to a surprised McLanahan with a

sheaf of papers on a clipboard and a pen. "You mustve forgot-
ten to sign all these requests for maintenance support, sir," he
said with a straight face. "You made this request last week-
don't know how we missed getting all this signed off." Mc-
Lanahan nodded-obviously Butler wanted the same thing he
did, but he was still going to make sure his paperwork was
straight. "You wanted gas, long-range fuel tanks, five hundred
rounds uploaded with the M61112 cannon, two AIM-9R infrared
short-range missiles and four AIM-120 medium-range active ra-
dar missiles. I got everything? Oh, you also wanted that video
camera taken off, didn't you? Good. Sign here."
     McLanahan signed all the blocks. "Thank you, sir," Butler
said. "Sorry about the paperwork shuffle, sir. My mistake. Won't




190                       DALE BROWN
happen again ... I trust you'll take care of any problems Gen-
eral Elliott might have with my ... procedures.
          "Nothing wrong with your procedures, Sergeant."
     Butler allowed a smile. "Have a good flight, and good hunt-
ing. We should be ready to go in twenty minutes, maybe less.
Captain Powell is over there. I'm very sorry about the Megafor-
tress, sir. Well, gotta go." Butler handed Patrick his flight hel-
met, saluted and trotted back to the maintenance supervisor's
truck.
            JC. Powell met McLanahan halfway to Cheetah. He slapped
his hands together. "We're going hunting?"
     "If I don't my get ass court-martialed first, yes."
     "I heard Ken James stole the plane? I don't believe it. I always
suspected the guy was a little whacked out but not this . . . "
     "He's more than a little whacked out. He's jumped head-first
into the shallow end, or something a lot worse."
          "Such as?"
     "Something Briggs said a few days ago . . . that his security
problems started when James arrived at Drearnland about a year
and a half ago. Briggs even suspected Wendy, who happened to
get here at the same time."
     "You mean, you think Ken James was some kind of damn
spy? "
          "It would answer a lot of questions, wouldn't it?"
     "The guy's an Academy grad, passed every security screening
check I have-probably more. I'm only a ninety-day wonder and
I had to jump through some pretty small hoops-"
     "I didn't say I had it all figured out. Maybe he was turned or
recruited after he got here, or he's being blackmailed. Maybe
I'm all wrong. But one thing's for sure-if the F-15s out of Davis-
Monthan don't get him, we will. I just hope I get a chance to
ask him why the hell he did it"-Patrick glanced at the AIM-
120 missiles being raised into position on Cheetah's wings-
"before we put one up his tailpipe.
                    
DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          191
Over southwest Arizona
Twenty minutes later
There were eight other pilots who wanted to put one up Ken
James' tailpipe, but he wasn't going to give them the opportu-
nity.
     Ken James-that name now discarded by DreamStar's pilot,
Andrei Maraklov-could see waves of radars all around him, but
they were all search radars. He was deep within the Colorado
River valley just south of Parker Dam, following the rugged
mountain ridges as closely as he could to avoid detection. Two
longer-range F-16L cranked-arrow fighters were behind him,
their radars probing deep within the valley, but they never got a
solid lock-on and they were staying up high to try to scan as
much ground as possible. With their present tactics they were
never going to get a shot at him.
     But they were no longer the main threats-they were the push-
ers, the drivers, there only to keep DreamStar headed south to-
ward the real danger. Maraklov had caught bits and pieces of
scrambled radio conversations between the F-16s and another
aircraft. It was not hard to guess which: a Boeing 707 or 767
AWACS radar plane, stationed, Maraklov reasoned, between
Gila Bend and Yuma over Sentinel Plain. From there the older
707 AWACS could scan over one hundred twenty thousand cu-
bic miles of airspace, from San Diego to El Paso, and most of
the way down the Gulf of California into Mexico. The radar
aboard the improved 767 was even better. No doubt the AWACS
would be accompanied by at least two F-15 fighters out of Davis-
Monthan AFB in Tucson for protective escort, plus at least two
more F-15s to hunt down DreamStar.
     The fuel situation was critical. Less than an hour's worth of
fuej, less than an hour from the hastily arranged landing site in
Mexico. Staying at low altitude was badly sucking up fuel, but
he had no choice-the AWACS could have picked him up as far
north as Las Vegas if he was any higher.
     
Of course the maneuvering he did during the B-52 attack
pushed him under the fuel curve. Especially that last maneuver,
going from Mach one to one hundred knots one hundred feet off
the ground, thereby putting DreamStar in a virtual hover. That
took care of any reserve he'd had hopes of building up . . .
Well, the B-52 Megafortress was dead. They certainly nick-




192                      DALE BROWN
named it right. It almost escaped, almost dodged away in time,
almost managed to decoy the AIM- 120 away. The Scorpion mis-
sile had to switch to home-on-jam guidance to finish the attack.
Ironically the massive jamming power of the B-52 was -probably
what did it in-it must have been easy for the Scorpion missile
to follow jamming power like that.
     Who was on that plane? Ormack-good oflicer, better pilot,
Elliott's natural successor for the command of Drearnland.
Khan-a desk jockey. Had no business in the cockpit. Mara klov
didn't know Frost. He had dated Evanston once but that was no
more than an experiment that neither wanted to continue. Be-
sides, navs had no information of any value to anybody.
     Angelina Pereira was almost old enough to be his mother, but
she liked to use men and she liked men to use her. No age limits.
She was never a target for any information or recruitment, al-
though the KGB's standard profiles fitted her. She probably
would have laughed at him, just before shootin him in the balls.
She was an unexpected job bonus, nothing else.
     He would miss Wendy Tork most of all. Or rather miss never
having had a chance to try to fulfill his fantasies about her . . .
take her away from McLanahan . . . Too bad he hadn't tried to
latch onto her sooner. If nothing else she had some highly useful
information on electronic counter7neasures research . . .
     He made a slight altitude and course correction to avoid ov-
erflying a group of white-water rafters less than a hundred feet
below. As he banked away to avoid them he could see several
put hands over ears against the noise, but a few bikini-clad ladies
waved. He had made that trip down the Colorado River several
times, spending a weekend shooting the rapids, getting dumped
into the swirling waters, laughing at a roaring campfire with a
beer in one hand and a pretty young lieutenant from Nellis in
the other.
     Did they have rapids in Russia? Were the women pretty? Mar-
aklov had forgotten more than remembered.
     
Things had, people said, changed over the years. Glasnost
. . .the place was more open. But he doubted it would be to
him.
     Andrei Maraklov might truly be the deepest deep-cover agent
ever produced by the KGB, but that didn't mean he could go
back to the USSR and enjoy the gratitude of his country. Would
he ever be promoted to a leadership position in the KGB or the
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           193
Mikoyan-Gureyvich Aircraft Design Bureau, the agency that de-
signed and built the greatest fighter aircraft? No. He had been
in the U. for nine years. Before that he had spent three years
in a school that spoke more English and acted more American
than parts of San Francisco and Chicago or L. They'd have
to reteach him Russian, for God's sake. If they ever trusted him
after his return he'd probably be given some know-nothing job
or a pension and watched for the rest of his life. He might be
allowed to emigrate, but he'd be safer from the CIA or the De-
fense Intelligence Agency in Russia. Which didn't say much. If
they didn't trust him they'd pick his mind clean of every scrap
of information he had, then discard him. Either way, would his
life be better in his homeland? What he really felt attached to,
more than anything or anyone, was this plane that he had be-
come part of, that was part of him . . .
     Up ahead, it seemed like the entire sky had turned green.
Search radar-a big one. There was definitely an AWACS radar
plane up there. He was in the radar shadow right now, but in
only a few miles the Colorado River -valley would flatten out
into the Sonora Desert basin, and then he'd be trapped. The last
hundred fifty miles to the border was going to turn into a gaunt-
let-an unknown number of F-15 fighters in front of him, wait-
ing for him to emerge from the valley. He was also going toward
Yuma Marine Corps Air Station just ahead on the border, a base
for two squadrons of F/A- 18 fighter bombers, and F- 16 fighters
from Luke AFB in Phoenix could join in. So he could be facing
six squadrons of fighters from four military bases on this last

hundred-mile leg.
     Then, he saw it: the AWACS radar plane. DreamStar's threat
receiver pinpointed the aircraft about a hundred fifty miles away,
orbiting over the center of the Papago Indian Reservation west
of Tucson at twenty-five thousand feet. And if DreamStar could
see the AWACS plane, he could see DreamStar. At a quick
mental inquiry, Maraklov had the threat-warning computer an-
alyze the radar transmissions from the plane and learned it was
the older E-3B Sentry AWACS, almost twenty-five years old but
still a formidable radar platform; it was probably a drug-
interdiction aircraft based out of Davis-Monthan AFB.
     Suddenly, like some eerie Martian fog, green sky descended
and engulfed him, and then the sky turned yellow. The AWACS
had found him, started to track him. Maraklov tried to dodge




194                        DALE BROWN
closer to the river-valley edges to hide in any available radar
shadow. No use. Once he was spotted and identified-an aircraft
at two hundred feet above ground traveling at six hundred miles
an hour could hardly be mistaken for a civilian plane-the
AWACS would change position farther west to maintain a solid
track on him in the valley . . .
     , ,Unidentified aircraft ten miles north of Blythe, altitude
twelve hundred feet MSL, airspeed five hundred forty knots.
This is the United States Air Force air intercept controller on
GUARD." The radio messa e was being broadcast "in the blind"
9
on GUARD, the international emergency frequency, to prove to
him that he had indeed been spotted. "You are ordered to climb
to ten thousand feet MSL, reduce speed and lower your landing
gear immediately." Military aircraft being intercepted were or-
dered to lower their landing gear because as a safety device the
weapon systems on most fighters were automatically deactivated
when the landing gear was down. "Contact me on two-three-
three point zero immediately, repeat, contact me on frequency
two-three-three point zero. "
     DreamStar's weapon system did not deactivate unless Mar-
aklov deactivated it, gear up or down, but it was a moot point-
DreamStar had only one AIM-120 missile left and very little
fuel, not enough for any sort of engagement. The F-15 fighters
would not have much chance of catching him on their own, but
with the AWACS up and locked-on they could be vectored in
with high precision and even process a missile launch, all with-
out one watt of energy being transmitted from their own radars.
So DreamStar would have to use its attack radar to find the
F-15s, and that would give away DreamStar's position to them.
     Maraklov set one of his radios to the discrete frequency but
did not reply-that would be suicidal. But he did hear:
"DreamStar, this is Colonel Han-ell, Eagle Squadron com-
mander. We're following vectors toward you. We'll be all over

you in a few seconds. Climb out of there, slow down and drop
your gear or we'll consider you a hostile and blow your shit
away. Answer up. Over."
     A one-second burst of energy on the attack radar told Mar-
aklov the story-six fighters, three pairs, all at different altitudes,
arranged along the Colorado River and spaced about twenty miles
apart. The closest was about thirty miles ahead, only two hun-
dred feet above ground. The AWACS had moved northward a
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            195
few miles to get a better look down the valley and to get away
from the radar shadows from the Kofa Mountains.
     "We've got lock-on, James," Harrell said. "I got you at my
twelve o'clock, twenty-eight miles. My wingmen know where
you are. The Marines have set up a little surprise for you. Hiding
down here in the mud -ain't going to help. Give it up before you
get yourself smoked."
     That bit about Yuma Marine Corps Air Station was not ex-
actly true, but it came close. The Marines could easily set up a
surface-to-air missile blockade of the Color-ado River mouth from
Yuma Marine Corps Air Station. Harrell wouldn't reveal that,
though. But the odds were starting to pile up here, and they were
all against him.
     There was no way to even the odds, but Maraklov decided he
wasn't going to just surrender. Giving up DreamStar was un-
thinkable. It would make everything he'd done pointless. But if
the F-15s didn't get him, his lack of fuel reserves would. Well,
he wasn't going to make it easy for the F- 15s to bring him down.
It was time to put his DreamStar through its paces.
     Maraklov pushed DreamStar to full power, trimmed for max
speed and put her right down on the deck-fifty feet above the
riverbeds
     "That was stupid, James," Harrell called over the radio.
"Very damn stupid. We've got you all the way. You can't get
away . . . "
Maybe, maybe not. But he wasn't about to drive right into their

laps so they could take easy shots at him. If they wanted him
they'd have to work for a shot. He had been cruising at about
two to three hundred feet above ground, popping up occasionally
to pass over bridges and power lines strung across the Colorado
River. Now, two hundred feet would seem like two thousand
compared to his present altitude. Using. his computer-enhanced
responses and DreamStar's powerful radar in terrain-avoidance
mode, Maraklov kept DreamStar less than fifty feet above
ground. He did not try to pop up over tall transmission lines-
he went under them. He could clearly see rafters and campers
lined up on the banks, plugging their ears against the sonic boom
that rolled over them as he roared past at Mach one-if he could
have seen behind him, he would have seen a huge plume of
white exploding off the Color-ado River as DreamStar's sonic




196                     DALE BROWN
                                             slammed i
wake crashed against the water. Birds pinged and               nto
the canopy and fuselage, but Maraklov kept going, too close
now to be brought down by a damned duck.
     Near the town of Picacho the steep mountain ranges on either
side of the Colorado disappeared. He was only forty miles to the
border. He broke away from the river and headed directly south
for Yuma.
     Suddenly ANTARES screamed "missile tracking " in his
brain. The threat receivers had detected that an AIM-120 scor-
pion missile had activated its radar and was tracking him-more
likely, the F-15 had fired two missiles, since he probably was
carrying two more and had at least three other wingmen with
missiles. They had a lot of firepower on their side; they could
afford to be generous.
     Maraklov commanded a hard seven-G climb, almost straight
up. He gained altitude to about a thousand feet, then flipped
over and pulled hard in a nine-G descent straight down. Fifty
feet above ground he yanked his fighter upright and pulled hard
to the left behind a hill. The missiles followed his turns but
overshot on the climbout, and when they turned to follow he had
disappeared. The missile's computer brain allowed the radar
seeker to attempt to reacquire a target for three seconds, then
tried to lock-on to any jamming signals in the area. None was
present. The missile then began following steering signals from
the E-3 AWACS radar plane and turned back toward DrearnStar,
but by then it was too late. The Scorpion missiles, designed for
medium-range engagements at higher altitudes, ran out of fuel
and self-destructed seconds later.
     Maraklov rolled hard right and found himself back in the Col-
orado River valley near Laguna Airfield. He commanded
DreamStar back down on the deck just in time to fly under a
transmission line. At that moment, the scanner on the aft fuse-
lage detected a growing heat source and issued a MISSILE ATTACK

warning. An F-15 had dived down from its patrol altitude right
on top of DreamStar and had quickly closed in to IR missile
range.
     In the literal blink of an eye Maraklov commanded DrearnStar
from max speed mode to max alpha-the slowest speed
DreamStar could sustain. Within seconds DrearnStar's wings
went from nearly flat to steeply curled; the two-dimensional lou-
vers shuttled forward to redirect thrust down instead of aft; and
DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         197
DreamStar's canards snapped upward, holding the nose high
while the plane decelerated. In ten seconds DreamStar went from
Mach one to two hundred knots-only DrearnStar's composite
structure, lighter than steel but a hundred times stronger, could
withstand the strain.
     The two F-15 fighters had closed to three miles behind
DreamStar when suddenly their quarry seemed to freeze in mid-
air. At only a hundred feet off the ground there was no room to
maneuver, especially with two fighters together in close forma-
tion. The lead F-15 broke hard right to avoid DreamStar, then
managed to pull up hard enough to escape crashing into the low
hills north of Yuma. His wingman was not so lucky-not able
to keep up with the five-G pull, the second F- 15 fighter pancaked
into the desert floor and exploded before the pilot could eject.
     Twenty miles to go. Gradually, Maraklov applied power and
began to transition back to max-speed, being careful not to use
gas-guzzling afterburner. He was over Yuma now, skimming
just above tall buildings and radio antennae. The F-15s were
still behind him but they weren't attacking until DrearnStar
passed clear of the city. He screamed over Yuma Marine Corps
Air Station with his airspeed nearly back at Mach one and saw
F/A-18 fighters at the end of the runway, probably being held
because of the F-15 fighters in pursuit. There was something
else at the southeast end of the main runway but he didn't have
time to make it out before-
     AAA LOCK-ON, blared in Maraklov's mind. ANTARES reacted

first, banking hard right and pulling away as warning messages
flashed in his mind and streaks of black raced past his canopy.
It was an M173 Bulldog anti-aircraft artillery vehicle, a small
tank with two 40-millimeter radar-guided guns that fired pre-
fragmented tungsten-alloy shells out to a range of over four
miles. There were only a few Bulldog regiments in the United
States; Maraklov was unlucky enough to run into one. Without
jammers, the only defense against the Bulldog was to fly as far
and as fast away from it as possible-its twin cannons could
pump out two hundred rounds per minute per barrel. Maraklov
now had no choice but to kick in full afterburner.
     ANTARES reported damage to several mini-actuators in the
wings. One Bulldog was not an effective weapon against high-
speed ground-hugging fighters, but even so it had been a narrow
escape. The Bulldog was quickly deactivated as the F-15s came




198                       DALE BROWN
into range. Maraklov pulled his throttle out of afterburner as fast
as he could, but the damage had already been done. DreamStar
had no fuel reserves left. Every mile in any direction other than
toward the landing point meant one more mile Maraklov would
end up short of it.
     Maraklov rolled DreamStar left and headed directly for La-
guna de Santiaguillo, staying at one hundred feet above ground,
flying directly over a small town. He activated the attack radar
and completed a three-second sweep of the sky . . . the F-15
fighters had turned around, and at another mental inquiry he
found out why-DrearnStar was in Mexico, two miles south of
the border, over the town of San Luis. He had made it.
Aboard the lead F-15 over southwest Arizona
"What the hell do you mean, turn back?" Colonel Jack Harrell,
the Eagle Squadron commander from Davis-Monthan AFB, said
over the scrambled radio channel. He lowered his oxygen visor
with an exasperated snap. His four remaining squadron members
were arranged in extended fingertip formation around him, two
on his left and two others about a half-mile farther off to his left.
"Tinsel, verify that last transmission. Over."
     " Eagle flight, this is Tinsel," the senior controller aboard the
E-3B AWACS replied, "your orders are verified. Permission to
cross into Mazatlan Fighter Intercept Region sector one with live
weapons on board has not been received. You must comply with
International Aeronautics Organization chapter one-thirteen until
permission to cross has been received."
     Harrell was livid. lie had watched one of his best fighter pilots
auger into the desert not two minutes earlier, and here he was
sitting by while their target was escaping-and there was nothing
between them but a lousy line on a map. Harrell made a deci-
sion-that line was not going to stop him.
     "Copy, Tinsel," Harrell said. "Understand permission re-
ceived to cross into Mazatlan FIR sector one. Blue Flight and
Red Two and Three, report back to Goalie for refueling. Red

Flight is turning right in pursuit. Eagle leader out."
     " Blue Flight copies," the leader of the second group of two
F-15s replied before the controller aboard Tinsel could interject.
As Harrell banked right, those two F-15s maintained their head-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           199
ing northeast toward Goalie, their waiting KC-10 aerial-refueling
tanker. But the two F-15s accompanying Harrell stayed in fin-
gertip formation of their leader.
     "Eagle Leader, this is Tinsel," the angry voice of the senior
controller aboard the AWACS finally said over the command
radio. "I repeat, you are not authorized to cross the ADIZ. Turn
left heading zero-three-zero and climb to-"
     Harrell shut off the radio. Out of the comer of his eye he saw
the F-15 on his left wingtip raise and lower his airbrake to get
Harrell's attention. The pilot extended two fingers ahead of him,
visible to both Harrell and the third F-15. Harrell nodded that
he understood the signal and switched his second radio to the
scrambled Squadron-only frequency.
     "I thought I ordered you characters to hook up with the
tanker," Harrell radioed.
     "If you've got radio or navigation problems, sir," the pilot
of the second F-15, Lieutenant Colonel Downs, replied, "we
wouldn't leave you. If you're going after that stolen fighter,
we're sure as hell not leaving your wing."
     "We are going after that guy, aren't we?" the third pilot,
Major Chan, asked. "I'd hate to think we're gonna lose our
wings for nothing."
     "Tinsel sounds pretty pissed," Downs said. "Sure you want
to do this, sir? "
     "We're doing it, aren't we?" Harrell checked his heads-up
display, which had been slaved to provide AWACS-generated
steering signals to the stolen fighter. He was pleased to find the
data-link still active. "I've still got a steer on the XF-34. Lead's
coming right ten degrees, descending to two thousand feet. Two,
take the mid-patrol at six thousand; three, take the high CAP at

twelve. Let's waste this guy."
                  "Two. I I
     "Three.
     The two wingmen began slow climbs to their assigned alti-
tudes. Harrell began a descent, following DreamStar's flight
path. Moments later he received a soft beep in his headset telling
him that one of his Scorpion missiles had followed the AWACS'
data-link instructions and had locked onto its target. Harrell
made sure his wingmen were clear, then radioed "Fox two"
once on the Squadron-only frequency, and pressed the launch
trigger . . .




200                      DALE BROWN
Over northwest Mexico
The green "sky" surrounding DreamStar was still present,
meaning that the AWACS was still tracking him, but Maraklov
allowed himself a moment to relax. They had turned back. He
had overestimated these reservist weekend-warrior fighter-jocks.
They had a reputation for tenacity, for an itchy trigger finger,
for not following the rules. These guys had more to lose.
     Maraklov commanded a thousand-foot climb to pad his safe
terrain-clearance altitude and began to retrim his engine from
best-speed to best-endurance mode. There was still a chance he
could make it. In best-endurance mode the fuel computer and
autopilot would work together to step-climb the aircraft to take
advantage of better flying conditions and greater endurance at
higher altitudes, without wasting fuel in the-
     He was startled by a sudden MISSILE LAUNCH indication from
the tail sensor. Momentarily stunned into indecision, he called
on ANTARES to execute an evasive maneuver.
     instead of diving for the ground ANTARES pitched DreamStar
up in a hard climb, lit the afterburner, leveled out, then activated
the attack radar. Instantly the radar image of Harrell's F- 1 5 ap-
peared, dead ahead at five miles. ANTARES' radar locked on
and launched the last remaining AIM- 120 missile at the lone
pursuer. At only five miles and slightly above the F-15, the
Scorpion missile did not miss. DreamStar then flew directly to-
ward the flaming remains of Harrell's F-15, dodging away right
at the last moment. The moves were executed so quickly that
Harrell's Scorpion missile, which ha:d dutifully followed
DrearnStar in its wild Immelmann maneuver, now locked onto
Harrell's flaming F- 15 fighter and added its own destructive fury
to the already doomed plane.
"Sweet mother of God
     Downs banked left away from the blossoming fireball that
erupted just below and in front of him. There were only a few
seconds between when he left Harrell's wing and when that fire-

ball appeared. One moment his squadron commander was lined
up for a perfect missile shot, at the closest possible range without
getting into an inner-range warhead arming inhabit, the target
straight and level in front of him; the next moment, the target
had leapt into the sky, evaded the missile, turned and launched
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           201
a missile of his own. Immediately after, Harrell was part of a
cloud of metal and exploding fuel.
     "Eagle Three, this is Two. Lead's been hit. He's going
down-no 'chute, no 'chute . . . "
          "I see him, Two, I see him ... Jesus Christ .
     Downs took a firm grip on his stick and throttles. "I've got
the lead. Take the mid CAP and follow me in. This bastard's
not getting-"
     "Eagle flight, this is TINSEL on malibu"-malibu, FM fre-
quency 660, was the Squadron's discrete scrambled channel.
Great, Downs thought, they found our so-called secret channel.
     Eagle flight of two, we copy that Eagle Lead is down. Search
and rescue has been notified. You are to return across the ADIZ
immediately or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Ac-
knowledge and comply. Over."
     "TINSEL, this is Eagle Two. That son of a bitch just shot
down Colonel Harrell. Are you ordering us to let him go? Over. "
     "We don't have any damned choice, Downs." It was a new
voice on the radio-obviously the AWACS mission commander
cutting in over the senior controller. "We can't start a major
international incident by ignoring the rules. You'll get another
shot at him when we get permission to cross. Now get your asses
back over the border before you have to fight off the damned
Mexican Air Force-and then you and I get to tangle. That's an
order from Air Division. Over.
DreamStar was only a dozen feet above a rocky dry-river bed
snaking through the Pinacate Mountains. Occasional radar
sweeps showed the skies above him were clear, but that last
attack was so sudden and so close that Maraklov kept DrearnStar

in the dirt to avoid any more sneak attacks. He stayed in the
rugged mountains and dry desert valleys until he reached the
fringes of the AWACS cover-age zone, then slowly step-climbed
out of the rocky terrain, being careful to stay under detectable
radar emissions in the-area. After a few minutes, as he cruised
down the Magdalena River valley at five hundred feet, he was
finally out of range of all American surveillance radars. The
military radar nets from Hermosillo seventy miles south of his
position were searching for him as well, but they were high-
altitude-only surveillance radars and not capable of finding low-
altitude aircraft. As he approached the northern foothills of the




202                      DALE BROWN
Sierra Madre Occidental mountains he was finally able to climb
above ten thousand feet for the first time and reestablish best-
endurance power.
     Not time to celebrate, though. Maraklov was starting to search
for places to crash-land DrearnStar, taking seriously the fuel-
endurance figures he was receiving. He was three hundred miles
from Laguna de Santiaguillo with five thousand pounds of fuel.
His best endurance speed was only fifty-five percent of full
power-idle power, barely enough to maintain altitude and con-
trol. He was slightly over eleven thousand feet, which put him
right at the minimum safe altitude for the region-he could see
Cerrro Chorreras, one of the highest peaks of the Sierra Madre,
looming off to his right and looking like an impenetrable wall,
a fist ready to reach out and pull him out of the sky.
     He didn't have the fuel to climb any higher; in fact, the best
routine would command a descent soon to prevent DreamStar
from stalling at such slow airspeeds. The high terrain would then
force him further eastward toward the Mexican fighter base at
Torreon only two hundred miles away. After successfully evad-
ing four squadrons of high-tech American fighters, Maraklov
thought ruefully, he might end up dropping himself right into
the very appreciative laps of the Mexican government.
     ANTARES needed to search its own database for landing sites
within range. Not easy. DreamStar was well within the Sierra
Madre mountains now. Below were hundreds of grass-and-dirt
strips-every plantation owner, every mining town, every timber
mill, every drug dealer had his own airstrip. Most were simply
cleared sections of land or dirt roads. Many were on high pla-
teaus far from any usable roads or towns-if Kramer and Moffitt,
his two KGB contacts from Los Angeles, were bringing a fuel
truck it would take days for them to arrive.
     After a few moments Maraklov was presented with a chart of
north-central Mexico with landing-site choices depicted. He
quickly discarded the unimproved runways of San Pablo Balleza

and Rancho Las Aojuntas. Likewise the paved airport of Par-
ral-the computerized chart showed the airport had a rotating
beacon and even runway lights, which meant it probably was
used by the militia or local police. Too active to maintain any
secrecy.
     The last choice seemed the best, a paved sixty-four-hundred-
foot-long runway named Ojito. Detail of the runway showed it
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          203
to be like the valley road nearby, which meant it probably was
the road, just widened and strengthened some to serve as a run-
way. Several of such quasi-runways dotted central Mexico,
where air access was occasionally desired but there wasn't
enough room to build an airport. Ojito was a hundred miles
northwest of the original landing site, and in these rugged foot-
hills that meant at least a four-hour wait.
     Once that decision had been made, Maraklov commanded ra-
dio two to a special UHF frequency. "Kramer, this is Maraklov.
Come in. Over."
     The radio crackled, and the pilot filtered out the noise, careful
not to decrease the radio's effective range. No response. He was
over two hundred miles from Laguna de Santiaguillo. Maybe
they wouldn't be able to hear him in the mountains . . .
     "Maraklov, this is Kramer. We read you. Welcome, you made
it.
     For the first time, Maraklov allowed himself to feel the ex-
hilaration he'd not thought possible. "Kramer, listen. Change
of plans. New runway is at grid coordinates kilo-victor-five-one-
five, lima-alpha one-three-seven. Situation critical. Over."
     "We understand. We have been monitoring your progress.
We are airborne and will meet you at your designated landing
point. You are almost home. Kramer out."
The official blue sedan screeched to a halt not four feet in front
of Cheetah's nose gear. General Elliott jumped up from behind
the wheel, threw the door open and stood behind it, drawing a
thumb across his throat. He looked mad enough to hold down

Cheetah even if they used full afterburner. At the same time Hal
Briggs got out of the passenger's side, wearing a set of ear pro-
tectors, and holding aloft his Uzi submachine gun in an obvious
warning. Patrick could see him shrug and shake his head. He
had no doubt that Briggs would use that SMG on Cheetah's tires.
     "Shut 'em down,   ," Patrick said.
        muttered to himself as he touched the 'Voice-interface
switch on the stick. "Engine shutdown, power on."
     "Engine shutdown. Brakes set. External power on. Clear to
scavenge, " the computer replied.
     "Clear to scavenge,"    said. One by one the engines
revved up to eighty percent power for ten seconds, then shut
themselves down. Patrick did not shut down any of his equip-




204                     DALE BROWN
ment but left it on standby to have it ready when-or, looking
at Elliott's angry face, if-they received takeoff clearance. Soon
the only noise left was the sound of the external power cart.
Briggs bolstered his Uzi as Elliott walked over to the crew ladder
being put up on Cheetah's left side, pushed Sergeant Ray Butler
out of the way and painfully hauled himself up the ladder.
     "
     Where the hell do you think you're going? Have you gone
crazy?"
          :'You know where I'm going," McLanahan said quietly-
     'You ordered this?"
     "Yes.-
     Elliott stared at Patrick, then at the external power cart and
the screaming its turbine engine was making. ','Shut that damned
thing off."
          "Leave it on, Sergeant," Patrick told Butler.
     Elliott jabbed a finger first at Powell, then at McLanahan.
"You, I knew you were crazy, but Patrick, you've gone round
the bend. James steals a jet so you guys want to steal one too?
All even up-?"
     " Don't give me that, General. Don't tell me you don't un-
derstand what I'm trying to do."
     DreamStar is long gone, Patrick," Elliott said. "It's up to
Air Defense to force it down or shoot it down. There's nothing
we can do-"
     "Like hell, Brad - We're gonna bring down that sonofabitch.
     The change that came over McLanahan was startling but
somehow familiar. This was the McLanahan, "Mac" not Pat-
rick, that he remembered from Bomb Comp and from the Old
Dog mission eight years earlier-cocky, headstrong, defiant. All
part of what had attracted him to the young navigator from the
very beginning. The guy was also a pro. He knew it and every-
one else knew it-he didn't sugarcoat with politics or bravado
or fake expertise. Some of that in his role as a project com-

mander had been kept under wraps, but the crash of the Old Dog
and seeing Wendy Tork-or rather as Hal had told him just mo-
ments ago, Wendy Tork McLanahan-lying half-dead in the ru-
ins of the Megafortress, had transformed him back to what he'd
always been . . .
     "At max endurance the whole way he only had enough fuel
on board to go as far as Mexico City," McLanahan was saying.
"With that max alpha takeoff he made, plus all that combat
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          205
     maneuvering, his range has to be much less. I say he's gotta be
on the ground somewhere . . . "
     "So what can you do about it?" Elliott asked. "If he's on
the ground--
     "Why steal DreamStar, knowing that he can fly for only a
few hundred miles before he has to abandon it? Unless he's
getting help, unless he planned to fly DreaniStar somewhere
where it can be refueled. And the nearest place obviously is
Mexico, where he was chased."
     "You don't know that. What if he's just flipped out? What if
he just wanted to steal DreamStar for a damned joy ride? He's
gotten to be so close to that plane, he thinks he owns it."
     "He shoots down the Megafortress for a joy ride?"
     "ANTARES could have attacked the B-52," Powell broke
in. "It's possible for ANTARES to press an attack right after
an evasive maneuver-as part of an evasive maneuver. It could
have happened without James ever knowing about it-"
     "Look, all this argument isn't getting us any closer to
DreamStar," McLanahan snapped. "Old Dog got shot down-
it happened. James has got DreamStar, that's a fact. And Chee-
tah is the jet that has any chance of bringing him down. We've
seen what's happened to the others. The instruments on Cheetah
can locate DreamStar, on the ground or in the air. If he's on the
ground I can direct our forces in on him. The Mexicans can yell
but I don't think they'd really try to stop us. If he's airborne we
can engage him. Either way we need to get our asses in the air.

Right now."
     81hott hesitated. McLanahan might be upset but he was also
thinking pretty damn clearly. The question was: what would the
Joint Chiefs believe? Would they agree to let Cheetah, with
McLanahan on board, try to chase down DreamStar? Obviously
they had several squadrons of fighters out after him already, and
Cheetah was almost as unique and as classified as DrearnStar-
too valuable to risk in a major fur-ball dogfight. Would they
decide that everyone at Dreamland was nuts and close down the
place?
     "I need authorization first," Elliott said. "I have to call
Washington-"
     "There isn't time for that. Every minute we delay DrearnStar
slips further away from us."
     "You can authorize Cheetah to launch at any time, sir, " Pow-




206                      DALE BROWN
ell suggested. "Let us get airborne and headed south. When you
get authorization we'll continue the pursuit. If we stay on the
ground until you get the word we'll never catch him."
     "This is an unauthorized mission. I don't own these air-
frames -the Joint Chiefs and the Penta on own them. They're
experimental aircraft, not operational interceptors. It's illegal as
hell for me to authorize you to take off and hunt down DreamStar
or any other aircraft. Can't you understand that?"
     "Sure, and now let me try to make you understand, General.
I'm just not going to let any of that stop me from bringing down
DrearnStar. James is a thief, a killer and either a spy or a traitor.
I have the plane to bring him down. As far as I'm concerned all
the rest is bureaucratic horseshit that can wait until after
DreamStar has been destroyed or recaptured. Now, you can give
me authorization to launch, and you can get permission for us
to pursue DreamStar after we take off. You can play political
games if you want.,But we're leaving, sir, with or without your
blessing.
     Which brought matters to Hal Briggs. Would he support his
commanding officer or his best friend?
     "Don't even think about it, Patrick," he said. "I can't let
you go against the general's orders. Not now . . . II But then he
turned to Elliott: "Sir, I'm a member of this organization, and
I agree with Colonel McLanahan. Let him take off and chase
down that sonofabitch. It's the best plan we have."
          "If I get authorization . . . "
     Briggs took a deep breath. "Sir, you've never requested au-
thorization for half the plans you cook up. Building that Old
Dog ten years ago was unauthorized-you took a B-52 air-frame,
ripped off the parts and put the thing together in secret. That
whole B-1 bomber mission to Kavaznya was unauthorized.
Launching the Old Dog was unauthorized. Continuing the mis-
sion was technically unauthorized, and so was penetrating Soviet
airspace and attacking that laser installation. You did it, sir,

because it had to be done and you had the people and the equip-
ment to do it."
          "This is different-"
     "Why? Because it's the colonel doin' the rule-breaking and
not you? Let me make a wild guess here, sir-Colonel Mc-
Lanahan here is sort of a carbon copy of Bradley    Elliott about
twenty years ago. He's ready to go out there and kick some butt,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           207
just like you did more than once in your career. I read your bio,
General . . . " He rushed on, afraid if he stopped he'd lose his
nerve. "They stick a hot-shot ex-test squadron commander out
in some abandoned Air Force test base in Nowheresville, Ne-
vada. They tossed you out, right? You pissed someone off and
they stuck you in a hole in the wall in Nevada to get you out of
the way-"
     "Hal, I'm trying to be patient but this isn't getting us any-
where-"
     "But you wouldn't roll over and play dead, would you? You
turned Nowheresville into Dreamland. The Pentagon started
tossing iffy projects your way. What the hell, sir, if the projects
failed you'd get the blame. You proved them wrong. You made
the projects work-and not always by following the book and
getting authorization-and you got the credit. Pretty soon every
new piece of military hardware went through Dreamland . . .
O@kay, now you're the man, General, and you're lookin' at the
new Bradley James Elliott-Patrick S. McLanahan. He's pullin'
the same shit you did twenty years ago."
     Elliott knew that was right. He had been drawn to Mac
McLanahan from the start, not just because the guy was the best
navigator in the Air Force, but because they seemed so much
alike. He also knew he got a kick out of watching the transfor-
mation of Mac McLanahan-it was almost as if he was watching
a videotape of what had happened with him. It had taken a di-
saster for Patrick to come alive, to rise above the bureaucratic
morass. Now the real McLanahan had resurfaced, the one that

once treated a bomb run in Russia like nothing much more than
a late-night training flight in Idaho.
     Elliott turned to McLanahan. "Mac, smoke that bastard.
Whatever it takes, do it."
     Elliott barely had time to lower himself off the crew ladder
before Cheetah's left engine began to spin up to idle power.
When Briggs reached up to pull the ladder off, McLanahan
grabbed it.
     "Thatwasquiteaspeech,Hal,"hesaidovertherisin whine
of the engines.                                              9
     "I got a confession, buddy. I never read the old man's bio.
But I guess I hit pretty close to home. You hang around the guy
long enough, you learn a little about what goes on behind the




208                       DALE BROWN
brass. Now get outta here and bring us back some rattlesnake
hide.
Over Ojito Airfield, central Mexico
Ten minutes later
DrearnStar's database on Ojito was accurate, except it failed to
account for at least a year's worth of unchecked vegetation. Mar-
aklov had set up a computerized instrument landing system in
Ojito, which used the database's field location, elevation and
information on surrounding terrain to draw a glidescope and lo-
calizer beam into the runway.
     But Maraklov had to yank DreamStar away from tall strands
of dense trees off the approach end of the runway, and when he
reached the airport's coordinates themselves he could barely see
the runway through the weeds and junk scattered around. He
had no choice but to ignore the low fuel warnings and go missed-
approach on the field; then he adjusted his ILS for the obstruc_
tions and tried again. To use every available inch of pavement
he had to drop DreamStar over a stand of trees at almost a full
stall, applying power at the last moment to avoid crashing.
     After touchdown he discovered that QJito was nowhere near
seven thousand feet long-another dense stand of trees and sev-
eral buildings rushed up to meet him from less than two thousand
feet away. Apparently a small corral and farm had been built on
the little-used runway to make it easier to load livestock onto
trucks, and the surrounding forest had been allowed to grow over
the rest of the airstrip.
     Maraklov threw the vectored-thrust nozzles and louvers into
full reverse power, then hit the brakes. The left brake locked
its anti-skid system failed; it overheated and was quickly deac-
tivated by computerjust before it fused to the wheel. DreamStar
skidded hard right, and only the lightning-fast application of
thrust in the right directions kept the fighter on the narrow weed-
covered runway. The left wing crashed into several small, rick-
ety wooden buildings, sending chickens and pigs scattering.in

all directions. One of the small buildings burst into flames, ig-
nited by the heat from DreamStar's exhaust.
     Maraklov gunned the engine. DrramStar leapt forward away
from the burning building seconds before the fire reached the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             209
     left wingtip. Scattering buildings in his jet exhaust, Maraklov
     taxied back down the runway to the opposite end, turned and
     aligned himself with the runway centerline, his engine idling. If
     troops or olice came, he would have enough fuel to take off
     p
and get two or three hundred feet before flame-out-enough to
nose over and crash DreamStar.
     He activated the radio on Kramer's frequency. "Kramer,
what's your position?" he thought, and ANTARES transmitted
the query.
     "Vstryetyemsah zahv dvah menootah, tovarisch, " Moffitt,
Kramer's assistant, replied. Maraklov wished there was a
Russian-translation computer in DrearnStar-once again he didn't
understand enou h of what Moffitt said.
                      9
     This was going to be a major problem, Maraklov thought to
himself. They weren't in Russia yet, but even in Mexico they
were a hell of a lot closer to Moffitt's turf than Maraklov was.
He would have to deal with Moffitt and all the other Moffitts that
he'd meet up with-the ones that didn't trust him, the ones who'd
think he might have turned, the ones who envied his life in the
United States. He'd have to try to begin the transfon-nation back
to being a Russian right now.
     "Yah . . . yah nye pahnyemahyo, " Maraklov thou ht halt-
                                                  9
ingly. Like many before him, he thought, Russian is hard. But
ANTARES did not transmit the Russian phrase, so Maraklov
had to answer, "Say again."
     "Oh, excuse me, Captain James"-Moffitt was his usual
charming self-"I forgot you do not speak Russian any more.

Our ETA is two minutes."
     Maraklov had no time to think about Moffitt. Several villagers
had begun to appear at the opposite end of the airstrip. Some
went to work putting out the fires to their outbuildings; others
pointed at DreamStar. Maraklov couldn't tell if any were car-
rying weapons but the safe assumption would be that they were
armed and shouldn't be allowed to approach, even though they
looked like backwoods villagers . . .
     Now a large dark-green truck rumbled up the road leading to
the tiny airstrip, about a dozen men piled in and slowly started
down the runway toward DrearnStar. So much for timid villag-
ers,
     Maraklov locked the right and the emergency brakes, set the
engine louvers on full reverse, and advanced the throttle. A huge




210                     DALE BROWN
cloud of dust rolled up from the airstrip and almost covered the
advancing truck. The truck stopped, then several villagers
jumped out and ran over to the sides of the runway. This time
Maraklov could see rifles and shotguns. The truck then began
advancing slowly toward him, the villagers with rifles advancing
on both sides.
     Maraklov created another dust cloud to warn them away. It
wasn't working. He moved the louvers back to takeoff position.
The truck was closer than a thousand feet now-he wouldn't
make it if he attempted a takeoff over the truck even if his wings
weren't damaged. There was no way in hell he'd risk losing
control of DreamStar to these characters. If these guys came any
closer . . . well, he'd survived fighters, surface-to-air missiles,
anti-aircraft artillery, the best of America's defense arsenals.
Damned if he and his plane were going to give up to a bunch of
peasants in Mexico armed with shotguns.
     The villagers were about a hundred yards away when a thun-
derous roar echoed through the mountainous valley, drowning
out the sound of DreamStar's engines. Suddenly the airfield
erupted in clouds of dust and the crackle of machine-gun fire.
The tree-line on either side of the strip was strafed with heavy-
caliber machine-gun fire, whipping the trees and branches as if
they were in the grip of a hurricane. Not surprisingly the armed
villagers bolted from the airstrip, and soon the source of the
uproar hove into view in the center of the airstrip.
     Maraklov was impressed. It was a huge Boeing CH-47 Chi-
nook transport helicopter, an old American twin-rotor job that
had to be at least forty years old. This veteran chopper, belching
smoke that could be seen for miles, was ready for action-with
a door-gunner on each side of the helicopter firing a gyro-
stabilized twenty-millimeter gun, it was more a gunship than a
trash-hauler. Its huge eight-bladed rotors, each some one hun-
dred feet in diameter, barely made it through the trees and brush.
The KGB had at least pulled out all stops to make sure DreamStar

got out of the U. intact-no sooner had the monster landed
than twelve heavily armed men rushed out of the rear-cargo
ramp. TWo hit the area where the burning buildings smoldered,
the fires extinguished by the downwash of the chopper's huge
rotors; the rest split up on either side of the chopper and began
to secure the perimeter of the airstrip. And then from the cargo
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          211
hold of the chopper came Kramer and Moffitt riding aboard a
small black-and-green fuel truck.
     As Maraklov opened the canopy, a crew from the chopper
brought a ladder up to the side for Kramer. Maraklov ordered
the maintenance access panels to open automatically, and a crew
began to attach fuel lines to the single-point refueling adapter.
Other crewmen began stripping loose chunks of fibersteel off
DreamStar's tail section, while some scurried over DreamStar's
wings inspecting the damage from the Bulldog AAA gun. Amid
it all two photographers were taking nonstop pictures of
DrearnStar.
     Kramer, now on the top of the ladder beside the cockpit ledge,
plugged a headset into a jack offered by a maintenance techni-
cian. "Can you hear me, Maraklov?"
     "Yes, I can hear you," the ANTARES-synthesized voice re-
plied. He did not move, nor did he attempt to remove his helmet
or raise his visors.
     "Welcome, Andrei. What you have accomplished is incredi-
ble.  "
     "Thank you," the computer-synthesized voice replied.
     "Can you move? You must be tired. Can you get up?"
     "I won't disturb the ANTARES interface until we are safely
in Nicaragua. The refueling can be accomplished with the en-
gine running. I should launch without any delay."
     "I understand. We have begun refueling. We also have mis-
siles and ammunition for your guns."
          "What kind of missiles?"
     "The best we have," Moffitt broke in on the interphone. He

had climbed up the other side of DreamStar and was leaning
inside the cockpit, watching with fascination as the multi-
function screens flickered and changed at breathtaking speed
while Maraklov monitored the refueling. "We have two hundred
rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition plus two AA-" close-
range dogfighting missiles and two AA-14 medium-range mis-
siles. They-"'
     "Neither is enough," came Maraklov's ANTARES synthe-
sizer voice. Moffitt tried to reach inside the cockpit to touch a
button on one of the MFDs, and Maraklov immediately powered
the monitor down until Moffitt withdrew his hand. "Without
proper interface the missile needs to be able to lock onto a target





212                       DALE BROWN
without carfier-aircraft guidance. Neither the AA- II or the AA-
14 can do that."
   Moffitt's comment was predictable. "Your American friends
always build the best of everything, don't they?"
   "Be quiet," Kramer told Moffitt, and then asked Maraklov,          i
"Can't you use the missiles as a decoy? Perhaps they could scare
off-"
   "They'll only add additional drag, and they could cause dam-
age. I have no intention of letting anyone that close to me.
take the ammunition for the cannon-that's standard size         Mar-  I
aklov ordered the cannon-bay door opened, and the twenty-
millimeter cannon lowered itself out of its nose bay, where crew-
men, along with the photographers, began to examine it in             i
                                                                      I
preparation for loading. "Another important item: remove the
left access panel just forward of'the canard. There's a black box
marked 'data transmitter.' That unit must be disconnected as
soon as possible."
   "What is it?"
   "An automatic telemetry-data transmitter," Maraklov.told
him. "It sends engine and flight data to any airborne receivers
within a hundred miles, including the F-15F. They can decode
the information and use it to track me. It can't be deactivated by
ANTARES. Do it immediately."
   Kramer gave the order to the senior crew chief, then: "What
is your plan for escaping to Nicaragua?"
   So he was going to Nicaragua, as he'd guessed. Okay, so be
it .    "I'll stay in the mountains as much as possible and avoid
military bases." The main multi-function display screen flashed
on, then scrolled through computer-generated charts of the route
of flight as Maraklov continued: "I'll fly west of Durango and
east of Culiacan to avoid those bases, through the interior to
avoid Aguas Calientes and Guadalajara, then into the Sierra Ma-

dre del Sur between San Mateo and Acapulco. I don't anticipate
problems avoiding Tuxtla Gutierrez and Villahermosa military
airfields, and crossing the border I should be unopposed through
Guatemala. The problems may come crossing through Hondu-
ras," the computer-altered voice of ANTARES said-the metal-
lic voice did not reveal any hint of Maraklov's real apprehension
or fear. "I may encounter large American forces from Llorango
Airfield in El Salvador, and La Cieba and Tegucigalpa airfields
in Honduras, but I believe resistance will not be major. There
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           213
are only about two hundred miles to the Guatemalan border,
through El Salvador and Honduras and into Augusto Cesar San-
dino airfield-I can transit the entire distance in less than twenty
minutes if necessary. I assume Sandino will be the final desti-
nation? "
     "Ali . . . that reminds me," Kramer said. "The Nicaraguan
government was adamant about not allowing DreamStar into
Managua-those people actually believe the U. will send the
New Jersey and shell the city if DreamStar shows up anywhere
near it. However, we have been provided an alternate base of
operations that you will find more than adequate-Sebaco Air-
field, north of Managua.
     Maraklov immediately activated DreamStar's on-board data-
base, and in an instant the computer had found the field and
displayed a chart and airfield-infon-nation on Sebaco. "It's a
mining town with a dirt runway?"                  "
     "Your information is dated," Kramer said, although to tell
the truth, we have made our own modifications only recently.
Sebaco is now a functional airfield and military post, staffed by
our people. The runway has been lengthened and paved and is
protected by anti-aircraft missiles and artillery. The KGB Cen-
tral Amefican Command is based there, along with a small
squadron of Mikoyan-Gureyvich-29 fighters. It will be home
away from home for you-your first taste of homeland in some
time.
          
"Yes," Maraklov replied curtly.
     Maraklov, sitting immobile in DreamStar's ejection seat, felt
the life-giving flow of jet fuel into DreamStar, felt the energy
and vitality as the precious liquid flowed into the fighter's tanks-
and yet, watching the efficient Soviet plainclothes agents hunting
down the villagers, he also felt cornered, trapped, alone. The
Soviet KGB forces out there-his countrymen-were in a way as
strange to him as men from Mars. He even felt a bit of the
typical American response when seeing pictures or videotapes
of Russian soldiers or airmen: curiosity, puzzlement, even a lit-
tle fear. They were the enemy-no, they were his countrymen,
his fellow Russians. So why did he feel this way?
     He looked back toward the nose of his fighter and noted the
tall, beefy frame of Kramer's assistant and chief neck-crusher,
Moffitt. No matter what he'd accomplished, guys like Moffitt
would always suspect him, figuring that as valuable an asset as




214                       DALE BROWN
he was to the Soviets he could be an even more valuable one for
the Americans. Had he been turned? Was he a double agent?
What if the returning hero turned out to be an embarrassment?
At least he hadn't forgotten how they thought, never mind glas-
nost.
     At a mental command, Maraklov activated DreamStar's attack
radar and concentrated the energy on the right-forward nose-
sector antenna-arrays. But after a few moments he turned the
radar off. He would have enjoyed barbecuing Moffitt with mi-
crowaves-or at least scaring him.
     He would have to deal with Moffitt, and the other Moffitts in
Russia, very soon. Even being a hero could be dangerous. But
he was getting ahead of himself. He was no hero. Not yet. So
far he was nothing more, or less, than an uncommon traitor to
the U.
"Tinsel, this is Storm One. Refueling completed with Goalie
Three-Zero, squawking normal."
     "Storm One, roger. Strangle mode two and four for IFF
check.
     "Roger, Storm One."    JC. Powell issued commands to de-
activate the two military-only data channels that would help Tin-
sel, the E-313 AWACS radar plane, locate and identify Cheetah.
One by one, Tinsel ordered    JC. to turn each transmitter on until
all were activated.
     McLanahan lowered his oxygen visor. The waiting was the
worst part . . . waiting for special clearance for takeoff, clear-
e to use the KC-10 refueling tanker, clearance to join up with
anc
Tinsel and the rest of the interceptor pursuers, and now they had
to wait for permission to cross into Mexican airspace. He was
itching to get on with the chase. DreamStar had such a long
head start . . . He continued to check his equipment and thought
about Ken James. It was nearly unbelievable. Apparently a So-
viet agent had gotten an assignment into the most highly clas-

sified research facility in the United States and had gotten to be
chief test pilot-hell, the only test pilot-of the hottest tactical
jet fighter in the world. And had now managed to steal that
fighter out from under the noses of a large security force and
escape with it out of the United States right past four interceptor
squadrons.
And the son of a bitch had shot down the Old Dog, killed all
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            215
but three on board-they had found Major Edward Frost, the
radar navigator, badly broken up but somehow alive a mile from
the impact area; his parachute never had time to open before he
hit the ground, they said. Colonel Jeffrey Khan, the copilot,
ended up at the edge of the scorched earth in critical condition
but alive. And Wendy . . . she was alive, clinging to life. The
investigators said there was no way she could have gotten out by
herself-Angelina Pereira must have sacrificed herself to save
Wenily.
     One man had caused more damage, more destruction and
more death than McLanahan could have ever imagined, not to
mention the military secrets he must already have turned over to
the Soviet Union. And if this . . . this Maraklov had replaced
the real Kenneth James before his assignment to Dreamland, he
would have done even more damage. The real Ken James was a
B- I commander for three years. The phony one could have turned
over enough data on the B-1, its mission, its routes of flight, its
weapons and other top-secret information to destroy the strategic
bombardment mission of the Strategic Air Command for years.
And now, James-it was still hard to think of him as anyone else
but Ken James-had DreamStar . . .
     "Storm Zero One, data-link checks completed," the control-
ler aboard the AWACS reported. "Clearance not yet received to
proceed through the Monterrey FIR sector one. You can join
Eagle Zero Two flight of four over Luke Range Complex Seven,
or orbit within three-zero miles of REEBO intersection at flight
level two-five zero until clearance is received. Over."
     
"When do you expect clearance through the sector, Tinsel?"
   JC. asked.
     "No idea, Storm. Our request had to be forwarded through
Air Force to the Pentagon. Pentagon will probably pass it on to
State. We lost it from there."
     Patrick checked his charts. REEBO was just east of Yuma,
very close to the border; Luke Complex Seven was farther
north, closer to the tanker's orbit point. "Take the orbit at
REEBO,   ," Patrick told Powell.
     "Tinsel, we'll take the orbit point at REEBO at two-five-oh.
     "Roger, Storm One, cleared to orbit as required at REEBO.
Climb and maintain flight level two-five-zero. Orbit within three-
zero miles, stay five miles north of the southern domestic ADZ




216                      DALE BROWN
until given a Mexican controller freq and squawk and cleared to
proceed. "
     "Storm One copies clearance."    switched his outside ra-
dios to standby and said on interphone to McLanahan: "Now
let me guess-this air machine ain't gonna do no orbiting."
     "You got that right. Take two-five-zero, maintain five-zero-zero
knots. When we reach REEBO start a climb to three-niner-zero
and switch to max speed power settings.
     "We'll be sucking fuel like crazy,"    reminded Mc-
Lanahan. "It'll be real tight if we don't have tanker support on
the way back."
     "We need to catch this Maraklov and get a shot at him. What
counts is nailing that bastard. Right now I don't really much
care if I make it back."
General Brad Elliott sat alone in the small battle-staff operations
center of HAWCs command post. A wall-size gas-plasma screen
was on the far wall, depicting the southern Nevada Red Flag
bombing and aerial-gunnery ranges in which the Old Dog was
located. The airspace was empty except for the cluster of air-
craft, mostly security helicopters and shuttles for the investiga-
tion team, around the Megafortress' impact area.
     Hal Briggs entered the conference room. He was carrying his
automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and wearing a communi-
cations transceiver with a wireless earpiece to allow him to stay
in contact with his command center wherever he went.
     He studied General Elliott for a moment before disturbing
him. More than ever, the sixty-year-old commander of Dream-
land looked exhausted, physically and emotionally. Working out
here in the Nevada wastelands was demanding for even the
healthiest, but for Elliott it was especially tough., Briggs had
seen the strain on him during day-to-day activities-increased
isolation, moodiness. But this disaster looked as if it might push
him fight to the edge. He needed some close observation from
here on, Briggs decided. Very close.
     
Briggs dropped a piece of paper on the desk in front of Elliott.
"Preliminary report from the investigation team, crew-member
disposition analysis." Elliott said nothing. Briggs paused a mo-
ment, then decided to read on: "Two members of the crew never
tried to get out; Wendelstat in the I. P. seat and Major Evanston,
the nav. Right side of the crew compartment was badly chewed
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          217
up; Evanston may have already been dead. " Elliott winced as if
struck in the face. Evanston was part of the "great experiment"
of the early 1990s, the project exploring the possibility of mili-
tary women assigned to combat duties. A graduate of the Air
Force Academy, she was easily the best qualified for the pro-
gram, and she was accepted and soon became the first woman
crewmember in a B-52 bomber squadron. Because of her
engineering background, she had been temporarily assigned
to HAWC to participate in the Megafortress Plus project-
obviously headed for promotion. What a terrible waste.
     Hal hurried on through the report to spare Elliott as much as
possible: "I guess Wendelstat in the I.'s seat didn't have a
chance for manual bailout unless he was at high altitude." El-
liott nodded numbly. "Gunner's seat was fired but a parently
malfunctioned. Remains still strapped in placer guess Dr. Pe-
reira never tried manual bailout. Didn't have a chance . . .
Remains found in the debris believed to be of General Ormack;
he ejected but landed in the fireball."
          "My God . . .
     "Khan might be okay, some bad cuts and lacerations, a bro-
ken arm but that's it. Wendy Tork is in critical condition. She's
on her way to the bum unit at Brooks Medical Center in San
Antonio. Her progress is not favorable. Ed Frost . . . died, sir.
They said he never got a 'chute .
     Elliott rubbed his eyes. "I want Tork's progress monitored
hourly. I want to make sure she's getting the best treatment pos-
sible.
     "I'll see to it, sir.
     
"What about the families?"
     "Being assembled at the base chapel at Nellis, as you or-
dered, " Briggs said. "Dr. Pereira listed no next of kin. All the
rest are on their way."
     Elliott shook his head, stunned. "This is the worst since the
fall of Saigon. " He stared at the chart on the screen. "What
the hell can I tell the families?
     "Tell them what you just told me, sir.
     "But they'll never understand, and why should they?"
     "They understood the sort of job those crewmembers did,
even if they weren't told specifics. What they need is every bit
of support you can give them. They'll want to know their hus-
bands or friends or sons or daughters didn't die for nothing.




218                       DALE BROWN
Elliott turned to Briggs. "How the hell did you get so smart?"
     "Watchin' you, General. I-- Briggs stopped and listened
intently on his communications earpiece. "Message coming in
from the Joint Chiefs. AWACS and the Mexican government are
reporting another unauthorized airspace intrusion by Powell and
McLanahan in Storm Zero One. JCS want you to stand by for a
secure video conference at five past the hour.
     "Here's where it hits the fan, Hal," Elliott    said. "The Pen-
tagon probably thinks I've flipped out, they'll    relieve me from
command--
     :'There was nothing you could have done-"
     'There was everything I could have done. Like I could have
screened our test pilots better, I could have secured the flight
line better, I could have forbidden Ormack to engage DreamStar.
It'll probably turn out I never should have let Cheetah go after
DreamStar.
   "They can't hang you for something you had no control over.
   Elliott sat quietly for a few moments, then: "As long as I've
got control, I'm going to use it." He picked up the direct line
to the command post controller. "It's something I should have
done from the beginning."
   :'You're going to recall McLanahan and Powell?"
    'I've made too many mistakes. I've got a responsibility here,
and I'm taking charge right now."
   Powell had taken Cheetah down from forty thousand feet
to one thousand feet and just below the speed of sound as they
approached the area where DreamStar's data-signal indicated its
position.
. "Showing thirty miles to intercept," McLanahan said, read-
ing the telemetry data being received from DreamStar's auto-
matic encoders. "Still showing him on the ground but with
engines running."
   :'Can you get a fix on his position?"
    'Already got it," McLanahan said. "I don't show any Mex-

ican airfields on my charts, but there're probably a lot of them
around here. He . . . goddamn, just lost the data-signal."
   "Which means he's got help,"    said. "Someone must
have deactivated the data-transmitter for him."    JC. took a firm
grip on his stick and throttles, experimentally shaking the stick
to help himself concentrate-he was amazed at the extra amount
of agility Cheetah demonstrated without the heavy camera on
the spine.  "Twenty miles.  Stand by.  Throttles coming to eighty
percent. " Slowly Powell brought the throttles out of military
power and to the lower power setting.
     "Give me a good clearing turn in each direction so I can get
a look," Patrick said. "I'll call the target, then we'll come back
around and try for a strafing run."
     "Guns coming on," said    He hit the voice-recognition
computer button: "Arm cannon."
     "Warning, cannon armed, Ax hundred rounds remaining,
the computer replied.
          "Set attack mode strafe,"    ordered.
     "Strafe mode enabled. " A laser-drawn crosshair reticle ap-
peared on   's windscreen, and weapon- and altitude-waming
readouts appeared near the reticle. Adjusted for airspeed, winds
and drift by the computer and attack radar, the reticle would
position itself where the bullets from Cheetah's cannon would
impact, no matter how Cheetah moved through the air. In strafe
mode    could select a ground target and the computer would
direct the pilot which way to fly to keep the reticle centered on
the target. It would also warn of terrain or other obstacles and
warn when the ammunition count was getting low.
          "Cannon's on-line,"    told McLanahan.
     "Ten miles out." McLanahan now began to transition to vi-
sual, looking out the canopy as he could, scanning the rocks and
scrub-forested hills ahead for an airfield. The inertial navigator
and flight director could fly Cheetah to within sixty feet of a
waypoint, but if the airstrip's coordinates in the database were
not perfect they could miss the field. And in this dense, hilly

terrain it was very possible to fly as close as a few hundred yards
of the airstrip and not see it.
     "Five miles."    made S-tums around the flight path, bank-
ing sharply up without turning so Patrick and he could get a
clear look all around the aircraft for the airfield, including under
the belly. There were lots of clearings, even several that looked
like airstrips, but in the few moments they had at each, they saw
no aircraft.
     "DreamStar could be hidden,"    said. "They've had
time-"
              "We'll find it."



220                       DALE BROWN                                
     "We'll be able to loiter only a few minutes before we have to  
start back-"                                                        
     'Just look for the damned-there it is, eleven o'clock low ... 
     Cheetah was in a steep left bank when Patrick called the air-
strip. Powell saw it immediately. It was a narrow clearing on
top of a small plateau, but it was wide enough through the trees
so that the edges of the tarmac could be seen. It was also difficult
to miss the huge black-and-green helicopter sitting in the middle
of the clearing.
     "A chopper. They brought in a chopper," McLanahan called
out. "If we can hit that Chinook, keep it from taking off-
Hang on."    pulled hard, using Cheetah's large canards
to pull the nose hard-left over to the helicopter in the clearing.
     Target lock." The aiming reticle began to rotate. As the heli-
copter moved into the center of the reticle Powell said --now!"
to complete the command.
     "Target locked, " the computer answered. A small square ap-
peared in the center of the reticle indicating that the firing com-
puter was now aimed and locked onto the helicopter, and a large
cross, resembling the glideslope-azimuth flight director of an
instrument landing system, interposed itself on the screen. "Fif-
teen seconds tofiring range, six hundred rounds remaining . . .
caution, search radar, twelve o'clock. "
     " DreamStar," Powell said. "His search radar." As he fin-
ished saying it the search symbol on the widescreen changed to
a batwing symbol.
     "Warning, radar weapon track, twelve o'clock, " the com-
puter announced.
          "He's got us," McLanahan said. "But we got him first .
"Disconnect." The computer-synthesized voice of Maraklov
boomed in Kramer's headset. "Clear the area. We've been spot-
ted. Aircraft to the east!"
     Kramer, still standing on top of the crew ladder during the
refueling and rearming procedure, turned and searched the ho-

rizon behind him. He saw it immediately, bearing down on them.
A single F-15 fighter, dark gray, larger than DreamStar. Even
from this distance he could see the missiles hanging on the wings.
     "Skaryehyeh, " Kramer shouted to the ground crewmen.
Disconnect the fuel lines, move that fuel truck aside, launch
the helicopter, move." He jumped off the ladder, pulled it free
and threw it into the bushes beside the airstrip. The canopy
closed with a bang. A crewman had disconnected the fuel line from the single-point refueling receptacle before the truck's pump was shut off, and a geyser of jet fuel erupted near DreamStar's
front landing gear.
     Cheetah. As Maraklov issued the mental command to begin
the start-sequence and prepare DreamStar for flight he knew it
had to be Cheetah. He didn't need to analyze the radar emissions
or flight parameters. He could even guess who was on board:
Powell and McLanahan. Only those two would be crazy enough
to go on a search-and-destroy mission alone-but that matched
Powell's cowboy attitude and McLanahan's emotional approach.
They should have brought a dozen F-15 Strike Eagles or FB-111
bombers along for ground attack and carpet-bomb the area, plus
another dozen fighters for backup. They were probably acting
against orders-hell, they might be in as much trouble right now
as he was. But he still had a chance to escape if he could get off
the ground in time.
     Maraklov closed the service panel and began to retract the
cannon back into its bay at the same time that he activated the
cannon and checked the system. The Soviet-make ammunition
fed through the chamber-then suddenly jammed. It might have
been the same caliber ammunition but the feed mechanisms were
barely compatible. Immediately the cannon performed an auto-
clear, which reversed the belt feed, ejected the cartridges where
the jam had occurred and re-fed the belt, and this time the one-
inch-diameter cartridges fed properly.
     One last check as the engines quickly revved to full power.
Two hundred rounds of ammunition had been loaded. They also

had managed to onload full fuel in the body tanks and three-
quarter fuel in the wings, about forty thousand pounds of it. It
was enough for the seven-hundred-mile flight to Nicaragua at
normal cruise speeds but not enough if he had to mix it up with
Cheetah. This was not the time or place to make a stand-the
order of the day was Run Like Hell Fight Only If Cornered . . .
     The huge blades of the supply helicopter began to turn just as
several loud sharp cracks reverberated off the canopy. Dust and
concrete flew near the aft-empennage of the chopper, and smoke
began to billow out of the aft rotor. But the main rotor continued
to spool up. The fuel truck originally high-tailing it for the cargo




222                      DALE BROWN
ramp was waved aside and ordered into the tree line out of the
way.
   Maraklov set DreamStar's wings to their maximum high-lift
then had the computers check the takeoff performance. Barel;
enough. The computer said two thousand three hundred feet to
clear the seventy-foot trees; there were only about fifteen hun-
dred available. Maraklov activated the UHF radio on the discrete
KGB frequency: "Kramer, this is DreamStar. Order your men
to clear those buildings off the end of the airstrip. I need more
runway for takeoff."
   There was no reply, but soon several soldiers ran out of the
chopper's cargo bay toward the end of the airstrip and a few
moments later the fuel truck followed. They used the fuel truck
to push the burned-out buildings into the tree line. Several of
the Soviet soldiers fell, and others began firing into the trees-
apparently there were still Mexican villagers in the forest sur-
rounding the airstrip. The KGB soldiers would take care of
them . . .
"Five hundred fifty rounds remaining, " the computer an-
nounced. Cheetah swooped over the trees, so close Patrick
thought they had flown between a few of them. "Low altitude               t
warning . . . "
     Thanks for nothing,    thought. I only had the shot for a
few seconds.
     "Looks like that Chinook has some heavy guns on the side,"
McLanahan said. "Better hit 'em from a different angle."
        banked sharply left, started a hard left turn, steering to
put himself at a ninety-degree angle to his first strafing run to
hit the helicopter from the tail. "Did you see DreamStar?"
     "Behind the helicopter about a hundred yards," McLanahan
said. "'He's right at the north end of the airstrip, almost under
the trees."
     "Had a fifty-fifty chance and blew it,"    said angrily. "I

won't be able to hit him from this direction but if I can get
another good shot at that helicopter while it's on the ground it
at least should block the runway enough to keep DreamStar from
lifting off.
     Powell shallowed out his bank angle to allow himself more
time to extend his distance from the airstrip. But by the time he
had rolled out on the flight director they saw a dark, massive
apparition slowly rise out of the trees, trailing thick clouds of
smoke.
          "It's the damn helicopter-"
        hit the voice-command button, forced his voice to be
steady: "Set attack mode infrared missile. Arm one missile."
The Sidewinder missile's aiming reticle appeared on the wind-
screen centered on the slow-moving helicopter, and almost im-
mediately the missile signaled that its infrared seeker-head had
locked onto the helicopter's huge jet engines. Before the com-
puter could acknowledge his commands Powell had punched the
missile-launch button on his control stick.
     "Infrared missile launch. " Less than three miles away, the
Sidewinder could hardly miss . . . the entire rotor and top half
of the huge helicopter disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire
as the hulking machine rolled hard to the left and dropped into
the trees. Powell and McLanahan were so close to the helicopter
on impact that they could see the men inside . . .
     But the helicopter crashed clear of the tiny airstrip. The run-
way was open.
     "Damn it. Set attack mode strafe. Arm cannon." McLanahan
grabbed hold of the handlebars as    rolled Cheetah hard up
and right, struggling to get back into firing position. They rolled
into a wings-level steep descent on the attack flight director,
which was still locked in strafing mode onto the spot where
DreamStar had been parked. It took a few precious seconds for
Powell to readjust his eyes. When he did he saw DreamStar
rolling down the runway. He tried to push Cheetah's nose down
and get off a few quick bursts, but his rate of descent was too

steep and the flight director was ordering him to climb before
he got too low. The few rounds he did get off impacted on the
spot DreamStar had vacated just seconds earlier.
          "I missed, he's getting away."
The instant the hulking transport helicopter lifted off, Maraklov
forgot about the fuel truck, the buildings on the runway, every-
thing except the takeoff. He saw the Sidewinder plow into the
chopper, saw the machine explode and crash into the forest. But
his attention was on the takeoff-until he saw Cheetah bearing
traight down at him, the F- 15 fighter so large it cast a shadow
on Maraklov's cockpit. How could he miss?
     The feeling of imminent death was so strong that the AN-



224                        DALE BROWN
TARES interface almost shut down out of sheer panic. But Mar-
aklov's last commands were executed, and DreamStAr's turbofan
engine was at full afterburning thrust and the brakes were off.
He expected the rounds from Cheetah's M61B2 gun to tear
through his canopy any second-then, almost as quickly, he re-
alized that Cheetah had overshot. His guns were firing but his
nose was coming up too fast and so the shells were hitting be-
hind him. He also caught a glimpse of KGB soldiers firing into
the sky, futilely trying to shoot down Cheetah with AK-47 rifles.
     Maraklov considered using the same takeoff trick he had used back
at Dreamland, but the wings would not respond to the wingtip back-
twisting that had worked, so well before. The pile of broken and
burning buildings at the end of the runway rushed forward. Smoke
from the destroyed cargo helicopter obscured his vision, so that he
could not watch the wall of green heading straight at him ...
. . .DreaniStar's landing gear left the runway less than a hun-
dred feet from the hastily cleared end of the runway, and the
wheels were just tucking themselves into their wells when
DreamStar cleared the trees. Airborne once again, Maraklov
made a hard turn to the southeast, stayed in full afterburner,
pushed DreamStar's nose down to build airspeed and hugged the
rugged mountain ridges as close as possible. ANTARES had
computed several attack scenarios, but Maraklov overrode all of
them. For now escape was his best defense.
McLanahan was holding onto the canopy sill, straining against
the crushing G-forces to look between Cheetah's twin vertical
stabilizers.
     "I see him, " he called out. "He made it off, he's staying low .
Powell continued his hard turn, executing a one-hundred-
eighty-degree turn and thrusting his nose toward the rugged
mountain foothills. Once they were rolled in McLanahan checked
his radar screen. "Radar contact,    JC., twelve o'clock low-I've
got radar lock. Get him!"
     Powell hit the voice-recognition computer-button. "Set attack

mode radar missile. Arm one radar missile."
     "Radar missile armed. "
     "Launch radar missile . . . now.
Once again the radar-threat warning blared in Maraklov's head
but this time he was ready for it. It said that Cheetah was above
and behind him approximately six miles-a poor position to
launch an attack at low altitude. The threat-warning receiver
also did not indicate'that the Scorpion missile's own seeker-
head was tracking-which meant that the missile was getting
its guidance information only from Cheetah's radar. A signifi-
cant disadvantage in the milliseconds game they were now play-
ing.
Maraklov began a hard four-G inverted climb directly back
toward Cheetah, presenting his smallest radar cross-section to
the oncoming Scorpion missile, which corrected for the sudden
climb but could not complete the turn in time to avoid plowing
into the Sierra Madre mountains. ANTARES immediately
brought its cannon on-line and activated its attack radar to track
Cheetah in as it sped toward it.
   watched in frustration as DreamStar dodged away from the
AIM-120 missile, but he was ready for the move. "Set attack-
mode air cannon. Arm cannon."
     "Cannon armed . . . Warning, radar weapon tracking, twelve
o'clock. "
     Powell touched the voice-command button. "All trackbreak-
ers on and transmit."
"Trackbreakers on and transmitting, " the computer acknowl-
edged as Cheetah's powerful internal jammers activated-the
jammers would keep DreamStar's cannon from maintaining a
lock-on. "I can't believe how fast he can get his guns on-line.
But he's gotta be out of smash . . . Hang on."
McLanahan needed no encouragement.    pulled up into a
tight climb, rolled inverted only five hundred feet above ground
and again tried to line up on DreamStar.
DreamStar had easily locked onto Cheetah with the attack radar,

and Maraklov could now track it through its sudden climb. But
when DreamStar tried to follow Cheetah around to keep the guns
on him, ANTARES warned that he was approaching stall-speed.
DreamStar, which had not yet reached optimal flying speed so
early after takeoff, had used all its energy in its tight evasive
turn and its pitch-up to track Cheetah and had no power left to
continue to track him with the nose high in the air. DreamStar's
canards pushed the nose down, and with that the guns were
pulled off Cheetah.



226                       DALE BROWN
Powell pushed Cheetah's nose earthward and on the downside
of the loop found himself lined up on DreamStar. He pushed on
the right rudder to slew Cheetah's nose to the right . . . no time
to get a radar lock . . . just squeeze the trigger, hoping for a
lucky hit.
          "Altitude," Patrick shouted. "Pull up."
        went to max afterburner and hauled back on the stick
with both hands. He was so fixed on the image of DreamStar
dead in his sights that he ignored the rocks and trees rushing UP
at him. Then he had to roll hard left to fly behind DreamStar to
avoid hitting him. After that hard turn Powell found himself per-
ilously close to stall speed and had no choice but to roll wings-
level at max afterburner and wait until he had regained speed.
     "Dammit," McLanahan shouted, "you had him,    You
could have nailed him-"
     " This isn't no Cessna 152 we're fooling with, Patrick. He can
turn and attack faster than we can. He could have launched a
missile by now but he was only tracking us with guns-he never
got off a missile-track signal. Maybe that means he doesn't have
any missiles.
     "Well, we're below half-ftiel right now. We need to tag him
and head back or we'll be walking to Nevada."
        started a right turn back toward DreamStar. "Safe radar
missiles," he spoke into the voice-command computer. "Set
attack mode infrared missile."
     "Infrared missile selected, warning, one missile remaining.
     "I got a visual on him," Powell said. He touched the voice-
command button. "Attack radar standby. Infrared scanner op-
erate. "
     "Attack radar standby. Infrared scanner on. " Immediately
the heat-seeking scanner locked onto DreamStar.
     "He's just running," Powell said. "He's not jinking and jiv-
ing anymore. " To the voice-command computer he ordered,
"Slave infrared missile to infrared scanner."
     
The Sidewinder missile's seeker-head followed the azimuth
directions of Cheetah's scanner, but the missile did not indicate
a lock-on. "We need to get in closer .
     "No," McLanahan said. "His tail IR scanner has a greater
range than our Sidewinder. Launch the Sidewinder in boresight
mode-it should lock onto him after launch."
     "It's worth a try." It was easier than before for Powell to
align himself with DreamStar's tailpipe-Maraklov was indeed
driving straight and level, accelerating as fast as possible. When
he was aligned with DreamStar's rectangular exhaust Powell
commanded: "Infrared missile boresight."
     "Infrared missile boresight, caution, no target lock. " The
missile would normally not launch unless it was tracking a tar-
get, but in boresight mode the missile could be launched straight
ahead and the infrared seeker could attempt to lock onto a target
while in flight; it also was a tricky technique used against slow-
moving targets to hit them outside the missile's optimal range.
It was not reliable because of the missile-seeker's narrow field
of view, but against hot targets that weren't maneuvering it was
at least a valid attack.
     Powell hit the command button. "Launch."
          "Warning, radar target lock, seven o'clock.
     McLanahan strained again to search behind Cheetah's twin
tails. "TWo . . . no, four fighters, two flights of two, right be-
hind us. I can't see what they are but they're coming on fast-"
     "I gotta bredk it off, Patrick-"
          "No, stay on him, nail him-"
     But even then it was too late. DreamStar had picked up the
same radar indications as Cheetah, and the advanced fighter had
made a hard break to the right and an even harder one up and
down to shake off the radar-lock by the advancing strangers. A
boresight missile-launch was impossible.
     "Infrared missiles to safe. Set attack-mode radar missiles,"
Powell ordered.
     "Two jets going high, two coming in," McLanahan said. "I

can't tell for sure but they look like . . . they're F-20s, Mexican
F-20s . . . "
          "Warning, radar target lock, six o'clock .
        yanked the stick hard night to stay with DreamStar, but
it had regained its lost speed and was pulling away, staying at
boulder level.
     "They're still with us," McLanahan said. "Can you get a
shot off anyway?"
     "I think so . . . here we go .
     "Warning, radar missile lock.     A missile was in flight, head-
ing for them . . .
   hit the voice-command button on his stick.  "Chaff right."



228                         DALE BROWN
The computer ejected two bundles of radar-decoying chaff from
the right ejector rack as    yanked Cheetah into a hard left
bank, pulling on the stick until the computer issued a stall-
warning message.
     No missile, " McLanahan called out, straining his head up
out of the cockpit against the G-forces pushing him into his seat.
:'Didn't see a missile .
     'They faked us out,"    said, "they wanted to get our
attention-
     "Damn it, get back on DreamStar."
     Powell began a hard right turn back toward DreamStar, but
as he rolled out of the turn they heard: "American F-15 fighter,
this is Mexican Air Force. You are directed to follow me at
once.
     Goddanin, there he is, left wing." The F-20 Tigershark, the
single-engine, high-tech version of the American F-5F Tiger
fighter, was in loose route formation off Cheetah's left wingtip.
     " Number two is behind us," McLanahan said. "Stay on
DreamStar." He switched to the VHF GUARD international
emergency frequency. "Mexican Air Force, this is the F-15
Storm One. We are on an authorized search mission for Storm
Two, which is at our one o'clock position. We have permission
from your government to pursue and destroy this aircraft. Over.
So he lied a little.
to , 'We have been advised that no foreign aircraft has permission
     enter Mexican airspace. We will destroy both if you do not
follow us immediately."
     The XF-34 Storm Two is an experimental aircraft. It's also
lethal as hell. We will pursue and destroy it. Stay clear."
     "No. Follow me or you will be shot down." The F-20 on
Cheetah's left wing dropped back a few yards and began a climb-
ing left turn.
     "Warning, radar target lock, six o'clock. " The F-20 follow-
ing behind them had activated its tracking radar again. At this

distance he could hardly miss . . .
     :'I'm open to suggestions, Colonel,"    deadpanned.
     'DreamStar's moved out to ten miles," McLanahan said,
checking his radar. "Those other two Mexicans are chasing him
but it's no contest, he's pulling away-"
     "I've got to follow,"    said, gently easing into a left bank.
That guy behind me will hose us if I don't."
     "Damn it, we had him ... he was so close ... can you get
away from these guys?"
     "Sure. This guy ahead of us is so sloppy I can fill him full of
holes right now, and I think I can et away from the guy on our
tail. But then what? We're into our fuel reserves as it is. After
we lose these guys we'll need afterburner the whole way back
just to get within missile range of DreamStar, and then the best
we got is a tail-chase until we run out of gas."
                 "So do it .
     "If that's what you really want .
          "What the hell does that mean .
     "That I think you better think pretty damn hard about it. If
you try to chase down DreamStar from here we won't make it
home. You'll risk Cheetah for a fifty-fifty chance of downing
DreamStar. You've already violated Mexican air space and will
take heat for that, but if you don't bring back Cheetah you're
guaranteeing yourself a Big Chicken Dinner-"
     "Cheetah was my responsibility. If I let James get away . . .
we all go down the tubes. As long as there's a chance I'm not
going to let this guy go."
     "You've done everything you could. Like they say, there's a
time to chase and a time to get the hell out of Dodge. I suggest
we boogie."
     McLanahan hesitated.    rolled out behind the lead F-20
and reduced power slightly. The leader reduced his power to
move beside Cheetah.
        tried the last gambit he could think of to get Patrick back
to reality .     "I don't love chasing DreamStar over Mexico with

two chilibeans on my tail and sucking fumes but I can live with
it. But you . . . you have something worth more than DreamStar
back in a hospital in Vegas. Let's get back and go after him
another day."
     It worked. Watching the Mexican F-20 off their left wing, with
one speedbrake raised to slow himself down, McLanahan real-
ized    JC. was right. He'd taken an incredible chance and violated
a few dozen rules by coming this far.  He and    had almost
got James . . . they'd done everything they could .                "There's
going to be a next time," he muttered. "Bet on it.
        added: "The Russians don't have DreamStar yet-a Rus-
sian has it and he's still ten thousand miles from home."
     "So we've still got these Mexican guys." He strained to search



230                      DALE BROWN
behind Cheetah. "Number two's back there right between the
tails.
     "No offense to the Mexican Air Force,"    said, "but I'll
bet these bozos never intercepted anything but a soccer ball. The
lead's got his power way back waiting for us, and his wingman's
right in our jet-wash. They're both out of position. Hang on."
        jerked the throttles to idle and popped Cheetah's big
speedbreak. The lead F-20 noticed the sudden power reduction
and, not realizing how slow he was already going, pulled back
his power even more. On the verge of a stall, he had no choice
but to scissor left and fall away to regain his lost airspeed. Mean-
while, the number two F-20, not watching Cheetah and dis-
tracted by his leader's sudden departure, never tried to slow
down. He yanked his stick hard-right just in time to avoid slam-
ming into Cheetah's tail, and had to spin away. At that moment
   retracted the speedbrake, went into full power and began
to accelerate and climb away from the Mexican interceptors.
     McLanahan was staring out the back of the large bubble can-
opy. "They're still below us . . . not climbing yet . . . "
     "Warning, radar search, six o'clock, " from the computer.
     "They dropped from radar track to search,"    said. "Are
they getting closer?"
     "I can't see them, they've dropped back."
     "American F- 15, this is Mexican Air Force. Follow us to base
immediately. Acknowledge. "
        shut off the VHF GUARD channel.
     "I don't think we can make it," McLanahan said a few min-
utes later, using the computer to check their fuel status. "We'll
have to divert to a Mexican airport after all. "
     "We'll start a climb and then use an idle descent into a di-
version base,"    said, gently pulling back on the stick and
starting a shallow climb. "Oh, well," he sighed, "I haven't
been in a Mexican jail since high school. It'll be like old times."
     "Sorry I got you into this,    I'm going to waste that son-

ofabitch if I have to walk back to Nicaragua or Colombia or
Bolivia or wherever he's headed--
     Suddenly the number one radio, still set to the refueling tank-
er's operating frequency, crackled to life: "Storm One, this is
Cardinal Three-Seven. Over."
     "I got it," McLanahan said. On the radio he replied: "Car-
dinal Three-Seven, this is Storm One. Over."
     "Storm One, this is Cardinal. We're Sun Devil KC-135 out
of Phoenix-Sky Harbor Airport, one hundred and sixty-first Air
Refueling Group, Arizona Air National Guard. Set beacon code
seventy-four, we've got thirty-one. We're at flight level two-niner
zero, orbiting fifty miles south of Tucson near Nogales. What's
your situation? Over.
     "Air-to-air TACAN beacon? I haven't used that since I was a
butter-bar."    checked the distance readout. "He's still out
of ran e, not picking him up yet."
     "Cardinal, Storm One is approximately one hundred miles
southwest of Chihuahua. Fuel situation critical. We were about
to divert to Chihuahua for emergency refueling. Over."
     "Copy that, Storm. I guess your boss wants you back real
bad. We've been ordered to . . . how should I put it? ... have
a catastrophic navigation failure and come and get you. As I
speak, our autopilot is mysteriously taking us south across the
border." A pause, then: "Air-to-air TACAN shows two hundred
miles, Storm. Can you make it?"
     "It'll be close," McLanahan said.
     "We may have visitors,"    added. "We left a couple sore-
head Mexican F-20s in our dust."
     "They should have gotten word by now that you're on an
authorized sortie," the crewman replied. "Your boss tells us
that they finally authorized your overflight. But that's not going
to help you much. I hope you got what you came for, boys-I
doubt there are going to be any high fives waiting for you."
     "No," McLanahan said, "we didn't get what we came for.
Not this time .



Sebaco Military Airbase, Nicaragua
Thursday, 18 June 1996, 0645 CDT (0745 EDT)
ANDREI MARAKLOV AWOKE with a start but didn't try to get up-
his muscles quivered with the slightest hint of exertion. He was
incredibly thirsty. Beads of sweat rolled down from his eye-
brows, and the dirt and salt stung his eyes.
     He opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a firin mat-
tress, his face buried in stiff white sheets. His arms were by his
side. Judging by feel, he was only wearing a pair of briefs.
     Suddenly he felt a cool sponge touch the back of his neck,
and a young female voice said in a soft voice, "Dobrahye otrah,
tovarisch Polkovnik.
     He had prepared himself for this, ever since deciding to take
DreamStar out of the United States. In hesitant, poorly phrased
Russian, he replied, "Vi gahvahretye pah angleyski? "
     "Of course, Colonel. My mistake." The sponge ran over his
shoulders, across his back. He tried to look at the woman but
couldn't even manage that much energy. Now in a near-perfect
midwestem American accent the woman said, "Good morning,
Colonel. "
     :'Who are you?"
     ,:My name is Musi Zaykov. I am your aide and secretary."
      Are you KGB? "
     "Yes, sir. I am a starshiy leyt . . . I'm sorry-a lieutenant,
Central American Command. I have been here in Nicaragua for
almost a year."
     Nicaragua. Maraklov closed his eyes. He had almost forgot-
ten. That explained the heat and the humidity. The events of his
flight across Central America came back and invaded his
thoughts. That explained his debilitation-he had flown
DreamStar several hours longer than he had ever done before.
He routinely lost four or five pounds on every one-hour sortie
in the past, and this last flight, with ANTARES in combat con-
ditions, had taken three hours. No wonder .
     "I have been asked to notify the base commander when you

awoke, sir," she said, rinsing the sponge off in a pan on a stand
by the bed, "but I'll wait and let you go back to sleep if you
want. "
     "Thanks." He made an effort and rolled onto his back, open-
ing his eyes wide as he did so to help him regain his equilibrium.
Musi Zaykov was sitting on the bed to his right. She looked
about thirty, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a bright disarming
smile. She wore a khaki bush shirt with the collar open several
buttons from the top against the heat.
     "Musi . . . Musi . . . very -pretty name."
     "Thank you, sir."
     "How long have I been asleep?"
     "About fifteen hours, Colonel." He watched her eyes scan
his body. "I'm sorry we could not provide you with better sleep-
ing arrangements, sir. It was decided to leave you here in the
hangar where the security units have been assembled. I'm sure
air conditioning will be set up as soon as possible. "
     Maraklov nodded. "Pass the water." Zaykov quickly passed
the pitcher of ice water over to him. He watched her over the
rim of the plastic glass.
     "They say you were close to death when they took you out of
your aircraft," she said, her eyes occasionally straying down to
his abdomen and legs. "Dehydration and chemical depletion."
     "Ten pounds is unusual," Maraklov said, "but dehydration
and chemical imbalance isn't. I have a megadose on vitamins
and minerals every time I fly my plane." She was fidgeting a
bit on the edge of the bed, her breathing getting deeper.
     She was beautiful, but was he imagining this as a come-on?
If it was real, why?
     "Leave me alone," he said suddenly. "I want to get dressed.
     "I have been asked to stay with you-"
              "I said get out."
     "I am a qualified nurse, sir, as well as an intelligence analyst
and operative." She leaned closer to him, inviting him to touch




234                      DALE BROWN
her body. "In your condition I do not think it wise to leave you
alone.
     And he suddenly realized the real situation he was in. He was
lucky the Central Command had only sent a "friendly" opera-
tive, an agent instructed to get close to him, become his confi-
dante, including his sexual partner if necessary. Right out of
Academy syllabus . . .
     "You obviously didn't place too well at Connecticut Acad-
emy," Maraklov deadpanned.
     Zaykov looked startled, but only for an instant. "I'm sorry,
sir . . . ?"
     "You're also bothering me, and I don't want the KGB watch-
ing me on the john, even an agent with big tits
     She didn't blink. "Yes, Colonel, it's true I am a KGB soldier,
but right now I am here to help you in any way I can during
your recovery phase. You have been through a remarkable ordeal
and you have an even more difficult one ahead of you. I think it
important that you not go through this alone. All I ask is that
you please let me help."
     So sincere, but she was using the exact hand gestures and
body movements "Janet Larson" had practiced back at the
Academy-her body, her mannerisms, even her accent were vir-
tual duplicates of Janet Larson, who had tried to get him thrown
out of the Academy and take away his chance to come to Amer-
ica . . .
          "I don't need any help-
     "But-"
     "That's an order, Lieutenant. Now get your butt out of here."
Zaykov missed that bit of slang but got the idea, rolled off the
bed and left.
     The word was going to spread quickly that he was awake, so
Maraklov went over to the tiny closet-sized bathroom, found
toilet articles and towels and showered and shaved as fast as he
could without making the room spin. He had finished and was

on his seventh glass of water when the door of the small apart-
ment opened and a man in the black battle-dress uniform of the
KGB Border Guards moved aside, allowing an older officer in a
dark green-and-brown camouflage flight suit to enter. The officer
was tall and wiry-the flight suit, Maraklov decided, wasn't just
for show; this guy looked like a fighter pilot. He looked at Mar-
aklov for a moment, then came to attention and made a slight
bow.
     "It is a pleasure to see you, Colonel Maraklov. I am General
Major Aviatsii Pavel Tret'yak, commanding officer of Sebaco
Military Airfield." He walked over to Maraklov and extended a
hand. "Welcome home."
     Maraklov shook his hand. "Thank you, General. But I think
I've quite a way to go before I get home."
     "We consider this is a slice of Russia in the middle of Central
America," Tret'yak said with a smile. "You will be home soon.
Until then, this base and all its personnel are at your disposal,
and I will see to it that you are treated in recognition of your
feat." Tret'yak was bobbing around like a young flying cadet,
showing his excitement at meeting Maraklov. "Tell me about
your flight, and all about this magnificent aircraft. I took the
liberty of inspecting it this morning. It seems a fantastic ma-
chine, no doubt the fighter of tomorrow . . . We must talk about
your flight over breakfast."
     "Thank you, sir. I could go for some coffee and breakfast
before we begin DreamStar's preparations for the flight back-"
     "Oh, we will see to that, Colonel. It is already being done."
Maraklov stared at Tret'yak. "What? You-?-
"Under orders from Moscow, we have already begun the pro-
cess of dismantling the aircraft. In a few days it will be-"
     "Dismantling DreamStar? What the hell do you mean?"
     Tret'yak looked puzzled. "How else do you intend to get it
out of Nicaragua? Do you intend to fly it back to Russia? It is
sixteen thousand kilometers from here to Moscow, with North
America on one side. the U. Navy in the center and all western

Europe on the other side. I should think you would have found
it dangerous enough flying a thousand kilometers across Central
America. "
     "But I don't know how to take it apart," Maraklov said. "I
didn't bring the tech manuals with me and besides, I don't want
to risk-"
     "That is not our concern," Tret'yak said. "We are pilots, not
mechanics. When we are in the cockpit, we are in charge. But
when we are on the ground the grease-monkeys and pencil-
pushers are in charge."
     "That isn't some rag-wing biplane out there, General. You
can't just take a, few screws out of her and fold it up. DrearnStar




236                      DALE BROWN
may be the world's greatest jet fighter but it's as delicate as an
inertial guidance computer. If it's taken apart, it will never fly
again. Believe me . . . "
     Tret'yak was obviously bored with the argument and anxious
to hear about Maraklov's escape from the U. He shrugged.
"There are tropical-weight flight suits in the closet. Get dressed.
We'll talk."
     "Sir, call off the dismantling until I can speak with Mos-
cow. I don't think-"
          "it is already being done, Colonel. Now--
     "I said call it off, General."
     Tret'yak turned and looked with astonishment at Maraklov.
He was, after all, a general. But then he softened, seeming to
understand. "I know how you feel, Andrei," he said, sounding
like an older brother or- father. "But these orders came directly
from Kalinin himself. I must comply with them. It is an amazing
war machine, I realize. You are afraid it will never fly again and
I understand that-our scientists and engineers can get a little
overzealous at times. They have little appreciation for what we
do. But you did realize, Colonel, that they were going to get the
XF-34, did you not? I cannot think of one instance where an
aircraft stolen or delivered to another country in such circum-
stances was not used for study and research. It certainly never
flies again. True, the MiG-25 that traitor Belyenko stole from
Petropavlovsk and flew to Japan twenty years ago was flown a
few times, but just for-"
     "They can't destroy DreamStar. It's no damn lab rat. You of
all people should appreciate that. DreamStar needs to be stud-
ied, true, but studied in one piece. We can train Russian pilots
to fly her and develop an entire squadron of pilots who can
fly her." Maraklov paused, wondering how much of this he
believed, how much was his attachment to DreamStar, his
communion with it. "How would you, sir, like to be the first
MiG-39 Zavtra squadron commander?"
     
Tret'yak broke out into a grin-he'd be dead meat in a poker
game, Maraklov thought. "Zavtra? Has it been given a name?"
     'Not officially, sir. But the 39 series is the next to be devel-
oped in both the Mikoyan-Gureyvich and Sukhoi design bureaus,
and you suggested the name, sir. You said it was the fighter of
tomorrow-zavtra means 'tomorrow' in English. So . . . the first
fighter of tomorrow."
          "Zavtra," Tret'yak said, nodding. "I like it."
     Thank God, Maraklov thought, for Tret'yak's huge ego and
the bits of elementary Russian that were coming back to him.
"We can paint it on the XF-34 right away, sir-with your name
as commander, of course."
     "This will have to be cleared through the engineer corps
working on the XF-34--
          "MiG-39, sir."
     "Yes, the MiG-39. I will speak to people in Moscow. After
breakfast." He left with a pleased smile, and Maraklov hur-
riedly dressed and followed.
     His apartment was in the back of a small administrative sec-
tion next to the main hangar. He passed two guard posts, one
outside his door and the other at the end of the corridor leading
to the hangar. The last guard at the end of the corridor moved
toward Maraklov and pinned a restricted area badge on his flight
suit.
     "Pazhallosta, vi mnyeh mozhitye pahkahzaht tvoye sahmah-
1yot, tovarisch ? " the guard asked him as he pinned the, badge
on his suit.
     Maraklov recognized that it was a question and made out the-
word for plane, but the guard's stem voice also made it sound
like a request to stay away from DreamStar. Maraklov ignored
it, turned and walked away.
     The guard looked at him. Another stuck-up pilot, he thought.
All he did was ask him if he could take a closer look at his fighter.
The hotshot didn't even answer him. Maybe he really was more
American than Russian now, like some were saying . . .
     
Maraklov had to strain to hold back his anger when he saw
DreamStar. They had, indeed, wasted no time. Every access
panel and maintenance door had been opened. External power
was on the aircraft-and judging by the size and high-pitched
whining sound of the power cart it was probably supplying the
wrong frequency. DreamStar's electrical system would kick off
external power if there was any danger of damage, but if those
engineers forced the circuit closed it could do irreparable dam-
age. Then they would have to ship it out of Nicaragua.
     Tret'yak was returning from the administrative offices wearing
a big smile. "Damn you, Colonel," he said with mock irrita-
tion, "you have got to learn Russian again so I can stop with
this damned English . . . I have a call in to Moscow outlining




238                       DALE BROWN
your concerns about dismantling the MiG-39. I expect an answer
in an hour. Meanwhile I have no choice but to continue with my
orders, the dismantling must proceed.
     Maraklov heard it like a stab in the heart, but there appeared
nothing he could do-for now. "I understand. However, sir in
the future I would like to be present while any work at ali is
being done on Zavtra."
     "Granted. I understand how you feel. Having these cavemen
tear into a pilot's airplane is like watching your mistress out with
another man-you want to tear the man's eyes out but there's
nothing you can do about it."
     Maraklov had to suppress a smile. Tret'yak was straight out
of central casting, a real anachronism. But at least for now he
was dazzled enough by Andrei Maraklov, his aircraft and his
feat in flying to Nicaragua that he was being cooperative. But
that wouldn't last long if Moscow insisted on ripping DreamStar
apart.
     If orders came to go on dismantling DrearriStar, Maraklov
thought, as Tret'yak led him away to the chow hall, he would
have to think of something else. Something drastic. He didn't
rescue DrearnStar from mothballs in the U. to have it become
heaps of fibersteel and electronics scattered around laboratories
all across eastern Europe. DreamStar didn't deserve to die. At
least not without a fight . . .
Washington, D.
"All our ground security units and anti-air missile units were at
full readiness and responded properly," General Brad Elliott was
saying. "The XF-34A was able to elude all of our area defenses,
which is what the aircraft was designed to do, and it evaded or
defended itself against all other airborne interceptor units . . .
     "The responsibility for the loss of the XF-34 is mine. It was
my responsibility to make sure that personnel assigned to HAWC
had the proper background investigations and security checks; it
was my responsibility to secure our aircraft against attack, sab-

otage or theft. And it was my responsibility to do everything in
my power to repel any attacks or hostile actions against person-
nel and resources in my center .
     The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office, listening to
Elliott's mea culpa. With him was the Attorney General, Rich-
ard Benson, his brother-in-law and, it was said, closest adviser;
Paul Cesare, the President's Chief of Staff; Army General Wil-
liam Kane, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; General
Martin Board, Air Force Chief of Staff; William Stuart, Secre-
tary of Defense; Deborah O'Day, the National Security Adviser;
and Speaker of the House and ranking congressional Democrat
Christopher Van Keller, another close adviser and personal friend
of President Lloyd Taylor.
     "Your ground forces-you said you had two armed combat
vehicles on the ramp at the time, " Attorney General Benson
said, "and you still couldn't stop that aircraft?"
     "That's correct."
          "What are these vehicles armed with?"
     "Twelve-point-three-millimeter-half-inch-heavy machine
guns. They also carry two armed security troops. They're an-ned
with standard M-16 rifles. Some have M-203 infantry grenade
launchers as well."
          "And with all that they were ineffective?"
     "Yes." It was the n-th time he had heard the word "ineffec-
tive" during this half-hour briefing, along with "incompetent"
and "irresponsible." - . - "But the infiltrators set up remote-
controlled mortars with concussion grenade rounds," Elliott
added. "They were relatively light ordnance, but at close range
and against soldiers on foot they were very effective. It gave
James enough time to taxi away and take off."
     "Kenneth James?" Defense Secretary Stuart said. "You mean
Colonel Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov.- Stuart fixed an angry
stare at Elliott. "Well, at least this happened out in Dreamland,
we have a chance of keeping it out of the press. I've had my
staff scan James' records and they're squeaky-clean as far back

as we can go. But that's the bad news. We didn't start keeping
close personal records on him until he applied for admission to
the Air Force Academy. It's hard to believe, but I think this
Maraklov was inserted then, as a cadet. He apparently worked
his way through the system and found himself in Dream-
land--
     "A nd as the test pilot for our most high-tech aircraft," Ben-
son added. "A goddamned Russian spy flying our best fighter
for two years .




240                      DALE BROWN
     be And you take responsibility for this James, or Maraklov,
ing in your organization, General Elliott?" the President said.
     Yes, sir." Elliott had rehearsed a series of explanations in
his mind-the fact that Maraklov had eluded ten years of De-
partment of Defense security investigations before coming to
Drearnland being the chief argument-but instead he said, "If I
had uncovered Maraklov's infiltration earlier, the XF-34
wouldn't be in Soviet hands now."
     "I agree," the President said. "Although the problem obvi-
ously began well before Maraklov entered your organization,
Drearnland is the most sensitive research installation we have.
You have security measures and procedures available to you that
air not available to other commanders. But even with all these
measures, you failed to present this. And that resulted in the
deaths of eleven military and civilian personnel, the loss of two
fighter aircraft and one B-52 bomber, millions of dollars of dam-
age and the theft of a hugely valuable experimental fighter."
     Taylor paused, made a note in his desk book. "But my pre-
decessor here held you in very high regard, General. He made
a point of recommending that I allow Dreamland to remain in
operation and under your command, even after your injury fol-
lowing that . . . mission to Russia. I took his advice because I
knew he meant it and not because he needed a favor. I kept
Dreamland open despite your enormous budget. And I kept you
in charge despite numerous calls for your mandatory retirement.
You've been doing some remarkable work and up to now have
a fine record, even though much of it can't be publicized . . .
Well, Dreamland and the Advanced Weapons Center is to stop
operations immediately until a full investigation can be con-
ducted. General Elliott, you will see to it that your unit is prop-
erly closed and secured so that any evidence is kept intact. When
the investigation is convened you will provide any and all assis-
tance asked for. When the investigation is finished . . . I'm sorry
to say I will accept your request for retirement."
     
Elliott said nothing.
     "The Mexican government was demanding I hand over your
head on a platter for sending that F- 15 into their airspace without
permission. You can thank the Speaker here for defusing that
one. "
     "Deborah O'Day did the legwork," Speaker Van Keller said.
Elliott turned to look at the fiftyish, very attractive National
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           241
Security Adviser. Deborah O'Day ... she'd had a career that
Elliott had always found amazing for a woman, even in the
eighties and nineties-a former professor at the Center for Stra-
tegic Studies in Washington, former Ambassador to the United
Nations during the previous administration, and the first woman
to hold the position as special assistant to the President on na-
tional security matters. It had been rumored that her appointment
had been made only because of political expediency-Taylor was
still a chauvinist of the fifties and figured he needed a woman
on his White House staff for show-but O'Day had surprised
him with her talent, insight and take-charge attitude. She nodded
slightly to Elliott, who was surprised to see a friendly reaction
in that place.
     "I thought the Mexican government was dragging their heels
in allowing us permission to pursue the XF-34 into their air-
space," O'Day said. "I reminded the commander of Mexican
air defense forces of the times their pilots have crossed into our
airspace and even landed in our airports, supposedly by mistake. "
     Chief of Staff Cesare broke in: "But it made the President
look bad, not only in their eyes but in the eyes of the world.
One hotshot Reserve fighter pilot was bad enough, and he got
himself killed. Then we send another plane, and he almost gets
killed. The whole incident makes the Air Force look like Key-
stone Kops in flight suits, and it made the White House look
like we weren't in control."
     "Not to mention that relations are bad enough between us
and Mexico," Secretary of Defense Stuart said, "without us

shooting missiles all over their territory. "
     General Kane, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, turned to Gen-
eral Board. "I expect to see the discharge papers on those crew-
men that violated Mexican airspace.
     Board nodded unhappily.
     "That would be unwise, sir," Elliott said to the President.
What the hell, he might as well speak up . . . "The first two
F-15 pilots were following orders by going along with their for-
mation leader. They're trained not to leave their leader's wing
under any circumstances, and especially if they're involved in a
hostile situation. They turned back as soon as they lost their
leader, as ordered. The crew of Cheetah, were following my
orders. After DreamStar downed the F-15s, I knew that the
advanced-technology F-15 from Drearnland was the only fighter




242                      DALE BROWN
capable of going head-to-head with the XF-34, so I ordered
Cheetah armed, to pursue DreamStar at best speed."
     "General Elliott," Secretary Stuart said, "do you think you
have your own private air force out there? You don't order an
attack on an enemy airfield, the President of the United states
does that. You don't authorize military forces to cross a foreign
border, the President does
     "There wasn't time to get permission, Mr. Secretary. If we
wanted DreamStar back, Cheetah was our best hope. There
wasn't time to debate the question-"
     'Wasn't time'? That's bullshit, General. You don't ignore
the military chain of command because you think you don t have
the time. What was next-bomb Mexico for letting that plane
get away? Nuke Mexico City?"
     Deborah O'Day spoke up. "I'm familiar with General El-
liott's record and I think he acted at least understandably. If his
crewmen could have stopped DreamStar they and he would have
been called heroes. He took a risk, it almost paid off . . . The
question is, what do we do about DreamStar now?"
     "Do we even know precisely where this DreamStar is right
now?" the President asked.
     "We tracked it almost its entire flight," General Board said,
-via the Reserve 707 AWACS at first, then by an advanced 767
AWACS launched from Oklahoma and patrolling off-shore over
the Gulf. The XF-34 successfully evaded attack by Mexican and
Honduran fighter patrols, with a little help from Nicaraguan in-
terceptors, and it landed in Nicaragua."
     Board nodded to an assistant who put a mounted chart of
Central America up on an easel in the center of the Oval Office.
"The fighter was last seen on radar somewhere north of Mana-
gua. We believe it's being kept at a small, isolated valley airbase
fifty miles north of Managua called Sebaco. The base is run by
the Soviet military-more specifically, by the KGB.-
     He turned to the President. "Sir, I've ordered satellite recon-

naissance of the area. Photo observation by aircraft would be a
good idea too, perhaps by the old SR-71 Blackbird still operated
by the CIA, but Managua is heavily defended by anti-aircraft
artillery and missiles and is a riskier operation. A soft probe is
also recommended. "
     "A 'soft probe.' You mean agents?"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           243
     "CIA has assets in Managua that can possibly get close
enough to verify that the XF-34 is at Sebaco," Board said.
     "And if they do? Let's say they have it at Sebaco, or in
Managua. We're sure as hell not going to go in with the Eighty-
second Airborne or the Atlantic Second Fleet and start a war to
retrieve a jet fighter .
     "Excuse me, sir," Elliott said, "but it's not just another jet
fighter.
     "Hold it. Hold on one minute, General," the President said.
"I was waiting for you to say that. Let me tell you fight now,
General, and all of you in this room-that XF-34 is just another
jet fighter in the large scheme of things. It's not some magical
war machine, no matter how advanced it is. It's very important,
damn fight, but the United States won't start a shooting war with
the Soviets or anybody else over this aircraft. Sure, the sonofa-
bitches infiltrated our base, stole that plane, killed our people.
We'll lodge protests, we'll demand the plane back, we'll coerce
and threaten as much as possible. I'm betting they'll deny havi ing
it. They can stall forever by denying everything we say. Even
if we have pictures, they can say the photos were faked. And if
we do produce irrefutable evidence, they'll have a propaganda
field day      'Soviet agent infiltrates top-secret American mili-
                                             I
tary base, steals top-secret experimental aircraft.' The condem-
nation of them will be more than drowned out by the laughing
aimed at us. "
     Elliott hoped he never needed to look at that much of the so-
called big picture. God       "We can't let them get away with
             
it," he persisted.
     "They have gotten away with it, General Elliott," the Pres-
ident said. "For all we know they could be taking it apart right
now and shipping it off to Moscow. What would you have us
do? Intercept every ship, every aircraft, every submarine that
leaves Nicaragua, board    and search for a component to a fighter
plane? Face it, Elliott-you lost it.  We lost it,
     The President glared at Elliott's taut face, shook his head.
"I'll ask Dennis Danahall at State to lodge a stiff protest with
the Soviets. We do have that tape of that agent-what's his name?
Maraklov . . . ? admitting he was a KGB agent."
     "The KGB will say he was just a nut-case American soldier,"
General Kane said, "claiming to be a Russian spy. We've had
our share .




244                        DALE BROWN
     "I'm still going to order Dennis to protest this incident in the
strongest language. I'll ask for the return of the aircraft and
compensation to the families of the crew on that B-52 and the
fighters that were shot down during the chase. I want some op-
tions we can use in case, when they give us the runaround. We
can threaten to cancel our participation in that joint trip to Mars
in 1998 . . . I was never in favor of that cockeyed idea anyway.
And we can-"
     "We've already made a substantial commitment to the Mars
project, Lloyd," Richard Benson said.
     "Well, State has got to think of something to back up our
protest. Kick out some of their embassy staff, raid one of their
consulates . . . "
     "Sir, those are all positive steps          Elliott began, steam-
ing. "But-"
     "Glad you think so, General." The President motioned to his
chief of staff, Cesare, who quickly rose and moved across to
open the inner door to the Oval Office; to the generals in the
room, opening a door was a cue to stop talking, part of their
fear of being overheard outside. To the others it was word that
the meeting was over.'Both messages were lost on Elliott.
     "Mr. President, none of these actions will help us get
DreamStar back. We could use some very low-level activities
that can send a clear message that we mean business. I have
some suggestions-"
     "You have your orders, General. Good morning. " Cesare, a
large, ex-football player, stepped casually in front of Elliott,
physically shutting off the conversation.
     Elliott turned and left the Oval Office. He was heading for the
main hallway to the rear portico when he spotted Deborah O'Day
ahead and called out to her.
     She turned and waited as he walked up to her. She was a bit
younger than Elliott, with long dark hair flecked with gray, bright
blue eyes, and an athletic figure. Interesting about her eyes,

Elliott thought-there were men and women he had worked with
for years but still had no idea what color their eyes were. Now
he met this woman for the first time and noticed her eyes right
away.
          "Mrs. O'Day
     "Miss O'Day, General," she said, taking his hand and re-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            245
     turning a firm grip. "But that's the Oval Office name. In the
halls it's Debbie."
     Elliott smiled. He hadn't done this kind of byplay maneuver-
ing in years. "And I'm Brad."
     They walked along the corridor until they came to an open
doorway with a female Marine Corps officer behind a computer
terminal and a male secretary leafing through some files inside
the office. The secretaries' desks flanked a pair of closed oaken
doors.
     The Marine moved quickly to her feet when O'Day entered
the office, but her eyes were on Elliott. "Good morning," she
said. "Intelligence digest is on your terminal, ma'am. Coffee's
fresh. Good morning, General Elliott."
     "Thank you, Major. General Bradley Elliott, Major Marcia
Preston, my operations officer. General Elliott is the director
of-"
          "The High-Technolo ' Advanced Weapons Center. I've
     gy
heard a lot about you, sir. "
     "Nice to meet you, Major."
     The male secretary stood, ignored Elliott and handed O'Day
a folder full of papers. "For your signature. I need them ASAP. "
     "General Elliott, Matt Conkle, my secretary." Preston hit the
remote door unlock switch, and Elliott followed O'Day into her
office and immediately heard the door lock behind him.
     "Your secretary isn't exactly a friendly type," Elliott said.
     "He hates the idea of being a secretary to a woman, even if
she's the National Security Adviser. He's fine in his job, though.

Marcia Preston is a rising star. Was the Marine Corps' first fe-
male F/A-18 fighter pilot. She was good. Very good. But she
got so. much heat from being a female pilot that she was bounced
out for allegedly trying to seduce her squadron commander. Some
things never change. I discovered her filing memos in San Di-
ego, still wearing her flight suit, and brought her to Washington.
She'd rather be in the cockpit-she flies my helicopter and jet-
and deserves whatever she wants. She just might be giving you
a call some time."
     "I'm probably not going to be around-and maybe Drearriland
won't be there."
     "Don't be so pessimistic," O'Day said, pouring a cup of
coffee for herself and Elliott and seating herself behind her desk.




246                       DALE BROWN
Elliott eased himself into a leather-covered armchair and rebent
                                                                 i
his right leg under the chair.
     O'Day noticed. "That's from your mysterious mission into
the Soviet Union eight years ago?" Elliott nodded. "You know,
I can't find any real information on that mission in our records.
It's like it never happened.
     "It's better that way. It also took the lives of some fine men."
     "That was the B-52 that the Russian spy shot down, wasn't
it?
     "Yes. We called it the Old Dog. We had rebuilt and upgraded
it after the mission over Russia. It was the prototype of a new
escort aircraft for strategic bombers. It was on its first opera-
tional flight . . . Did you know that two crewmen from my Old
Dog mission died in that crash yesterday?"
          "My God." She sat silent for a long moment.
     "The nav on that flight was one of the Great Experiment
female combat flyers, in the same group as Marcia Preston-the
first female B-52 navigator. There was one other female on that
B-52," Elliott continued. "A civilian. She was also on my Old
Dog crew back in 1988. She's in critical condition at Brooks
Medical Center in San Antonio. Her husband was on my Old
Dog crew too. He was one of the F- 15 crew that went into
Mexican airspace and tried to get the XF-34-as a matter of fact
he's the DrearnStar project director, Lieutenant Colonel Mc-
Lanahan.
     "Jesus. Was McLanahan one of the men killed in the dog-
fights with DrearnStar?
     "No. He was chased away by the Mexican Air Force, missed
his -chance to try to even the score . . . I wanted to thank you
for sticking up for me in there, and for your help with the Mex-
ican government. I think you see how important this is to me.          1
Maybe this sounds too dramatic, but those men and women are
my life. I have to watch out for them-now more than ever."
     
"Well, now that I know that McLanahan was one of the men
in those F-15s, I'm glad I stuck up for him and you. I don't
think General Kane will push for any official action against
McLanahan or anyone else involved."
     "I appreciate it just the same . . . Look, I'm not trying to
start a palace revolt here, but I just can't stand the idea of sitting
by while DreamStar is chopped up into pieces and shipped off
DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            247
to Moscow. The President wasn't interested in my idea, but
maybe you would be .
     "I'm interested," O'Day said. Elliott couldn't be sure she
meant it or was just defusing him, but he had little choice right
now, he realized. "It's true, Brad, the President isn't inter-
ested . . . But what's your idea?"
     Elliott spread his hands. "Simple. Make the Nicaraguans, and
the Russians, think we're going to strike at Managua . . . Look,
I'm not suggesting that we send the Second Fleet over to shell
Managua, but we could send it out into the Gulf, on one of the
Pentagon's famous 'previously scheduled' exercises. We could
land the Eighty-second Airborne next door in Honduras. That
could shake them up enough at least to start dealing with us-"
     "And what if? The bad old 'what if'            it doesn't work?"
     "Then we have no choice. Mount a surgical strike. Photo
intelligence would be invaluable. If we can pinpoint where
DreamStar is being kept we can plan a discreet attack-"
              "To destroy it?"
     Elliott nodded. "Afraid so. We sure as hell couldn'tfly it out
of Nicaragua-
          "Why not?"
     Elliott stopped, looked at her. He had no ready answer to that
one. "Well, first of all, it would be nearly impossible to get near
it anywhere on that KGB base. Second, we've no one qualified
to fly it. James-Maraklov-was the only pilot .
          "The only one?"
     Elliott's mind was racing now-Deborah O'Day seemed to be

opening up possibilities he hadn't imagined. "We've had several
men fly DreamStar's simulator, but only one man has actually
flown DreamStar before. And no one has been able to control it
as well as James."
     "Well, you could use him then, couldn't you? If all he'd have
to do is take off and land . . . ?"
     "True, if we could provide him enough air cover during his
escape . . . steal DreamStar back . . . There are a lot of 'ifs'
here. If DreamStar is still flyable, if we can pinpoint Dream-
Star's location, if we can get    JC. Powell on that base .
               "   JC. Powell?"
     "My chief test pilot. He checked out in DrearnStar in the
early phase but was replaced by James. He just might do it. He




248                       DALE BROVITN
can't dogfight in DreamStar like James, but he could get
DreamStar off the ground and land it again."
     "So if we knew exactly where DreamStar was, and if it wasn't
already taken apart," O'Day said, "we'd need a plan to get this
Powell on Sebaco and into'DreamStar's cockpit. Then we'd have
to arrange air cover for him after takeoff since he wouldn't be
able to defend himself .
     "Right . . . put Powell in under some sort of diversionary
cover," Elliott said. "Hit Sebaco with a small air strike or guer-
rilla force and insert Powell. Get him into DreamStar's cockpit.
Use the guerrillas to blow a path for him out to the airstrip. With
a carrier from the Second Fleet sitting in the Gulf of Mexico we
could provide enough air cover to fight off the Nicaraguan air
force. A short flight to Texas and we'd be home free.'
     "Sounds like a plan, General. Now you have just one prob-
lem . . . "
     "I know. The President. It's what he doesn't want to do.
That's where I need your help. You have access to the man. Can
you talk to him? Try to convince him?"
     She sank back in her chair. "I'm not sure how much help I can
be. The truth is, I'm not a member of the President's inner
sanctum. His brother-in-law Benson and Speaker Van Keller have
his ear, not me. I'm a political appointee, damn near a figure-
head. Except I also happen to be qualified. He lucked out. I was
put here before the primaries to make the public think that Lloyd
Taylor supports women in government. I was good for a jump
in the polls, or so they say, but I'm not sure what else there is."
     "You've got to try," Elliott said. "Bring it up in staff meet-
ings. Talk to the other Cabinet members. Schedule a meeting
with Van Keller or Danahall. They have got to realize that we
just can't let the Russians get away with espionage and murder.
We can yell and threaten all we want, but it doesn't work. It
didn't eight years ago with Kavaznya, and it won't work now,
even with glasnost and perestroika and all the other peaceful

coexistence stuff the Soviets have been feeding us. If the Presi-
dent doesn't want to authorize it he can make it a blind opera-
tion-let me loose and I'll do it and he can deny knowing or
authorizing everything.
     "You can't do that with this President," O'Day said. "That
might have worked with Iran-ContrL but this Democrat has a
very good memory for such screwups, especially by a Republi-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             249
can President. No .      O'Day stared at the ceiling. "Taylor is
as hard-nosed as they come, and he rarely changes his mind ...
This plan . . . this operation to get DreamStar. Do you really
think you can put it together?"
     "I can get my staff on it-"
     "No. I mean right now. Yes or no-can this    JC. Powell get
in and get DrearriStar?"
     Elliott hesitated only a moment. "If I get the support from
the White House I can get Powell into DreamStar's cockpit. And
I believe he can get DreamStar out."
     "Okay. I'm on the case. I've a plan to shake things up around
here. After that I don't know what will happen. It could blow
up in our faces. But I'll bet it'll cause the White House at least
to rethink its position on letting the Soviets get away with the
XF-34. "
          "What are you-?"
     "No questions. Just be ready with a dog-and-pony show for
the boss within twenty-four hours, and you better knock his socks
off or it'll be too late for your XF-34. I can't promise anything
except some noise, but like Yogi said, it ain't over till it's over.
That might even be true for President Lloyd Emerson Taylor the
Third. "
     Elliott straightened his fight leg, locked it and eased himself
to his feet. He extended his hand, O'Day came around her desk
and took it. ' "I bet the woman and the plan are much alike."
     "Don't be so sure-about either one, General," she said.
I'm expecting a few sparks around here. I'm just hoping they

d"on't hit any vital parts."
     II Actually, II Elliott said as he turned for the door, "I'm hop-
ing they come too close for comfort."
     After he left, O'Day returned to her chair and felt a very rare
grin on her face. Forget that, she told herself sternly. He may
have this domineering presence that seems to fill the room when
he enters, but does he really have all his facts together when it
comes to this DreamStar business? Sure he wants the XF-34
back-that's understandable. But is he acting like a man with
little to lose, who'll risk a major international incident to get his
own way?
     Having asked herself the tough questions, the answers came
easy. Elliott wanted DreamStar back because a goddamn mole
stole it, because his people got killed. He was willing to fight




250                      DALE BROWN
     to et it back, even if his own government disowned him or
worse.
     She dialed a number on a private phone that could not be
picked up or used by her outer office. "Marty, this is your rac-
quetball partner      yes, I know it's been awhile since we've
played.  It's been busy ... give me a break.  I was appointed by
your President, remember? Listen, can we meet for a game?
Today, if we can get a court . . . better make it early. You may
have a late evening . . . you heard me. Can you make it? Good.
See you at seven, then . . . no, we can't count this one. That's
right . . . you'll find out why. See you."
Brooks Medical Facility, San Antonio
"Edema in her right lung, possibly from inhaling fire or burning
debris. We didn't catch it right away . . . " the doctor was say-
ing as McLanahan and Powell entered the intensive care unit.
     Wendy Tork's parents were on either side of her. Her hands
were heavily bandaged. She had been on a respirator ever since
she was found in the crash area, but now there was a different
one in place, one to keep her lungs clear of fluid and help her
keep breathing. Most of her facial bandages had been removed,
exposing ugly bum marks and cuts. Intravenous tubes were feed-
in glucose and whole blood into her arms. One small vase of
flowers rested on a nightstand-ICU would tolerate no more-
but Wendy had not yet been conscious to see them or her par-
en S.
     Betty and Joseph Tork glanced at Patrick and    as they
came into the room, quickly turned their eyes back to their
daughter.
     "Doctor?" McLanahan couldn't get out the obvious question.
     "She's a strong woman, Colonel, but her injuries are mas-
sive .      He paused, moved closer to Patrick and lowered his
voice.  "Did you know she was pregnant?" Wendy's parents
heard the words anyway. "Oh, my God," Betty Tork said,
turned away from Wendy's bedside and gave in to the tears she'd

been fighting back.
McLanahan could only nod and clench his fists.
"She suffered severe abdominal injuries .
Powell stepped firmly between McLanahan and the doctor. "I
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         251
     think that's enough, doctor. I think we ought to leave," and he
took the doctor's arm and led him out of the room.
     Patrick, Wendy's parents and an ICU nurse stood in silence
for a long time watching Wendy, listening to the beeps of the
body function monitor and the hissing of the respirator. Several
times Patrick could see muscles in Wendy's face or shoulders
twitch, and for a brief instant thought that she might be about to
wake up.
     Betty Tork noticed her daughter's movements too. "I wish
they'd give her something . . . something to help her relax. It's
so awful seeing her suffer. My daughter is in pain, Colonel.
Can't anybody around here do something for her? What kind of
hospital is this, anyway?"
     Should he tell her it happened to be the best bum-and-trauma
facility in the country? That as long as Wendy kept fighting for
her life there was at least hope . . . ? He said nothing.
     "How did this happen, Patrick?" Joe Tork asked. "She was
flying the B-52, I know, but how did the crash happen?"
          "I'm sorry, Joe, I can't-"
     "Don't give me that crap, McLanahan." He stood up sud-
denly, filling the room with his size, but Patrick was immedi-
ately drawn to the lines of dried tears in the comers of his eyes.
"For the past ten years, Colonel, that's all I've been hearing
from her, from you, from everyone at that damn place. When
she moved to Vegas it was as if she'd moved to Mars. Now
she'd lying in a hospital in Texas probably dying from these
horrible injuries and you're still playing hush-hush games with
me? Goddamn, I want some answers-"
          "For God's sake, Joe, that's my wife lying there-"
     "She's your wife? Where's your ring? Where's her ring?

You got a marriage certificate? We weren't invited to any wed-
ding .
          "Joe, please .
     "The last we heard, you two weren't hitting it off all that
well. You know what I think? I think you didn't marry my
daughter. I think you're saying you're married so we can't sue
the damned Air Force for the accident. The spouse of a military
member can't sue the government, right?"
     Betty Tork was staring at her husband.
     "This is a rip-off. I was in the Marine Corps for six years, I
know about this crap." Joe Tork moved closer and wrapped his




252                       DALE BROWN
big hands around the lapel of McLanahan's flight suit. "Answer
me, you lying sack of mick shit. Answer me .
     Patrick held Joe's wrists gently as he could. The big ex-Manine
could have taken his frustrations out on Patrick, and for a mo-
ment it looked like he might actually swing on him. But at the
very moment Patrick thought he might do it, Tork's big shoul-
ders began to shake. His narrow, angry eyes closed, and his grip
began to loosen.
     "Damn it, goddamn it all to hell . . . Wendy . . . she's been
so all-fired independent ever since she was a kid. I'd get letters
from Betty when I was in Vietnam telling me how smart and
grown up she was. When I got back she wasn't a kid any more.
I never saw her that way . . . Now she's lying there helpless as
a baby and I still can't do anything for her .
     Patrick, feeling the same sense of anger and helplessness,
could say nothing. It was Betty who broke the silence. "Patrick,
when were you married? "
     "What? Oh, the day before yesterday." He looked up. "Did
they bring in Wendy's things?"
   "In the closet.
   He went to the closet and retrieved a cardboard box, took
something from the box and returned to Wendy's bedside.
:'We're not allowed to wear rings on the flight line," he said.
'Too dangerous, they say. So we started keeping each other's
ring until we saw each other again." He opened his hand and          I
                                                                     i
revealed a tiny purple velvet bag, loosened a thin gold draw-        i
string, dropped a hammered gold band into his palm, then slipped
the ring on his left ring-finger. He then got an identical bag from
a flight-suit pocket and took out another hammered-gold band,
this one with a gold engagement ring fused to it. He slipped it      i
on Wendy's finger.                                                   I
                                                                     I
   The three were silent for a while. The ICU nurse came by,

checked and recorded the monitor readings and left. Finally, Joe
said, "Patrick, I have to know what happened out there? Can't
you tell us anything?"
   "Joe, you know I can't."
    'But I'm a vet. I wouldn't tell anyone .
   :,I know, but I still can't."
   Tork ran his hands through what little hair was left on his
head. "All right. But tell me this, just this one thing, because
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          253
I'm Wendy's father. Just promise me you're going to nail
whoever's responsible for doing this to my daughter."
     Patrick's eyes were'fixed on Wendy's scars and bums, he saw
her muscles convulse, heard the sucking sounds as machines
drew fluid from her lungs to keep her from drowning.
     "Yes, Joe," he said in a low voice. "That I can promise
you . . .
The Kremlin, Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics
Thursday, 18 June 1996, 2103 EET (1303 EDT)
Vladimir Kalinin walked briskly into the General Secretary's of-
fice to find several members of the Kollegiya already assembled
there, all nervously pacing the floor or circling the conference
table. They began to take seats immediately-obviously they had
all been waiting for KGB chief Kalinin's arrival. Boris Mischel-
evka, the Foreign Minister, sat at the head of the conference
table and presided over the meeting.
     "The General Secretary is en route from West Germany,"
Mischelevka began. "He has directed me to begin this meeting
and assemble the entire Kolle iya at ten A. tomorrow morning
when he arrives. He will expect a briefing on our meeting first
thing in the morning.
     "This deals, of course, with the incident that took place yes-
terday morning in the United States. A fighter aircraft was stolen
from a top-secret research center and flown through Central
America to Nicaragua after a stop in Mexico. Apart from that

information we have no details. " Mischelevka turned immedi-
ately to Kalinin and asked if he could explain what had hap-
pened.
     "I believe this should wait for the General Secretary," Kali-
nin said. "I see no reason for three separate meetings
     "The reason is simply that the General Secretary wants it,"
Mischelevka told him. "Obviously he intends that we be able to
explain to the various governments involved what is going on."
     Kalinin said nothing at first. The Americans called it "damage
control"-everyone get their story straight and coordinated be-
fore going outside the government. With foreign journalists
flooding Moscow and a press center set up in the Kremlin itself,




254                       DALE BR-OWN
"damage control" was more and more important nowadays ...
"All I can tell you is that the incident involved a Soviet heli-
copter and a Soviet airbase in Nicaragua - That is all I can discuss
here until I brief the General Secretary.
     "We need more than that, Kalinin," Mischelevka said. "I
have received a dozen demands for explanations from several
countries, including, naturally, the United States. It is important
that we respond-"
     "You will respond when the General Secretary decides you
will respond. I will not release any information until the classi-
fication of that information is determined-"
     "But we must brief-"
     "Brief no one. Is that clear enough?"
     "What's wrong with you?" Mischelevka asked. "What's go-
ing on? Is this a special KGB operation in Central America?
What . . . T1
     "You will please not discuss your opinions of the incident
either," Kalinin snapped. "Say nothing. Glasnost does not ap-
ply here." With that, Kalinin got up and walked out.
     They're like sheep, Kalinin thought as he quickly exited the
dark halls of the Kremlin. They have been lulled into compla-
cency by the garbage that has been fed to them over the years,
that openness was good, that secret information is free to all
for the asking. They were going to be this government's down-
fall . . .
     And when it had fallen, with a little help from patriots like
himself, he was going to be the leader of a return to the old,
traditional ways, to the future world eminence of the Soviet
Union.
Arlington, Virginia
Thursday, 18 June 1996, 1905 EDT
The Barrel Factory Racquet Club used to be just that-an old
factory and warehouse that, in pre-Prohibition days, made casks
and barrels for beer and wine. It was one of the worst eyesores

in the Washington, D., area for decades until Arlington's ren-
aissance in the late 1980s and early nineties, when it was re-
modeled into a first-class tennis, racquetball and health club. But
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           255
the area kept its old slum reputation, so the Barrel Factory was
having a tough time attracting members.
     But for National Security Adviser Deborah O'Day, the place
was perfect for many reasons. The dues were modest, it was
easy to get a racquetball court-especially during the week after
seven P.-and the usual D. crowd avoided the place. She
could take off the White House senior-staff facade and act like
a normal human being, and as such was rarely recognized-all
of which made the place ideal for an occasional surreptitious
meeting.
     She tossed a couple of the soft blue rubber balls out into the
court and chased them, jogging up and down the court to loosen
her ankles. She was pleased with how flexible and fit her body
was, even at fifty-one. Exercise was never important to her until
just before learning that she was being considered for the NSC
position. No one much cared what you looked like as U.
ambassador, but as part of the White House staff her image had
to merge much better with that of the President, and that image
was relatively young, lean and mean.
     She crash-dieted during her last few weeks in New York,
begging off all the bon voyage patties that she could. During the
confirmation hearings, she had no time for any meals anyway,
so dieting was very easy then. The same was true for her first
few months in Washington. Now that the dust had settled a bit,
she found that her once-a-week trips to the gym were invaluable
and at times virtual life-savers. She enjoyed the challenges, rel-
ished the appreciative glances of the men in the club (some less
than half her age), and felt good when she looked around the
room during the White House staff meetin s and knew that she
could probably whip half the men in that room on the tennis or
squash courts.
     
These late-night trips also had other valuable uses-such as
tonight.
     She had finished stretching out and had begun hitting the ball
around when she heard a tap behind her. A tall, dark-haired,
pear-shaped man in an old gray sweatsuit, elbow and knee pads,
brand-new Reebok tennis shoes, wearing eye protectors and car-
rying an old aluminum-framed racquet, was tapping on the back
Plexiglas wall of her court.
     Just as he began tapping again, from seemingly out of no-
where Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston moved behind him.




256                      DALE BROWN
She was dressed in a red jogging suit, a towel wrapped around
                                                       01
her neck and carrying an open gym bag-which, Deborah          Day
knew, contained a Browning PM-40B automatic machine pistol
with a twenty-round clip and laser sight. The pear-shaped fellow
seemed to sense someone behind him and turned to face Marcia.
If he made the wrong move, Marcia could disable him in a few
seconds or kill him in less time. They exchanged glances, and
Marcia Preston never got closer than a few feet from him, but
there was no doubt that the man knew he had been efficiently
intercepted.
     But at a slight hand motion from O'Day, Marcia moved on
past as if she hadn't noticed he was there. O'Day could see the
man nervously swallow, then open the half-size door to the
court and step inside. Major Preston went over to the drinking
fountain nearby, wandered around looking in the other courts,
then disappeared back into her previous unobtrusive hiding
place.
     "Marcia is her usual charming self, I see," the man dead-
panned, watching the major's retreating figure. He was already
sweating, and they hadn't played one point yet. He turned and
checked out Deborah O'Day in the same way he had just ap-
praised Marcia Preston. "You're looking pretty foxy yourself,
kid.
     "Cool it, Marty, let's play. You warmed up?"
     "For this ridiculous sport, no," Marty Donatelli said. "For
some inforination, yes."
     "We can chat while we play. At least pretend to be trying,"
she said, gently hitting a ball off the front wall toward Donatelli.
"Besides, it'll do you some good. You could stand to lose a few
inches off that middle."
     He took a huge roundhouse swipe at the ball, caroming it off
three walls, but he placed it right back in the center of the court
O'Day chased it down easily and sent it back right to Donatelli.

"The front page goes to bed in two hours, lover. Can we make
this quick?"
     "I don't care about the front page, and I'm sure as hell not
your lover. " O'Day hit the ball back perfectly in the left comer;
it bounded off the left wall, the front wall, then promptly hit the
floor and died. "Okay. You serve. We'll talk."
As Donatelli moved to the center serve line, O'Day began:
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           257
"Wasn't it terrible about the B-52 crash in Nevada the other
day?
     Donatelli bounced the ball experimentally a few times,
bounced it once more, then hit it with all his might against the
front wall. She was waiting for it and returned it up the right
alley into the comer. Donatelli did not have time to move from
where he had served the ball. "My serve," she said, and smiled
a pretty smile.
     "Yeah, I heard of it," Donatelli said. "So? I don't do aircraft
accidents.
     "There's some scuttlebutt around," she said, and stepped to
the service line, "something about it not being an accident."
     The reporter was getting impatient. "It was out in the Red
Flag range, right? There's hundreds of planes out there shooting
missiles. The Air Force loses a plane almost every day out
there. "
     O'Day bounced the ball, took one glance back at Donatelli,
then swung the racquet as she said, "If I only had the time I'd
look into that. Some strange stories coming out of southern Ne-
vada. There was even this weird report about a KGB agent steal-
ing a fighter."
     The blue rubber ball rebounded hard off the front wall, came
straight back and hit Donatelli in the right leg. He scarcely no-
ticed it. "Did you say, a Russian KGB agent?"
     "That's just scuttlebutt. One serving zero. Still in serve.
     "Hold on. Who says a Russian agent?"
     "It's an unconfirmed rumor," O'Day said, getting ready for

the serve. "Some stuff about a stolen fighter, some fighters shot
down, about the stolen fighter heading for some pro-Soviet Cen-
tral American country."
     She served the ball. Donatelli knocked it into a comer.
     "Two serving . . ."
     "All this happened yesterday?"
      Yep. So they say."
     "How can I verify this?"
     O'Day walked over to pick up the ball. "Hey, I'm not a re-
porter. You don't tell me how to do my job and I don't tell you
how to do yours. But like I said, if I had the time I'd call, say,
a General Elliott through the Nellis AFB operator-he's in charge
of some of the ranges down there. I might also contact the Mex-
ican government, especially the Monterrey Air Defense Zone




258                       DALE BROWN
     headquarters about those rumors about unauthorized airspace
violations and dogfights over their-"
     "Jesus Christ . . . " Donatelli worked to unravel the racquet's
wrist strap that had wound itself tightly around his right arm.
"I've got less than two hours to make these calls . . . Mexico-
that'll take forever .
     I I
     Remember the routine, Marty-unnamed government
sources, maybe unnamed military sources. There's enough of a
shake-up over there that a leak is bound to develop."
          :'You mean someone else might get this story . . . ?
     I doubt it, but you never know. I heard General Elliott got
his butt chewed pretty good by the President and the senior staff
today. He might be in a talkative mood."
     Donatelli whipped off his eye protectors, reprising what O'Day
had just told him. "Elliott . . . Nellis . . . Mexico . . . what
was that . . . ? "
     :'Just replay your tape recorder, and listen," Deborah said.
     ' My tape recorder?" Donatelli looked surprised. "Our deal
was no tapes. You think I'd welsh on that deal?"
     O'Day tossed the blue ball at Donatelli's chest. "In a heart-
beat, Marty. Just protect your sources like your life depended
on it, and we'll both be okay."
     Donatelli lifted up his sweatshirt to reveal nothing but a very
hairy, very sweaty chest. "I don't have a recorder. See? I've
shown you mine-now you show me yours."
     :'Kiss my ass."
     ,:With pleasure." They stood looking at each other.
     You're a fox, no doubt about that. Ms. National          Security
Adviser. But tell me-why are you doing this? Were you -
thorized by the White House to leak this? If so, why          are they
doing it? "
     She began to bat the ball around the court. "I've got reasons.
That's enough."
     
:'Care to state them for the record?"
     No. This is off the record, Donatelli. The President is too
busy to concern himself about this incident. But the time line is
very tight. There are people in the military that believe some
immediate action is important."
     :'And the President disagrees?"
     'He believes in open negotiations, compromise."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            259
     "So the President isn't prepared to respond with military
force. I take it there is someone-"
     "This isn't a damned interview, Marty. I've gone too far
with you as it is. I think you've got everything you need." She
chased the ball toward the back wall, then casually opened the
door. Marcia Preston immediately appeared, her racquet in one
hand and her gym bag in the other. She took a towel out of the
gym bag, tossed it to her boss, then went to the Plexiglas-
covered lockers in the left wall of the court, opened one, and
stood there watching Donatelli. The threat of the machine pis-
tol in her bag was beyond Donatelli, but the look on her face
was not.
     "Marcia, you're beautiful," Marty said with a contrived
leer. "We have to get together some time." Marcia gave him
nothing.
     "Better put your paper to bed, Marty," O'Day said, holding
the door open for him. Donatelli nodded and moved toward the
door. Just before he exited he turned to her: "Any chance of us
putting something else to bed?"
     "I think we use each other enough as it is, Marty. Good-
bye. "
     "Sounds to me like you may need a friend in the fourth estate
soon, Ms. O'Day," he said.
     "Marty, watch your middle and your blood pressure. 'Bye."
     After he left, she closed the door and began to bat the ball
around again. As she did Preston reached into her gym bag and
flicked the OFF switch on a micro-tape recorder with a high-

power directional microphone installed in the bag.
     "Did you get everything?" O'Day asked as she returned a
tricky comer bounce.
     "Yes, but what good is it if anything about this conversation
gets out? You lose your career, it will enhance his."
     "If it gets out that Marty Donatelli can't protect his sources,
his sources will dry up and he knows it. And there goes his
Pulitzer Prize career. That tape proves that I gave him stuff only
off the record and not for attribution. If he violates that, he's
dead in this town."
          "You're still taking some awfully big risks."
     "I believe it's necessary, Marcia. The Taylor administration
only reacts to situations. He wants to put his DreamStar incident
on the back burner, take the easy way until it's too late .         he




260                      DALE BROWN
and his New York buddies need a push to get them going. I just
hope to hell it's in time."
The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR
Friday, 19 June 1996, 0600 EET (Thursday, 2200 EDT)
"I assure you," Kalinin said to the General Secretary, "events
occurred so quickly in this operation that there was no time to
inform you."
     Kalinin had already spent the better part of an hour in the
General Secretary's office, telling the weary leader about the
DreamStar operation. Now the General Secretary was clenching
and unclenching his hands, shaking his head as he reviewed what
Kalinin had told him.
     "There were only two days between when we learned of the
cancellation of the DreamStar project and when our man took
the fighter," Kalinin continued. "It was as much Colonel Mar-
aklov's initiative as it was a directive from my office-"
     "Be silent, Kalinin. Just be quiet. I do not want to hear
your excuses for irresponsible behavior. I need to think about
how this will be explained and handled."
     "I am, of course, entirely to blame for these events, sir,"
Kalinin said-perhaps a complete admission of guilt, he
thought, could smooth things over--but now th at it has been
dealt, we should play this hand to its conclusion. We must
see to it that the fighter is brought here as quickly as possi-
ble.
     "I see. Have you gone completely crazy? Do you think the
U. will not perhaps object to having the KGB steal one of
their top-secret fighters?"
     "Sir, I am not thinking of the Americans," Kalinin said. "I
am thinking of Russia. We had the opportunity to take the air-
craft and we did. Now we must capitalize on our achievement.
The technology we gain will be-"
     "Will be useless if they attack and kill a hundred of our peo-
ple and destroy that base in Nicaragua to get their fighter back,"

the General Secretary said. "I will not risk a shooting war with
the Americans over one damn plane!"
     "If the Americans were going to attack, they would have
done so," Kalinin said. "They know where the fighter is-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           261
their radar planes tracked the XF-34 throughout its entire flight.
So the point is, they will not attack. They will not risk war
over the fighter-"
     "You underestimate them," the General Secretary said. "I
do not."
     "Sir, this whole incident is part of a game," Kalinin said.
"A game. Military secrets are stolen every day by both sides.
Messages of protest are sent by both sides daily. I lose one or
two operatives a month, sometimes more, to espionage or
counter-espionage activities. Wars aren't started over such
matters.
     "We lost six men! The Americans lost a B-52 bomber, two
fighters, and six of their people. This is a game?"
     "But, sir, none of it affects the strategic balance," Kalinin
said. "It is simple maneuvering, part of the give-and-take
between our governments. I say the Americans will not take
action or retrieve their fighter. We will open secret negotia-
tions, perhaps eventually trade captured agents or information
for the aircraft after we have learned what we want from it.
We may even lose something important to us in the near fu-
ture, but we should not, sir, panic. As I say, we will even-
tually return the aircraft-after we study it. Please remember,
this fighter is the most advanced aircraft in the world, sir. it
is controlled by thought. Everything-flight control, weap-
ons, every system is activated at the speed of light, all by
thought commands.
     The General Secretary paused. Actually he had very little ex-
posure to this side of his government. It was, indeed, he real-
ized, a coup to obtain such an aircraft intact, a unique opportunity
to study the best of American military technology . . . But Kal-

inin's apparent success also posed a danger. Kalinin's prestige
and popularity would rise with the recognition of such an
achievement, and the fact that he had done it all behind the
General Secretary's back would make matters worse. Kalinin
had to be carefully reined in. Right now .    i, ,
     "Very well," the General Secretary sa d, "I am opposed to
this operation, but because of the unusual nature of the aircraft
and the benefits of having such a machine to study, I will allow
you to JC.
          ontinue with your plans-after I review your project
files. I will assign a member of the senior Politburo Central
Committee to oversee your operation. He will contact your Col-




                     7-
262                      DALE BROVVN
onel Maraklov in Nicaragua and speak with him, as well as with
members of your staff, and report back to me. Control of this
operation reverts to me. Is that clear?"
     "Of course, sir." Kalinin's response was automatic-but he
was thinking about who the General Secretary's representative
could be. Cherkov? Tovorin? Some unknown? He would have
to deal with him as he came along.
     "Meanwhile, I want all activity on the American aircraft to
stop. The aircraft will not be moved from Nicaragua until I give
the order. Is that clear?
          "Yes, sir."
     It was a small setback-he would, of course, have to contend
with an informant in his own office. But in effect, so far as he
was concerned, his coup was intact. And the future was brighter
than ever.
Sebaco Military Airfield, Nicaragua
Friday, 19 June 1996, 0445 C7D (1345 EE7)
Maraklov was startled'out of a deep sleep by a ringing telephone.
He took a few moments to collect himself-the feelings of im-
balance, of disorientation, were still plaguing him-before he
touched the speaker-phone switch.
          "What? "
     "Vash vrizeveahyota peho tehyeh1fono, tovarisch, " a
woman's voice replied-Musi Zaykov, he guessed. "Mos-
kva. " There was no apology for speaking Russian this time,
he noted. Never mind. He had been studying a bit of Russian
all day; because of that, plus listening to it spoken between
the technicians and soldiers in Sebaco, he was able to under-
stand more and more of it as time went on. His own vocab-
ulary, however, was still very limited, and his reading
comprehension was almost nil. Cyrillic characters were al-
most impossible to understand. Luckily, most of the machin-
ery and matters relating to the flight line were the Russian

export versions, which had instructions and labels printed in-
of all languages-English.
     "Da, " he replied. "Sechyahs. " He had gotten very good
at saying "wait a minute" in Sebaco, because everyone
seemed to want him at once. Maraklov slipped on a flight suit
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           263
and a pair of boots and opened the door to his apartment. It
was indeed Musi Zaykov, now without her seductive bush shirt
but wearing a KGB casual uniform, pants and black riding
boots.
     -Kahtoriy chyahs? What time is it?" Maraklov asked, as he
emerged from the apartment.
     "Your Russian is improving, sir," Musi said as she led him
out of the hangar. "Byehz dvahtsatye pyetye pyaht. " Maraklov
was expecting Musi to answer in English, since she'd begun
in English, and her Russian escaped him. No matter. It had to
be some time before five A., because the guards he could
see all looked bored and tired; guard-post changeover was at
five.
     They walked across the flight-line ramp, had their badges
checked by a gruff, sleepy KGB Border Guard, then walked
down a dark, mossy path toward a grove of mangrove trees. The
trees disguised a twenty-foot-diameter satellite dish and other
communications antennae, the only visible landmarks of the So-
viet Air Force command post and KGB detachment headquarters
nearby. They were stopped by still another guard post, then pro-
ceeded down a short flight of steps in the semi-underground
facility.
     Unlike the rest of the camp, this building was well venti-
lated and air conditioned-much like most of the buildings in
Dreamland. They signed in, punched codes into an electronic
door lock and entered the communications facility. On the
right was the main communications console, with two Air
Force non-commissioned officers manning it and a KGB of-
ficer supervising them; on the left was a radar console with

one Air Force NCO in charge. The rest of the room was filled
with smelly transformers, old teletypewriters, and storage
lockers.
     "'Ah. Tovarisch Polkovnik Maraklov. Zdyehs." General
Tret'yak motioned to Maraklov and Zaykov, who followed him
into a small conference room. The general looked a bit nervous
as he closed the door to the conference room.
     Vsyo tovarisch Vorotnikov, Andrei," Tret'yak said, motion-
ing to a telephone on the desk at the front of the room. "Sta
Politischeskoye Buro. Yah khatyehl
     "Hold on . . . er, prastiti, sir," Maraklov said. "I don't un-
derstand you. Damn it, yah nyee pahnyenzahyo .
-M




264                     DALF, BROWN-
     "All right, Polkovnik, pryekrasna. It is Comrade Luscev
Vorotnikov, a member of the Politburo, representative to Gen-
eral Secretary for Central and South America," Tret'yak said
in awkward English. "He wishes to speak with you." Mar-
aklov reached for the phone. "I would like to know what you
will say about the dismantling of the MiG-39," Tret'yak said.
     "Don't worry, General. As pilot of the aircraft I have au-
thority to decide what happens to it. It was my decision and
my responsibility to recommend the halt." Trct'yak looked re-
fieved but immediately disguised the expression and motioned
to the telephone. Maraklov picked it up. "This is Colonel Mar-
aklov.
     "Dobrayeh otrah, tova?isch Polkovnik, " the voice on the
other end began. The satellite connection was remarkably clear.
Yah- "
     "Please speak English, sir."
     There were some sounds of anger and confusion at the other
end, then a much younger voice came on line: "Sir, this is
Yegor Ryzhkov, an aide to Chairman Vorotnikov. Can you un-              f
derstand me, Colonel?"
          "Yes.
     His accent was British-quite possibly an exchange student or
maybe a Connecticut Academy graduate; a favorite target for
Academy-trained men and women was Great Britain. "I will
translate for the chairman. He welcomes you back and congrat-
ulates you on your heroic work."
     The congratulatory message when translated did not match the
angry voices he heard in the background, but Maraklov ignored
them.
     "Chairman Vorotnikov has been advised by routine message
traffic from Sebaco that you have recommended that the process
of preparing the air-craft for shipment to the Soviet Union be
halted. Can you explain this?"
     "I stopped the workers from taking the aircraft apart because

they were destroying it," Maraklov said. "I will not deliver a
nonfunctional aircraft to Ramenskoye."
     There was a pause at the other end; then Maraklov could hear
the voice of Vorotnikov rising in irritation.
     "The Chairman wishes to know what you recommend be done
with the aircraft now," the interpreter said.
     "I intend to add long-range fuel tanks to it," Maraklov told
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          265
him. "I estimate that two L1uyka in-flight refueling drop-tanks
can be added to the wings of the XF-34-these are tanks with a
retractable refueling probe built into them. The tanks will in-
crease the effective range of the XF-34 aircraft and provide an
in-flight refueling capacity. In this way, the aircraft can be
delivered intact."
     "Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik, " one of the radio oper-
ators said. "Telefoniya eahnyateh. " Maraklov did not under-
stand and turned to Zaykov-
     "He said be careful," Musi said. "The line is not secure. Do
not mention the name of the aircraft."
     The translation from Moscow took a long time, interspersed
as it was with comments and questions in the background. Gen-
eral Tret'yak, who was listening in on another phone, was be-
coming more nervous-Maraklov was sure he had just lost the
general as an ally. Then: "Colonel Maraklov, Comrade Vorot-
nikov has ordered that no further actions be taken on the aircraft
until further ordered. We shall transmit orders from the Kremlin
through the KGB Central Command."
     "I understand," Maraklov said. "But understand, it will
take two or three days for technicians here to saw the aircraft
up into pieces, a half day to load it on a ship, at least a week
for that ship to arrive in a Russian port and another one to two
days for it to be transported to Ramenskoye. And when it ar-
rives there it will be of no use to anyone-it will be nothing
but-piles of circuit boards and plastic. If I am allowed to pro-
ceed it will take two days or less to modify the aircraft for

Lluyka tanks. Then, once fighter escort and tanker support has
been arranged, it will take only ten hours to fly from here
directly to Ramenskoye Research Center. When the aircraft
arrives it will be,in flyable condition and ready for operational
inspection, with its computer memory and structural integrity
functional. "
     This explanation took even longer, but this time there were
fewer interruptions and outbursts from Vorotnikov and who-
ever was with him in his office. But a few moments later the
translator came back with "Colonel, Chairman Vorotnikov
has some reservations about your plan, but he would like time
to confer with his advisers. He orders you to continue your
plans for mounting the aerial refueling tanks on the aircraft
and preparing it for flight. He reminds you of the danger of




266                       DALE BROWN
remaining in Central America and orders you to do everything
in your power to bring the aircraft home intact. Do you un-
derstand?
     "Yes," Maraklov said. General Tret'yak seemed happier.
"Tell the chairman that he can assure the Politburo that their
orders will be carried out." But the satellite link had gone dead
by then.
     -0chin prekrahsna, " Tret'yak said, slapping him on the shoul-
der. "It looks like the pilots have beat the tibniys once again."
     Maraklov erased the relieved expression on his face as
T t'yak led him out of the communications center. Well, he
re
had made Tret'yak a buddy once again-at least until the next
crisis blew in.
In Vladimir Kalinin's office at KGB Headquarters in Moscow,
Vorotnikov threw the phone back on its cradle. "I did not un-
derstand most of what was going on, " he said. He waved a
hand, dismissing Ryzhkov, waited until his assistant had left,
then reached for the bottle of fine Viennese cognac on the desk
and poured himself a glass. He took a sip, then drained the glass
in one loud gulp. "But the pilot, your Colonel Maraklov, ap-
pears to be in charge."
     Kalinin nodded, moving the silver tray with the cognac de-
canter closer to Vorotnikov. "An extraordinary man. His loyalty
is firmly to the Party and to his country.
     Vorotnikov shrugged, lifted his thick body far enough up off
the chair to pour himself another cognac. "Excellent cognac,
Vladimir.
     "If you enjoy this, Luscev, I will see to it that you will have
a bottle. " He buzzed his outer desk, and a young, blonde woman
in a red low-cut dress entered the office. "Anna, would you
please see to it that Comrade Vorotnikov is given a bottle of this
cognac . . . at his convenience?"
     . Anna favored the old bureaucrat with a dazzling smile, folded

her hands behind her back, which served to accent her breasts,
and bowed slightly. "It would be my pleasure.-
     "Thank you very much, Vladimir," Vorotnikov said. "Very
kind of you. Back to business-this Maraklov, can he be
trusted?
     "I believe so, sir.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           267
     "Yet he countermanded your orders that the air-craft be dis-
mantled and shipped back to Russia."
          "He ... what ...
     Vorotnikov was too busy enjoying his cognac to notice Kali-
nin's confusion. "He wants to fly the thing all the way from
Nicaragua to Russia, under the very noses of the Americans.
Foolish. You should get that straightened out."
     What was this Maraklov thinking? Kalinin was furious. Fly
DreamStar to Russia? If he screwed up this mission now, every-
thing he was trying to accomplish would be destroyed.
     To Vorotnikov, Kalinin said, calmly as possible, "Yes, sir.
Now, if you would like to review my files on the project . . . ?"
     "Not necessary at the moment, Kalinin." Vorotnikov
glanced at the door for a few moments, then hauled himself to
his feet and straightened his tie. "I think I have heard enough
to report to the General Secretary." He held out his hand, and
Kalinin grasped it. "I believe the operation is being run in a
satisfactory manner and I shall so report to the General Secre-
tary in the morning. I must leave. " Kalinin buzzed his outer
office, and Anna arrived to escort the smiling Vorotnikov out-
side.
     When the two had left, Kalinin hit the outer office buzzer
again. "I want another secure voice-line set up to Sebaco im-
mediately." Suddenly Kalinin realized how little he really knew
about Andrei Maraklov. Vorotnikov, the General Secretary's fat
spy, was easy to take care of-this Maraklov, who had spent
eleven years in the United States, was a loose cannon. More
than anyone else, Andrei Maraklov was now the greatest threat

to his plan for ultimate power.
The White House, Washington, D.
That same moming
The secret, Lloyd Taylor had discovered, of staying on top of
things as President of the United States was information, infor-
mation, and more information. Gather as much as possible from
as many sources as possible, and as quickly as possible. More-
over, although he had a capable and trustworthy staff, the infor-
mation should not be diluted or encapsulated by his staff.
Interestingly, he found that if he got his information from the




268                       DALE BROWN
same sources that served most of the American people, he was
able to stay on top of events that the people were most concerned
about. He rarely found himself caught up in events in the Persian
Gulf, for example, if most Americans were really concerned
about the economy.
     It was not a foolproof system, but it had served him well
during his first three and a half years in office and, with luck,
would serve him well in a second term.
     Taylor's predecessor was a fanatic about daily exercise the
way Taylor was about information, and so Taylor combined the
two shortly after arriving in the White House. After rising at
five-thirty every morning, the President would change into shorts
and sneakers and make his way into the well-equipped exercise
room in the back west comer of the White House.
     There, in the middle of the room, sat a walking/jogging tread-
mill, a self-contained physical fitness evaluation device that
measured and recorded two dozen di fferent vital signs from pulse
to weight to blood pressure as he walked. That was his prede-
cessor's contribution. In front of the treadmill was Taylor's-a
large-screen voice-command computer monitor and terminal.
     "Good morning, Mr. President," Paul Cesare, the Chief of
Staff, greeted him. Cesare set a glass of orange juice and a fresh
towel on a table near the treadmill. "How do you feel this mom-
. 9"
ing.
     "Just fine, Paul." The President stepped onto the tread-
mill. The pre-programmed machine beeped five times in
warning, then automatically started. Taylor slipped his hand
into a glovelike device on the handlebar that had sensors in
it that would feed information to the body function monitors.
As the President started walking, the computer terminal came
to life.
     "Good morning, Mr. President," the terminal said in a quiet
feminine voice. On the screen was a recorded view of the Po-

tomac and the Jefferson Memorial. The screen changed to sev-
eral columns of information in large letters showing the
weather, date, important holidays and the day's appointments.
"The following is an encapsulation of your morning appoint-
ments:
     "You have a Cabinet meeting at eight o'clock. At ten
o'clock, a meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations commit-
tee. At noon, the luncheon with the International Kiwanas at
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            269
the Ambassador Hotel. There are five desk flags." Desk flags
were items left on his desk that would require some study or
consultation. A brief description of each flashed on the screen;
none seemed too important. "Would you like to review them
now? "
                    "No.-
"Would you like to review the afternoon appointments?"
                    "No.-
     "What would you like, Mr. President?"
     The treadmill had sped up to about three miles per hour as it
automatically sought to raise Taylor's heart rate to its optimum
aerobic exercise rate. "Go back to bed," he said, stepping up
the pace.
     The computer thought about it for a moment, then, "Please
make another choice, Mr. President."
     "Thanks," he said, and Cesare grinned. "How about wire-
service headlines?"
     "Please select a keyword, or select 'All.' " The keywords
were phrases used to narrow down the huge selection of news
items.
     'White House,' " the President requested.
     A long list of news bulletins flashed on the screen, all con-
taining the words "White House. " The computer-synthesized
voice continued: "Selected headlines as of five A. Eastern
Standard Time: 'White House may announce decision on Korean
trade bill today.' 'Foreign Relations Chairman Myers travels to

White House to break impasse.' 'Russian KGB spy disaster sty-
mies White House advisers. ' 'First Lady will receive veteran's
group in White House ceremony . . . ' "
     Taylor pounded a fist on the treadmill STOP button. "What
the hell . . . ? Stop. Read item three."
     "Headlines Stop," the computer acknowledged. "Review.
Item three. Washington Post Wire Service, date twenty-one June,
nineteen hundred and ninety-six. Washington desk, first para-
graph: 'A Russian KGB deep-cover agent may have caused the
crash of an experimental B-52 bomber in the southern Nevada
desert on Tuesday, an unnamed military source said today. He
may also have been responsible for the downing of an F-15
fighter over Mexico and the crash of a second F- 1 5 over southern
Arizona, with loss of life as high as six. Second paragraph:
Despite the attacks, the White House has apparently decided to




270                      DALE BROWN
take no action that may provoke the Soviet Union until more
evidence has been received and analyzed. Third paragraph:
Sources confirm-'
     "Stop, darnmit. Who the hell authorized that news release? I
didn't-"
     "It sounds like it came from the Pentagon, sir .
          "The Pentagon? Get General Kane on the phone."
     Cesare hit the auto-dial button for the Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs of Staff. "I'll get hold of Walters, too," Cesare said.
Ted Walters was the White House Press Secretary. "He might
be able to keep that story from going out on the morning news-
shows if we catch it in time."
     "The morning news . . . Goddamn, get on it, Paul. Of all the
things to leak out .
     "General Kane on your speakerphone, sir, " Cesare said a few
moments later. The President punched the flashing button.
     "Bill, there's an article on the Washington Post wire service
that mentions our discussion yesterday about the-"
     "Open line, Mr. President," Cesare interrupted, his hand over
the mouthpiece of his phone.
     --the aircraft incident. Know anything about it?"
     "No, sir. I certainly authorized no release about that at
all.
     "Better get over here, Bill."
     "On my way, sir."
     "Ted's on his way too, sir. He can make some calls from his
car. I I
     "When I catch the sonofabitch who leaked this I'll kick his
butt out of Washington, out of the country . . . "
     Cesare, always protective of the Boss and concerned about his
blood pressure, tried to soft-pedal the news. "It sounds a little
sketchy. Maybe an imaginative reporter heard about the B-52
crash and just kept on digging until he found--
     "There's no way any reporter could start from a B-52 crash

and end up with KGB deep-cover agents without help from this
office. We've got to assume Walters can't stop the media from
picking up on this and spreading it all over the country - So what
are we going to say about it?"
     "The story is so far out," Cesare said, "that if we deny the
whole thing people will believe us. A Russian KGB agent shoot-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           271
ing down a B-52 bomber over Nevada? Who's going to believe
that? "
     "Eyewitnesses. They could have interviewed someone from
Drearnland. They could confirm the fact that the B-52 was shot
down deliberately. There could be eyewitnesses to the plane be-
ing shot down over Mexico or the crash in Arizona. There--
     The phone rang beside Cesare. "Cesare here . . . Edward
Drury? . . . Hold on." Cesare put the phone on, hold. "It's
Drury from CNN, Mr. President. He's asking for White House
comment about a so-called KGB spy incident
     So much for keeping it out of the press, the President thought.
"All right, the comment is that the story about a KGB agent is
false, and the cause of the crash in Nevada is still under inves-
tigation.
     "I'd advise against it, Mr. President," Cesare said. "How
about 'unsubstantiated,' or 'rumors only'? If we say the story is
false, and someone digs up some hard evidence . . . "
     "All right, all right." A headache was already spreading
from his sinuses. "The information about a Russian agent is
an unsubstantiated rumor, and the cause of the B-52 crash un-
der investigation by the Air Force has not yet been determined.
Any speculation would be detrimental and injurious to the per-
sonnel involved and the best interests of the country. Got all
that?
          "Yes, sir. I'll make sure Walters gets a copy."
     "Have Ted hold a press conference as soon as possible and
get out a release. No one on the staff goes in front of the media,
except Ted, until we get together on a statement, and Ted's only

statement will either be what we just said there or 'No com-
ment.' Got that?"
     "Yes, sir." Cesare flipped through his notes. "Speaker Van
Keller is scheduled to be on ABC this morning. He's the only
one in on our meeting yesterday who could be pinned down on
it.
     "Better get that statement out to him as soon as possible,"
the President said. "Have him call me or Ted so we can brief
him. "
     "This could be a problem, sir," Cesare continued, scanning
his notes. "The first fifteen minutes of the meeting with the
Foreign Relations Committee was supposed to be a photo op-
portunity.




272                     DALE BROWN
     The President shook his head in frustration. "Great. In that
case we'll keep it a photos-only session and cut it down to five
minutes.
     "Senator Myers and the committee members might have some
questions about the incident-"
     "We'll give them what we give the press-the crash is under
investigation, we have no information on any KGB agents being
involved.
     Cesare finished writing. "One more thing, sir-the Russians.
That wire story said we weren't going to do anything. Should
we make a comment about that?"
     "To hell with them." The President massaged his temples,
then added, "They can think what they want. If we come out
with any comment directed at the Russians we'd be admitting
that they had something to do with the B-52 crash-"
     The phone rang again. "Cesare here . . . Ted, what's up?
. . .what? . . . any details? . . . all right. You're ten minutes
away? All right, I'll pass it on."
          "What now?"
     "Ted just got off the phone with the Post. They're now saying
that they have a tape of the conversation between the B-52 and
the XF-34 aircraft during their engagement. The radio conver-
sation was on a channel called GUARD, an international emer-
gency frequency used by planes, ships . . . They have the whole
thing-including the pilot of the XF-34 saying that he's a colonel
in the KGB. He said the guy from the Post even said, 'XF-34.'
That designation was top secret-until now."
     "Dammit all to hell, less than twenty-four hours after our
meeting and the whole country, whole world, knows about it.
All right, all right," the President said. "Cancel the Cabinet
meeting agenda, get the NSC and CIA and have everybody in
the conference room no later than seven-thirty, briefed and ready
to discuss this, but for Christ's sake do it quietly-don't make it
look like we're circling any wagons. This is a routine Cabinet

meeting. Make sure we get tapes of any news broadcasts about
this thing."
     "We should change the press statement," Cesare said. "I
suggest-
     "The change is easy. The word now is 'No comment.' That's
it, and it goes for Ed Drury and the networks and everybody.
                         DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          273
We've got to get a handle on this thing before it gets completely
away from us .
     Cesare got on the phone again and while he was waiting, the
President turned to him and said, "Paul, I want General Elliott
at the meeting, too. Has he left Washington?
                                        "I believe so, sir.
     "Then we'll set up a secure teleconference and . . . no, I
want him here. He had some ideas about this DreamStar thing
that I want to hear. Wherever he is, have him back here
soonest.
     "Yes, sir." Cesare dialed the office of the military commu-
nications liaison and issued the President's orders, then turned
back to President Taylor, who was standing near the treadmill,
staring at the news item on the big screen.
                                        "Any idea who leaked this, Paul?"
     "Well, that news item mentions a military source." He
paused, then asked: "Do you think it could be Elliott? Is that
why you're bringing him back to Washington?"
     "A guy that's just been stripped of his command and being
forced to retire can do some very strange things, but no, not
Elliott. He's by-the-book. I want him back in Washington to
hear what he has to say about this DrearnStar thing. It's been
his baby."
                                        "Are you considering a military response?"
     "Maybe I won't have any choice. If we can't get control of
this leak, we may have to do more than just protest to the Rus-
sians-"
     The phone rang. Cesare picked it up. "Military communica-

tions, sir, " Cesare said. "General Elliott had made a stopover
at the Air Force Aeronautical Laboratories in Dayton. He can
be here for the staff meeting."
                                        "That's very good of him. I can't wait to talk to him."
"This was a deliberate information leak on someone's part,
President Taylor said. "I want someone's butt, and I want it
now. "
     He paused, scanning the faces of his Cabinet and senior White
House staff members. "I expect whoever did this will have the
courage to come to me later and explain why he or she felt it
was necessary to reveal classified information like this. I will




274                       DALE BROWN
not tolerate this in my staff. I'll shit-can the lot of you, and
senior staff, if I have to."
   He let his words linger on the wide cherry conference table
for a few moments. No one appeared ready to confess or throw
themselves on the sword. He also saw a few faces that allowed
themselves to appear skeptical when he had mentioned dis-
missals. But he had no choice, the President thought-some-
one had to get fired over this. Someone had to take a fall if       I
for no other reason than credibility, or deniability, as in Iran-
scam.
   "The official word on this incident is 'No cornment,' " the
President said. "And I don't mean any of that 'Neither confirm
nor deny' stuff. I mean 'No comment. 'You're not authorized to
discuss anything dealing with Dreamland, the B-52 crash, ex-
perimental aircraft or any military or civilian personnel. Is that
clear?" A few nodding heads. "If you have any difficulty with
that order tell me now. I won't hold any questions against you,
and I won't think that anyone who has a question has to be the
guilty party. Speak up."
   Silence.
   "All right. If any problems come up, refer them to Ted Wal-
ters, Paul Cesare or myself. But I want a lid on this. And I want
it on tight. We've got news about the Summer Olympics and the
elections to take the media pressure off this incident, and that's
what I want to happen - "
   The President turned to General Kane. "Update on that
DrearnStar aircraft, General?"
   "Very little, Mr. President," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
told him. "Increase in message traffic on the Soviet satellite-net
out of Sebaco Airbase near Managua. We haven't been able to
decode it yet but our analysts believe this reinforces our esti-
mation that DreamStar is at Sebaco."
   "How long would it take them to take that aircraft apart,
General?
   
Kane was anxious to get out of the sudden glare of attention
and have the spotlight focus on the principal of this incident.
He said, "I can't give you an accurate answer, Mr. Presi-
dent." He turned to General Bradley Elliott sitting beside him.     I
  Brad? "                                                           I
   "It's hard to say, Mr. President." All eyes were on Elliott,
but not because they were waiting to hear what he said-they all
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          275
believed he was the one who had leaked the information on
DreamStar to the press in the first place.  "If they wanted to,
they could have DreamStar in pieces in hours-it could already
be crated up and ready to ship. But I don't think they would just
t up. The XF-34 is the most advanced aircraft in the wo
hack i                                                       r1d.
The Soviets will want it intact'
     "Then why take it apart at all?" William Stuart, the Secretary
of Defense asked. "Why not just fly it to Managua and load it
onto a large freighter?"
     "That can be done, sir," Elliott replied. "But they know that
it would be easy to spot once it arrived in Managua, and very
difficult to conceal. We could detect which ship it was loaded
onto and intercept or destroy-"
     "Destroy a Russian fteighter? " from Attorney General Rich-
ard Benson. "In peacetime? That's crazy! "
     "Mr. Benson," Elliott said, "that is one thing we should
never reveal. "
     "I don't understand."
     "Sir, many other military powers in the world would kill to
keep an aircraft like DreamStar from falling into enemy hands.
To the Russians, the Chinese, the French, the Israelis, the Brit-
ish, destroying a freighter with a torpedo from several miles
away to keep that freighter from escaping with their country's
most valuable military aircraft would be no big deal. They
wouldn't hesitate-"
     "That's them, not us."
     
"Mr. Benson, if we really want our fighter back we must at
least appear ready at any time to commit such an act. We must
convince the Russians that we are ready to do anything nec-
essary to get our aircraft back. If we announce we will never
shoot at a Russian freighter in peacetime, we invite them to
load DrearnStar on that freighter and sail it right under our
noses back to Russia. If we tell them we'll blow your ass out
of the water if we find out our plane is on board, and we
convince them and the world that we mean it, well, they may
just look for a different way to get it out of Nicaragua." He
was also thinking about the Cuban missile crisis but didn't
bring it up.
     Heads nodded around the conference table; Elliott had appar-
ently gotten through to most of them, at least enough to see the




276                      DALE BROWN
     logic of what he was saying. And the President was at least
attentive if perhaps not convinced.
     "If they don't want to risk discovery by loading the entire
aircraft onto a ship," Elliott pressed on, "and they don't just
quickly chop it up into pieces, they have two other options: they
can take their time dismantling it, making careful records and
notations about how to put it back together, or they can fly it
out of Nicaragua. It wouldn't take long to dismantle Dream-
Star-a day or two, pull the engine and the black boxes, dissect
and discard the rest. If they choose to fly it out, it may take them
a few days, three at the most, to configure it for overwater flight
with extra fuel tanks."
     "What's keeping them from just flying the thing onto one of
their new aircraft carriers?" Deborah O'Day asked. "From what
I understand DrearnStar can land on a carrier without an arresting
hook and take off again without a catapult."
     " All true," Elliott said, surprised that she knew so much,
careful to use the same tone of voice with her as with the Pres-
ident and Stuart and the other members of the staff. He had to
fight himself to keep from smiling at her. He was all but con-
vinced that she was the one who had leaked information about
DreamStar to the press to force the President's hand. He knew
her feelings and those of the NSC. It was a risky maneuver but
it could pay off-and it could also result in both of them being
sent to Leavenworth or Eglin for ten years for conspiracy . . .
"Again, they'd be exposing themselves to a great degree of dan-
ger if they tried to fly DreamStar onto a carrier. It's a tricky
operation under the best conditions; for James in DreamStar it
would be that much more difficult, even with his advanced flight-
control system. And the Soviets know they would risk attack if
it was discovered that they had DreamStar on board. They would
not, I feel, risk one of only six Moscow-class aircraft carriers
for one fighter plane, even this one.
     "These are all conjectures on your part, Elliott," the Presi-

dent said. "Sheer speculation not surprisingly biased in favor of
a military response."
     " Yes, sir, I agree. I am speculating on all of this, and I am
leaning in favor of a swift, decisive, direct response-but only
for the sake of time. If we could count on the Russians taki ng
weeks to carefully dismantle DreamStar I would not even con-
sider a direct military response. Certainly not at this point. If
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           277
you recall back in 1976, when Viktor Belyenko flew his then-
top-secret MiG-25 to Japan, one of the first reactions by the Ford
administration was to guarantee that we would turn the MiG over
to the Russians intact immediately after our investigation of the
matter was completed-which, of course, gave us time to study
the thing. We made that guarantee, sir, because the Russians
had one-fifth of their navy within five hours' sailing time of the
MiG's landing spot and the administration was convinced that
the Russians would militarily intervene in Japan to get their MiG-
25 back. I'm saying, sir, that is the threat we need to project to
the Soviets in Nicaragua. It comes down to how badly we want
DreamStar back."
     The President was silent, staring at Elliott. "Did we give the
MiG-25 back?"
     "Yes, after we deten-nined that the MiG-25 wasn't all our
intelligence and their propaganda said it was. The MiG-25 was
simply two huge jet engines with wings, built for speed at any
cost. Our F-15 was operational by then, and the F-16 was in
production. Both those aircraft could fly rings around the MiG-
25. But DreamStar is different, sir. DreamStar is our only flying
model of that concept of aircraft. It would be a huge loss for us
and a quantum leap in technology for the Soviets. It would take
two years to build another XF-34, and we'd be right back where
we are now. Meanwhile, the Soviets would take several giant
steps forward in their technology, and with their advantage in
military budget and production could field a squadron of XF-34
aircraft before we could--
     
"Excuse me, Mr. President," William Stuart broke in. "Gen-
eral Elliott has made several broad statements that Defense
doesn't find supportable. He's making DreamStar seem like the
ultimate weapon, when in fact it's nothing more than an ad-
vanced technology demonstration aircraft. Congress hasn't voted
to deploy the XF-34, nor will DreamStar even be ready for de-
ployment for another five years. Agreed, it's an extraordinary
machine, but it is not our next fighter aircraft. Far away from
it. "
          "So you're saying that it's not worth going after?"
     "My point is simply that DreamStar in the hands of the Rus-
sians is not the terrible threat that General Elliott is making it
out to be. It is a setback, true, but no more of a setback than if




278                       DALE BROWN
DreamStar had crashed on a test flight or if the program had run
out of funds and was canceled."
          "General Elliott?"
     "I disagree with Secretary Stuart, sir. Seriously disagree. The
technology transfer alone in the DreamStar theft is enormous.
it's certainly of such great military importance to us that. its
return, or if it comes to it, destruction, is of the highest pnor-
ity-"
          "Not my highest priority," Stuart interrupted.
     "It may be true that we were several years from deploying
DreamStar, Mr. President," Elliott said, "but the Soviets could
follow an entirely different timetable. We have the F-32 fighter
in preproduction that will be our front-line fighter for the next
five to ten years. The Soviets have their MiG-33 and Sukhoi-35
fighters operational or in production that will serve them for the
next decade. Neither of those fighters can match our F-32-and
that is a DOD assessment, not mine. With the XF-34 fighter in
production in the Soviet Union, they will easily have the capa-
bility to counter our front-line fighters for the next ten years until
we redevelop our own XF-34-and then we will only be match-
ing the Soviets' capability. We will instantly be five years behind
the Soviets if we don't react."
     "General, you're blowing this whole thing out of propor-
tion-"
     "All right, enough," the President said. "We don't need to
get into arguments about the future. The fact is, they got the
damn plane. What do we do about it now?"
     "I think we need to examine this problem from another per-
spective, Lloyd," Attorney General Benson said, "the politi-
cal side. This thing's about to be splashed all over TV,
newspapers and videotext terminals around the world. We can
avoid feeding fuel to the fire by not providing any details, and
it may indeed fizzle out over time, but the opposition is going
to use this against us when their convention opens in Seattle

next month. We need a strong, positive step to show the voters
that we're in charge-"
          "So you favor a military response?"
     "Not necessarily, Lloyd," Benson said, leaning sideways to-
ward the President and scarcely making himself heard in the
conference room. As the President's brother-in-law (he'd taken
plenty of heat for that), he was one of the few Cabinet members
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            279
who called the President by his first name; when he did it usually
meant he was separating himself from the Cabinet to make an
especially strong point. "But we're playing catch-up ball here-
the press has the advantage and we can't let that situation con-
tinue. You've got to make a move that shows that you're ready
to handle the situation. We don't have to decide on an offensive
against Nicaragua right now-I think it would be a bad move
anyway. But you do have to make a move, and something
stronger than a diplomatic protest. Five months from now when
the voters ask what you did about this, you want to be able to
point to something substantial, positive."
     Benson decided after the meeting he would tell the President
that the first step would be to get rid of Elliott. After all, he was
the one who lost the damn plane . . .
     The President held up his hand, indicating that he was going
to reserve judgment, and turned to William Stuart. "Outline our
responses, Bill. "
     "I think it's a problem for State or CIA, Mr. President,"
Stuart said. "We can't attack Nicaragua. It's just not an option
for us. CIA might be able to suggest something, a covert oper-
ation maybe, but in my opinion it's out of DOD's hands. We
can't put out a candle with a fire hose."
          "That's it, Bill?"
     Defense Secretary Stuart looked at Elliott. "If I may say
so, the problem should have been handled long ago by General
Elliott and his unit, and the aircraft should have been properly
secured, We lost the aircraft. Now General Elliott wants to go

in, as usual, with six-guns blazing. But if we confront the
Soviets, they will probably agree to turn the aircraft over to
us. It may take a few weeks, or months, but we will get the
aircraft back from them. And if we do, well, that's the bottom
line. "
     "So you'd just let them have it? They kill four of my flyers,
two security guards and two interceptor pilots, and you're saying
that we should let them alone until they've done What they want
with it? "
     "Don't put words in my mouth, General Elliott." Stuart's
voice had risen. "What I'm saying is t at we can t go o and
start a war over our screwups or-rather, your screwups. I agree
with the President. The X-34 is great but it isn't worth-"
     "Isn't worth what? That aircraft is the most advanced in the
mm




280                       DALE BROWN
world. We can't just build a thing like that and then hand it over
to the Soviets to study, for God's sake. I don't care if they only
have it for a few days, it is still too damn long. "
     "DreamStar, as I understand it, is twenty-first-century tech-
nology. The Soviets are having their problems with 1980s tech-
nology-"
     "And that is a 1960s stereotype, sir," Elliott shot back. "We
all learned, or I thought we did, what a fallacy that was. Ever
hear of Kavaznya, Mr. Secretary? Sary Shagan? Since the late
seventies the Russians have repeatedly proved that they can keep
pace with any other western nation in technology, and that in-
cludes the United States. And don't forget Sputnik . . ."
     "My recommendation stands, Mr. President," Stuart said.
     "I'm surprised by Bill's position on this matter," Dennis
Danahall, the Secretary of State, said during the pause that fol-
lowed Stuart's remarks. Danahall was considerably younger than
others on the Cabinet and, like Deborah O'Day, a recent White
House appointee-widely thought of as a political asset to attract
the support of younger voters. "I thought he'd opt for a stronger
stand. But until I heard some better options I must agree with
him, Mr. President. I think a strongly worded letter, perhaps,
from the Oval Office itself, combined with some face-to-face
between myself and the Soviet Foreign Minister or their ambas-
sador could expedite things."
     "As I said, Secretary Danahall," Elliott interrupted, "in any
other circumstance I would not favor a military response. But
time really is of the essence here. We must act quickly."
     "I agree," Deborah O'Day said. "My staff is working on an
interagency report, sir, but I'm forced to go by what little Gen-
eral Elliott has told us about the XF-34. We can't allow the
Russians to walk off with it . . . A small-scale military response
just may be necessary."
     The President looked briefly at O'Day, then turned away.
:'Any other inputs?" When he heard none he summarized:

'Two suggestions to take the diplomatic route only, confront
the Soviets and demand our property back. One to intervene
directly. Frankly, I don't see how far a military response would
get us. As I said before, the damage has already been done
here. Whether or not the Soviets give our jet back or even
admit they have it is a moot point-the fact is, we lost it and
this government-and I believe the Congress-is not about to
                         DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          281
start a fight to get it back ... Therefore I am directing Sec-
retary Danahall to draft a letter for my signature, using the
strongest diplomatic'language possible, demanding the return
of our aircraft immediately. I'll follow this up with more di-
rect communications with the Soviet government, if neces-
sary. I I
     The President now looked at Elliott. "Our business in this
matter is closed. I want to reopen the previous agenda in the
time remaining. General Elliott, our business is concluded.
Please wait for me in my outer office."
     "Yes, sir. " Elliott stood, masking his disappointment with
an expressionless stare. The Cabinet watched as the tall, thin
veteran of two wars and a mission to Russia that was still
only spoken of in whispers limped out of the conference
room.
     Cesare had alerted the President's receptionist that Elliott was
on his way, and he was quickly and politely shown into the
waiting area outside the Oval Office, given a cup of coffee and
asked to wait.
     Never, Elliott thought, had he felt so damn helpless. He was
getting no support from the Air Force Chief of Staff, he had just
been in an argument with the Secretary of Defense, and the
President of the United States apparently thought he was some
nut-case hawk. Even Deborah O'Day, who must have been the
one who leaked the information about DreamStar and Maraklov
to the press, didn't act supportive. Well, she said be ready with
a presentation to knock the President's socks off, and he had

clearly failed to do that. And if he couldn't support his own
cause, he could hardly expect her or anyone else to do it for
him.
     He sat in the outer office for nearly an hour, jotting down
occasional notes to himself on how to best organize HAWC for
the upcoming investigation. There was a telephone in the outer
office, and he considered using it to find out how Wendy Tork
. . . now McLanahan . . . was doing, but decided against it.
He'd do it on his way out. He had made a note to stop by San
Antonio and Brooks Medical Center on his way back to Dream-
land when the door to the Oval Office opened and Paul Cesare,
wearing a grim face, opened the door for Elliott. "This way,
General. "
     When he was shown into the Oval Office he was surprised at




282                      DALE BROWN
the people assembled there. Deborah O'Day was standing beside
the President, hands folded in front of her, Secretary of the Air
Force Wilbur Curtis, the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff,'was there along with generals Kane and Board; only Curtis
had a welcoming smile for his old friend. The other surprise
addition was Speaker of the House Van Keller, the ranking Dem-
ocrat in Congress. All but Curtis and O'Day were tight-faced as
he made his way into the Oval Office.
     "Great to see you, Brad, you old throttle jockey," Curtis
said. "Sony I couldn't be here earlier, they had me in Europe
inspecting some old Russian missile silos."
          "Good to see you too, sir.
     "Can the 'sir' stuff, Brad. I'm wearing a suit now, and it's
not a blue suit, either. And don't look so down in the mouth.
We've just begun to fight."
     The President took a seat at the big cherry desk, and the others
found seats around him. Curtis sat beside Elliott, arranged so
that he could watch both him and the President.
     "I don't have a lot of time," the President said. He turned to
his National Security Adviser. "Deborah, go ahead."
     "As you know, Mr. President, the story broke a few hours
ago. Alcng with questions aimed at this administration and my-
self, the media focused in on the Soviet Union. It was very well
prepared-they had statements from our own FAA air traffic con-
trollers, Mexican controllers, a few of our low-level military
sources and local police authorities dealing with the F-15 crash
near Yuma. They even got statements from air traffic controllers
at Managua. The press has damn near re-created the whole se-
quence of events, and in very short order.
     "But when asked directly, the Soviet Union still denies any
involvement in the incident, denies that they have an American
plane, denies they had a secret agent working in Drearniand,
denies everything about James . . . Maraklov. But I've just re-
ceived the preliminary report from Rutledge. His CIA confirrns

that the aircraft that flew through Honduras into Nicaraguan air-
space did land at Sebaco Airbase."
     "So we've traced it from Dreamland to a KGB airfield in
Nicaragua," Curtis said, "and the Russians are denying it ever
happened."
     "It's not going to be another Belyenko incident," O'Day said.
"The Russians aren't going to admit they have it."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          283
     "I agree," Speaker Van Keller said. "This is no disillusioned
young pilot flying his jet out of the country. If they admit they
have the XF-34, they admit to an international criminal act, an
act of war, in effect - . . "
     "It looks to me like we have no choice anymore, Mr. Presi-
dent," Curtis said. "It would be a political and military disaster
to allow them to get away with this. Even if they should later
admit it, we must do something now.
     "Never mind the politics, Wilbur, that's my business. As for
the military, what were the Air Force and the DIA doing when
this Soviet agent was planted, then allowed to exist so long in a
place he gets to be the top pilot in our most advanced experi-
mental aircraft? All right, I need a plan of action." He looked
at Elliott. "General?"
     "Yes, sir . . . we need to do two things immediately: first,
verify exactly where DreamStar is at Sebaco, and second, show
the Russians that we know that DreamStar is there and that we're
prepared to do something strong about it. I propose a flyby of
Sebaco by a single high-perfonnance reconnaissance aircraft. No
weapons except for self-protection. No ground-attack arsenal.
It--
     "I want no weapons at all," the President said. "Unarmed.
If the thing crashes in Nicaragua I don't want to see pictures of
Nicaraguan fishermen dragging American missiles out of the wa-
ter with their nets. Can you do it without weapons?"
          "It'll be more difficult, but it can be done."
     The President looked skeptical and irritable. This thing was

more and more taking on the risks and implications of the Cuban
missile crisis . . . "How? A high-altitude jet? I want one air-
craft, remember-no escorts, no waves of aircraft-"
     "One aircraft," Elliott said. "And it will be at low altitude.
We want there to be no question that the Soviets know we mean
business. "
          "Not another damned B-52?
     "The thought had crossed my mind," Elliott admitted, "but
Managua is very heavily protected, and this would have to be a
daylight mission. We would probably lose a B-1 or even a B-2
Stealth aircraft. No, no bomber aircraft."
     "How do you expect one aircraft to do the job and still sur-
vive? " Van Keller asked. "Use an unmanned aircraft? A drone?
A satellite?"




Pr
          284                       DALE BROWN
               "No, a single aircraft but a very special one," Elliott said.
          "Twice through Sebaco on photo runs, in and out, perhaps sixty
          seconds over the base and five minutes in Nicaraguan ai
          We'll have what we need." -                               rspace.
               Paul Cesare moved closer to the President: "Mr. President,
          our meeting with the Foreign Relations Committee .
               "All right, Paul," the President said. "Wilbur, General El-
          liott, this is what I want: a single aircraft, unarmed, not more
          than five minutes over Nicaragua. This will be the only chance
          you'll get, so it had better be done right the first time. Wilbur,
          you have command authority. Brief me tonight.
               "One more thing. If you people screw this up I won't wait
          until after the election to clean house."
          As Curtis and Elliott left the Oval Office for the elevators down
          to the White House garage, Curtis turned to Elliott and said, "I
          knew the Old Man couldn't ignore you, Brad."
               "Thanks for the support. I haven't seen much from the White
          House lately.
               "There's more than you think," Curtis said. "And I'm not
          just talking about the National Security Adviser."
               Elliott looked at Curtis. "What about her?"
               "Don't play dumb with me. The lady-is quite taken with you,
          personally and professionally. Don't ask me why-anyone who'd
          get involved with a pilot can't have all their marbles. I wouldn't
          be surprised if she cooked up this morning's bombshell in the
          press. Am I close?"
               "Don't know what you're talking about, sir," Elliott replied
          with a straight face.
               "Okay, we'll leave it that way-it's safer for her too. Besides,
          everyone around this place has a pipeline to some reporter.
          There'd be more double-dealing and backstabbing in this place
          than in the Kremlin if there wasn't the occasional leak. But get
          caught at it, suddenly you're a leper. "
               
In the garage they moved into waiting sedans. "I assume
          you'll want to use the command center to run this operation,
          Brad," Curtis said as they drove off. Elliott gave him a surprised
          long look.
               Curtis returned it. "Let me guess . . . you're not going to
          use a bomber-that was my first guess. What's the hottest ma-
          chine on your flight line right now? Cheetah. And McLanahan
                      7
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          285
     and P - well go with it. How'm I doing? Don't answer that ...
     You had Cheetah in mind from the start. You've got some sort
     of camera pod rigged up on it, self-protection devices up the
     ying-yang-you're going to have to take the missiles off, the
     President said no." Elliott allowed a smile. The Secretary had
     hit it right on the mark. "Cheetah's been ready to go ever
     since last night . . . Ever since O'Day agreed to help you.
     Right? "
     "No comment, sir."
          "I like it, General, I like it. You want to send a message-
     Cheetah will do it."




F-





Sebaco Nfilitary Airfield, Nicaragua
Friday, 19 June 1996, 0643 CDT (0743 EDT)
WORK HAD BEGUN on DreamStar less than three hours after the
last transmission from Moscow, and even though he had diverted
the plan to dismantle his aircraft, every minute that Andrei Mar-
aklov watched DreamStar's refit was like another twist of the
knife that seemed to be stuck in his gut.
     He was standing a few meters in front of DreamStar's hangar,
just a few dozen meters from the flight-line ramp leading to
Sebaco's runway. The hangar doors, which had remained closed
to guard against sabotage or espion@ge, were now wide open
because of the huge volume of trucks and workers scrambling
in and out. The hangar was guarded by KGB border troops, two
stationed every ten meters around the perimeter, along with a
manned BMD armored vehicle or BTR-60PB armored personnel
carrier on every cardinal point. Workers carried large picture
I. cards slung around their necks, which allowed the point
guards to check I.'s against wearers without the workers stop-
ping.
     The technicians and engineers assembled to do the job seemed
to be even more ham-handed than General Tret'yak had de-
scribed. They tore at fasteners they did not understand how to
open, yanked at delicate data cables, got greasy hands all over
the superconducting antennae arrays. They made notes about
everything, in writing and by video camera, but mostly they
cared about getting their jobs done on time, not on how well the
fighter flew after leaving Sebaco.
     Each twist of the worker's wrench brought home another re-
                    
DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          287
ality to Maraklov-that along with the delivery of DreamStar to
the Soviet Union came the end to his own usefulness. General
Tret'yak was correct, of course-DrearnStar would be disman-
tled in ultra-fine detail once it was safely delivered to the Ra-
menskoye Test Facility near Moscow. It might be flown once or
twice, but more than likely its avionics would be activated arti-
ficially and all its subsequent "flights" would be confined to a
laboratory. If there was no DreamStar, there would be little need
for a DreamStar pilot, especially one who would seem more
American than Russian. They might create an ANTARES ground
simulator to study the thought-guidance system and train future
pilots on how to fly DreamStar, but that would not last long.
After that, he doubted very much that the Soviet military would
allow him to fly or even participate in any way, except as some
glorified figurehead . . . until his usefulness there ran out too.
     The workers were struggling with a service-access panel on
DreamStar's engine compartment. The senior non-commissioned
officer, Master Sergeant Rudolph Artiemov, spotted Maraklov
standing outside the hangar, came over to him, gave him a half-
salute, pointed to the engine and said something unintelligible
to Maraklov.
     "Speak slower, Sergeant," Maraklov said in halting Russian.
The technician squinted at him. "Mahtor sestyema smazki nyee
khod@aht, tovarisch Polovnik. Vi pahnyemahyo? "
     "I don't understand what the hell you're saying," Maraklov
exploded in English. The startled sergeant stepped back away.
"You're tearing my damned aircraft apart and you want me to
tell you from here if it's okay? Is that it? Get out of my face."
     "He said the engine-lubrication system access-panel is stuck,
Andrei," a voice said. He turned to see Musi Zaykov beside
him, her attractive smile momentarily piercing his gloom. Musi
said something to the technician in a stem voice and the sergeant
saluted, turned and trotted back to the workers.
          "What did you tell him?"
     
"I told him that you said he is an incompetent fool, and that
you will kill him first and report him second if he is not more
careful. "
     "My thoughts exactly."
     "They say they will have the aircraft ready for a test flight in
twelve hours," Musi said. Maraklov looked at her, then turned




288                        DALE BROWN
the flight line.  Musi followed.
     "Did I say something wrong?"
          "No," Maraklov said. "I just feel .
He was beginning to feel he could. She had become something
of a confidante over the past few hours. If she was a KGB op-
erative assigned to watch him, shewas either doing a very good
job, or a very poor one . . . "I feel a terrible mistake is being
made here . . . they don't trust or respect my judgment. I brought
them the U.'s most advanced fighter, and all they can seem to
think of is taking it apart. Musi, that is no ordinary aircraft. It
is . . . alive. It's part of me . . . Can you understand any of
that? "
          "Not really, Andrei. It is, after all, a machine-"
     "No . . . " But he knew it was useless to try to explain. He
changed the subject. "You tell me, Musi, what will they do with
me after I return to Russia?"
     "You will be honored as a hero of the Soviet Union--
"Bullshit. Tell me what's really going to happen." She seemed
to avoid his eyes.  "Come on, Lieutenant."
     "I      I don't know, Andrei." Her voice now seemed to lose
its easy tone, to become almost stiff, as though she were recit-
ing. "You will be welcomed, of course . . . following that, you
will be asked to participate in the development of the aircraft
for the Air Forces--
     "I want to know what kind of life I'll have in Russia. I want
to know if I'll have a future."
     "You ask me to predict too much, Andrei." Her tone changed
again. "In my eyes you are a hero. You have done something
no one thought possible. But there are . . . people who are dis-
trustful of any foreigner-"
          "I'm not a foreigner." Or was he?
     "Andrei, I know what you are, but you know what I mean ...
You do not speak Russian. You must understand that there will
be less trust at first." She took his hands in hers. "Could it be,

Colonel Andrei Maraklov, that it is perhaps you who do not trust
us? "
     Maraklov was about to reply, stopped himself. She was right.
The U. bias toward the Soviet Union had taken hold and was
his now-distrust, fear, the works, in spite of the show of glas-
nost and perestroika.
away from the open front of the hangar and began walking down
             Could he trust her?
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             289
     He smiled at Musi, pulling her closer. "How did you get so
smart, Lieutenant Musi Zaykov?"
     "I am not so smart, Andrei. I think I understand how you
feel. Living in Nicaragua for a year, feeling the resentment from
the people, isolated in this little valley-it is easy to mistrust,
even hate, those you do not understand or who seem not to
understand you." She moved in closer to him, her lips parting.
"I love it when you say my name. I wish you'd do it more
often. "
     And then she kissed him, right there on the little service road
next to the flight line. "I know you don't trust me, Andrei, not
yet. But you will. Just trust your instincts and I will mine - - - "
     Without another word they turned their backs to the flight line
and headed back to the officers' quarters hidden in the trees
beyond. They shut themselves in her quarters, and Maraklov
gave himself up to the remarkable skills of this woman who
exercised all his earlier doubts and made him, for the moment,
even forget about DreamStar . . .
Over the Caribbean Sea
0825 EDT
     "She's about as maneuverable as an elephant,"    JC. Powell
said irritably, "and five times as heavy."
     Powell and McLanahan had just completed their second re-
fueling from a KC-10 Extender refueling aircraft from the 161st
Air Refueling Group "Sun Devils" out of Phoenix, the same
unit-and, in fact, the same crew-that had refueled Cheetah just

in time after their flight through Mexico. They were now at
twenty thousand feet, still flying in tight formation with the
tanker, so close that on radar screens from Texas to Florida to
Cuba to the Cayman Islands to Jamaica they seemed like one
aircraft-which was what they wanted.
        had the throttles at full power to keep up with the KC-
10, but after a few minutes the KC-10 pilot noticed the trouble.
the loaded F-15 fighter was having and backed off on its power.
There was plenty of reason for Cheetah's sluggish performance.
In addition to sixteen-hundred-gallon FASTPACK fuel tanks near
each wing root, Cheetah carried an AN/ALC-189E reconnais-
sance pod mounted on the centerline stores station. The two-ton




290                       DALE BROWN
recon pod carried four high-speed video cameras that pointed
forward, aft and to each side, along with data transmission
equipment that allowed the digitized imagery from the cameras
to be broadcast via satellite directly back to Dreamland for anal-
ysis. On each wing Cheetah also carried a 600-gallon fuel tank,
which non-nally gave it a cruising range of nearly three thousand
miles.
     That cruising range was considerably shorter with the recon
pod mounted; it was even shorter with Cheetah's other special
stores: two QF-98B Hummer electronic drone aircraft, small sin-
gle propfan-engined aircraft that carried several computer-
controlled radar jammers. The two Hummer drones, one mounted
on each wing, were preprogrammed to follow a specific flight
path after being released. They carried no weapons. Their flight
paths would take them close to known Nicaraguan and Soviet
early warning radar sites, where their jammers would disrupt the
radars long enough for Cheetah to make-its run toward Sebaco.
After flying close to the coastal radar sites, the drones would fly
northeast toward recovery ships near Jamaica-if they survived
the expected Nicaraguan air defenses.
     "You boys sure go around looking for trouble," the pilot of
the Phoenix-based tanker said over the scrambled VHF radio.
"Twenty-four hours ago I thought we'd all be in the stockade.
You must lead charmed lives."
     "We found a few regs we haven't violated yet,"    JC. said.
     "You're coming up on your start-descent point," the nav on
the KC-10 said. "One minute."
     "Time for one more fast sip before you leave?" the pilot
asked.
     "I think we've had enough,"    said. "Thanks for the gas."
     "Thank your boss for getting us out of trouble with the brass, "
the pilot said. "I saw what was left of my retirement flash before
my eyes. You boys take it easy down there. Sun Devil starting
a climbing left turn. Out." The KC-10 wagged its wings once,

then began a steep left turn and a sharp climb, heading toward
its destination in San Juan.
     "Nav computer set on initial point," McLanahan reported.
On   's laser-projection heads-up display a tiny "NAV" indi-
cator flashed on the screen, indicating that the computer was
directing a turn.    hit the voice-command switch on his con-
trol stick.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          291
     "Autopilot on, heading nav.-
     "Autopilot on, " the computer-generated voice replied.
"Heading nav mode. Caution, select altitude function. " The
computer reminded    that no autopilot function had been se-
lected for holding altitude. Cheetah started a right turn, heading
                 southwest.
     In the aft cockpit McLanahan was completing his checklist
items for drone release. "Release circuits safety switch to con-
sent, " he told Powell.    JC. flipped a switch far down on his left
instrument panel.
     "Release switch to CONSENT."
     "Checklist complete. Stand by for drone release."
              "Ready up here."
     "Clear for zero-alpha maneuver," McLanahan said.
        pushed forward on the stick and throttles. As the speed
increased and pitch decreased, the angle of attack, the difference
between the wing chord and relative wind, moved to zero-this
was zero alpha; the wings were knifing through the air with
minimum disturbance or deflection, giving the cleanest airflow
for the two drones to separate from Cheetah and begin their
flight.
          "Zero alpha . . . now.
     At that moment McLanahan hit the release button. Remote-
controlled clips on the drone's carrying racks opened, and the
drones began flying in formation with Cheetah.
     "Showing two good releases, clear to maneuver," Mc-
     Lanahan announced.
     
"Here we go." Powell gently, carefully pulled back on his
control stick, and the drones dropped away from sight.    did
not yank Cheetah away; the sudden turbulence could throw the
drones out of control. He eased back on the stick, allowing the
distance between mothership and drones to increase slowly.
     "'Showing good autopilot program-startup on both drones,"
McLanahan reported. A few moments later they saw both drones
banking away to their right as they began their computer-
controlled flights.
          "Drones are clear to the right."
     "Got 'em."    verified. He watched the drones for a mo-
ment to make sure they were far enough away, then said, "We're
goin' down." He hit the voice-command stud on his stick. "Au-
topilot attitude hold.




292                        DALE BROWN
          "Attitude hold mode on, " the computer acknowledged.
        pressed the pitch-select switch on the control stick and
pushed. Cheetah started a twenty-degree descent. When he re-
leased the select switch, the autopilot held the pitch angle.
     "Overspeed warning, " the computer announced.    pulled
the throttles back to seventy percent to avoid overstressing the
recon pod and external fuel tanks as Cheetah approached the
speed of sound in the steep descent.
     "Autopilot altitude select two hundred feet,"    corn-
manded.
          "Autopilot altitude command two hundred feet.
     "We should be entering early-warning radar coverage in a
few minutes. We need to be down below two thousand feet by
then. "
     "No sweat,"    said. "We're descending fifteen thousand
feet per minute. This baby feels like a real jet with those two
loads gone."
     Suddenly a tiny indicator blinked on a newly installed panel
in Cheetah's aft cockpit. "Radar-warning indicator from one of
the drones. Some radar's got them. He'll start jamming any min-
ute. "
     "We've got five thousand feet to level-off at two hundred
feet,"    said. "We should be ready."
     And Cheetah did level off as planned. By the time it reached
the San Andres y Providencia Atoll east of Nicaragua, they were
at two-hundred feet above the Caribbean, traveling five hundred
miles an hour. The Nicaraguan early-warning radar site at Islas
del Maiz, fifty miles off the coast of Nicaragua, never had a
chance to see the sea-skimming aircraft. Cheetah's automatic
jammers activated once when the radar site was only a few miles
away, but the Russian-built radar did not lock on or reacquire
the aircraft. Fifteen minutes after passing the island radar site
Cheetah was over the marshy lowlands of the east coast of Nic-
aragua.
     
"Where's all this Russian hardware the Nicaraguans are sup-
posed to have?"    JC. said.
     "We haven't hit the worst part yet. " They were riding the
military crest-the point on a hill where observation was the
most difficult-of the lush, green Cordillera Chontalena moun-
tain range in southern Nicaragua, heading northwest at five hun-
dred fifty miles an hour. "We should be safe from Managp
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                              293
SAM sites, but Sebaco is supposed to be loaded for bear-we
could be within range of their SA-10 missile sites in five min-
utes. Once we bust their radar cordon we'll be assholes and
elbows trying to get out of here-"
     Just then, they saw two dark shapes streaking across the hills
in front of them. The shapes trailed long fingers of flame that
were visible even in daylight.
     "Oh, God,"    broke out. "They look like MiG-29s, head-
ing north."
     "Th drones are right on time, " Patrick said, realizing the
MiGs had gone for the diversionary drone targets. A few mo-
ments later two more jets screamed northward behind the first
two, now less than ten miles from where Cheetah was hugging
the green forested mountains. One of the MiGs appeare( to start
a right turn toward Cheetah, but he was really maneuvering away
from his leader as they raced away. They were close enough to
see the MiGs' external fuel tanks and feel their jet-wash as they
                   passed.
     "If they flushed their whole alert force to chase down the
drones we just may be able to go in without visitors."
     "When those guys find out they've been suckered by a couple
of drones they'll be back in a hot minute and after us, "   
said.
     "Ten miles from the first SAM ring," McLanahan said,
checking his chart and the GPS satellite navigation system.
"Punch off those external tanks any time."
        hit his voice-command button. "Station select two and

seven. "
     "Stations two and seven select, " the computer verified. The
right multi-function display showed a graphic depiction of Chee-
tah, with the icons of the two external fuel tanks highlighted.
   aimed Cheetah for a deep, thicketed stream. There was little
danger of dropping the tanks on any villages or people below-
they had seen no signs of habitation since crossing the coastline.
The tanks might not be found for years-maybe never. They
hoped.
          "Ready jettison command."
     "Warning, jettison command issued, select 'cancel' to can-
cel, " the computer intoned. The highlighted icons on the right
MFD began to flash.
     Powell hit the voice-command button. "Jettison . . . now.




294                      DALE BROVIrN
     "Jettison two and seven. " McLanahan watched as Cheetah's
two external fuel tanks disappeared from view. "Clean separa-
tion," he said.
     "Safe all stations,"    JC. told the computer. The display screen
acknowledged the command, accomplishing a release-circuits
check and reporting a "normal" and "safe" indication. "All
fight,"    said. "Throttles coming up. Time to do some
flyin'," and he slowly began moving both throttles up until he
had full power.
     "Point-nine-eight Mach," McLanahan said. "Speed limit for
the camera pod."
     "I'll hold it here for now,"    said, nudging the throttles
back a bit, "but we're not going over a Soviet military base
below the Mach. I'm not getting our butts shot off just to protect
a lousy camera."
     "Five minutes out. Camera's activated ... good data-transfer
signal from the satellite. We're on-line .       And then the first
warble from the radar-waming receiver could be heard through
the interphone. "Search radar, twelve o'clock." McLanahan
punched buttons on his forward console. "All automatic Jam-
mers active. " He reached up and clicked in commands to the
radar altimeter, which measured distance from Cheetah's belly
to the ground. "Radar altimeter bug set to one hundred feet."
     "Mine's set for ten,"    said.
     "Ten feet? "
     "If we're supposed to look inside buildings, a hundred's too
high. "
     "Well . . . we don't have a terrain-following radar on this-"
He was interrupted by a high-pitched warble and a blinking " 10"
on his threat-receiver scope.
     "Warning, radar search, " the computer repimed.
     "SA-10 in search mode, twelve o'clock."
     "Let's hope that pod can take a pounding,"    said, push-
ing the throttles to min afterburner. "Here we go."
     
"Warning, external store overspeed, " the computer intoned.
   ignored it.
     "Mach one," McLanahan said almost immediately. "Three
minutes to target."
     "Warning, radar tracking, " the computer said.
     "The SA-10's got us already,"    muttered.
     "Impossible, unless-"
                    I FP_
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            295
     "Warning, missile launch, missile launch.
  "Signal moved to one o'clock," McLanahan called out.
"They moved the SAM site.          He hit the chaff button on the
left-side ejector. "Jink right .   . "
        threw Cheetah into a hard right-tum. They saw the mis-
sile immediately, or rather they saw the smoke trail left by the
SA-10 as it streaked by, missing them by scarcely a few dozen
yards-one or two seconds slower reaction time and the missile
would not have missed. "Goddamn, they put an SA-10 on that
hilltop overlooking their base. That was too close .
     Powell started a hard left-turn away from the site and let the
autopilot center back on the target. "Well, they took their best
shot and missed," he said. "If they want to shoot now they'll
be shooting toward their own base." Cheetah rolled out on the
autopilot's command. "I've got the target," Powell said. "I'll
find your precious damn jet for you, Patrick. Hang on .
Andrei Maraklov was watching Musi Zaykov get dressed when
the siren pierced the silence of her bungalow. By reaction learned
after four years in the Strategic Air Command, Maraklov got to
his feet and began pulling on his flight suit. "What's that?"
     "Opasno pavarota, " Zaykov said, and hurriedly put on her
boots and buttoned her uniform blouse. "Bistra. " Maraklov
never had a chance to understand what she said, but the urgency
in her voice was clear. He ran out of the bungalow behind her.
     Workers were running toward the flight line, some pointing
toward the sky to the south. Maraklov started toward the flight

line but Zaykov grabbed his arm. "No. If it is an attack you
should not go there." Maraklov shrugged out of her grasp and
headed for the flight line, crossed the access      road and leaped
over the low gate-none of the security forces       stationed around
the flight line moved to stop him,'apparently       confused by the
sirens. He ran into the clear, into an unused part of the aircraft
parking ramp and scanned the skies.
     He did not see it until he was halfway down the runway-
apparently neither did the anti-aircraft battery located at the south
end of the runway. The aircraft slid silently down the west side
of the runway, straight and level-it was so low that it looked
as if it was going to try to land. Then Maraklov realized that he
didn't hear the aircraft coming-it had made no noise as it passed.
That meant . . . he instinctively cupped his hands over his ears




296                       DALE BROWN
and opened his mouth so the overpressure wouldn't rupture his
eardrums ...
     ... Just in time. The sonic boom rolled across the parking
ramp, knocking unsuspecting workers and soldiers off their feet.
The shock wave felt like a wall of wind shoviAg him in the face,
squeezing his head and chest in an unseen grip. Men were yell-
ing all around him, as much from shock and surprise as pain.
When he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of the aircraft as
it banked hard right and climbed a few meters. The sight turned
his blood cold.
     Cheetah ...
"I saw it, I saw it," McLanahan sang out.
     "Me too, third hangar from the right, open doors. Hot damn,
there it is, they couldn't have positioned it any better for us."
     "You gotta get back over there before they close those hangar
doors. "
     But    was already pulling on the control stick. "Check,
boss. Hang on."
     McLanahan caught his handlebars just as    JC. yanked Cheetah
into a hard right turn. He twisted in his seat so he could search
in the direction of the turn for interceptors or obstructions. "Clear
right," he called out. "I can see a circular barricade at the south
end of the runway ... looks like it might be a triple-A gun
emplacement. "
     "I saw it,"    said, "but we're a good two miles out of
range. I'm goin' for the hangar."    completed his turn and
leveled off barely a dozen feet above the east side of the runway.
A Soviet helicopter and a small high-wing airplane blocked their
path, but    kept Cheetah coming down and flew between the
two parked aircraft on the ramp. The hangar was the only thing
in front of them now, with the cavernous doors looking like huge
gaping jaws ready to devour them.
Cheetah. There was no mistaking it-the huge F-15 fighter with
the big unmistakable foreplanes, the thundering twin engines,

twin tails to match, broad wings. It was continuing its tight turn
at an impossibly low altitude, barely above treetop level. In a
few seconds it would turn perpendicular to the runway heading
right for the main part of the base . . .
     Maraklov looked down the flight line toward the hangars.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           297
What he saw made him break out in a run. Men and equipment
were pouring out of the hangar where DreamStar was parked
and they were leaving the hangar doors wide open.
"How bad do you want DreamStar, Colonel?"
     McLanahan took his eyes off the recon pod control panel and
glanced at the forward cockpit in surprise. "What?"
     Cheetah was aimed directly for the center of the open doors,
and they were skimming the runway and parking ramp with less
than two thousand feet to go to the hangar.    said, "I got
Cheetah on hard autopilot, Patrick. You punch us out, and bye-
bye DreamStar.
          "You mean crash Cheetah into that hangar?"
     One thousand feet to go. "Now's the chance, friend. You
start evening up for Wendy, Old Dog right here, right now. It'll
look like an accident during an authorized mission . . . "
     Five hundred feet to go. The hangar doors towered above
them. They could see men lying on the ramp, soldiers shooting
in their direction, trucks and service vehicles taking off in all
directions. They could see access doors open on DreamStar,
tools lying on the hangar floor, even puddles of fluid. The cam-
era pod was whirring away, broadcasting its information to
HAWC headquarters.
     Their immediate mission was finished. The Russians had
DreamStar, no question about it-they apparently were in the
process of dismantling it, in preparation for sending it back to
Russia. Cheetah was a preproduction aircraft-the Air Force was
in the process of building thousands of them. They would not
be sacrificing anything important, and would be keeping one-of-
a-kind DreamStar out of the hands of the Russians . . .

Maraklov yelled at the guards to close the doors but it was too
late. Cheetah was on top of him before he could run twenty
steps, and the quiet, deadly hiss of the shock wave approaching
him made him dive for the tarmac . . .
     Incredible . . . Cheetah was going to hit. DreamStar was go-
ing to be destroyed . . .
"Standing by for ejection           Powell told his commander. It
was now or never . . .
     "No.




298                       DALE BROWN
     Less than one hundred feet from the hangar door    JC. Powell
yanked Cheetah on its tail and threw in full afterburner. It cleared
the hangar roof by only a few feet-Powell and McLanahan
could feel the unearthly rumble of metal beneath their feet as the
sonic wave pounded the tin roof.    kept the climb in for a
few more seconds, then rolled inverted, pulled the nose to the
horizon, rolled upright and leveled off.
     "Get us out of here, sir, "    said.
     "Right turn heading zero-one-zero, " McLanahan said evenly.
"Keep it on the deck. Ten minutes to the Honduras border."
     They flew on in silence until McLanahan reported that they
were crossing the border. There were some MiG-29 pursuers
detected, but they were far behind them by the time they had
reported in to Tegucigalpa Air Defense Control, and an entire
flight of six Honduran F-16 fighters was scrambled to turn them
away.    ordered the voice-recognition computer to activate
the IFF identification radios, then started a shallow climb at best-
range power and turned northward toward home.
The roar of Cheetah's twin engines didn't subside in Maraklov's
head for several minutes, until it was gradually replaced by the
sound of sirens wailing up and down the flight line. Slowly he
rose to his feet and surveyed the scene around him.
     To his surprise, everything seemed relatively intact-Cheetah
had not been carrying a bomb on its centerline station, as Mar-
aklov had thought, or else some major malfunction had kept it
from releasing. But from the quick glimpse he got, it looked
more like a camera pod than a bomb. Cheetah, it seemed, had
come to take pictures. Well, they definitely got what they
wanted. They had caught everyone off guard, with DreamStar
unprotected and vulnerable.
     It had to be    JC. Powell flying Cheetah. Several pilots at
Dreamland were checked out on Cheetah, but only Powell would
be crazy enough to fly it so close to the ground and so close to
the hangar. Any other pilot would have been happy with a hun-

dred, even fifty feet above ground. Not Powell.
     For a moment it appeared that whoever was flying Cheetah
was going to kamikaze himself right into DreamStar's hangar.
Cheetah and DreamStar gone together9 Maybe not such a bad
ending. But how different was his situation as it was? With
DreamStar gone and out of his control, his career was surely at
                   I pp--
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           299
an end. There was no good future for him in the Soviet Union-
he would be like a tiger, caged for the rest of his life, hunted
by the U. and distrusted or worse at "home. " He would never
be closer to Brazil or Paraguay than he was right now.
     And DreamStar was still safe-though for how long, now that
the Americans knew where it was? No choice but to play out
this hand and see how the cards fell. Somehow the photographic
attack on Sebaco gave him some hope-maybe, just maybe,
DreamStar would fly again. And with the right man at the con-
trols.
It wasn't until they had completed their final air-refueling over
the Gulf that    felt confident enough to approach the subject:
     "We could have had them, boss," he said. "You could have
done it."
     McLanahan had said nothing the entire flight, except the curt,
monotone checklist of responses required of him. But this time
he spoke up. "I know that."
     "The ACES seat would have blown us clear of the impact.
We could have made it out."
                   "Maybe.
     "Why didn't you punch us out?"
     "I don't know why. Maybe I thought it wasn't my job to
waste Cheetah. Maybe I think we still have a chance to get
DrearnStar back. Maybe I thought it was a dumb idea all on its
own. We are still alive, we haven't been captured by the Rus-
sians, Cheetah is in one piece and we've accomplished our mis-
sion. So if you can stand it, let's leave it at that."

Sebaco Airbase, Nicaragua
"Where were your air-defense forces, General?" Maraklov said
to General Tret'yak as the commander of the KGB airbase came
over to the hangar.
     "Ahstarozhna, tovarisch Polkovnik. Calm yourself, was any-
one hurt, was there damage?"
     "Do you know what that was, General? It was an American
fighter. It was carrying a camera pod or some kind of recon-
naissance unit-but it could have just as easily been carrying a
two-thousand-pound bomb. We'd all be dead now if it was."




300                      DALE BROWN
     "I said calm yourself, Colonel. Our air-defense forces were
dispatched in response to an intrusion northeast of here near the
Nicaraguan nadar site at Puerto Cabezas. Our interceptors de-
stroyed two unmanned drones heading back out to sea. Obvi-
ously they were part of this attack, used to draw away our defense
forces while this fighter staged its pass. "
     "Well, the lightbulb has finally come on," Maraklov said.
Tret'yak obviously did not understand, but Maraklov's tone of
voice was clear. "While your interceptors were being suckered
away you left DreamStar wide open for attack. Here's another
news flash for you, General-they'll be back. They no doubt
transmitted those pictures to Washington, and they're being an-
alyzed right now. You can expect a second wave of fighters in
a few hours-and this time they won't just be carrying cameras.
I know them. You have. four MiG-29 fighters to counter a whole
squadron of F-15 or F/A-18 fighter-bombers-"
          "We will be ready for them, I assure you-"
     "Never mind assurances, DreamStar is too vulnerable. We're
in real danger of losing it. After all I've done to get it here. It
will take your workers another twelve hours to finish the refit,
plus who knows how many to get her ready to fly."
     "
     We can transfer forces from Managua to Sebaco and other
coastal bases to provide longer-range coverage-"
     "You're talking about the damned Nicaraguan air force as if
it was a real defensive force. " Judging by the expression on
Tret'yak's face, Maraklov could tell the Soviet general agreed
with him. "They might be good for providing a way for the
Americans to deplete their missiles, but if you rely on the Nic-
araguans to defend Sebaco . . . "
     He did not need to finish the sentence-Tret'yak had finished
it for him. They had MiG-29 fighters at Sebaco because Tret'yak
did not trust the Nicaraguans to protect it. It would be a tactical
nightmare to bring Nicaraguan pilots to Sebaco. Few of them

spoke Russian, few spoke English, and few had trained for longer
than a month or two with their Russian counterparts. Maraklov
was right-they were good for little more than target practice for
the Americans.
     "I understand, Colonel," Tret'yak said, "but if an attack
comes we must deal with it with the resources we have. I will
contact my headquarters and request additional defensive forces
from Cuba. Perhaps some diplomatic pressure can be applied as
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           301
well. Meanwhile, the refit of the aircraft will proceed. I will call
in all shifts to increase our pace."
     KGB Headquarters, Dzerzhinsky Square, Moscow
Friday, 19 June 1996, 1858 EET (1058 EDT)
Viktor Kalinin crumpled the dispatch in his hand. His senior
aide, Kevi Molokov, stood by as the KGB chief swiveled in his
chair and stared at a map of Central America that had been set
up near his desk. "The Americans have just flown an F- 15 fighter
bomber aircraft over the exact spot where the experimental air-
craft is being stored. Tret'yak believes the Americans now have
detailed, incontrovertible evidence that their aircraft is in Nica-
ragua. Tret'yak ends his message with an observation from Mar-
aklov that the Americans may attack at any time."
     "Sir, I think General Tret'yak is overreacting," Molokov said.
"The United States will not take direct military action."
     "You seem so sure. Yet they sent an F-15 fighter right into
the Nicaraguan and General Tret'yak's forces."
     "That was foreseeable, sir. I would have expected a high-
altitude reconnaissance aircraft, such as their SR-71 or TR-1
aircraft, but I am sure they did that for show. If they were really
serious about retrieving their aircraft, they have a carrier in
Puerto Rico that could have been moved into the area by now.
That carrier is still in port. They could have sent a squadron of
fighter-bombers to destroy the aircraft on the ground, but they
sent one aircraft, apparently only to take photographs. If they
were going to mount an offensive it would have followed im-

mediately. "
     "I almost wish the damn plane had been bombed," Kalinin
said. "The XF-34 is slipping out of our grasp, Kevi. It's fortu-
nate that the American government is denying the entire inci-
dent-no pressure on our government has been applied yet.
Yet . . .
     "We need Maraklov to fly the plane out of Nicaragua before
real pressure begins," Molokov said. "Once the aircraft is in
our hands we can control events."
     "But I can't stand by waiting for the dam to burst," Kalinin
said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand. "I want a




302                      DALE BROWN
way to stop an American offensive before it begins. Never mind
that you think they're not going to start one. "
     "That would mean exposing the Central Committee," Mo-
lokov said. "Only they can initiate any direct dealings with the
American government. "
     Kalinin paused, considering his aide's words. "We just may be
able to bypass the Central Committee. To a degree, at least . . . "
     "I am sure it is possible, sir, but can you take that chance?
It would mean a major breach of procedure-"
     "It's time to reach out," Kalinin said cryptically. "Be sure I
have two secure communications lines open all evening."
     "Yes, sir, they are open now. But who can you possibly con-
tact that has the authority to act in so little time?"
     - This government's golden boy. He is in a perfect position
to influence the Americans. Whether he will cooperate with us
depends-if he has any skeletons in his closet. I believe a call
from KGB headquarters will be enough to get his attention. It is
time to see if this star performer also has reason for a guilty
conscience.
The White House Conference Room
Friday, 19 June 1996, 1605 EDT
General Elliott watched as the President, Deborah O'Day, Wil-
bur Curtis, William Stuart and Richard Benson viewed the replay
of Cheetah's sortie over Nicaragua. He had had an opportunity
to see the tape as it was received via satellite from Dreamland
after decoding, and it reminded Elliott of films shot from the
first car on a roller-coaster. The viewers were twisting and
squirming in their seats as it unfolded.
     "This is the forward view," Elliott explained, "as the aircraft
approached Sebaco. The F-15 is under attack from an SA-10
surface-to-air missile site. There-you can just barely see the
missile as it misses." The huge missile could be seen easily,
and Elliott watched the viewers cringe and even move to the left
as the missile shot by, missing by only a few yards.
     
'The aircraft is now approaching Sebaco. As you can see,
the base is not very large but its facilities are extensive. Here-
you can see an anti-aircraft gun emplacement that we have iden-
tified as an older version of the standard S-60 air-defense weapon.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          303
Our aircraft has come up on the base so fast there wasn't enough
time for the Soviets to get this S-60 into position. Both the
SA-10 and S-60 are fairly old systems. The Soviets throw noth-
ing awa
                     Y.
     The scene shifted to a side-looking image, with forests and
hills going by in a blur. "This imagery has been slowed down
fifty percent-we'll slow it down even more in a moment. Our
aircraft is at Mach one-about seven hundred eighty miles an
hour." The trees thinned out as the first few signs of the runway
environment came into view, but the most spectacular sight was
the buildings and other structures racing by-all towering over
the F-15. Elliott slowed the imagery down by half again as he
continued:
     "We are now looking out the left-side camera of the F-15, at
the rows of hangars and buildings just off the flight line at Se-
baco. We will replay the image without magnification at first.
Here-take a look at this hangar."
     Even without increased magnification the sight was obvious-
it was the XF-34 parked inside the hangar. "It's unmistakable-
this is DreamStar. Notice the forward-swept wings, the canards
with the trailing edges pointing downward, the chin intake, the
slanted vertical stabilizers. This is what the crew saw on their
first pass. Now I'll let the film go for the rest of the pass."
     In normal speed the scene suddenly swung down out of view,
revealing only sky and treetops-mostly treetops, since the fighter
was still very low. The scene then shifted back to the forward
camera, and Elliott could see Benson grabbing his chair's arm-
rests as treetops skittered past the bottom half of the screen. The
image then centered on the hangar again-and remained centered

on it. They did not see the top of the hangar. The field of view
was centered precisely on the aircraft inside. Their eyes widened
as the mouth of the hangar raced forward. It seemed to engulf
the entire screen. The needle nose of the XF-34 was aimed right
at them. It seemed impossible that the fighter could turn away
in time-
     The hangar disappeared, to be replaced by a rearward shot as
the F-15 sped a few feet above the hangar-they could see an-
tennae and even birds' nests on the hangar roof. The image re-
volved once, and the trees rushed up again, snapping and
whipping around in the fury of the fighter's wingtip vortices.




304                      DALE BROWN
     Attorney General Benson was the first to get out a word. -7hat
was unbelievable. Who was that pilot?"
     "One of my best test pilots. He flies photographic chase mis-
sions against the XF-34. He was the one who almost shot down
DreamStar over Mexico."
     "He must have a death wish," William Stuart said. "Or else
he's completely nuts. How could you let him fly this mission?
Wasn't he reprimanded by General Kane?"
     "I needed the best pilot for this job. There was no final de-
cision on a reprimand, and I needed him. Considering his per-
formance today I believe he's in line for a commendation."
     I The President was still blinking from what he had just seen.
"I'm very impressed, General Elliott. It certainly sent a message
to the Soviets . . . There's no doubt that your DreamStar fighter
is in Nicaragua. What do you think they're going to do with it?"
     Elliott pressed a button on his remote control. The reconpod
imagery rewound to a clear view. inside the hangar, just before
Cheetah dodged skyward. "That's clear in this picture, sir. You
can see across panels on the sides open, and these objects here
are fuel tanks. We believe they're modifying DreamStar with
long-range fuel tanks. I believe their objective is to fly it out of
Nicaragua as soon as possible, maybe to Cuba, maybe even to
Russia. "
     The President nodded. "Well, for damn sure they obviously
aren't about to give it back . . . I will call a meeting later this
evening with the Russian ambassador and Secretary Danahall.
Debbie, Richard, I'd like you to be there. We need to make an
official protest. Let's set it for eight P. That'll get the ambas-
sador's attention."
     "But Mr. President," Elliott cut in, "that won't stop the Rus-
sians. By the time that meeting is over DreamStar could be on
a Soviet-controlled airbase. We have got to keep it from leaving
Nicaragua. "
     "And exactly how am I supposed to manage that? Load up

your F-15 fighter with bombs and destroy that base? Send in the
Marines? Think, General. I can't attack a country that's barely
the size of Arkansas and five times poorer without a damn good
overwhelming reason."
     "This has very little to do with Nicaragua, sir. It--
     Stuart, still smarting from not being included in the plans on
Cheetah's recon mission over Sebaco, said: "The world won't
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           305
care if we say we're really after Russians. All they'll know is
that we attacked Nicaragua. Your strong-arm tactics would get
this government into deep trouble-"
     "All right ' enough," the President said. "It's late. General
Elliott, I'll expect you at the staff meeting tomorrow morning at
eight A. We'll go over the situation then and decide what
next." As Elliott stood, tight-lipped, and headed for the door,
the intercom phone on the President's communications panel be-
side his desk buzzed and he picked it up.
     "Hold it, General," the President called out. His eyes wid-
ened with delight. "You're kidding . . . and he's here? Right
now? You bet, Paul. Send him up." The President scanned the
faces around him in the room. "Rewind your tape there, Gen-
eral. Sergei Vilizherchev just arrived. He wants to speak with
US."
          "The Russian ambassador is here?" Benson said.
     I 'It's just got to be about DreamStar, " Deborah O'Day said.
"But I never expected them to react first. I was figuring on a
world-class stall job if we tried to see him tonight. What are you
going to do, Mr. President?"
     "Listen to what he has to say. I assume he wants to talk about
a way out of this. If he tries to deny that they have the aircraft
we'll show him this tape. " He picked up his intercom button
again. "Paul, see if Dennis Danahall is available. If he can be
here, we'll ask Vilizherchev to wait until he arrives."
          "Yes, sir.
     The President put the phone down. "I hate to admit it, Wil-

bur," he said to Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, "but it looks
like sending that F-15 over Sebaco wasn't such a bad idea. We
seemed to have gotten the Soviets' attention without getting any-
one killed.
          "The crew of the Old Dog," Elliott said quietly.
     "I accept the reminder," the President said, "but this isn't
the time to be settling a score, General. Right now, we want
your airplane back. Period."
     "Sir, I'm sorry, but I think they owe more than DreamStar,"
Elliott said. "A dozen good people are dead, plus the destruction
of the B-52 and the fighters."
     "What I want is an end to this whole business," the President
said. "We'll still negotiate for reparations, but to tell the damned




306                       DALE BROWN
truth I'll settle for getting back what belongs to us and having
the parties move back to their comers and call this one a draw."
     Elliott considered pressing his argument further, but there
seemed no point to it now. He had spent much of the day on the
carpet with the President of the United States after an exhausting
twenty-four hours the da before. He had organized a daylight
recon mission through a heavily defended Soviet base with no
losses, which apparently had forced the Russians to the bargain-
ing table. He had been at it for eighteen hours. He was beat. All
right, maybe it was time to let the big-shots do their thing.
     The phone rang again. Vilizherchev had just arrived. Surpris-
ingly, none of the few straggling members of the White House
press corps had picked up on the early evening visit-since Fri-
day was now considered the first day of the three-day weekend,
few reporters hung around in the evening. Secretary of State
Danahall was en route; they would make the ambassador wait
about fifteen minutes until Danahall arrived and could be briefed
on what was going on.
     Danahall, partially briefed in his car on the way to the White
House, arrived ten minutes later-Cesare had to give him a jacket
and tie from the contingency closet-the Secretary of State,
working late in his office, looked rumpled. Cesare handed him
the coat as he finished with the tie.
     "I was wondering where my jacket had disappeared to,"
Danahall deadpanned. ". . . So Vilizherchev just called the
White House and requested a conference?"
     "We figure it has to do with DrearnStar," Richard Benson
said. "General Elliott's group found the aircraft in Nicaragua.
We got photos."
     "Brad Elliott's group, eh?" Danahall said with a shake of his
head. "That explains why Vilizherchev is coming out here at
this time of night. What did you do, General-create a new Lake
Nicaragua with some Star Wars neutrino bomb?"
     There wasn't time for a reply. The President gave a nod to

Cesare, who went to the formal waiting area and asked the So-
viet ambassador inside.
     Sergei Vilizherchev didn't fit the image of the stereotypical
Russian bureaucrat. Young as career diplomats went, in his early
fifties, dark haired, tall and athletic, he wore an Italian-tailored
suit, spoke with a slight, well-trained British accent. Altogether
as polite and correct as could be. A Soviet cookie-duster, or so
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           307
it seemed. It was common knowledge that this man would be
the- next Soviet foreign minister, in a few years, and possibly
could become General Secretary.
     Vilizherchev strode up to the head of the conference table,
where the President was seated. Taylor stood just as Vilizher-
chev approached him. The Russian ambassador made a slight
bow before extending his hand.
     "Good evening, Mr. President, very nice to see you again,
sir. "
     "Dobriy vyechyeer, Mr. Vilizherchev, " the President said in
awkward Russian. If Vilizherchev was amused by the Presi-
dent's attempt, he was careful not to show it.
     "Thank you very much, Mr. President. Your Russian is ex-
cellent. You will soon be able to dismiss all your interpreters."
The ambassador shook hands all around and seemed quite at
home in the White House conference room-until he saw Gen-
eral Elliott. Then, for the first time, Vilizherchev looked genu-
inely surprised.
     "Good evening, Ambassador Vilizherchev," Elliott said,
extending his hand. "I am-,,
     Vilizherchev took his hand as if he was accepting a delicate
china cup. "General Bradley Elliott. It is a pleasure," he said.
He shook hands with Elliott, clasping it firmly as he spoke. "It
is an honor."
     "Have we met before, Mr. Ambassador?"
     "Your name and reputation are well known in the Soviet
Union, General. I must admit, not always in a friendly fashion,

but they are the short-sighted ones. I assure you, sir, many hold
you in very high regard in my country. We recognize military
genius and patriotism no matter what the nation or politics. "
     The man knew how to lay it on, Elliott thought. "Spasiba,
Mr. Ambassador." Cesare motioned to a seat, and the arnbas@
sador sat down. Elliott remained standing.
     "You asked to see us, Mr. Ambassador," the President asked.
     "From the group assembled here tonight, Mr., President, I
think we all know what the topic of discussion will be. I must,
as I'm sure you can appreciate, strongly protest the overflight of
our military base in Nicaragua by your aircraft. It was, as you
know, a violation of restricted airspace and territorial bounda-
ries, as well as a serious violation of international aviation reg-
ulations.




308                       DAIE BROWN
     The President glanced at his advisers, looked at Vilizherchev
with an exaggerated expression of confusion. "Ambassador, did
you really come here at this hour to tell us this?"
     Vilizherchev smiled, shook his head. Ever engaging, no mat-
ter the mission. "I would not be so impertinent as to waste your
time like that, Mr. President." His accent was so flawless it was
hard to remember that he was a Russian. "That was the official
statement, Mr. President, and the official airspace-violation pro-
test will be sent through the proper government channels for
proc: essing. But I doubt if the pilots on that mission will ever be
identified. No, sir, I have come to relay my goverriment's PO-
sition concerning the incident with the very unusual aircraft."
          President Taylor waited, said nothing.
     "This is, of course, being recorded," the ambassador said.
"And I understand that such a recording is for confidential use
only, and I agree to the recording if you, sirs, guarantee that it
will not become public and if my office is furnished an unedited
copy of the transcript."
     The President nodded. Formalities over, Vilizherchev contin-
ued:
     "We have concluded our initial investigation into this matter,
including interviews with the pilot, a reconstruction of the flight
path taken by the pilot, and an examination of the aircraft. We
conclude that a formal, high-level military investigation must be
conducted to discover how the aircraft in question came to arrive
at our installation in Nicaragua, why it is there, and what, if
any, ulterior objectives the pilot may have had. We are asking
your cooperation while our investigation is underway."
     As Elliott stared in disbelief at Vilizherchev, Secretary of State
Danahall reacted. "If I may . . . Ambassador, this sounds to
me like your government is saying that you don't know why this
aircraft is on your base, that you don't know the pilot and that
you were all unaware of any aspect of the plan to steal that
air-craft and deliver it to your country. Do I have that right?"
     
Vilizherchev appeared genuinely surprised. "Excuse me, Mr.
Secretary, but I am to understand that you believe the media
reports that the pilot of that aircraft is a Soviet KGB agent? You
actually believe that a Soviet agent, somehow in place and un-
detected in your military for several years, actually managed to
steal a top-secret military aircraft-and that this was a plan de-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           309
vised by our intelligence service? We must clear the air right
now .
          "A good idea," Elliott said.
     Vilizherchev ignored him. "The pilot of that aircraft is not a
Russian, sir. We have identified him as Captain Kenneth F.
James of the United States Air Force, a test pilot in your orga-
nization, General Elliott. He has never had any connection with
the KGB or our government in any fashion or capacity-no as-
sociation with the Soviet Union in any way, except that his late
parents traveled on occasion to the Soviet Union for purposes of
business and pleasure. I am aware that your press reported that
Captain James radioed he was a colonel in the KGB. That is
nonsense. James is not, never has been, a KGB agent or any
other kind of agent of the Soviet Union."
     The President glanced at Danahall and O'Day, and even
though he returned his clinical gaze back at Vilizherchev, the
momentary hesitancy in his eyes had been detected. This was
not a possibility that anyone had seriously considered. Was it a
KGB colonel in that jet? Just because he said he was KGB didn't
make it so, and the President, and the others, realized that they
had no real evidence to prove the true identity of the pilot.
     "Our intelligence service has interviewed Captain James at
out installation in Nicaragua, and we have tapes of that interview
that you are welcome to review. Captain James is not exactly
cooperative, nor has he completely made clear his motivations,
but he has stated that he requests asylum in the Soviet Union.
His request has not been approved; it will become part of our
investigation-"
     
"You're saying he defected? " the President said.
     "That, Mr. President, is precisely what I am saying."
     "That's bullshit-" Elliott exploded. The President held up a
hand to cut him off.
     "General Elliott, I am telling you the truth," Vilizherchev
said. "Your Captain James acted on his own, without coercion
or support from my government-"
     "What about the refueling in Mexico?" O'Day asked. "Our
pilots reported that it was a Soviet supply helicopter at that
mountain airfield that refueled our fighter."
     "The details of that aren't clear to us, Ms. O'Day. But ap-
parently Captain James made contact with operatives in Las Ve-




7-
1
310                       DALE BROWN
gas and arranged for refueling support. But I am pledging to you
that your Captain James had no support from us in planning and
executing this operation. We concede only that we were coop-
erative, mistakenly in my government's view, once he left your
country. "
     " You're lying," Elliott said. Heads turned in his direction,
but no one, including the President, made a move this time to
silence Elliott.
     Vilizherchev turned to face Elliott. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
     " Look, we identified the two men killed on my airfield in
Nevada. One was an experienced KGB operative. The other was
a young, inexperienced infantryman. We've also identified the
mortar rounds used during the escape. All were Soviet in origin.
James was a KGB agent, and he killed twelve people while steal-
ing a top-secret aircraft from a U. military installation. In my
book they call that an act of war.  Of course, I'm a general, not
a statesman."         I .
     It was all supposed to be a bluff. KGB Chief Kalinin had
assured Vilizherchev that the identities of the two operatives
were untraceable. By some standards, perhaps, but the Ameri-
cans had sophisticated ways of identifying even a badly muti-
lated body. And Elliott now was describing the two operatives
almost perfectly. Vilizherchev decided he had been caught in a
neatly arranged trap. To use the American vernacular-he'd been
set up.
     But, again according to Kalinin, a trace of the mortars used
in the attack should have revealed that they were Belgian in
origin, not Soviet. They had never been consigned to anyone
remotely connected with Russia until they were turned over to
the two operatives by a dealer in the Dominican Republic days
before the operation was to begin . . . Unless there'd been a
terrific foul-up, Elliott was just talking to provoke him into re-

acting, showing his hand . . .
     "I would like to see your report on those men and those weap-
ons," Vilizherchev said.
"And we would like to see Kenneth James," Elliott said.
"It can be arranged very soon. I have been in contact with-"
"And I want the modification process discontinued on the
aircraft," Elliott added.
"Modification?"
Elliott hit one button on the remote control he held in his
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             311
hand. The digital videotape cued itself to the preprogrammed
point and the screen flared to life, showing the last clear image
of DreamStar taken from Cheetah. The picture clearly showed
access panels open, the fuel tanks in position under DreamStar's
wings, and jacks supporting DreamStar in position. Vilizherchev
studied the image.
     "Thank you, sir, for verifying that it was an American aircraft
that violated our restricted airspace," Vilizherchev said.
     "Thank you for verifying that you have the aircraft and that
you are in fact destroying something that is not your property,"
Elliott shot back.
     The film was a surprise as well-Kalinin had not mentioned
anything about a reconnaissance film of such detail. "The air-
craft was heavily armed when it arrived at our airbase. Since it
is obviously an unusual aircraft with systems and devices un-
known to us, a thorough examination was necessary to verify
that the aircraft posed no threat to our people. Otherwise, im-
mediate disposal would have been called for."
     "I'll be happy to supply you with personnel to ensure that the
aircraft is safe," Elliott said quickly.
     "That will not be necessary. Our technicians are well quali-
fied to- II
     "The bottom line is that the aircraft is not your property, it
belongs to the U. We want it back immediately."
     "I'm afraid that's impossible, General," Vilizherchev said,

surprised that the President or one of his advisers wasn't step-
ping in. He turned away from Elliott and back to the President.
"I trust you understand, sir, that a complete investigation must
be conducted. The aircraft is material evidence in that investi-
gation. We simply can't release it until the investigation has
been completed."
     Silence. Elliott was being left to carry the ball, for the mo-
ment. "That sounds like a dodge to me, Mr. Ambassador,"
Elliott said.
     Vilizherchev's cool was wearing thin. "We have procedures
that must be followed in serious matters such as this, just as you
do. Let me assure this distinguished gathering that at the end of
our investigation all property belonging to the United States will
be returned- "
     "Including James?" Deborah O'Day said.




312                      DALE BROWN
     "If he chooses to live in the Soviet Union, he will probably
be allowed, just as you-"
     "You still expect us to believe that James isn't a Russian
spy?" Elliott said angrily.
     "That's enough, General Elliott," the President said, decid-
ing the two had played out as much as was useful. "Mr. Am-
bassador, do you have any other message from. your
government? "
     "Only this, sir. My government understands your reasons for
the overflight of our base in Nicaragua, and we understand why
you shot down our supply helicopter in Mexico. But I have tried
to assure you that this aircraft intruded on our territory without
our knowledge and that, we must conduct an investigation to
determine the facts. We expect no interference while this inves-
tigation is underway. We ask only for your patience. But we
cannot, of course, tolerate any hostile or coercive acts. I remind
you again that it was your aircraft and your pilot that intruded
on our base and our ally's sovereign borders. You must at least
recognize our right to determine the truth."
     President Taylor moved forward in his chair, leaned on the
conference table. "Now you give this message to the General
Secretary, Mr. Vilizherchev. I don't like threats, however dip-
lomatically put. I don't like being told what to do, especially by
someone who has our property. You are in no position to make
demands on us."
     Elliott was encouraged by these opening remarks, but they
stopped quickly as the President continued: "I do, however,
understand your request for a period of time to conduct an in-
vestigation and I will allow it .
     Elliott rushed in. "Mr. President
     ". . . On one condition, Mr. Ambassador," the President
went on, looking at Elliott out of the comer of his eye. "If your
government guarantees me that the aircraft you hold will not be
moved out of its present location, we will take no action against

you for a period of five days. After that time we will take im-
mediate steps to recover our property, including the use of naval,
marine, and air forces. Clear, Mr. Ambassador?"
     Vilizherchev paused. It was incredible-Kalinin apparently had
actually got something right this tiny. The Americans did not
want to precipitate a war over this aircraft. The other stuff was
It
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          313
face-saving        "I will need to confer with my government
about your proposal, sir.  "
     "Agreed. But the five-day timetable starts now. if we do not
have our aircraft back in five days, we'll go in and get it. I'll
expect your government's reply in the morning. Good night, Mr.
Vilizherchev." Vilizhe'rchev stood, made a polite but impatient
bow to the President, and left. Cesare showed himout.
     "Mr. President," Elliott said, "you can't give them five days.
We can't afford to give them five hours."
     "General Elliott, if I can get the Soviets to agree to keep
DreamStar in the western hemisphere, and avoid hostilities at
the same time, I consider that an accomplishment. Considering
the situation I've been placed in." He rubbed his eyes irritably,
then pounded the armrest of his chair. "I've considered a mili-
tary action each time you've presented your arguments, Brad,
each time, and I always come back to this: we would lose the
aircraft, the Russians would score a major propaganda coup and
it would be political suicide for this administration. That's even
supposing that we destroyed the thing on the ground. If we lost
some of our soldiers or flyers in the process, or failed to destroy
the aircraft, it would look even worse for us. A military response
is just a no-win situation."
     "Sir, we've proved that the Soviets are planning to fly
DreamStar out of Nicaragua. Just because we've heard from Vil-
izherchev doesn't mean that they've changed their minds. They
can make a deal with us and then go right ahead with their plans.

We need to act, Mr. President."
     Elliott, the President thought, was relentless. Twenty-four
hours earlier this guy was on the edge of a dishonorable dis-
charge. Tonight he was interrupting senior Cabinet members,
calling a credentialed ambassador a liar, and trying to negotiate
with the President of the United States. Still, or maybe because
of all that, and despite Benson's warning, he was starting to
respect, maybe even like, this veteran Air Force officer. But the
man was too ready to hit out with military force. He had no
conception of the political realities involved. Generals rarely did.
     "I have to disagree, General, at least for now. Brad, the truth
here is that we have few realistic options. I just feel the reper-
cussions of an offensive against the Russians would be far worse
than the loss of this aircraft, no matter how advanced it is. Let's
at least wait to see what their reaction to my proposal is."




 r
     314                        DALE BROWN
          "I'm not suggesting an offensive, sir.          My concern right now
     is that they'll go ahead with their plans          to take DreamStar out
     of Nicaragua-that this visit by Vilizherchev was just a smoke-
     screen to get us to relax and drop any plans to retake DreamStar.
     While we wait for a response from the Soviets, DreamStar could
     be on its way to Russia, and then we would have no recourse
     except to begin negotiations all over again. That could drag
     for weeks, even months-as long as it took to export the XF-
     one could interrupt, Elliott continued: "I have a plan, sir, to set
     up a very small-scale air cordon in the Caribbean-very small,
     unobtrusive, easily managed but effective. The plan revolves
     around one AWACS radar plane based out of San Juan, with
     fighter escort, to cover the eastern Caribbean, and one AWACS
     operating overwater out of Honduras to cover the northern and
     western Caribbean. "
          "Why couldn't DrearriStar just blast its way out like it blasted
     its way into Nicaragua, General? " Stuart asked. "You said thi
     XF-34 can fly rings around any other fighter in our inventory. @f
     we put a radar plane and a few fighters right in its way, what Is
     to stop it ' from shooting them down?"
          "If the Soviets fit those external tanks to DreamStar, she won't
     be in nearly as good condition to fight," Elliott said. He sounded
     more optimistic than he felt-he was in the realm of pure spec-
     ulation now. "DreamStar's wings weren't designed for external
     fuel tanks. My guess is that a small interceptor group can defeat
     DreamStar in this situation-at least the odds would be nearly
     even . . . "
          "But your plan still calls for an armed response," Stuart said.
     "You're trying to force this government into a confrontation
     with the Russians. How many times does the President need to
     say no to you, General? "
          
"If DrearnStar stays in Nicaragua, sir, there won't be a con-
     frontation, " Air Force Secretary Wilbur Curtis spoke up. "Our
     interceptor task force will be on just another Caribbean training
     flight. If DreamStar tries to break out, then the Russians will
     have violated our arrangement and demonstrated a cynical un-
     willingness to resolve this matter-" he turned to the President-
     "in which case, in my opinion, it justifies a much stronger
     response from us . .. - "
          The President leaned back in his chair, massaged his forehead
34's technology to their development bureaus .
                                                  Before any-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             315
and stared at the chart of Central America. Exhaustion and strain
made the colors in the chart begin to dance before his eyes.  
"What forces do we have in the area?" he asked.
     Elliott was already flipping to the page in his notes in antici-
pation. "Sir, the forces are essentially in place right now to
cover the eastern Caribbean. We can step up interceptor activity
to identify all low-flying high-speed aircraft that we detect. As
for the northern and western Caribbean, that will be tougher.
We should be able to arrange a fighter drag into the area in six
to eight hours-"
     "A what? 'I
     "A fighter drag, a deployment. Nine fighters from Howard
Air Force Base in the Canal Zone would deploy to our garrison
staging base at La Cieba on the Honduras north coast. Three
aircraft would go on station over the Caribbean immediately with
the AWACS bird and a tanker, with the rest rotating in shifts.
It may be possible to get support from the Cayman Islands for
landing rights, but I'm anticipating difficulties with them allow-
ing armed American aircraft to land there so I've planned this
without the Cayman Islands."
     The President was impressed that Elliott had already planned
this mission in such detail. Still . . .
     "This would continue until we could bring up naval support

from New Orleans or the eastern Caribbean, either of which
would take approximately forty-eight hours to reach the area,"
Elliott pressed on. "The best we've got available is the carrier
Theodore Roosevelt, which is deployed north of Puerto Rico on
a training cruise. She can be in position in about two days.
CVN-73 George Washington is the better choice, but she's in
port in New Orleans and may take several days to deploy. Air-
craft would be armed with short- and medium-range air-to-air
missiles as well as long-range fuel tanks. They would intercept
any aircraft within range and visually identify each one. If they
become overloaded with targets, priority would be given to high-
speed, high-altitude aircraft. Although it's possible for DreamStar
to make the flight at almost any speed and almost any altitude,
the enormous distance he has to go would suggest he'd have to
conserve as much fuel as possible, and that means high altitude
and as little high-lift, low-speed flying as possible . . . Our pil-
ot's orders would be . . . and this hurts . . . to destroy DreamStar
and any other hostile aircraft that may be escorting her that en-




316                       DAIE BROWN
gage our aircraft. But if possible they would try to harass or
divert DreamStar toward a forced water landing."
     Elliott finally stopped his headlong briefing, then glanced at
Secretary of the Air Force Curtis. Curtis nodded to Elliott and
said to the President: "Sir, I'm recommending adoption of this
plan. It's low profile and at least the Air Force's part is easily
implemented. We'll need to confer with Navy and the rest of
the Joint Chiefs on the deployment of a carrier group, but I'm
afraid this situation warrants an immediate go-ahead on the first
phase. "
     The President looked skeptical as he studied the chart. "How
much danger will it be to our pilots?" he said, pointing to the
map. "It looks like they'll be overwater for a long time."
     Elliott nodded. "Unfortunately, that's true, sir. The fighters
will have to cover eighteen-thousand square miles of open ocean.
Tanker support can keep them in the air for as long as necessary,
we'll rotate another flight and another tanker in to take over
every four hours."
     "Six-hour missions for them, refuelings every hour, plus the
strain of visually identifying and possibly going into combat on
each intercept they make," Curtis summarized. "And all of it
overwater-not exactly a fighter pilot's favorite place to be."
     "Sounds like you're trying to talk me out of it, Wilbur," the
President said wryly. He held up a hand as the Secretary of the
Air Force began to speak. "I know, I know, you're just hitting
me with the worst. Well, I think it's a lousy plan, gentlemen."
     Curtis and Elliott felt their hearts drop.
     "You'd be placing those pilots in great jeopardy because you
don't trust the Russians to keep their word in this thing. You act
like Stalin or Khrushchev is still in charge there." He did not try
to curb his temper; exhaustion, tension, concern and frustration
had all built to a point he had to let loose. "And all to stop one
aircraft and one pilot from possibly being flown out of Nicara-
gua, and all because you two failed to uncover a Soviet agent in

your own organizations. No. You're asking me to place more
men's lives at risk because of your screwups. You're asking
me to put this presidency in jeopardy to satisfy your need for
revenge. "
     The President swiveled his chair around and stared at the Cen-
tral American chart. Secretary of Defense Stuart had trouble hid-
ing his satisfaction-there was little doubt that he was going to
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          317
enjoy being Taylor's hatchet man when the order came down to
get rid of Elliott and Curtis. Cesare had motioned in a young
steward with a pot of coffee, quietly telling him to keep the
President's cup far out of reach in case his temper exploded
again.
     Elliott glanced at Deborah O'Day, who, to his surprise,
seemed to be wearing a confident expression. What did she
know? After that tirade, the President wasn't going to-
     "General Elliott." The President was pointing at the chart.
"I want another option for those pilots. Six to seven hours over-
water in a single-seat fighter is too much, especially if they have
to keep it up for days. What else have you got?"
     Elliott stepped quickly to the chart, finding the place he wanted
and putting a finger on it. "I'm afraid there are few other op-
tions, sir. In the eastern Caribbean we have landing rights only
in Puerto Rico and Grenada, and possibly in Montserrat or An-
guilla, but it still requires long overwater periods. It's worse in
the western Caribbean. There are several other coastal airfields
in Honduras, including Puerto Lempira here, thirty miles north
of the Nicaraguan border, but they've been abandoned by the
military and probably aren't secure. I wouldn't recommend land-
ing fighters there-the drug traffickers control the area better than
the militia. Honduras has a small island, the Santanilla, between
Honduras and the Cayman Islands, but their airfield is very small.
Nine U. fighters and their support teams would quickly over-
whelm the place. La Cieba is the best option-"
     "Maybe not," Deborah O'Day said. "General Elliott, you've

already mentioned the Cayman Islands. Your assessment of that
government's response to a request for landing rights may be a
bit premature. Sir, I'd like to follow up on this. Allow General
Elliott's fighters to take up their stations in the Caribbean. We
can get pennission from Honduras for landing rights in La Cieba.
While the planes are airborne I'll get permission from the Cay-
man Islands and the Brits, to land and service our fighters. The
Navy goes in there all the time-I don't think a few fighters will
bother them too much. I'll work on landing rights in Montserrat
too. "
     "I don't like this," the President said. "We're risking dozens
of lives to guard against a breach of a legitimate deal with the
Soviets. But like Reagan once said, 'Trust, but cut the cards.'
All right, the operation is approved, General Elliott. Provided




318                       DALE BROWN
that we get landing rights in the Cayman Islands and Montserrat.
If we don't get authorization, your western fighters will refuel
with their tanker, recover in Honduras for crew rest, then return
to Panama, and the eastern fighters will stay in Puerto Rico. I'm
not going to authorize extended overwater patrols. If they're
allowed to recover in Georgetown on Grand Cayman, or Ply-
mouth on Montserrat, I want no more than four-hour patrols
over-water. I'll reserve judgment about follow-on naval opera-
tions until I get a briefing from the Navy. Understood? " Curtis
and Elliott quickly said it was.
     "Brief your pilots that I want no interference with normal air
traffic in the area," the President said. "It's probably full of
high-speed jets. I don't want your people scaring any airliners
or, much worse, pulling the trigger on the wrong target. Is that
clear? "
     "Absolutely, sir," Curtis replied.
     "I'll be on board the AWACS and take on-scene control of
the situation," Elliott said.
     "I've heard that one before. Wilbur, I want briefings every
hour once this thing kicks off, beginning first thing in the morn-
ing. And be prepared to stand down your fighters if we get the
right answer back from the Soviets."
          "Yes, sir."
     The President stood and walked out of the conference room
without another word. Deborah O'Day went up to Elliott, a smile
on her face.
"Thanks for the assist," Elliott said quietly.
She stepped closer. "You owe me one, Bradley Elliott. And
I expect prompt repayment, in full."
Elliott studied her bright eyes, nodded.
     ' 'Plan on your fighters recovering in the Cayman Islands,"
she said. "The deputy governor of the Caymans happens to be
an old family friend. I hope you can bring a two-seat fighter
with you-he and members of his family will probably ask for

a ride. He's a nut about fighters."
     "I doubt this mission will turn out to be a joy-ride," Elliott
said, and shut up as Wilbur Curtis joined them and they all
walked down the hall from the Oval Office to O'Day's office.
Major Preston served coffee as the three took seats.
                     "
     "We need to get our staffs together and fine-tune this thing,
Curtis said. "Briefing the Old Man is one thing-getting two
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            319
squadrons of interceptors together for an extended deployment
is another." He looked at Elliott. "Problem, Brad?"
     "Something doesn't make sense. " Elliott walked over to a
large map of the southern United States and Central America.
"Between naval units normally on-station and our airbase in
Puerto Rico, we've got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty
well right now. It's the western Caribbean where we don't have
enough coverage. Yet we're assuming the Russians would fly
DreamStar east toward Russia."
          "Naturally," Curtis replied. "Where else?"
     He pointed at the map. "Cuba. Cuba is only six hundred
miles from Sebaco. Once DreamStar is in Cuba . . . hell, it
might as well be in Russia. We couldn't touch it there. Cuba is
no Nicaragua . . . "
     "But why put those external tanks on DreaniStar? " O'Day
asked. "Why spend the extra time to bother?"
     "I think they still intend to fly it to Russia," Elliott said. "But
we caught them red-handed preparing for a long flight. They
know we can close off the eastern Caribbean. For now, Cuba is
a more logical destination. "
     "It doesn't make sense to go to Cuba, Brad," Curtis insisted.
"Sure, they can protect it better, but Cuba is right on our back
doorstep. We have round-the-clock surveillance on Cuba. If we
could get the President to buy off on it, we could blockade that
island by sea and air. DreamStar could never get out. Besides,
we saw those extra tanks on DreamStar. Why would they waste

the time putting those things on if they only intended to take it
to Cuba?"
     "I disagree with your assessment of Cuba's security," Elliott
said. "We don't have the same military superiority we did back
in the sixties-a cordon would be much more difficult. And I
think the Russians realize that we aren't going to use a lot of
military force to get DreaniStar back. This is an election year-
they figure Taylor won't hang it out over one fighter. " He paused,
then rapped his knuckles on the long, thin island south of Flor-
ida. "Nope, I'm convinced-they'll take DreaniStar to Cuba
instead of flying it east."
     "What you're saying doesn't make sense, Brad," Curtis ar-
gued. "I think we should concentrate our forces on the southern
and eastern Caribbean. It would be stupid to fly to Cuba-that
wouldn't get them anywhere."




320                     DAIE BROWN
     Elliott was silent for a few moments, then: "All right, sir.
But we've got the eastern Caribbean covered pretty well - I'll take
command of the western task force."
     "The Old Man expects you to take the east."
     "I only told him I'd be airborne in an AWACS-1 didn't say
which one. I'll be in real-time contact with the eastern forces at
all times from the AWACS out of Honduras. I'll bet my pension
they try to pull a fast one on us."
     "Let me assure you, Brad," Curtis said, "you are betting
your pension on this one."
The Consulate of the Soviet Socialist Republics,
Washington, D.
Friday, 19 June 1996, 2015 EDT (Saturday, 0415 EE7)
The voice and data-scrambler system was experiencing severe
distortion from solar-flare activity, but the elation in the KGB
chief's voice was obvious.
     "That is very good news," Kalinin said. He was sitting in
the Kremlin communications center in Moscow, sipping tea and
waiting impatiently for his aide, Molokov, to finish buttering a
plate of pirozhoks, his favorite small turnover pastries, with fruit
and creme fillings. "The Americans are obviously anxious to
avoid an embarrassing conflict so close to their national elec-
tions.
     "The Americans may have extended their waiting period,
comrade Kalinin," Vilizherchev said from Washington, sipping
a snifter of brandy, "but they have certainly not relented. They
are expecting a message from Moscow in no more than twelve
hours agreeing not to move their aircraft out of Sebaco and
agreeing to turn the aircraft over to them in five days. If you do
not comply they have well-supported and vocal elements of their
military that are ready to invade Sebaco and take their property
back. They're led by General Bradley Elliott of their air force - "
     "Elliott . . . a paper tiger, an anachronism," Kalinin said.
"Too hawkish for the current government. I estimate he will be

forced to retire soon. After all, we removed the XF-34 from his
base. "
  "Elliott was at the White House tonight," Vilizherchev said.
"Apparently he was the one who staged the overflight at Sebaco
                     I-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           321
today. If he has fallen from grace in the eyes of Taylor's gov-
ernment, they are hiding it very well."
     "Don't worry about Elliott--
     "I am not worried about him," Vilizherchev said. "I am
concerned about you, sir. On your behalf I agreed to take their
message to my government. The Americans are expecting a re-
ply. But I sense that you are unconcerned about any possible
agreements and that you plan to take that aircraft out of Nica-
ragua regardless of any tentative agreements . . ."
     "You will be vindicated in this, Sergei," Kalinin said. "The
aircraft will be gone from Nicaragua long before the Americans
expect a reply from the Kremlin. The KGB will accept the re-
sponsibility for the aircraft, and you can tell the Americans that
the rotten KGB ignored your agreement and acted on their own.
There's nothing they can do once we have the aircraft except
protest. And they will get their aircraft back-after we finish
studying it, of course. I understand it is a fabulous machine. "
     "I agree, it must be a fantastic machine," Vilizherchev said,
"because I believe the United States will retaliate in ways other
than just protest." There was a pause, with both men listening
to the crackles and snaps of solar-generated electrons interfering
with the satellite transmission. Then: "About my report to the
Foreign Minister . . . "
          " Delay it for twenty-four hours."
     Vilizherchev had been expecting this. "That is impossible,"
he said. "I went to the White House. I spoke with the President.
I left the Consulate at night without escort, without leaving an
itinerary or contact log. What shall I report-I went on a drive
around Washington to see the sights? What if someone in the

White House mentions my visit to someone in Moscow and they
find out I did not report it? What if this whole incident ends up
in the newspapers-the media is behind every lamppost in this
city. "
     "Calm yourself," Kalinin said. "The missing report will not
surface for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps more. By then
this incident will be concluded and I will explain everything to
the General Secretary and the Politburo."
     "I expect it," Vilizherchev said. "Unauthorized contact with
the American government by a member of our government is
still punishable, as you know, by life at hard labor. I have a
desire to retire to warmer climates than Siberia."




322                      DALE BROWN
     Kalinin broke the connection without replying. The signal, in
any case, was deteriorating rapidly; so was Vilizhervchev's re-
solve. He was not a stupid man but he had not been in govern-
ment long enough to represent a danger to Kalinin's power.
Unless everything came completely unraveled, Vilizherchev
could be trusted to keep silent-after all, having the director of
the KGB as a co-conspirator was not such a bad position.
     But now it was up to Maraklov to get that aircraft safely out
of Nicaragua. All of their futures now rode on him.
Sebaco, Nicaragua
Saturday, 20 June 1996, 0-451 CDT
Andrei Maraklov awoke to bedlam. Dozens of faults were being
reported to him at once, ranging in severity from complete sys-
tem short-circuits to oil leaks. But the familiar rush of power
and energy that always accompanied a successful interface with
ANTARES was a welcome feeling, in spite of the faults being
reported.
     DrearnStar had undergone a major transfon-nation. Her newest
additions were two large cigar-shaped stainless-steel fuel tanks,
one suspended under each wing. Two of the four weapon hard-
points on each wing were combined to hold the Lluyka tank's
pylon; that, plus the size of the tanks themselves, left DrearnStar
with the capability to carry only two missiles instead of eight.
Inside each tank pylon, the fuel tank's pressurization line was
spliced to the wing tank's bleed air-pressurization system, which
allowed fuel to flow from the tanks and feed the engines before
wing-tank fuel was used. The hardpoint's jettison-circuitry was
spliced into jettison-squibs in the pylon, which would blow the
pylon off the win
     There was no time to test the aerodynamic qualities of the fuel
tank with DrearnStar-no, way to determine if DreamStar could
even fly with the tanks installed. The tanks could fail to feed
properly, feed unevenly, rupture the wing tanks, hit the aircraft
on jettison, or flutter so badly that even a normal takeoff would

result in a crash. There just was no time to test it. The flight
would have to go as scheduled in spite of the risks.
     DreamStar's anterior fins were replaced, and the aircraft put
back together as best they could after being partially dismantled
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          323
shortly after landing. The plan was to use DreamStar's own self-
diagnostic computer routines to check the aircraft and direct the
aircraft maintenance technicians to the problems.
     As always, Maraklov activated the radios first. "How do you
read, General? "
     General Tret'yak stared at Musi Zaykov as the machinelike
words came over his headphone. He keyed his microphone: -Kto
dyela ? "
     "This is Maraklov, General."
     "Colonel, are you all right? Your voice sounds different."
     "My voice is altered by computer. I don't think I can speak
in Russian. I have several faults that need inspection. The most
serious is a left primary-bus short-circuit. The technicians will
have to open the left number-four access panel. The bus-module
is on the center electronics rack. I will deactivate the system
when the panel is open."
     "Azhidan'yah, " Tret'yak said. "Wait, Colonel, I do not un-
derstand you." There was a slight pause as Tret'yak passed the
headphones to Zaykov.
                 "Andrei? "
                 "Yes, Musi.
     Zaykov stared in surprise when she heard the voice. "Andrei,
is that you . . . ? "
     "No time to talk," Maraklov said. "Relay these instructions
exactly to the chief of maintenance. I can't start my engine until
this problem is corrected."
     Zaykov copied Maraklov's instructions down on a clipboard,
read them back to verify them, then gave the clipboard to the
chief of aircraft maintenance. He read the instructions several
times, then finally called to his assistant to get someone to begin

removing the left access panel.
     "They are removing the wrong panel," the computer-
synthesized voice told Zaykov. Musi called to the workers to
stop, then directed them to the correct panel. She had to repeat
the instructions to the assistant crew chief, who told the crew
chief, who issued the same orders back down the chain to the
workers. They did not begin the job of removing the fasteners
until told by their superior.
     "Left primary bus-power is off," Maraklov said after issuing
the mental command to redirect the power from the external
power cart away from the left primary circuit. "That mainte-




                     T-_
324                      DALE BROWN
nance chief would be out on his ass in the States. Five minutes
to open one access panel-we'll be here all morning."
     Sarcasm did not transmit well through ANTARES, but Zay-
kov nodded her understanding. "They are all afraid to touch the
aircraft," she said. "They're afraid you will electrocute them.
The chief has to order them to do the simplest task."
     "At this rate I'll be forced to make the crossing in daylight,"
Maraklov said.
          They should be finished in a few minutes."
     But that's only the first of about a dozen major items that
need to be inspected before I can launch. It's almost sunrise
now. I'll have half the U. Navy on top of me before I can fly
a hundred miles, and in daylight with two external tanks I'll be
a sitting duck."
     "Our headquarters is coordinating with the Nicaraguan navy
in sweeping the Caribbean for any American ships that might
get in your way," Zaykov said. `So far, they report no Amer-
ican ships closer than six hundred miles, except those in the
Canal Zone and Puerto Rico. Besides, we have been informed
by Moscow that the Ameri cans have agreed not to take any ac-
tion for five days. They will be totally unprepared for this."
     "Never mind all that," Maraklov said, "just make those idiots
out there work as fast as they can. Every minute I sit on the ground
in this hell-hole is another mile closer the Americans can get.
One Hundred Nfiles Southwest of the Cayman
Islands
Saturday, 20 June 1996, 0500 CDT
"Dragon Five-One flight, this is Georgetown radar," the cheer-
ful British voice announced over the command radio - "Welcome
to the Cayman Islands. Stand by for frequency assignments - "
     "Now this is what I call a summer camp," Major John Cour-
sey said happily, taking another sip of orange juice. Coursey
was one of twelve F-16 ADF pilots from Howard Air Force Base

in Panama taking part in an operation they had come to know
simply as Barrier. Coursey was the leader of Dragon Blue, one
of four three-sh ip cells in the huge fighter formation. The twelve
fighters were all from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group, New
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            325
York Air National Guard, from Niagara Falls International Air-
port, deployed to Panama in one-month rotations. They were all
serving their annual training commitment, which for F-16 pilots
was always more than the standard Air National Guard two weeks
per year.
     "One week in Panama is heaven, " Coursey said over the
scrambled interplane frequency, "but a secret mission to the
Cayman Islands is a real hardship."
     "Cut the chatter, Blue flight," came the order from the squad-
ron commander, Lieutenant Colonel George Tinker. "Okay, lis-
ten up. Red, Yellow and Gold stay on me for recovery. Blue,
Georgetown Radar will clear you to an orbit just outside their
airspace, blocking altitudes from five to thirty thousand. You're
required to squawk modes and codes even though you're outside
their airspace, but you are cleared to strangle if you get into a
situation. Get together with your tanker for refueling, then set
up a high- and mid-CAP as directed by Barrier Control. Watch
your fuel. No one goes below three thousand pounds over the
high fix at Georgetown. Everyone got it?"
     "Don't drink all the margaritas down there, boss," Coursey
said.
     "No screwing around, Blue Leader," Tinker radioed back.
"We're expecting some brass on board Barrier Control for this
one." Barrier Control was the 767 AWACS radar plane that
would be controlling the fighters from its more protected orbit
point closer to the Cayman Islands.
     "Blue Lead copies. We'll look pretty for the brass."
     "You'd better. Dragon flight minus Blue, come right and start
descent' Blue flight, watch your gas, and good hunting."
     "Blue flight is clear," Coursey reported as he watched the

three groups of F-16 Falcon air-defense fighters execute a tight
echelon turn to the right as they began their approach into
Georgetown, the capital city of the Cayman Islands.
     Coursey sucked in his breath. Against the crystal-blue shim-
mering backdrop of the Caribbean Sea, the large formation
looked spectacular-especially to a desk-bound accountant from
Tonawanda, New York, for whom the biggest excitement in life
lately was having the Delaware Avenue monorail going into
downtown Buffalo arrive on time. The Air National Guard was
the country's biggest secret, he told himself-he was getting a




326                      DALE BROWN
     great Caribbean vacation paid for by Uncle Sam, and all he had
to do was fly one of the hottest jet fighters in the world.
     "Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Georgetown radar. Squawk
mode three code zero-zero-one-four, mode JC. on, and have your
wingmen squawk standby," the juicy sounding controller from
the Grand Cayman said.
     "Anything you say, babe." Coursey was feeling altogether
the hot pilot. He knew his wingmen would check that their mode
three identification beacons were in standby-they were placed
in standby so collision alerts between fighters in the formation
would not continually show on radar-so he doubled-checked
his IFF settings and got himself comfortable.
     "Dragon Five-Four flight, you are cleared to orbit as required
within one-zero-zero nautical miles of BRAC intersection as re-
quested, in the block from five thousand to thirty-five thousand
feet. Contact me on this frequency if you require assistance.
Clear to switch to tactical frequencies. Georgetown radar clear. "
     Coursey was about to ask her for an after-hours phone number
but it was time to get things organized. "Roger, Georgetown.
You have a nice day, now. Dragon flight, push blue."
     "Two. "
          "Three.
     "Blue" was the assigned common scrambled UHF frequency
to be used by Coursey's flight, the AWACS known as Barrier
Control, and King 27, their KC-10 tanker out of Homestead
AFB, Florida.
     "Dragon flight, check," Coursey called out a few seconds
after switching frequencies.
     "Two.
     "Three," his wingmen responded.
     "Station check, report with fuel status." Coursey took a fast
look at Dragon Five off his right wingtip. The big centerline fuel
tank on the F-16s made the sleek bird awkward looking, not to
mention the huge decrease in performance and range-those tanks

would be the first to go if they engaged any hostiles out here.
Each F- 16 carried two AIM- 132B European-built infrared-guided
ASRAAM (Advanced Short-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for close-
range "dogfighting" engagements) and two AIM-120C AM-
RAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for
longer-range attacks), along with five hundred rounds of twenty-
millimeter ammunition. They were loaded and ready, but out
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           327
     here, flying quietly and peacefully over the sparkling blue Ca-
ribbean, trouble seemed a zillion miles away.
     "Let's hear it, Dragon flight."
     "Two's in the green, four and five hundred all safe, eight
thousand. " He had called out his overall status, his armament
number and status, and his fuel remaining.
     "Three's in the green, four and five hundred safe, seven-
point-seven. "
     "Looks like everyone's thirsty here," Coursey said. The large
external fuel tanks on the three fighters' bellies were all empty-
they were usually empty shortly after a heavy gross-weight take-
off-and the internal fuel loads were also depleted by half. They
all had about an hour's worth of fuel left, plus the required forty-
five minutes reserve. "Lead's got eight-point-one, four and five
hundred. Break. King Two-Seven, this is Dragon Five-Four
Flight of three on tac blue, over."
     "Dragon flight, this is King Two-Seven, read you loud and
clear," the KC-10 air-refueling tanker radioed back. "We're
receiving your position beacons, codes verified. We're seventy
miles north of your position on a heading of two-zero-zero, al-
titude twenty thousand feet. Over."
     "Copy, Two-Seven," Coursey replied. "You've got three
receivers at nineteen thousand feet, onload as briefed, point par-
allel auto rendezvous. Weapons all report safe and ready for
refueling. We'll do a few orbits, out here to stay in our assigned
block, then turn northbound at thirty miles."
          "Copy, Dragon. "
     
Coursey began some gentle standard-rate turns in order to bum
some time without going outside his assigned airspace. A few
moments later he heard, "King Two-Seven at fifty miles."
     "Copy. Dragon flight, take route spacing, stand by for auto
rendezvous." The two members of Coursey's formation stayed
in formation but increased the distance between aircraft to almost
a mile. Dragon Four started a turn to the north, and Coursey
watched to make sure his wingmen were staying with him.
          "Thirty miles . . . twenty miles, stand by for turn . . . "
     At.seventeen miles, on the dot, Coursey's F-16 Falcon started
a left tum and gentle climb. A few moments later one of Cour-
sey's wingmen called, "Tally ho, ten-thirty position." Coursey
stared harder toward the crystal-blue horizon and finally spotted
the huge green converted DC-10 airliner in the distance.




328                        DALE BROWN
          "Lead's got a tally."
     It appeared as if the F-16 formation was on a collision course
with the huge tanker, but in auto-mode it always looked like
that. Coursey pulled his throttle back to ninety percent and
pegged his airspeed at four hundred twenty knots. By the time
the computer-controlled turn was done, the tanker was looming
over the lead F-16 fighter's nose like a storm cloud, and the
autopilot beeped to remind the pilot that the rendezvous was
completed.
     "Dragon Five-Four flight, this is King Two-Seven boom op-
erator, radio check."
     "Dragon lead's loud and clear."
     "Two. I I
     "Three.
     "Loud and clear up here. Dragon Five-Four cleared to the
contact position; Two-Seven is ready."
          "Dragon Five-Four moving up on auto."
     The tanker's nozzle was aligned less than a thousand feet
ahead. Coursey punched off the autopilot and moved the throttle
to eighty percent, which, after his years of experience he knew
would give him the three-hundred-knot refueling speed he
wanted; tiny speedbrake deflections would take care of any ex-
cess speed. He opened the air-refueling receptacle on the F-16's
spine and checked the status indications on his heads-up display.
They showed ready for refueling.
     "Dragon Five-Four stabilized pre-contact and ready," Cour-
sey reported.
     Coursey carefully guided his fighter under the KC- I O's broad
belly, following the rows of director lights arranged along the
tanker's bottom, until he received a steady yellow light-which
placed the front glare-shield right on the tanker's UHF antenna
blade.
     "Stabilize          Behind Coursey's canopy the twenty-foot
boom extended its tubular nozzle, and like some alien mating

ritual the boom operator extended the nozzle into the F-16's
receptacle. Coursey's HUD indicated CONTACT.
:'Contact Five-Four.
     'Contact Two-Seven," the boom operator replied. At that,
the copilot on the KC-10 activated the refueling boost pumps
and began transferring fuel. When the boom operator's flow panel
showed a positive transfer rate, he reported, "Taking fuel."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            329
     "Give me five thousand and we'll cycle," Coursey said. Each
fighter in the formation would take on a token load at first to
confirm that their refueling systems were working; once all fight-
ers could take fuel, they would spend more time on the boom
and fill to full tanks. Five thousand pounds of fuel took only
thirty seconds to transfer. Coursey disengaged from the tanker
and swung out to the left to let Dragon Five-Five in on the
boom.
     The pilot aboard Five-Five, a young lieutenant who had just
finished F-16 training and then reported directly into the Guard,
had a bit more trouble completing the rendezvous. On his first
attempt he moved no closer than ten feet from the extended
nozzle.
     "Forward ten, Dragon Five-Five," the boom operator
prompted. Coursey could see the F-16 inch closer, but he always
pulled off too much speed or ducked down away from the noz-
zle.
          "Forward twelve."
     Impatience got the better of him. This time he shoved in too
much power and overcorrected. The F-16 slid under the KC-10
so far that the vertical stabilizer looked as if it was going to
scrape against the refueler's boom pod.
     "Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway," the boom operator
called out. Not exactly an emergency situation but the KC-10's
response was automatic-the boom shot full up into its retracted
position, the engines went to full power, the tanker began a
steady climb. Dragon Five yanked off his power and slid out of

sight. Coursey and Dragon Six stayed on the tanker's wingtip as
it pulled ahead.
     "Two-Seven, this is Dragon Leader, Dragon Five-Five is well
clear," Coursey radioed to the tanker, trying to keep Five in
sight. "Cancel breakaway. Clear Dragon Five-Six to the contact
position, and clear Dragon Five-Five to the right wing. Five-
Five, take a breather and try to relax.-
     "Dragon Five-Five, clear to Dragon Five-Six's right wing,"
the boom operator said. The F-16 that had balked its hookup
reappeared, sliding under Dragon Five-Six and moving into po-
sition on Six's right wingtip.
     "Dragon Five-Five is on your right, Five-Six."
     "Dragon Five-Six, clear to the contact position, Two-Seven
is ready." Five-Six moved smoothly down into contact position,




330                        DALE BROWN
and fifteen seconds later it was taking fuel. A minute later he
was back off Five-Five's right wing, and Dragon Five-Five was
moving back into contact position.
     "All right, Myers," Coursey told the pilot of Dragon Five-
Five, "you've already embarrassed yourself in front of these
tankers toads-try not to do it again. Remember, these Falc ons
don't like being muscled around. They respond to gentle inputs.
Just like the ladies. Remember your visual cues and for God's
sake, relax. "
     He watched as Dragon Five-Five again began his approach to
contact position. Myers needed this hookup for much more than
just to avoid embarrassment. If he didn't get his refueling on
this pass he'd have to take the tanker, turn north and attempt
another contact while heading for Georgetown. It would be
highly embarrassing for one of Coursey's wingmen to come back
alone because he couldn't accomplish a refueling, especially in
near-ideal weather conditions. But whatever else Myers had on
his mind, he apparently had finally managed to put it behind him
as he made contact with the KC-10 on the first try.
     "Fill 'er up, Two-Seven," Coursey said. "We'll top off in
reverse order. I'll be on radio two." Coursey switched radios
momentarily to his second non-scrambled UHF radio. "Barrier
Control, this is Dragon Five-Four flight. How copy?"
     "Dragon Five-Four flight, this is Barrier Control, loud and
clear. Over. "
     "We will complete refueling in one-zero minutes," Coursey
said. "Looks like we'll have three birds in the green. We'll be
in the center of the assigned area at completion. Over."
     "Copy all, Dragon flight," the controller replied. "First re-
sponse will be in approximately zero-eight minutes. Upon com-
pletion of refueling, take flight level two-five-zero and heading
two-zero-five for your first intercept."
     "Copy all, Barrier. We'll report back when refueling is com-
plete.
     
. Dragon Five-Five was topped off in three minutes, after eas-
ing out of the boom's refueling envelope twice. Five-Six had an
easier time of it, completing his refueling in two minutes. Cour-
sey took a bit longer than two minutes, electing to use lower
pump pressure from the tanker to avoid pressure disconnects,
which would result in less than completely full tanks. The KC-
10 then executed a right turn and headed north for its orbit point
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             331
near Georgetown, and Dragon flight headed southwest toward
their first intercept.
     "Five-Five, you got the high CAP,- Coursey said ' "Top of
the block is three-five-oh, so take three-three for now." The
high CAP (Combat Air Patrol) was an overlook position from
where he could react quickly to hostile situations below him.
     Coursey hoped as Dragon Five-Five started his climb to thirty-
three thousand feet that the advantages of the high-combat air
patrol would make up for Myers' inexperience.
     "Barrier, Dragon flight on blue, " Coursey called on the
scrambled command radio. "Two on heading two-zero-five and
twenty-five thousand feet. One on the high CAP at three-three-
oh.
     "Roger, Dragon," the controller on board the Boeing 767
AWACS radar aircraft replied, "your bogey is at twelve moving
to one o'clock, forty miles." Coursey checked his infrared spot-
ting scope, which was slaved to the data-link from the AWACS-
right on the money. The F-16's infrared seeker laid an aiming
square on the target and began feeding targeting information to
the missile's weapons computer.
     "Dragon has IR lock, twelve o'clock."
     "That's your target, Dragon," the controller confirmed.
     Coursey started a left turn to take a greater angle into the
target. The target wasn't maneuvering.
     "Dragon, we've got modes and codes on this one," the con-
troller said. "Verify I -D. and make sure he's a solo."
     "Rog." Coursey allowed himself to relax a bit. "Modes and

codes," meant the AWACS was picking up standard airliner-
beacon codes, such as air-traffic control codes and altitude read-
outs, but they wanted each aircraft checked out visually anyway.
Apparently whoever they were looking for could transmit
standard codes. They were also expecting whoever they were
looking for to be either traveling in a formation or trying to
sneak through underneath another aircraft, a tactic that even in
high-tech, super-electronic times could still only be detected vi-
sually.
          "Twenty miles, one o'clock," the controller said.
     "Five-Six, take spacing, coming right," Coursey ordered.
Dragon Five-Six did a slow aileron roll to the right, which in-
stantly increased his spacing from his leader to about a half-




332                        DALE BROWN
mile. When he was stabilized in route formation, Coursey started
a turn toward his bogey.
     :'Twelve o'clock, ten miles."
     'Tally Ho, Five-Four," Coursey called out. The aircraft was
just off the right side of his F-16's nose, heading north. It was
still not maneuvering, nor was it giving off any telltale radar
emissions of its own.
     "Five-Four, this is a message from Barrier command, don't
let the target's crew see you out there, " the controller of the
AWACS said. "Select a course well aft of the cockpit and any
cabin windows. Over."
     "Copy, Dragon flight, check."
     "Two. I I
     "Three.
     Coursey maneuvered around behind the aircraft and its left
elevator, well out of sight of the pilot and anyone looking out
the windows. He could understand Barrier's concern-airline pi-
lots, not to mention passengers, got very nervous with armed
fighters swarming nearby.
     "Barrier, looks like we got a Boeing 707, cargo configura-
tion," Coursey reported. As he closed in, he continued, "It has
Varig colors on its tail. Stand by for serial number. Five-Six,
take the right side and stay out of sight." Dragon Five-Six peeled
off and began to converge on the 707's right side. Coursey pulled
in close to the vertical stabilizer, well clear of the plane should
it make a sudden turn. "I copy M as in Mike, five-seven-oh-
seven-three alpha. No music, no weapons"-"music" meaning
any hostile radar emissions or jamming.
     "Belly's clear," the pilot on Dragon Five-Six reported.
     "Dragon, this is Barrier. I. confirmed on your bogey. Re-
sume patrol orbit and stand by."
     ' 'Roger, Barrier. " Coursey rolled left away from the airliner,
then took a second to check his position.
     "Barrier, what are we supposed to be looking for?" Coursey

asked.
          A slight pause, then: "Stand by, Five-Four.
     They were asking the brass on board if it was okay to tell the
guard puke what he was doing in the middle of nowhere, chasing
down airliners, for God's sake. He had a feeling the answer was
going to be don't ask stupid questions, guard puke.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            333
     He got his answer sixty seconds later: "Five-Four, command
says you'll know it when you see it."
          "Say again, Barrier?"
     Another pause; then a different voice came on the radio:
-Dragon flight, your target is a single-seat fighter aircraft. It
may be armed, and it may be escorted by one or more Soviet
aircraft. It may be supported by a Soviet tanker. The aircraft
may have U. S. Air Force markings on it. It must still be con-
sidered hostile."
     "An American aircraft? We're going after an American air-
craft? "
     "The bad guys got it, Major," the voice said. "We want it
back. Yourjob is to identify it, force it to follow you to George-
town, or if necessary destroy it. Those are your orders, Major
Coursey. Over and out. "
     This was becoming less and less like a Caribbean vacation,
Coursey thought.
"Five-Six, I've got the lead. Join on the right."
                 "Three. I I
     "Five-Five, maintain your high CAP until the next refueling,
then you'll swap With Five-Six. Set best endurance power. Seems
this is going to be one long day."
Colonel Edward Marsch, commander of the 21st Airborne
Warning and Command Squadron from Tinker AFB, looked at
General Bradley Elliott and shrugged when they heard Coursey's
reaction. "Air Force Reserve boys," he said.
     "No need to apologize for him, Colonel," Elliott said. "I
should be apologizing to him. He's the one putting his ass on

the line."
          "How long do you think we'll be on station?"
     "If I'm wrong we'll get recalled in about six to eight hours.
If I'm right, things will start happening in the next two, three
hours. "
     "Which should I be hoping for, sir?"
     No answer. Either way, Elliott thought, it had already turned
into a nightmare.




334                       DALE BROWN
20 June 1996, 0840 CST
"Dragon Five-Seven flight of three reporting airborne," the
communications officer relayed to General Elliott. "ETA one-
five minutes. "
     Elliott nodded, took another sip of coffee. It seemed that the
Russians would actually honor the agreement drawn up with Vil-
izherchev. They had come up empty on each of the twelve in-
tercepts the three F-16 Falcon interceptors had performed.
Although there had been no recall order it was only ten A. in
Washington. Still plenty of time for an agreement to be struck.
They could already be on the phone together making a deal.
     "Dragon Five-Five, you take the lead," Elliott heard the
interceptor-formation leader, Major Coursey, say on the com-
mand radio. "Five-Six, you're on his wing. I'll take the high
CAP. Let's see if you guys have learned anything today."
     :'Two. "
     'Three.
     Lieutenant Myers, the pilot of Dragon Five-Five, called out:
"I've got the lead. Dragon Five-Four, clear to climb and clear
the formation. Five-Six, clear to my right wing."
     " Three," Douglas, aboard Dragon Five-Six, replied. Of all
three pilots he had had the least to say the entire flight-his
vocabulary had consisted of the word "three," his original for-
mation assignment. Even when they changed leads, Douglas
would always report in as "three" because he had started out in
that position.
          "Five-Four's outta here."
     Elliott glanced at the master radar display. Another aircraft
had just appeared on the scope at two hundred miles range. The
operator had drawn an electronic line on the screen, depicting
the airway A321 and the new target was dead on that line. This
airway ran all the way from Rio de Janeiro to Goose Bay, pass-
ing near Colombia, Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba, Miami and New
York-A321 was the most widely used airway in South and Cen-

tral America. Every aircraft they had intercepted had been dead
on this airway, and each had been transmitting the proper iden-
tification codes. When they were intercepted by Coursey and his
wingmen they had turned out to be just what their I. codes
said they were.
     The exercise was beginning to wear on Coursey and his pilots,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            335
so they had been swapping leads on each intercept. For the first
time, the least inexperienced pilot, Myers on Five-Five, was
going to be in the lead for an intercept.
     "What's the inside pitch on Myers, Ed?" Elliott asked the
767 AWACS commander.
     "A hard-charger, from what I hear," Marsch replied, check-
ing his duty roster for this mission. "Top in his class at Nellis.
One of the first pilots to go directly from an Air National Guard
commission to F-16 ADF training. He's low-time but he's
good. I I
     Elliott nodded. A good opportunity for Myers to get some
training-he hoped that was all he'd get. He checked the data
readouts on the newcomer. "Relatively low altitude," Elliott
remarked. The new aircraft was at fifteen thousand feet and
climbing. "Got an origin?"
     "Negative, sir," the console operator said. "I should be get-
ting his IFF data in a minute."
          "Five-Four's on the high CAP,- Coursey reported.
     "Slow down your turn rate for me, Five-Five," Elliott heard
on the radio-obviously Dragon Five-Six was having trouble
keeping up with Five-Five. In many ways being a formation
leader was more stressful than staying on a guy's wing-you had
to think ahead all the time. On the wing all you had to worry
about was staying on the wing. As lead you had to consider your
wingmen's reactions to each of your moves and radio call-
every throttle movement, hesitation, control input or decision
had a ripple effect on everyone else.
          "That's better, Bob," Douglas on Dragon Five-Six said.
     
Just then Ed Marsch handed General Elliott a messageform.
"Message from SAC headquarters via JCS, sir," he said. Elliott
read the note, lips tightening; then nodded and flipped the note
onto the console.
     "It seems the Russians have agreed to the President's terms.
They've promised not to move the XF-34 out of Nicaragua.
They're negotiating on terms for the removal of the aircraft-
they say the aircraft is damaged and unflyable. The pilot will
not be returned until the investigation is completed. We've been
ordered to stand down. The fighters have been granted a two-
night stay in Georgetown but are ordered back to Panama by
Monday. "
     Marsch let out his breath, trying to restrain his relief at being




336                      DAIE BROWN
ordered to get out of this duty. His E-5A AWACS radar plane
was vulnerable out here, with no ready fighter protection and
only a few minutes flying time from Cuba. "I'll order the fight-
ers from Georgetown to RTB,- he said. Elliott nodded. To the
senior controller, Marsch ordered, "Tell Dragon Five-Four flight
to recover to Georgetown ASAP. Set up a refueling for them if
they need it-they must be down close to an hour's duration.
The senior controller nodded.
     "If they can properly secure your plane, Colonel," Elliott
said, "request permission for you and your crew to spend the
weekend in Georgetown. It beats flying all the way back to Okla-
homa. I can find my own way back to Nellis." Back to Dream-
land. Back to forced retirement. Back to disgrace . . . ?
     "Excellent suggestion, sir," Marsch said excitedly. One
weekend in the Caribbean beat a year in Oklahoma City. "I'll
work on it immediately.
     "We've got an I. code on the newcomer, sir," the radar
operator at the main console called out. "Checking his flight
plan with Georgetown air traffic control now."
     Marsch had gone over to the communications section, so El-
liott said, "Let's have it, Sergeant."
     "Flight plan from Georgetown says it's a flight of three-a
Soviet Ilyushin-76 Midas tanker-transport plane and two MiG-
29 Fulcrum fighters. One four-zero-nine-six code and one mode
JC." Standard civilian air-traffic beacon codes; the first transmit-
ted aircraft-identification data, the second transmitted altitude.
     "What's their origin?"
     "Origin code is MMNP, sir," the operator replied. "Augusto
Cesar Sandino International Airport, Managua, Nicaragua."
  Elliott slipped on his headphones and keyed the mike switch.
"S-One, this is S-Five. Have the fighters from Georgetown
turned back yet?"
     Marsch's head poked up from behind a communications con-
sole as he punched his mike button. "Affirmative, sir."
     
"Tell them to turn around and rendezvous with us," Elliott
said.
     "Excuse me, sir," Marsch said and exited the communica-
tions console and began to walk toward Elliott, "we've been
ordered to stand down-"
  "We got two fighters and a Soviet transport heading our way
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            337
Elliott said. "I want to run an intercept on them. And I want
cover for us until they pass.
     Marsch returned to the master radar-console and checked the
readouts. "An II-76 and a couple of MiGs. Have they got a
flight plan?" The operator nodded. "They're squawking the
proper codes, General. They're on the airway. I don't see what
the problem is-"
     "There's no problem, Colonel," Elliott said. "I just want an
intercept on them and I want air cover for us un, til they leave."
     "Sir, the mission is over," Marsch said,           we've been or-
dered to return to base. Besides, it's crazy running an intercept
on Russian aircraft. If something goes wrong we could be in
serious trouble-"
     "I know what we've been ordered to do, Colonel - I also know
what my responsibility is and I know what your responsibility
is. Do what I tell you, goddamn it." Marsch nodded, eyes on
Elliott. No question, Marsch thought, that the old man meant
what he said. He turned back to the communications cabin.
     "Have the mid-CAP run an intercept on the transport," El-
liott told the senior controller. "But I want no hostile moves out
there. Have the mid-CAP flank the fighters, but no radar and no
tail-attack aspect. I just want them close enough for a visual on
the transport."
          "Yes, sir. "
     Marsch came back to the radar cabin and stood behind Elliott.
"Dragon Five-Seven flight is on its way," the radar-console
operator reported. "ETA twenty minutes."
     "What's the ETA on the MiGs?"
                 
"Fifteen. "
     "I want one of the fighters in the Dragon Five-Seven flight
joined on us in twelve minutes," Elliott said. "How's the inter-
cept running?" Elliott didn't expect an answer; he could hear
the strained interchange of the pilots as they closed in on their
first hostile bogeys.
"Dragon Five-Five on heading two-zero-five, level flight level
two-zero-zero," Myers replied. The transition from flight lead
to eventual Caribbean beach bum and back to flight lead was
jarring.
     "Roger, Dragon," the controller said. "Your target is one
o'clock, one hundred and fifty miles, flight plan reports two




338                      DALE BROWN
MiG-29 fighters and one "-76 transport. Radar showing one prii-
mary target only-" Only one of the possible three aircraft was
positively being tracked.
     "What the hell are we doing, Barrier?" Coursey said. He was
still on the high combat air patrol, electing not to take over the
lead from Myers. The kid needed the experience, and what bet-
ter experience than intercepting some real Russians? But the sud-
den switch from stand-down to I.'ing some -Russians was
weird. "Say again our ROE. Over."
     "Roger, Dragon. You are to visually I. and inspect the
transport. Avoid hostile-attack aspects. Do not fire unless fired
upon. Over."
     :'You guys got that?" Coursey said.
     'Two." That was Myers-his voice was shakier, tenser than
ever.
w "Three." Even Douglas sounded nervous. These guys were
ound pretty tight.,
     "Listen up, Dragon," Coursey said, "run it like all other
intercepts. Take it nice and easy. As long as you don't hit 'em
with an attack profile the MiGs should leave you alone-they're
on a cruise to the Copacabana, that's all. They got as much right
to be here as we do. Follow the ROE and the non-nal air-traffic
rules and we'll be on the beach sipping cubra libras before you
know it. Head's up."
     :'Two.
     'Three. " Douglas sounded better, but Myers sounded like
someone had a vise-grip on his balls.
     "One hundred miles," the controller said. "Rate of closure
nine hundred sixty knots. Bogeys moving to one o'clock . . .
radar now showing three primary targets, Dragon, repeat, three
primary targets-"
     The radar-warning receivers on the F-16s lit up. On the dis-
plays of the three Falcons was a diamond symbol. On the left
display the computer identified the radar source as search-radar.
          
"Dragon's got music," Myers reported.
     "Barrier copies," the controller said. "Transport target may
be an airborne-radar aircraft, Dragon." The warning hung on
the frequency; then the controller added: "Use caution."
     Coursey had to laugh into his face mask.
     What the controller did not convey to the F-16 pilots was that
the MiGs might be planning, computing their attack on them
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          339
using the long-range radar on the "-76 just as they themselves
would use the E-5's radar to direct an attack on the MiGs. The
767 AWACS controller should be setting up options for the F-
l6s in case the MiGs started to mix it up. Intelligence reported
that the Soviets now used an AA- I I infrared short-range missile,
code-name "Archer," and a copy of the AIM-120 launch-and-
leave medium-range missile called the AA-15 "Abolish," but
that neither was as good as the American counterpart. Well, if
things went to shit they were going to find out first-hand about
the Russian missile's capabilities.
     "Eighty miles," the controller said. "Spacing increasing be-
tween fighters and transport aircraft. Altitude readouts on all
three remain flight level one-eight-zero." The MiGs were get-
ting some maneuvering room, Coursey thought, but it was un-
likely they'd leave the transport unprotected.
     "Sixty miles. Flight level one-eight-zero. Moving to one-thirty
position. Distance between fighters and transport now one mile."
     "Barrier, Dragon Five-Seven is zero-three minutes from join-
up," Coursey heard a new voice report. That was Major Tom
Duncan, the squadron operations officer and leader of the second
flight. The brass must have called back the second flight of F-
l6s when the MiGs showed up. At least someone on the AWACS
is thinking, Coursey thought.
     "Forty miles," the controller said. "Spacing between fighters
and transport now one mile. Altitude still one-eight-zero."
     They should just cruise on by, Coursey told himself. As long
as Douglas and Myers kept their guns away from them, they

shouldn't feel threatened. Nothing's going on here, Coursey told
himself, trying to convince himself this was a routine training
flight, but he began heading toward the Soviet fon-nation as if
running his own intercept on the transport. Radar-warning indi-
cations illuminated his threat receiver-he had to assume that the
Russians knew he was up here . . .
     "Twenty miles, Dragon, moving to two o'clock position."
     "Tally ho," Douglas called out. It was just a speck on the
horizon, but the huge Ilyushin transport moved into view. From
twenty miles away the huge saucer radome, viewed from above,
could be clearly seen; it resembled an American JC.-141 Starlifter
with a flying saucer hovering over it. "Definitely an AWACS
configuration," Douglas reported.
     "Five-Five has a tally," Myers finally said-a few more sec-




340                        DALE BROWN
onds; and Douglas would have had to take the lead. "Coming
right to intercept."
     Fighters moving out to two miles of the transport," the con-
troller reported.
     Two miles? They were still fairly close to the transport, but
two miles' separation was a long way for escort aircraft. They
were loosening up their escort duties considerably . . .
     "Fighters moving to three miles . . . now four miles,
Dragon," the controller said. "Report visual contact on the
fighters. "
     "Five-Six has a tally."
     " Five-Five. " He didn't sound very positive-Coursey guessed
that he hadn't yet picked up the fighters -
     "The fighters are breaking off to join up on you individu-
ally," Coursey called out on the command channel. "Ignore
them. Keep an eye on them, but all we want is a visual on the
transport. Be careful-they might try to crowd you or hit you
with a radar lock-on. Nice and easy."
     Coursey was prophetic. "Dragon, MiGs are painng up with
you, one tuming left, one turning right, both climbing..Five-
Five, your bogey is at elev en o'clock, fifteen miles. Five-Six,
your bogey is at two O'clock, fifteen miles
          "Lead, JC.'mon down here. That was Myers.
     "I said ignore the fighters," Coursey said. "Keep your
damned cool." But Coursey found it was getting harder and
harder to believe himself-the Russians were up to something-
What?
     "Ten miles to the trans port," the controller reported. "Five-
Five, your bogey's at nine o'clock, eight miles. F ive-Six, three
o'clock, seven miles . . . Dragon flight, both MiGs moving rap-
idly on your outboard beams, closing rapidly to three miles .
two miles . - - "
     Myers could only stare out his canopy-the twin-tailed MiG-
29, resembling a larger single-seat version of the Navy F-14

Tomcat, was in a shallow right bank and screaming nght at him.
He was not stopping his tum rate . . . Myers called on the ra-
dio- "He's gonna hit - - - "
     "Hold your position . - . "
     But Myers couldn't stand it any longer. With the Mig still a
mile away, he selected max afterburner and yanked back on his
                     IL
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                               341
control stick. Douglas was completely taken by surprise but
somehow managed to stay within a half-mile of his leader.
     Myers shot skyward, allowing his F-16 to gain at least five
thousand feet before even thinking about recovering. Then, no
ticing his airspeed bleeding off, he rolled inverted to the left and
pulled to arrest his ascent-but he had ignored his wingman try-
ing to stay on his right wing. Douglas instinctively rolled left
with Myers and found himself at the top of the roll directly over
Myers and fast running out of airspeed. "Five-Five, roll right,"
Douglas called out as he remained inverted and pushed his nose
below the horizon to gain airspeed.
     Douglas dropped like a stone right at Myers' F-16. Myers had
taken a few seconds to roll upright before he yanked his fighter
right just in time to avoid Douglas. The second F-16 dropped
another two thousand feet to regain its airspeed before rolling
upright and accelerating to join up on Myers.
     "Myers," Douglas called, "watch what the hell you're do-
ing-"
     "That crazy Russian almost rammed me--
     "No one's going to ram you," Coursey told him, "they're
just screwing with you. You guys are looking like bozos. Now
get back there and check out that transport. Now. And goddamn
it, take it easy.
     Myers scanned the sky-none of the aircraft was in sight.
"Barrier, where are they?"
     "Dragon, transport is at one o'clock, ten miles and north-
bound, two thousand feet above you. Fighters have rejoined left

and right with the transport.
     Murphy finally caught sight of them. "Roger. Tally ho. We're
climbing to pursue."
     "Stay behind them," Coursey said. "I want an I. on the
transport, that's all. Don't mix it up with the MiGs. "
     Fine with Myers. He waited until Douglas caught up with
him, then pushed his throttles back to min afterburner to pursue,
He stared at the transport-it looked immense even from this
distance. "Something strange with that transport, Barrier-"
     Just then the two MiGs peeled off left and right from the
transport and made a hard descending tum straight at the two F-
16s.
     "They're diving right at us, " Myers called out.




342                    DAIE BROWN
     "Hold your position, Myers," Douglas told his leader. "Hang
in there-"
     Suddenly, when the diving fighters were less than three miles
away, Myers' jaw sagged. Out of the left fuselage wingroot area
he saw bright winking flashes of light and realized that ... God,
one of the MiGs had actually opened fire on him with its cannon.
          "They're shooting at us."
     Douglas saw the MiG's descending on them but it was soon
clear that they were going to pass well in front of the F-16s. He
yelled to Myers, -H ' old your-" Too late. Myers saw the can-
non firing and rolled hard left, quickly disappearing from view.
One of the MiGs turned to pursue while the other MiG continued
its dive, passing almost a mile in front of Douglas. But this time
Douglas did not turn to stay on Myers' wing. Instead he accel-
erated and headed straight for the transport.
     "Five-Six, where are you?" he heard Myers yelling. "I've
got a MiG on my tail-"
     "Join up on me," Douglas told him. "I'm on the transport."
          "Dammit, get this MiG off me-"
     "He's not on you, Five-Five," Douglas said. "He's just
buzzing you. Ignore him. Join on me and let's I. this transport
and go home."
     The radar-threat receiver screeched a warning. "He's got mis-
sile lock." Myers again. "He's got missile lock - - ." The sec-
ond MiG, which had crossed below Douglas, had apparently
zoomed back up and behind Douglas and activated its missile-
tracking radar. Douglas ignored it. "I'm almost at the transport,
Barrier, there's something going on-"
     "You've got one on your tail!" Myers shouted, forgetting
about the MiG behind him. "I'll be there in a second--
     "I've got the lead, Five-Five," Douglas said. "Join on my
left wing. Ignore the MiGs. " Douglas stared at the transport.
"Barrier, this is Five-Six. I can't yet make it out clearly but it
looks like this transport's got three other planes under him. Re-

peat, it looks like three more planes flying tight formation un-
derneath him. Over."
     "Five-Six, look out, you've got one right at your six .
     "I said ignore him, Myers," Douglas said. "If he was going
to shoot he would have done it before now."
     Coursey felt his throat tighten. He keyed his microphone. "All
Dragon units, hold your fire." But it was too late. On board
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         343
Dragon Five-Five all Lieutenant Myers heard from Dragon Five-
Six was the word "shoot."
     The F-16's throttle and control-stick grips were designed for
rapid touch-and-feel attack-mode activation, eliminating the need
for the pilot to take his eyes off the target to bring his weapons
to bear. Myers had that procedure down cold. With the index
finger of his right hand he hit the MSL step-button to select an
AIM420 radar-guided missile. Selection of the missile auto-
matically activated the attack data-link between the 767 AWACS
and the F-16. Target-designation diamonds appeared on the
heads-up display and surrounded both Douglas' F-16 and the
pursuing MiG-29. Myers hit another button on the top of the con-
trol stick with his right index finger, causing a blinking square
to surround the target-designation diamond around the MiG-the
attack computer was now locked onto the MiG and was trans-
ferring attack data to the selected missile. A moment later a
steady beeping sound was heard in Myers' helmet, indicating
that the AIM-120 Scorpion missile had received its initial flight-
course information and was ready for launch.
     One last check around. Myers keyed his mike switch. "Fox
two," he called over the command radio, then hit the weapon-
release button on the control stick with his right thumb. A streak
of white roared off the left wing of Myers' fighter; the white
finger extended itself directly to the MiG and touched it. A flash
of orange billowed out of the MiG's tail, and the dark shape
began arcing toward the bright blue Caribbean Sea far below.
Large dark shapes fell free of the doomed MiG; seconds later a

dark green parachute blossomed out of one of the shapes as the
Russian Pilot began his descent to the waters below.
     "Splash one MiG,- Myers called out. "Your tail's clear,
Five-Six.
     "RUt the hell did you do?" Coursey screamed. "Dragon
flight, disengage, clear, and extend immediately . . ."
     "Barrier, this is Five-Six," Douglas said. "I've got an I.
on those birds under the transport. There's two more MiG-29s
and another aircraft-looks like an X-29. Forward swept-wing
job. Carrying two fuel tanks and two missiles. Repeat, we've
got another two MiGs and an X-29 underneath the Midas trans-
port. Over."
     A few moments later Myers pulled up alongside Douglas:
right wingtip and flashed a thumbs-up. "We're clear, Five-Six,'




344                      DALE BROWN
Myers said on the command radio-the adrenaline pumping.
     "We're-"
     Myers' exhilaration was cut short by a thunderous pop, a flash
of excruciating heat, then darkness. The second MiG had in-
stantly, silently, avenged its comrade's death. Myers had for-
gotten about the second MiG closing in behind him. The Soviet
infrared search-and-track system needed no radar or even a radar
data-link to attack a target-the MiG-29's infrared AA- II dog-
fighting missile was slaved to directions provided by the large
infrared telescope mounted in front of the MiG's canopy. At
close range the AA- II missile did nof miss. Now it exploded
directly underneath the F-16's engine compartment, turning the
Falcon's turbofan engine into a one-ton dynamite stick. Myers
never had a chance to eject.
                     his
Aboard the 767 AWACS Elliott hammered the console with
                                        hey're trying to fly it to
fist. "That's it, that's the XF-34. T
Cuba.
     II General," Marsch called out, the warning words of Douglas
in Dragon Five-Six still echoing in his head, "what are you
talking about? We've just lost one of our planes - We're suddenly,
up against three MiG-29s with only two F-16s for cover. We've
gotta get out of here
     Elliott ignored Marsch and keyed his microphone. "Comm,
this is General Elliott. Priority message to JCS. Give present
position and heading. Report sighting XF-34 in protective con-
voy with four MiG-29s and one "-76 tanker-transport-AWACS
aircraft. Send and repeat and get confirmation."
          "Yes, sir. "
     "Colonel, you had better take charge of this mission or I
will," Elliott warned the spooked Reserve AWACS commander.
We're not running anywhere, so get that out of your head neht
now.
     
"General, I've got my procedures to follow," Marsch said.
"Three against two is superior forces. The second F-16 flight
won't be here for ten minutes-by then we could be at the bot-
tom of the Caribbean. My procedures say butt out-"
     "And my orders are from the White House, Colonel," Elliott
said. "I am to find the XF-34, prevent it from leaving Nicara-
gua, force it to land in friendly territory . . . or destroy it. You'll
have one F-16 on us in one minute to protect this aircraft. Our
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            345
F-16s are better than the MiG-29-they can handle it. We're not
facing superior forces, Colonel, and we're not retreating from
this flight. Now take command of this engagement or I will."
     "I don't have to take your orders when the safety of my crew
and my aircraft are concerned-"
     "Then it's no longer your aircraft. You're hereby relieved of
command." Elliott seated himself in the commander's seat be-
hind the main radar console Control One and the main defensive
radar operator, Control Three; he had his own screen, Control
Two, but he didn't know enough about the new system to use
it. He would have to divide his attention between three screens
to stay on top of this fight. Other radar operators, Controls Four
through Eight, would scan the sky around the AWACS at long
range for aircraft and ships as well as focus in on each friendly
aircraft involved in the fight and warn him of enemy aircraft
around him.
     He hit the shipwide intercom button. "Crew, this is S-Five,
General Elliott. I am taking command of this aircraft. Crew,
prepare for air-to-air engagement. " He unplugged his headset
cord from the intercom box and plugged it into the commander's
net. "Control Three, put Five-Seven on a high CAP over this
aircraft. He's responsible for a fifty-mile diameter around us.
Control Four, can Dragon Five-Eight and Five-Nine get a re-
fueling before their ETA?-
     A pause while the radar operator took in the news about the
sudden change. of'command, then another few moments to get

his mind back to the fight around them. "Affirmative, sir, but
they'd have to wait zer-o-three minutes for the rendezvous."
     "No good. Get Five-Eight and Nine in to relieve Six as fast
as they can-he's gotta be low on fuel. Communications, contact
Dragon Control in Georgetown and have them scramble a third
flight ASAP.
          Roger.
     Elliott glanced at Marsch, who stood behind him clenching
and unclenching his fists-obviously angry, but also surprised at
how well this four-star walk-on was deploying his fighters.
     "I understand you have command responsibility for this mis-
sion, General Elliott," Marsch said, phrasing his words for the
running tape recorders on the control deck.
     Elliott did not take his eyes off the main screen. "Colonel, I
want you on Control Two. I want you to watch that Russian




346                      DALE BROWN
Ilyushin and track any aircraft that try to peel away from it. I
want you to identify the XF-34 and track every move it makes.
If it gets away I'll hang your ass." Marsch shut up and went to
do as he was told.
     "Dragon Five-Six, bogey at your six o'clock, six miles, MiG-
29," Control One reported.
     "Two fighters breaking off from the transport," Marsch called
out. "Looks like they're maneuvering to engage."
     Elliott muttered to himself, "Now we are outnumbered. I
hoped those two would stay with DreamStar and the Russian
AWACS. " Without ready help, Dragon Five-Four and Five-
Six, he thought grimly, we're going to have to get out of this
jam by ourselves.
Douglas aboard Dragon Five-Six yanked his control stick hard
right as he heard the warning from his AWACS. Meanwhile
Coursey had rolled inverted and had pointed his nose down to-
ward the transport, searching for Douglas. He spotted him sec-
onds later, the big MiG-29 dead on his tail. But instead of
following Douglas in his hard break, the MiG was in a dive.
     "Five-Six, this is Five-Four, your MiG's going vertical.
Punch your tank. Catch him on the climb."
     But by the time Douglas had jettisoned his fuel tank and com-
pleted his ninety-degree break to get away from infrared missile
firing range of the MiG, his pursuer had built up enough speed
in his dive to turn hard right and zoom upward. With his nose
high in the air, Douglas rolled out of his break directly in front
of the MiG.
          "Reverse, " Coursey yelled.
     Douglas heard the warning and banged the stick hard left. It
was the right decision-the MiG pilot was expecting another
right break to preserve his energy, was not expecting the left
turn. He tried a fast cannon burst as the F-16 crossed in front of
him but had no time to line up.
     "Extend and get your speed up, Doug," Coursey ordered.

Douglas checked the airspeed readout on his heads-up display-
it was down nearly to three hundred knots. "He's coming around
behind you again. He yo-yoed on you. Don't dick with this
guy-he seems to know his shit. " Coursey pulled his nose down
and aimed it at the MiG. "I'm on my way, Doug, but you be
smart, play in the vertical. Don't let him drop down on you."
                     JL
                     'P-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           347
     The F-16 regained its speed quickly but the twin turbofans of
the MiG-29 had three times the power of the Falcon. In an in-
stant the MiG was back on Douglas' tail.
     "Let's try to sandwich this guy," Coursey said after he finally
got into position behind and above the MiG. "Break left."
     Douglas pulled into a hard left turn but was forced to release
back pressure on the stick or risk stalling. The break was not as
quick or as clean as it would have been, and he offered an en-
ticing target for the MiG, which instead of dropping down into
a low-speed yo-yo maneuver chose to turn with Douglas.
     Exactly as Coursey had hoped. With the MiG in a left turn,
Coursey used his diving-speed advantage and pulled directly be-
hind the MiG, then immediately went to an AIM-132B short-
range infrared missile-and fired. The missile tracked perfectly,
missing the fast-moving MiG by only a few feet, but the explo-
sion of the missile's warhead damaged something vital. The MiG
pilot nosed his fighter over, trailing a thick black cloud of smoke.
     "Splash two MiGs, " Coursey called over the radio. "Coming
up on your right side, Doug."
     "Dragon Five-Four, two bogeys at your four o'clock, ten
miles . . ." The warning had barely been received when Cour-
sey's radar-threat warning receiver bleeped.
     "Five-Six, break left." Coursey could see chaff stream out
of Five-Six's right ejector, and then the F-16 was gone in his
hard defensive bank. Coursey broke right, pumping out chaff
and flares from his left ejectors, and straining against the G-

forces to scan out the top of his canopy for his attackers. He
spotted one of the MiGs just in time to see its cannon flashing
and tracers stream toward him-the missile had missed but the
MiG had enough power to press the attack and go in with his
twenty-three-millimeter gun.
     The MASTER CAUTION light snapped on and the HUD dis-
played a WARNING message. Checking the caution panel on the
right side, Coursey found a half-dozen cautions lights illumi-
nated but nothing immediately serious-rudder, nozzle, fuel
leaks. No fire lights. The shells had ripped across his tail from
the top but missed the engine compartment. With the nozzle now
stuck in the military position, engine perfon-nance in afterburner
would probably be degraded, and with the rudder damaged,
landing might be tricky or impossible-if he managed to make
it to dry land with his fuel leak.
-M




348                        DALE BROWN
     Such inflight emergencies ran through Coursey's mind, but he
was able to dismiss them for now ... his engine was running,
his wings were still attached and personally he was undamaged
except for his pride. The one overriding thought that stuck in
his mind was that the Russians had gotten a shot off at him and
had hurt his Falcon. They'd pay for that.
     Coursey executed a nine-G turn to the right to pursue the
MiGs that had passed behind him. They were in loose route
formation, the double-leader formation that was very e           ive in
covering each other, and they were both going after Douglas
again. Douglas tried some hard horizontal moves but the MiGs
matched him every time.
     "Go over the top, Doug," Coursey told him. "Hard as you
can. Now.
     Dragon Five-Six suddenly heeled, pointing itself straight up
in the air in a sharp Immelmann maneuver, held it there for
seconds, then rolled inverted and began a sharp descent.
     "I'm right under you, Doug," Coursey said as he approached
the area where Five-Six had begun his climb. "Roll out." Five-
Six rolled upright a thousand feet above Coursey and sped away
behind his leader. Coursey selected his M61 cannon and fired as
the descendin MiGs came into view.
     A head-on gunpass was not exactly a high-percentage attack,
but for sheer visual impact it was hard to beat-and this time
Coursey got a bonus. As the second MiG banked away from
him, he could see dark bits of material peel off the upper surface
of the lead MiG's wings. It seemed a few of the F-16's twenty-
millimeter shells might have caught the MiG's extended spoilers
or speedbrakes and chopped them off . . .
     This was turning into a battle of attrition, and Coursey knew
at this rate he was going to lose it. These fighters had undoubt-
edly refueled off their "-76 tanker before the fight began and
had enough fuel for hours of dogfighting-Douglas in Dragon
Five-Six had to be down to minimums for recovery at George-

town, and Coursey was in danger of flaming out any minute.
Something drastic was in order . . .
     Coursey saw it immediately, far below him and to the left-
the Ilyushin-76 AWACS-tanker-transport plane. For some
reason the II-76 pilot had driven right into the middle of the
dogfight. Coursey selected a radar-guided Scorpion missile and
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             349
activated his attack radar as he went over the top and aimed right
for the forward cabin of the Russian AWACS.
     His intentions were noted. Both MiGs broke off their attacks
against Douglas and changed directions, climbing to line up on
Dragon Five-Four. Coursey could see the Ilyushin disgorge bun-
dles of radar-reflecting chaff and infrared decoy flares as the
Falcon's APG-88 radar locked onto the aircraft less than two
miles away. The radar-lock tone was intermittent from the II-
yushin's self-protection jamming, but the instant it steadied out
Coursey hit the weapon-release button on the contml stick, rolled
and turned away from a murderous gun-pass by one of the MiG-
29s. But the Scorpion was a "launch-and-leave" missile-it
needed no guidance from the carrier aircraft after launch.
     The missile hit the forward edge of the radome, chewing a
large piece out of the circular device. The wind blast immedi-
ately lifted the broken, jagged edge and ripped the forty-foot-
diameter radome off its su         rt legs and back into the II-76's
ppo
T-tail stabilizer. The entire horizontal portion and half of the
thirty-foot vertical stabilizer broke free of the aircraft and tum-
bled away. The Ilyushin transport skidded violently several
times, heeling over so sharply that it appeared to be heading into
a spin at any moment, but somehow its pilot managed to bring
the one-hundred-seventy-ton aircraft under control. The trans-
port made a wobbly turn and headed south, trailing a long line
of thick black smoke from its aft section.
     Coursey watched as the huge aircraft swerved southward. But
as he was searching the skies for the two MiGs, a warning beeped

in his helmet. He was down to less than fifteen minutes of fuel,
and with a fuel-tank leak, probably much less than that.
     "Barrier, Dragon Five-Four is bingo," he radioed as he started
a turn to the right. "I'm heading north toward the margaritas.
Don't forget to send someone to pick me up."
     "Roger, Five-Four, " the controller said. "Use channel Bravo
for rescue. We will-"
     Coursey never heard the end of the transmission. The dam-
aged MiG had missed his shot at Coursey during the attack on
the Russian AWACS, but his wingman did not miss. The AA-
I I Archer missile detonated on target, igniting the fuel vapors
in the nearly empty tanks and creating a massive fireball in the
crystal-blue Caribbean skies.




350                      DALE BROWN
There was one thing that was hard to teach new pilots and even
harder to reinforce in older pilots, Maraklov thought-discipline.
The two young MiG pilots on the Ilyushin's wing forgot it, and
they got themselves splashed. The second two, more experi-
enced pilots flanking the XF-34 underneath the Ilyushin, also
forgot it and it cost them the effective use of the Ilyushin.
     Maraklov considered himself very damn lucky to be alive.
The impact of the missile on the 11yushin's radar dome had forced
the transport's nose down several meters; only his computer-fast
reactions saved him from crashing into the Ilyushin's belly. He
had dodged aside just in time to avoid the wild seesawing action
of the transport as the pilot fought for control. Now he was
tucked back on the Ilyushin's left wing, relaying damage reports
to Sebaco Airbase via satellite transceiver and kicking himself
for not finding his own way out of Nicaragua.
     He activated his radar and picked up the two remaining MiG-
29s and the one F-16 Falcon still in the fight. They were widely
separated from each other, neither side anxious to mix it up
again. He deactivated his radar, activated the tactical data-link,
which gave him an image of what the E-5 AWACS was trans-
mitting to the F-16s. The AWACS was still tracking all the So-
viet aircraft but had not paired any fighters with them. The
data-link was rescrambled in random periods, and without
the scrambler's seed code it took a lengthy frequency-scan to
reacquire it once it was lost, but when ANTARES was tied into
the data-link it provided an excellent means to eavesdrop on the
Americans and use their own radar plane to find them.
     "Escort Three and Four, this is Zavtra," Maraklov transmit-
ted on the convo 's command-frequency in ANTARES's corn-
puterized voice, using the Russian word for "tomorrow" as
DreamStar's call sign. "Join on the transport immediately."
     "We will engage the last American fighter," Escort Three
replied. He was the one with flight control damage, anxious to
settle the score. A real fool.
     
"I gave you an order, join on the transport!"
     "But the American fighter is retreating, we can catch
him-"
     "He's trying to trap you," Maraklov said. Too bad AN-
TARES only transmitted his voice at one volume and one tone,
because mentally he was screaming at the two Soviet pilots.
"They have two American fighters waiting to bushwhack you.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          351
Join on the transport's wing. " It was only a guess-the data-
link picked up only the lone F-16 Falcon heading north toward
Georgetown-but the American AWACS must have called in for
more air cover as soon as they discovered the MiGs. Those
fighters would be arriving any minute. Finally the warning sunk
in, and a few minutes later Maraklov detected the two Soviet
MiGs in tight fingertip formation just above and aft of the trans-
port.
     "Escort Three, stay with the transport," Maraklov ordered.
"Check your flight controls and fuel. Escort Four, you're use-
less staying in tight formation. This isn't a damn air show. Take
a position low and to the left, into the sun so you can watch the
formation and we can watch you." These Soviet pilots were like
rookies, Maraklov thought as the fighters deployed themselves.
Lucky for them, their machines mostly made up for their care-
lessness.
     "We can make it, Colonel," one of the MiG pilots said. "We
could have broken you free past the Americans--
     "Don't tell me what we could have done. You ruined our
chances by breaking away from the Ilyushin to begin with."
     "Our people were under attack, what was I supposed to do?"
     "Those fools in Escort One and Two should not have broken
formation either," Maraklov said. "Their actions only provoked
the Americans to attack. We must return to Sebaco and reorgan-
ize . . . "
     Maraklov studied the data-link image just before it scrambled
once again. The first F-16 was retreating north, but three more

high-speed fighters were approaching. The reinforcements had
arrived.
     If we can make it back before we are destroyed, Maraklov
silently added.
"Dragon Five-Seven, this is Barrier Command, you have the
lead of the attack formation," General Elliott radioed over the
command frequency. He studied the data-link radar-depictions
of the Soviet aircraft on his heads-up display. "The Soviet air-
craft are at flight level one-five-zero, six-zero nautical miles,
heading south. I want to draw out the XF-34, try to force it
down. We'll reinforce your group with Dragon Six-Zer-o flight
when they get on station. Take heading of two-zero-zero to in-
tercept. Over.




352                       DALE BROWN
     Tom Duncan, commander of the second F-16 flight, which
was to relieve Dragon Five-Four, was not about to stay on the
E-5 AWACS's wing with two MiG-29s in the area. "Barrier,
this is Dragon Five-Seven, I copy all. Dragon Five-Six, get on
the tanker, then stay and cover Barrier. Gold Flight, I've got the
lead, coming right heading two-zero-zero. Take combat posi-
tions. Set mil power."
     :'Two. I I
     'Three." The three F-16 Falcons executed a precise right
turn as they spread into a wide triangle fortnation, with the two
wingmen about a mile away from the leader at staggered alti-
tudes, then accelerated to two hundred knots overtake speed.
     "Gold Flight, listen up," Duncan said to his wingmen.
     We're looking at a three-on-three situation here, but they've
lost their AWACS and we still have ours up. The MiGs have
been in the fight, and they've burned down weapons and fuel."
. . .On two of our F-16s,.Duncan added to himself                "One
of the MiGs may be damaged as well. I want fast attacks, mutual
support and heads-up smarts. Watch your airspeed. The Falcon
can bum off energy real easy in tight turns but you can extend,
regain speed and get back in ' the fight faster than any bird flying.
Keep your speed up and use your heads - "
     " Dragon flight, this is Barrier Command," Elliott called in
on the command net. "Bogeys are at twelve o'clock, forty
miles. "
     Elliott decided to drop the cold monotone of an air-combat
controller-these guys were about to face an entirely different
threat. "Listen up, you guys. This is General Brad Elliott, com-
mander of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center.
Your target is the XF-34, an American experimental forward-
swept wing fighter that was stolen from Dreamland a few days
ago. I I
     "Goddamn, " Duncan said. "We're going after one of ours?"
     "Be advised-that fighter is much more maneuverable than

the F-16," Elliott was saying. "It fights at high angles of attack.
It has a radar that can see in all directions and high-speed mi-
croprocessors that simultaneously process attack and defensive
information at high speed. " Elliott decided not to tell them about
ANTARES or any thought-control capabilities-this was going
to be tough enough. "It has an advanced data-link capability
with the E-5 AWACS; we must assume that the XF-34 is re-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            353
ceiving and using AWACS data-link information. The Russians
aren't going to allow you to close on the XF-34. You may have
to start the attack beyond visual range. I advise you not to en-
-gage the XF-34 singly or at close range. He can reverse, change
directions and cause you to overshoot faster than you can be-
lieve. If you can force him to punch off his external tanks and
delay overwater for several minutes, we can maybe force him to
ditch. You guys are experienced fighter pilots so I won't tell you
your business. But I tell you the XF-34 is a killer. Be careful
when you go for a shot. If you lose sight of him, extend and
clear-don't waste time looking for him because he'll probably
be right on your tail. Use your speed and maneuverability and
your buddies to get him. Good luck. "
     "Bogeys at twelve o'clock low, twenty-five miles to nearest
target, fifteen thousand feet," the controller said. "Showing only
two targets now. Second target at eleven o'clock low, thirteen
thousand feet."
     "Gold Flight copies all, Barrier," Duncan replied. Both tar-
gets were displayed on his heads-up display as a data-link be-
tween the E-5 AWACS and the F-16. Duncan immediately
selected an AIM-120C Scorpion missile and designated the left-
most target. The missile immediately received its steering infor-
mation and relayed IN RANGE and ARM messages to Duncan's
heads-up display.
     "Let's get the ball rolling. Gold Flight, fox two," Duncan
said, and squeezed off the first missile.
"They're twenty-five miles behind us, 'I Maraklov warned. "Es-

cort Three and Four, stay with the transport and keep the-F-16s
away from it. If the Americans get any closer I'll engage and
try to keep them busy while you get away. The Nicaraguan MiG-
23s should be able to help as we get closer."
     "Shouldn't we counter the Americans now?" the pilot of Es-
cort Four asked. "The transport will be sure to get away . . . "
     Just then ANTARES transmitted a radar-threat warning to
Maraklov's brain louder than any audio signal. He reacted in-
stantly. "All aircraft, chaff and jink, now!"
     The MiG pilots reacted quickly, but the AIM-120 missile was
detected only seconds from impact, when its internal active radar
steered it into its target. A huge black cloud erupted from Escort
Three's right wing, which seemed to push the fighter to the left,




354                      DALE BROWN
then hard over right into a spin. The pilot was able to eject and
was even accorded the rare indignity of watching his aircraft spin
into the Caribbean Sea.
     Maraklov rolled upright after his own rapid left turn. A quick
radar-scan showed the F-16s still just over twenty miles away-
they had launched from long range, nearly the outer limit of the
Scorpion. The sky should be filled with Scorpion missiles, but
he and the other two aircraft of his convoy to Cuba had survived.
     "Escort Four, stay as low as you can over the water," Mar-
aklov radioed to the last remaining MiG-29. "Stay with the
transport and protect it as best you can."
     Maraklov issued a mental command and punched off his two
Lluyka fuel tanks. With the added drag of the tanks gone,
DrearnStar suddenly seemed to wake up. The offensive and de-
fensive options suggested by the ANTARES computer automat-
ically jumped from a scant few to hundreds of options. Maraklov
initiated a ten-G Immelmann, which got him turned around
heading north toward the three F-16 attackers.
     Maraklov carried five-hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter
ammunition and two AA- 13 Axe radar-guided air-to-air missiles.
The AA-13 was inferior to the American Scorpion-it was a fast
and powerful missile, capable at ranges out to forty miles, but
it weighed twice as much as the Scorpion and required contin-
uous radar illumination by the launch aircraft to home in on its
target-carrying no missiles at all would almost have been bet-
ter. If he was lucky the missiles might actually hit something-
but their primary use would be to break up this well-organized
combat patrol of F-16s.
     Maraklov picked out the high F-16. He was the spotter, the
one who was supposed to detect the enemy first and draw fire
until his wingmen could get into position to press the attack. He
was also the most dangerous, since in his high and fast position
he could defend himself easily yet turn quickly and bring guns
or missiles to bear if his wingmen were attacked. Maraklov

quickly designated the high F-16 with his attack radar, and at a
range of ten miles, launched his first AA-13 missile.
"Missile launch, " Duncan called out as his radar-warning re-
ceiver blared to life. "Check your trackbreakers, clear to ma-
neuver, pick it up .
     "Tally on the missile," John "Cock" Corcoran, the pilot
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          355
aboard Dragon Five-Eight shouted. "On me at my twelve. Go-
ing vertical ' ' '"
     Corcoran pumped out chaff to decoy the missile, activated his
F- 16's trackbreakers to jam the steering signals from DreamStar
to the missile, and zoomed upward to force the missile to lose
some of its energy. The AA-13 locked onto the chaff and almost
flew right into the cloud, but finally reacquired its true target
and veered upward toward the F-16 when the chaff cloud dissi-
pated. By then the fast-burning solid-fuel propellant had burned
out, and the missile was coasting toward its target, losing speed
every second. The F-16 pumped out more chaff, rolled inverted
and dived straight down. The AA-13 promptly locked onto the
chaff once again, flew through the chaff cloud, and exploded.
It had taken the F- 16 pilot only a few seconds to defeat the
missile, but in that short span of time the distance between
DreamStar and the F-16 had decreased from ten miles to two.
Maraklov knew that the F- 16 could maneuver fast enough to
evade the Soviet missile, but that same violent maneuvering con-
sumed every ounce of the pilot's concentration and took a mas-
sive physical toll-in extremely hard maneuvering in an F-16
pilots often blacked out for seconds at a time. Maraklov was
hoping that the harder the F-16 pilot worked at defeating the
missile-he would fall all the easier under a follow-on attack.
     And it was working. The F-16 was in a headlong dive after
coming over the top in a tight hairpin turn, pulling at least three
negative G's. Unlike positive G's, which forced blood out of
the head and produced tunnel vision or blackouts, negative G's
drew blood toward the brain, creating redouts, which were much.

more serious. It took, he knew, at least six or seven positive G's
to incapacitate a pilot, but only two or three negative G's. This
guy had allowed himself to go right out on the edge.
"Dragon Five-Eight, bogey at your one o'clock low, two
miles," the controller called.
     Duncan heard the warning and scanned the sky for the at-
tacker. He spotted both his wingman and the XF-34. The
forward-swept-wing jet was making an unbelievable gun pass-
instead of raising its nose to intercept Corcoran, the plane was
climbing like . . . like a helicopter, flying horizontally but mov-
ing vertically. As Corcoran got closer the XF-34 raised-its nose




356                      DALE BROWN
and slowed its ascent, seemed to hang in mid-air, slowly raising
its nose at the oncoming F-16, tracking it perfectly.
     "Bandit, twelve o'clock, Cock, get out of there, " Duncan
shouted. Too late. Corcoran barely had time to recover from the
disorientation and fuzzy vision caused by the negative G-forces
in the wild dive when he saw the XF-34 DreamStar angling up
for him dead ahead. He tried to roll away but DreamStar kept
on coming. Now in high-maneuverability mode, with its canards
angled downward, DreamStar's gun port easily tracked the P-16
through each turn and jink-the cannon muzzle never strayed
from the F-16 even during the most violent maneuvers. At one
mile Maraklov opened fire, spraying the F-16 with fifty rounds
of twenty-miflimeter shells before dodging clear. The shells
ripped across the F-16 from canopy to tail, killing the pilot in a
fireball of exploding fuel.
"Five-Eight's been hit," Duncan called out. "No 'chute.-
The full significance of Barrier Command's warning was ob-
vious now. The forward-swept wing aircraft, the XF-34, ap-
peared to hover, virtually suspended in mid-air as it cut down
Corcoran. No aircraft except a subsonic Harrier Jump-jet or a
helicopter could do that.
     But now it was the prey, not the hunter. It had slowed itself
down to practically nothing, which made it, he thought, an al-
most laughingly easy target. Duncan selected an AIM-132 mis-
sile, lined up on the XF-34 and waited until the missile had
locked-
     In the blink of an eye the XF-34 had flat-turned, faced Duncan
and began firing its cannon. Astonished, Duncan rolled hard left
and dived, trying to put as much distance between his F-16 and
those cannon shells as he could. He dived five thousand feet,
ejected one chaff and one flare bundle to decoy any missile the
Russian might have fired, then pulled hard on the stick and
zoomed skyward.
     The XF-34 was waiting for him. As Duncan brought his F-

16's nose up to reacquire his target he saw that the Russian had
positioned himself to take a shot as he flew above the horizon.
Duncan hit the afterburner and snapped his Falcon into tight
aileron rolls to spoil the Russian's aim . . .
     "Extend, Dunk," he heard a voice call out. It was Lee Berry
in Dragon Five-Nine. "Break right and extend .
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          357
     Duncan could hear cannon shells buzzin                 und him.
                                         91 pinging aro
A warning horn sounded but he didn't stop to check the mal-
function. He halted his wild last-ditch roll, banked hard right,
rolled upright and scanned the sky for his attacker as he waited
for his airspeed to build.
     The XF-34 was nowhere to be seen.
     Duncan forced his attention back inside the cockpit to check
his instruments and the warning panel. The OIL PRESS light was
lit-he had taken a hit in the engine. No smoke in the cockpit
or fire lights, so he still had time to head back to Georgetown,
but in a single engine aircraft an oil pressure problem was a
land-as-soon-as-possible inflight emergency. "Barrier, this is
Five-Seven. I've got an oil pressure light," Duncan reported on
the command channel as he headed north. "I need a vector to
Georgetown. "
     "Copy, Five-Seven. Heading zero-three-five, vectors to
Georgetown Airport, one-one-five nautical miles. Climb as re-
quired. Emergency channel Bravo. Search and rescue has been
notified. "
     Duncan angrily clicked his mike in response. They were al-
ready preparing to fish him out of the Caribbean. Thanks a
bunch.
     He keyed his mike. "Gold Flight, check in." No answer.
"Berry, where are you?" Still no reply.
     "Barrier, where's Five-Nine?"
     "No contact with him, Five-Seven," the controller replied.
"No IFF, no primary target."
     
Oh, God, Duncan thought. That guy got Berry, too. He closed
his eyes, trying to force the image of his two squadron buddies
out of his mind. It was no use., Two hours ago they were together
making plans for a luau on the beaches near the casinos-now
he'd have to make plans for a funeral.
That last guy was good, Maraklov thought as he pulled his power
back from full afterburner to military power. Very good. The F-
16 pilot had maneuvered so fast that he never got a clean shot
off at him, but he had apparently taken some damage because
he wasn't pressing the fight. Maraklov had taken his shot, then
immediately turned south at full power and headed back toward
Nicaragua to join up with the stricken II-76 transport and Escort
Four.




358                       DAIE BROWN
     Dream Star ... his plane ... was still safe, still with one
AA-13 missile and two hundred rounds of ammunition. Fuel was
the problem now-almost none left for another dogfight with any
more F-16s. He'd have perhaps fifteen minutes of fuel remaining
once he returned to Sebaco.
     "Escort Four, this is Maraklov," he called on their assigned
frequency. "Approaching your fort-nation at fifteen thousand feet,
twenty miles behind you. Area is clear. " there had been three
F-16s in the attack formation, but his spherical scan showed
clear. The third F-16 must have returned with his leader.
     The pilot in Escort Four acknowledged. The Ilyushin trans-
port and the MiG-29 had managed to climb back to a safer al-
titude, but the transport looked worse every second. "Clear to
approach. Flight Kepten Kameneve reports that the Ilyushin is
very unstable and landing may be impossible. He is briefing the
crew on ditching procedures at this time."
          "Understood."
     It seemed the game was up. The Americans weren't likely to
send in another jet with a camera over Sebaco. Next time they'd
send in bombers. One aircraft carrier loaded with F/A- 1 8 fighter-
bombers, or one B-52 like the Old Dog he destroyed in Nevada,
could devastate Nicaragua's whole defense network and waste
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
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-
               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."
     "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-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           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                     DALE BROWN
     "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.
     "What happened, Colonel?"
     "These men . . . never saw them before . . . shooting me up
with something . - - "
     Zaykov finished tightly wrapping Maraklov's arm, then helped
him back into bed. As he collapsed onto the pillow she checked
the two men. The unconscious one was being checked over by
one of the Border Guards.
     "Karl Rodovnin, " the KGB soldier said. "He is badly hurt.
     Zaykov turned toward the second man. "What are you doing
in here, Boroscheivisch?"
     "Administering an injection," the orderly said. "We checked
his intravenous needle and were administering his mineral so-
lution into his drip meter when the guy goes berserk."
     "I've found the hypodermic, Lieutenant, " one of the guards
said, holding the plastic syringe. "It's still full and intact."
     "Take it and that bag of solution to the infirmary," Zaykov
ordered, pointing to the overturned plastic bag of clear liquid
seeping onto the floor. "Have them analyze it. I want to know
what's in it. Boroschelvisch, you are under arrest. Take him and
Rodovnin into custody."
     Zaykov turned back to Maraklov. She had not seen him in
several days because he was involved in the preparations for
taking the XF-34 to Cuba-and she had never expected to see
him again when he left. But even in the brief time they had been
apart, the changes in the man were frightening. He looked old,
emaciated, pale skin stretched over cheekbones, hollow eyes,
thinning hair. "Andrei .
     She could feel his body stiffen. He stared in shock at Zaykov.
"Janet?
     Musi looked puzzled. Janet? The name was somehow farnil-
iar, and she scanned her memory trying to make the connection.
Nothing. Perhaps someone Andrei knew in the United States . . .

"Andrei, it's Musi Zaykov."
     His tongue moved across cracked lips. Slowly, his eyes
seemed to focus on her instead of some shadowy figure in the
distance, and he now seemed to recognize the woman sitting
beside him. "Musi . . . ?"
          "Yes, you will be all right."
     He seemed to relax, let himself fall limp against the pillow,
his breath coming in shallow gasps. "Water." Zaykov poured
a glass of lukewarm water for him and held the glass as he
drank. She soaked a towel and wiped sweat off his face and
chest.
              "What happened?"
     "I don't know. I woke up and saw those guys shooting some-
thing into the 1. V. I guess I panicked."




370                  DALE BROWN
     "I should say," Zaykov said with a wry smile. "You almost
killed Rodovnin. I am having the syringe and the intravenous
solution analyzed, and Rodovnin and Boroschelvisch are in cus
tody. The doctor will also tell us if he ordered an intravenous
feeding for you. I wasn't notified of it."
     He rolled painfully up out of bed, taking deep breaths, trying
to force his equilibrium back to normal, then turned angrily to
Zaykov. " I don't want any more damned I.'s stuck into me - "
     "The doctor obviously felt it was necessary, you are so de-
hydrated--
     "I said no more I.'s." He got carefully to his feet and began
to test the strength of his legs. She was shocked at the appear-
ance of his body-he looked as if he had lost well over seven
kilograms since she had first seen him. Ribs and joints pro-
truded, and his muscles, once lean and powerful, looked stringy,
weak. "My body recovers just fine with rest, vitamins and wa-
ter," he told her. "I've never needed intravenous fluids before."
     "And I have never seen you so thin before, Andrei. Perhaps
the doctor was right-"
     "I'm thin because the food around here is lousy. Hasn't
the KGB ever heard of steaks? The only protein around here is
from chicken and beans. Back in Vegas you could get a twenty
ounce steak dinner for five bucks. You could eat like a pig for
nothing
     Maraklov paused, resting a hand on the bedstand. He half-
turned to Musi. "Vegas," he said shaking his head. "It seems
like a century ago." Actually it was only a few days.
     "Las Vegas is not your life any more, Andrei. It never was
     "Then what is my life? When do I get to live my life? When
I arrive in the Soviet Union? I think we both know my life will
be anything but mine back in Russia - - ."
     Musi had seen this before but never believed it could happen
to a man as gifted and professional as Colonel Andrei Maraklov.
It was more than the sickness caused by that machine he flew.

It was common among turncoats, traitors, double agents, in-
formers, even hostages held for long periods of time who began
to identify with their captors. The feeling of profound loneliness,
aloneness, invades even the strongest men, the feeling that no
one trusted you then, that no one really wanted or cared about
you then. But Andrei Maraklov's situation was very different.
He had been a Soviet agent pretending to become an American-
actually two Americans, as a boy and as a man. Now he had to
leave that pail of his life and revert back to a strange new world.
It was supposed to be his world, but it was now as alien-in a
way more so-as America was to the young Russian teenager so
long ago.
     As a young graduate of the Connecticut Academy years ago,
deep-cover agent reorientation and surveillance had been one of
Musi Zaykov's first assignments. She had been trained in study-
ing the men and women who had returned from deep-cover as-
signments, analyzing them emotionally, seeking out any lingering
loyalties to their former lives or resentments toward their new
ones. Although the personalities were always different, their
emotional roller-coaster rides were riot. She had hoped Andrei
would be different, stronger, better balanced. She was wrong.
Hopelessness, paranoia, anger, loneliness, guilt, even impo-
tence-all common symptoms.
     The intravenous solutions and injections would all check out,
she was sure of that. They would find no trace of contamination,
no evidence of conspiracy. Rodovnin and Boroschelvisch would
check out as well.
     Maraklov had already made complaints about the food-that
was typical. He had also complained about the Soviet worker's
sloppiness and inefficiency, about shortcomings in the Soviet
government, about his new military commanders, about his
clothing, water and surroundings. Telling stories about his for-
mer environment, making comparisons, was also to be expected.
Unfortunately, so was violence.
     The instructors at the Connecticut Academy suggested that the

closer one could get to the repatriated man or woman, the better
the transition would be. Strong emotional ties often resulted-
but they could be negative or positive emotions. The "handler"
was often the target of the repatriated person's rage as well as
his or her love and trust. In this case it was easier to accept
Maraklov's love-she hoped that she would not have to bear his
hate as well.
     She had thought about the Connecticut Academy several times
in just the past few minutes, while in the past few years she had
hardly given that place even a passing thought. What was it
about that place . . . ?
     "Andrei, please believe what I say," Musi said, "your coun
try wants you back. They need you back. You will be the guid-



372                      DALE BROWN
ing force of an entire new generation of soldiers and citizens.
You will be honored and respected wherever you go. And it has
nothing to do with that machine out there. Military secrets are
the most transient of all. It will be your strength, your courage,
your determination and your patriotism that make you a hero to
our people, not that plane out there."
     "That's bullshit," he said, turning away from her. "They
want me because of what I know, not because of what I'm sup-
posed to be."
     "That's only partly true," she said. "Of course, the knowl-
edge you possess is important, even vital to our national defense
and security. Naturally, imparting that knowledge will be your
primary function when you return. But your usefulness as a man
and as a Russian will not end with that. " She moved toward
him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I can prove it to you,
Andrei.
     'How?"
     "Come back with me. Right now. Leave the airplane here-
     Maraklov spun around. "Leave it? Here?"
     "You are killing yourself every time you fly it, " she said.
"Look at yourself. It drains you like some kind of electronic
parasite. It will kill you if you continue. Leave it. I can order a
transport to take us to Moscow in the morning. Take whatever
you want from the aircraft-its most vital computers, diagrams,
memory tapes, whatever. Or take nothing. The aircraft is in the
hands of the KGB. You have done your duty-now let them do
theirs. Come back with me to Russia and I guarantee you, you
will be treated like the national hero you are."
     He stared at her, apparently considering her words. Her mes-
sage finally seemed to be getting through to him, she thought.
He was finally beginning to believe her . . .
     "So that's it," Maraklov said. "You don't think I can de-
liver. That's it, isn't it? The Politburo doesn't think I can
deliver DreamStar-"
          
"No, Andrei, that is not-"
     "They don't want me flying DreamStar any more," he con-
tinued angrily. "They never did. I delivered it. They think they
can debrief me and get rid of me. Now you want me to go back
to Russia immediately. Bring him back before he snaps, is that
what they said? Pick his brain before he freaks. Is that it?"
     "Of course not-"
     "Lady, I am the only hope of getting that bird out of here in
one piece. They don't have a chance without me."
     "I know that, Andrei," she said. "If they want to get the
fighter out of Nicaragua you must fly it. But there is a very good
possibility that they will not want to fly the aircraft out of Nic-
aragua."
          "Not fly it out of Nicaragua . . . ?"
     "Andrei, our government tried to make a deal with the Amer-
icans for the return of their fighter. They told the Americans
they would turn the plane over to them in five days. The same
day they concluded that agreement we were caught trying to fly
the plane to Cuba. The Americans no longer believe us. You've
said it yourself-we can't defend ourselves here. If the U.
mounts a n attack they'll destroy this base. It would seem the
only way we can save ourselves is to turn the fighter over to
them.
     "Like hell .        He recalled he'd momentarily considered it
himself, but only in his bitterness about what probably waited
for him back "home." But he could never seriously go through
with that .      "Do you know what I've done? Do you realize
what I've gone through to get that aircraft here? I was the top
pilot in the United States Air Force's most top-secret research
center. In ten years I could have been running the place. I sac-
rificed it to protect and deliver this aircraft and I will never
surrender it .
     He went to the closet, found a fresh flight suit and began
pulling it on. "I'll talk to the general-hell, I'll talk to Moscow.
I doubt that the Americans will attack this base. But if they do

we can move DreamStar to another location until the attack is
over. Unless the U. declares war, they won't threaten the peace
in Central America by bombing a base, even over this fighter.
And they're not going to declare war." Maraklov pulled on a
pair of boots and left his room.
     Zaykov remained there for several minutes. The strain, she
decided, was getting to him. Even more than before, the fighter
was his personal possession, more than the U.'s or the USSR's,
and he was determined to ignore official orders and political
realities and do with the fighter as he thought best. The signs of
paranoia were stronger as well. She'd never thought he'd agree
to leave DreamStar in Nicaragua, but at the very least she thought



374                       DALE BROWN
her words would comfort him if not altogether reassure him. It
had had the opposite effect. He clearly now believed that the
Soviet military would discard him like a spent shell casing after
his mission was completed. (She did not consider the likelihood
that he might be right ... )
     She had to try to convince him to trust his countrymen. That
was now more important than ever. With the threat of American
retaliation hanging over them, a battle-fatigued and alienated
mind of Colonel Maraklov could mean disaster for himself, the
mission and all Soviet personnel in Nicaragua.
     He had to be brought back to the fold-or he had to be elim-
inated.
Maraklov went to the command post, where he found General
Tret'yak in his office sitting in front of a computer terminal,
staring at a half-filled screen. "I need to talk to you, General."
     Tret'yak looked up, motioned to a chair. Maraklov ignored
it. "I am composing a detailed report on this morning's inci-
dent," Tret'yak said in a distracted tone. "Five aircraft lost.
Watching that 11yushin go in-I have never felt so helpless-"
     "Sir, we have to discuss the XF-34 fighter," Maraklov inter-
rupted. "It's not secure here. I recommend it be moved as soon
as possible to a secret location and prepared for another flight to
the Soviet Union as soon as possible."
     Tret'yak stared at the screen for a few moments; then, to
Maraklov's surprise, began typing again. "Colonel Maraklov,
personally, at this moment, I don't care what happens to our
fighter," he said without looking up from his work. "I have lost
seven men and five aircraft today-that is more men and more
equipment than I have lost in four years as a squadron com-
mander in Afghanistan. I will certainly lose my command and
possibly my pension. The safety and security of your wondrous
aircraft is out of my hands. I have no more resources to defend
it with."
     He reached over to a stack of papers, selected one and tossed

it to Maraklov without looking up from the computer screen.
     Here are your orders, transmitted by the chief of the KGB.
You are authorized to take any actions necessary to protect the
aircraft. Authorization has already been obtained to allow you
access to Sandino Airport in Managua, Aeroflot hangar number
twelve, and Puerto Cabezas Airport, main transient hangar. You
will take weapons with you. I have already ordered my men to
load Lluyka tanks, ammunition and missiles on your fighter-
we suddenly seem to have plenty to spare. It's your responsibil-
ity now."
     Maraklov picked up the message. It was true-he had been
given almost unlimited authority to protect DreamStar from de-
struction until the chief of the KGB, Kalinin, could consult with
the Soviet Kollegiya. Trucks, trains, ships, tankers, weapons,
hangars, men, money-anything he felt was necessary, so long
as DreamStar was safe. It was an exciting prospect, but he re-
alized that if he failed, the Kollegiya would demand repay-
ment-and not in money.
     Maraklov almost felt sorry for the man-he had, in effect, just
been relieved of command because of something he had no con-
trol over. "I understand, sir, spasiba-" "You have everything
you need."     
     "Get out, Colonel," Tret'yak said.
     "I want to ask your opinion, sir, " Maraklov said quickly,
about where you recommend I take Zavtra.
     The old fighter pilot looked up from his work. "You want my
opinion?"
     Maraklov saw the old glimmer in his eyes, at least something
of the fire he'd noted when they'd met that day he arrived at
Sebaco. Tret'yak wanted a piece of the action, no matter what.
"I'm glad you asked, because I have given it some thought."
Tret'yak motioned to a chair, then poured a tall glass f ice
water for Maraklov. "I am very, very glad you asked."
Washington, D.
Saturday, 20 June 1996, 1900 EDT

President Taylor cursed, his New England accent, rarely heard
after years in Washington, leaking through.
     The full National Security Council had been summoned for
an early-evening meeting at the White House conference room.
They had just been briefed on DreamStar by General Elliott via
two-way satellite videophone from the E-5 AWACS plane, in
which he was still orbiting over the Cayman Islands. The Pres-
ident turned his face away from his advisers at the conference
table, his jaw tight. "They just went ahead and hed to me.



376                      DALE BROWN
     "According to Ambassador Vilizherchev, the military detach-
ment in Nicaragua acted on their own without -clearing it with
Moscow," Secretary of State Danahall said. "Vilizherchev in-
sists there was no intention of deceiving us."
     "I don't care what he insists. For starters, I want Vilizher-
chev's ticket pulled-he's persona non grata. And I want to
make sure that the press knows he's not being 'recalled to confer
with his government' or any such bull-I want them to know
that I'm kicking him out."
     "Do you want the press to know why?" Danahall asked.
     "Because he lied to me, he lied to this government." He
pointed a finger at Danahall. "You don't need to go into de-
tails." Danahall shook his head as the President turned back to
the image of Elliott on the three-sided monitor set up in the
center of the conference table. Yes, Danahall thought, the Pres-
ident needed to go into detail for something as serious as kicking
out an ambassador, especially the ambassador from the Soviet
Union.
     "So we definitely know that the XF-34 was flown back to
Nicaragua, back to this Sebaco airfield?" the President asked
Elliott.
     "Positively, sir," Elliott radioed back. "We've had contin-
uous AWACS radar coverage of Sebaco since the XF-34 with-
drew. It has definitely landed at Sebaco, and so far no aircraft
have departed or arrived at Sebaco except for two MiG fighters
from Managua that had tried to chase our AWACS plane away
from Nicaragua. Our Falcons convinced him that it was all right
for us to stay. We've been keeping watch on Sebaco via our
AWACS plane, by satellite surveillance, and by sketchy reports
from covert operatives in Nicaragua when possible."
     "But that doesn't mean they can't move it again," William
Stuart said testily. "It's still a no-win operation, Elliott. So you
caught the Russians trying to move the thing. They're still not
going to give it back until they're good and ready-"
     
"We can stop them from moving that aircraft out of Nicara-
gua, " Elliott said, "if we act fast enough. "
     "Is it true, General," the President asked, "that we can't
detect them if they move it out of Sebaco? "
     "I'm afraid so, sir. We have satellite overflights every ninety
minutes to scan the base, and our radar plane can track anything
in the sky. Our agents in the field are keeping watch on the area
surrounding Sebaco, but the Russians have stepped up security
around that base and our agents can't get too close. There are
gaps ... But we don't have to know the XF-34's exact loca-
tion," Elliott added, readjusting his headset. "We know they
have it-we don't need to know anything else-"
     "You're recommending that we bomb Sebaco, regardless of
whether we know that fighter is there or not?"
     "Yes, sir, I am. It would help if the plane were returned to
its hangar where it was first spotted, but there's not too much
chance of that. I'd expect them to hide it in the jungle or trans-
port it to Sandino Airport, where we'd be less inclined to at-
tack--
     "'Less inclined' is right, General," Stuart said. "We will
not attack a civilian airfield."
     "Sandino is a military airfield, sir. The Nicaraguans don't
operate any civilian airfields. Sandino is operated by the military
but accepts civilian traffic. A surgical strike-"
     "We're getting off the point, General," the President said.
"I'll end this right now-we will not attack Sandino Airport. It
may in fact be a military airfield, but it is considered a civilian
airfield. If the Soviets ship it to Sandino, then it's just another
step out of our reach."
     "Yes, sir," Elliott said. "Sebaco is our target in any case.
Our objective is to send a message that we don't accept our
fighter being stolen, our people killed and our so-called agree-
ment being broken."
     For a brief moment the President thought about the upcoming
election, the scrutiny he was under already, the criticism he could

expect when the country learned that he had mounted an attack
against Nicaragua. But Elliott's carefully phrased statement
seemed the bottom line-the Soviets had been banking on this
election year to get away with killing American servicemen and
stealing a multi-million-dollar air-craft . . .
     "Let's send that message, General Elliott," the President or-
dered, and said a silent prayer.



378                       DALE BROWN
Moscow, USSR
     Sunday, 21 June 1996, 0700 EET (Saturday, 2300 EDT)
The General Secretary, as always, began the emergency meeting
of his senior advisers precisely on time. He was dressed in a
business suit and tie, in spite of the early hour, and bestowed a
disgusted look on any of his civilian or military advisers who
arrived in rumpled suits or unpolished shoes or who did not
shave. The man set high standards for himself and he expected
each of those around him to measure up to the same standards.
And, contrary to much of the rest of the world, Sunday was still
a day of work in the Kremlin.
     The General Secretary got right to business. He turned to
his foreign minister, interlaced his fingers on his desk. "Corn-
rade Tovorin, Vilizherchev has been expelled from the United
States. Why?
     Tovorin looked anxiously at Kalinin, then cleared his throat.
"I had intended to brief you this morning on Vilizherchev, sir.
This deals with the experimental aircraft taken by Comrade Kal-
inin's agent in the United States. Vilizherchev was called to the
White House and questioned about the fighter. He agreed to
consult with you and the Kollegiya on the Americans' demands
for returning the aircraft. Comrade Kalinin, however, was un-
aware of this. He ordered his agent in Nicaragua, Colonel Mar-
aklov, to fly the aircraft to Cuba. When the Americans learned
this they expelled Vilizherchev-"
          :'Why wasn't I notified of any of this, Kalinin?"
     'Vilizherchev met with the President very early Saturday
morning, our time, " Kalinin said quickly - "The operation to fly
the fighter from Nicaragua to Cuba began only a few hours after
that meeting. You were in Leningrad for the day, sir-there was
no time to consult you-"
     "There was ample time to consult with me. Perhaps you chose
not to consult me?"
     :'I didn't wish to intrude on your holiday, sir."
     
'Very considerate of you, Kalinin. Did you authorize any
agreements with the American government yesterday morning?
     "No, sir," Kalinin lied. "Vilizher-chev consulted with me
because the fighter was in our hands. I advised him to wait for
a reply from Moscow before proceeding further." -
     "The order expelling Vilizherchev says that he lied to the
     American President and gave assurances to the Americans that
were not honored. Did Vilizherchev do these things?"
Vi"I don't know, sir," Kalinin said, "but I doubt it. Sergei
lizherchev is one of the most loyal and trusted of your advis-
ers. More likely, the Americans are angry about their fighter
and expelled Sergei in protest.'!
     "I want Vilizherchev to report to me immediately after he
arrives," the General Secretary said.
     "Yes, sir. " Tovorin was relieved that the questioning on that
score was over, at least for the moment.
     "We lost five aircraft over the Caribbean yesterday," the
General Secretary said, "including a one-billion-ruble airborne-
warning-and-control aircraft, of which we only have thirty. We
have two pilots dead, two captured by the Americans, and four
men from the 11yushin transport seriously injured." He never
ranted or raved, never seemed to get too upset or angry-, but the
deep, resonant voice, the fixated stare that seemed to bore a hole
right into your skull, the hawklike eyebrows, the knotted fists-
all told their story.
     He turned on Kalinin. "Your mission to bring this American
super-fighter to Russia is becoming very expensive, Kalinin."
     "Our fighters were outnumbered four to six," Kalinin said,
"and we shot down four of their fighters and forced the other
two to retreat. The XF-34 fighter shot down one and crippled
another. If the XF-34 hadn't been carrying long-range fuel tanks,
sir, it could have destroyed all six American fighters-it is that
superior, sir. "
          "It's no use to us, Kalinin, if we must kill off half our air
force to get it . . . What's the status of the project? Can you get

this fighter to Russia in one piece without starting World War
Three?"
     "Yes, sir. We will make another attempt to fly the aircraft
intact out of Nicaragua. Colonel Maraklov, the pilot, now be-
lieves it would be safer to fly it in a circuitous route to Moscow
rather than trying to fly it first to Cuba. He tried that. It was a
good plan . . . Cuba is more stable than Nicaragua, but-"
          "When will he make the attempt?"
     "Tonight, sir." Kalinin stood and walked to a large chart of
the region. "I have arranged a diversions large formation of
aircraft flying from Nicaragua to Cuba, much the same as the
first attempted convoy to Cuba. This force will directly chal-



380                      DALE BROWN
lenge the Americans. At the same time, Maraklov and a small
escort force will launch, stay clear of American radar sites in
Panama and in the Lesser Antilles archipelago and out over the
Atlantic Ocean; we can expect support if needed from Venezuela
and Trinidad and Tobago, both of whom have been glad to ac-
cept large amounts of aid from our government in recent years,
as you know. We have arranged tanker and fighter support for
Maraklov over the Atlantic, well away from commercial air-
traffic routes or ground-based radar sites. The force will continue
north, steering well clear of known or detected naval vessels.
We can expect support from Mauritania and Algeria and we can
land for crew rest and replenishment in Algiers in northern Al-
geria or Tamanrasset in southern Algeria. After that I believe it
will not be too difficult to penetrate the relatively weak NATO
southern flank or the eastern Mediterranean area and recover into
Tbilisi or Odessa."
     The General Secretary appeared to be only half listening.
"You seem to be very confident of success, Kalinin. You were
confident about the ease at which you would get this aircraft to
Cuba. Yet this aircraft is still in Nicaragua."
     "I realize that this will be a difficult mission," Kalinin said.
"Maraklov must fly his aircraft nine thousand kilometers, pre-
pared at any moment to defend himself against the Americans'
most advanced fighters, both land- and sea-based. Yet this is the
fighter that can do it, sir. This XF-34 fighter has already fought
its way out of the United States and survived a large coordinated
assault against it. We must have this aircraft. Much of the bal-
ance of power between the Soviet Union and the United States
depends on it."
     "I suspect you are overstating the case, Kalinin"              al-
though for you it is crucial, he added to himself       "We have
already lost five aircraft and had our ambassador declared non
grata. I can't accept much more.
     He turned away from Kalinin, considering the options . . . It

would be a coup for both of them, he thought, if the fighter
could be brought to Russia. And they would give it back, but
only after all possible information on the machine was obtained
and a suitable trade arranged.
     Should the mission fail, Kalinin, his chief rival for power,
would be ousted, an irritating memory, taking with him the blame
for the incident. Should Kalinin succeed, his strength and au-
thority in the government would surely increase, but enough for
a takeover? He doubted it, but he would need to be very, very
vigilant ...
     "What will you require?" the General Secretary asked.
     "Because of the time involved, sir, very little," Kalinin said.
"Authorization for another Ilyushin-76 radar plane, another IU-76
tanker aircraft, six MiG-29 aircraft with our pilots from Cuba,
and landing rights and defense arrangements with Trinidad and
Tobago, Mauritartia, Algeria, Libya and Syria. These forces to
be placed under my authority for the next seventy-two hours."
     The General Secretary shook his head. " 'Very little,' you
say, Kalinin?" He turned to the chief of staff. "Marshal Cher-
kov, can these be provided in so short a time?"
     Marshal Boris Cherkov, one of the oldest members of the
General Secretary's senior staff, pondered the question so long
and without any apparent reaction that for a moment Kalinin and
some of the others thought he was asleep. Then: "I trust young
Comrade Kalinin has investigated. the source of the 11yushin
aircraft and the fighters? From Cuba, I understand?"
     "Yes, sir. There are a total of two II-76 radar planes at Ha-
vana, four "-76 tankers and twenty-one MiG-29 fighter air-
craft.
     Cherkov nodded. "It seems he has his aircraft. Obtaining
landing rights from any of these nations mentioned will not be
a problem. Obtaining mutual-defense operations will be virtually
impossible without days of precise planning-half the govern-
ment of Trinidad and Tobago is on holiday, and it sometimes
takes a whole day for our embassy to contact anyone in Mauri-

tania's government. Besides, none of these nations has any ap-
preciable air or naval forces. I would not expect any resistance
to your operation from these nations, but neither would I expect
any assistance.
     Kalinin nodded. He had hoped these governments would ex-
clude American fighters from their airspace while allowing Rus-
sian fighters to land, but obviously that wasn't to be. "Never
mind," he said. "Permission to cross their airspace and landing
rights for our jets will be enough."
     "As for the radar aircraft, tanker and fighters," Cherkov went
on, "that must be your decision. The forces are available. Of




382                       DALE BROWN
course, if the Americans launch some sort of attack against Cuba
in retaliation, then those aircraft would be needed for defense . . . "
     Kalinin was pleased. He had thought Cherkov, a close ally
of the General Secretary, was going to raise a lot more prob-
lems . . .
     "However," Cherkov said, as if on cue, "I feel I must object
to this operation." The bastard did not let him down, Kalinin
thought grimly.
     "It is extremely dangerous to provoke the Americans in-their
own 'backyard.' Remember the Cuban missile crisis and that
fool Khrushchev. We could invite retaliation and open conflict
in an area of the world where we are hardly dominant-"
     "The U. is in no position to retaliate," Kalinin said angrily.
"If I had decided to put the aircraft on an ocean-going vessel or
even a transport plane, I will admit the danger of attack in those
cases would be high. If we were holding the fighter in place for
some sort of trade, there would be danger of attack by the Amer-
icans. But the fighter is a moving target. The Americans will not
blindly lash out and attack unless they know precisely where the
aircraft is located. Besides, they are not in good standing with
most of Latin America .
     Cherkov's hands shook with emphasis. "Nicaragua is hardly
an ideal safe haven. Your base at Sebaco, is a prime target-you
must feel the same way, judging by the haste with which you
want to fly the fighter out of there. I expect Sebaco will come
under attack. It is an isolated base, obviously not part of the
Nicaraguan an-ned forces, and now nearly unprotected. The
President can call it a 'communist-terrorist headquarters,' a ral-
lying cry for most Americans. If I were Secretary Stuart or
General Kane, I would order an attack on Sebaco immediately.
     "Then it is even more urgent that the fighter be moved with-
out delay," Kalinin said. "It's too late for talking about what
should have been done. I have instructed Colonel Maraklov, the
XF-34's pilot, to do everything in his power to see that the air-

craft survives. I want to order him to fly the aircraft to the Soviet
Union, and I want to provide him with all available military
support. If we hesitate, we are, as you say, inviting defeat. If
we act now, we can be successful . . - "
     There was silence around the conference table. The General
Secretary stared at Kalinin, and from across the table Kalinin
forced himself to return the General Secretary's icy stare with
one as determined and convincing as he could manage. He was
sure that the General Secretary was trying to think days and
weeks ahead, assessing possible consequences of defeat and fail-
ure for both of them. But he also realized that the General Sec-
retary really had no choice-to back away from this operation
now, when the Americans had given them such a lengthy chance
to recover and regroup, would show indecision and timidness.
Over time that lack of initiative could be translated into political
weakness, which would mean a further loosening of his tenuous
grasp on the reins of power.
     "Very well," the General Secretary said, "you are authorized
to requisition and command the forces you have outlined to bring
this aircraft home. But understand, I am not convinced that this
one fighter is worth a major confrontation with the U., no
matter how advanced it may be. Be prepared to terminate your
operation and obey the orders of the Kollegiya should you be so
ordered. Am I clearly understood?
     "Yes, sir," Kalinin said automatically. The General Secre-
tary had relented, as Kalinin expected. His caveat was pro forma,
face-saving.
Vladimir Kalinin's rise to power had begun.
Over the Caribbean Sea
Sunday, 21. June 1996, 2100 CDT
"Tegucigalpa Control, Sun Devil Three-Two is with you at flight
level one-eight zero, position one-zero-zero nautical miles north
of La Cieba. Over."
     The Honduran military radar operator checked his display and
quickly located the data block, then the primary radar return

belonging to the American aircraft one hundred miles north of
the military airbase on the north coast of Honduras. He cross-
checked the information with the newcomer's flight plan. The
aircraft, he knew from the flight plan, was a modified
McDonnell-Douglas DC-10 belonging to the U. Air Force-
that would explain the very large radar return even at this dis-
tance.
     Satisfied, he replied in thick Latino-accented English, "Sun
Devil Three-Two, this is Tegucigalpa Control, radar contact.
Clear to intercept and track airway Bravo eight-eight-one until



384                       DALE BROWN
overhead Goloson Airport, then follow airway alpha seven-five-
forty to Toncontin International, maintain flight level one-eight-
zero. Over."
     The copilot of the KC-10 Extender tanker from the 161st Air
Refueling Group, the very same group unlucky enough to get
involved with all these "questionable" (for which read techni-
cally illegal) missions into Central America, checked the clear-
ance with his computer flight plan and nodded to his pilot-it
was the clearance he had been expecting. "Sun Devil Three-
Two, roger. Out."
     The pilot switched over to the scrambled number-two radio.
"Storm Zero Two, we're in contact with Tegucigalpa. Cleared
on course."
     "Roger, Mike,"    JC. Powell replied. "Right on time."
     The KC-10's copilot said, "You expected something else?"
     McLanahan scanned outside Cheetah's bubble canopy at the
huge gray-green tanker, a massive, shadowy figure in the grow-
ing twilight. The tanker aircraft was on its third mission for
him and    in almost as many days-they had gotten to know
each other very well during their videophone flight-planning ses-
sions. Although Tegucigalpa and all the other Central American
radar operators only knew of a single aircraft on this flight plan,
there were actually two-McLanahan was borrowing the tactic
the Russians had used the morning before to try to get DreamStar
to Cuba. The two aircraft were sticking tightly together in order
to merge their radar returns.
     Cheetah was right on the tanker's left wingtip. She was car-
rying two conformal FAST PACK fuel tanks for added range, and
she was armed with four AIM-120 Scorpion missiles in serni-
recessed wells along the underside of the ftiselage, four AIM-132
infrared homing dogfighting missiles on wing pylons, and five
hundred rounds of ammunition for the twenty-millimeter can-
non. Cheetah also carried a combination infrared and laser
seeker-scanner under the nose that could provide initial steering

signals for the AIM-120 missiles without using any telltale emis-
sions from the attack radar.
     It was armed and ready for a preemptive strike against the
KGB base at Sebaco. The mission was to retaliate against the
theft of DreamStar and the Soviet reneging on the deal struck
between Moscow and Washington. It was also to try to flush out
DrearnStar and engage it in one last aerial battle. Better a dead
bird than in Soviet hands to copy ...
     But Cheetah was on this mission only if DrearnStar or other
high-performance fighters challenged the strike aircraft. The
original plan proposed by General Elliott had Cheetah armed as
both an air-to-air and air-to-ground fighter, but surprisingly   
had vetoed the idea-surprising because Powell rarely backed
away from a challenge, and because he was an excellent air-to-
mud pilot. He had argued that Cheetah would be too heavily
loaded down if it had to carry any bulky iron bombs or compli-
cated laser-infrared target designators. He recognized the real
possibility that the Russians would use DrearnStar to defend Se-
baco against attack, and he wanted to be ready with all the power
and maneuverability he could get. If DrearnStar was going to
launch, he wanted to be right there on top of him.
     There was a surprise third party on the satellite conference
call involved with planning the strike mission, a project director
from HAWC. He had been silent most of the conversation, until
LC. had voiced his objections. Then he had stepped in, pre-
senting his options and his estimates for success. In short order
his proposals had been approved by General Elliott, and less
than an hour later approved by the Secretary of the Air Force.
     This fight had become personal-it was as if the President and
the DOD had agreed to let the men and women of HAWC deal
with the traitor from their own ranks, because that was how they
thought of him-as Ken James, not a Soviet man named Mar-
aklov. There were more concrete reasons, of course: The unit
was cloaked in secrecy, with fewer persons involved who could
alert the media or enemy agents; they commanded the most high-

tech weapons in the American military arsenal; and, especially
during the recent events, were able to generate a strike sortie
faster than an active-duty military unit.
     The two men in Cheetah's cockpit were quiet.    concen-
trated on maintaining close fingertip formation with the KC-10,
and McLanahan checked and rechecked his equipment and
watched the setting sun dipping behind the low Maya Mountains
near the. coast of Belize off the right side of the fighter. The Islas
de la Bahia island chain was off to the left, with tiny lights
twinkling in the growing Caribbean twilight. It was a pleasant,
romantic sight-until the view of those tranquil islands was ob-
scured by the row of AIM-132 missiles slung under Cheetah's




386                       DALE BROWN
wings, the missile's large foreplanes slicing the Isla de Roatan
neatly in half.
     "How are you doing back there, sir?" Powell asked, finally
breaking the strained silence. "You're quiet."
     "I'm okay."
"Radio's free. Want to call back to the command post again?"
     "No, not right now. " Since leaving Drearriland earlier that
afternoon he had made one UHF radio phone-patch back to
HAWC's command post to ask about Wendy. She was, they
told him, undergoing laser surgery to remove areas of scarred
and damaged tissue in her lungs. The last word he had gotten
was that they were searching for possible donors for a single
lung transplant. Only a few hundred of these transplants had
been done in the United States in the past few years, and only a
handful of recipients were still alive.
     - She'll be okay,"    said.
     Patrick said nothing.
     silence again as they approached the Honduras coastline and
the tiny city of La Cieba came into view. Then    asked,
"You figure we'll run into James up here?"
     "You mean Maraklov. "
"Still can't help thinking of him as Ken James."
     "By any other name he's still a murderer. I don't think of
him as a Russian or an American or even as a person. I won't
have any trouble pulling the trigger on him."
     According to General Elliott's plan, Cheetah was meant to go
up against DreamStar, to engage with missiles from long range,
close, engage at medium range with missiles, and if necessary
close and engage with guns.
     "Ken . . . Maraklov seems like he's still on top of his game,"
   said. "He scared the hell out of those F-16 Air National
Guard guys. Faked one with a missile shot, follows him in a
horizontal climb, then hoses him while the F-16 descends on
him. He busted up one other guy-"
     
"I don't want to talk about him."
     But that wasn't altogether true-in reality, McLanahan was,
in a way, fascinated by him. Not just because of the amazingly
successful espionage operation that he had managed all these
years, but because of what sort of person was out here. He was a
Russian, a Soviet agent-he must have been worried about being
captured every day, yet he not only successfully penetrated the
most top-secret flight research lab in the U. but became the
only pilot of the most advanced flying machine in the whole
world. How anyone could keep calm and collected through all
that without going crazy was unbelievable. Add on thathe had
to fly DreamStar itself-and in Maraklov's case take it into bat-
tle, with no "knock it off" calls or prearranged attack scenarios,
no "wait ten seconds then come and get us" stuff. And Mar-
aklov had proved himself in battle, handily defeating two F-16
ADF interceptors . . . "How the hell does he do it?"
     "He's tuned into the ANTARES computer as if it was made
especially for him,"    replied immediately, as if he was
thinking the very same thing as McLanahan. "It's logical,
though-if he's a Russian mole like they say he is, he had to
forget completely about being a Russian and transform himself
into an American. It's like he can ram-flush his own mind and
fill it with whatever he wants. The same with ANTARES-he
can empty his mind of everything and allow that machine to take
over. I don't know how he snaps out of it-he must keep back
a bit of his brain, enough to remind himself that he's a human
being-sort of like leaving . bread crumbs behind in a maze to
help find your way out . . . "
     "But how can a guyfight like that? I've flown lots of different
high-performance fighters, including Cheetah's simulator, and it
takes every ounce of concentration I have just to keep the thing
flying straight. How can a schizy guy like that fly one?"
     "Practice helps,"    said. "Sure, you've flown a lot of
fighters-always with an instructor pilot and always in ideal day
VFR conditions-but you don't have many hours. Maraklov has

got hundreds of hours in DreamStar. And let's face it-the man
is good. With or without DrearnStar, he's a top fighter pilot. I'm
no psychologist, so I don't know too much about his mental
state, but just because you're schizy doesn't mean you can't
function normally or even above norm. Hell, they say most of
us fighter pilots are schizoids anyway . . . But ANTARES is the
key, Patrick. If you had a full-time, high-speed computer telling
you what to do each and every second you were at the controls,
you could fly any jet in the inventory. The problem you and I
have is that we can't interface with ANTARES. Maraklov is the
opposite: he's probably at a point where he can't exist without
ANTARES. He's not whole unless he's hooked up to that ma-
chine. When he's not hooked up he's less than himself. He's




388                       DALE BROWN
probably more dangerous when he's not hooked up. When he's
hooked into ANTARES he's sort of at the mercy of it."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Well, no matter how far we've come with high-speed inte-
grated circuits, micro-miniature computers and neural interfaces,
there's no unlimited amount of info you can take on board an
aircraft. We call ANTARES artificial intelligence, and in a way
it is, but the critical difference between my brain and AN-
TARES' computer is that ANTARES can't learn. And learning
creates an unlimited pool of info that you rely on in combat.
There's a lot of it available on DreamStar, but it has a limit, and
we know what the limit is. James-Maraklov-can call on his
own experience and training to improve his own pool of infor-
mation, but we've seen before that he doesn't do that. He relies
more and more on ANTARES to make crucial decisions for him.
So his advantage can become a disadvantage for him, and that's
a one-up for me. On Cheetah I've got a lot of options available.
Including ones I dream up or choose. He doesn't-"
     "But ANTARES has hundreds of options available," Mc-
Lanahan said, "and it can execute them much faster than you
can-"
     "ANTARES executes a maneuver based on what it figures
out I'm doing, true,"    said, "but he also makes moves
based on the probability of what I'll do in the future, based on
what I do now. ANTARES is thinking ahead and maneuvering
to counter or press the attack based on what it thinks I'll do. But
what if he's thinking the wrong thing?"
     "The chances of it computing the wrong thing are slim,"
McLanahan said. "It computes dozens, sometimes hundreds of
combinations to any situation-"
     "But it can only execute one of them,"    said. "The one
it executes is based on current activity and probability-highly
accurate mathematical statistics and historical averages but still
chance, educated guesses."
     
"So if you do something different, it recomputes on that move,
executes the maneuver, and computes another dozen situations - - - "
     " You got it. And when it stops and thinks-and I don't care
how fast it does it-I have some advantage. If it's thinking in-
stead of fighting that's good for me."
McLanahan's head was pounding. "You've got a machine
that can think and react faster than a human being. A lot faster.
How can you get the advantage over that? " ,
     "Because of the way it's programmed,"    JC. said.
     "DreamStar is a fighter," McLanahan said. "It's been pro-
grammed to fight. Attack. It can compute a dozen different ways
to attack every second. Where's the advantage?"
     "What would you do?"    asked, "if you were chasing
down a bogey at your twelve o'clock and you had the overtake
on him but you both had a lot of smash built up? What would
you do? Would you go max AB, firewall the throttle, close on
the guy and attack?"
     "I could, but it wouldn't be smart."
                    "Why?
     "Because if I had a lot of overtake, the bogey could reverse
on me easier. Then I'd be on the defensive-"
     "Exactly. DrearnStar does not think like that. DreamStar has
not been programmed to hang back, match speed and power,
maintain spacing, look for an opening. DreamStar goes for the
kill when the target is presented to it. It will always engage. If
you're ever in doubt about what it will do, it will attack. You
can count on it. Remember our last flight test with DreamStar?"
     "Sure. James almost pancaked into those buttes."
     "He did that because even in what we would call an unsafe
situation, DreamStar's computers will press the attack no matter
what. If there's the slightest opening, the tiniest chance for suc-
cess, DreamStar will use it in its attack equation.
     "I wasn't involved with the programming part of DreamStar's
computers," McLanahan said, "but to me it doesn't make sense.
Isn't defense as much a pan of dogfighting as offense? Why

wouldn't DreamStar's computer programmers teach it about de-
fense?
     "Who knows? DreamStar was probably programmed by some
computer weenie who never was in a cockpit. But then again, I
suppose if you have the ultimate fighter, the most agile and fast-
est there is, it would be easy to ignore defense and concentrate
on offense. But it can afford to ignore cut-and-run options be-
cause it has the speed and the agility to tum tiny mistakes into
victories. Guys lose because they're amazed by how fast it is.
It's not fast-you're dead because you did exactly what DreamStar
figured you would do, and it was right there waiting for you.
Boom. Dead meat."



390                        DAIZ BROWN
     "So if you make DreamStar play defense
     "DreamStar does not play defense, Patrick,"    said,
pounding on the canopy sill to drive home his point. "The only
defense maneuver programmed into that system is high-speed
escape, and that's only if the ANTARES interface is broken or
damaged. As long as it's fully functional, it never thinks defense.
DreamStar is always thinking attack. Always. If you force it into
a defensive role you know that DreamStar is thinking about how
to attack in response. And when it's thinking, you have the ad-
vantage. True, it may only be for a second or two, but during
that time you have an advantage, and that's when you have to
take him out."
          "Sounds like you got this all figured out,   "
     "Hey, DreamStar's a fantastic machine, you can't beat it in
technology or maneuverability-you have to think at a level where
even ANTARES has a weakness. You fly unpredictable, fly in
three dimensions, fly by instincts instead of by the book or by
some computer. ANTARES has problems handling that .
     As the KC-10 began a shallow turn right toward Tegucigalpa
in southern Honduras,    gently yawed Cheetah around to fol-
low. They had just crossed the north coast of Honduras directly
over the Honduran Air Force base of La Cieba. Even though the
Hondurans had only twenty-five aircraft, La Cieba was a large,
modem, high-tech base-mostly because of the U. military,
which used the base for "joint training missions," and subse-
quently "assisted" with base improvements that virtually built
an American air base at La Cieba. There were often more Amer-
ican planes at La Cieba than other aircraft in all of Honduras.
     "Storm T\vo, Sun Devil Three-TWo is ready for your final
refueling any time," the copilot aboard the KC-10 tanker re-
ported. "Airspeed coming back. Cleared to pre-contact posi-
tion.
     I I Roger, Sun Devil, "    JC. replied. " Moving to pre-contact.
   pulled the throttles. back to eighty percent power and

watched as the KC-10 moved slowly ahead. Cheetah would get
one more refueling as they transited Honduras; then Sun Devil
Three-TWo would land as scheduled at Tegucigalpa and refuel,
and Cheetah would continue on its strike-escort route.
     The refueling went without a hitch. They stayed in contact
position right up until the KC-10s initial approach fix to Ton-
contin International Airport at Tegucigalpa, so Cheetah could
fill up to full tanks right until the last possible minute-Cheetah
had to complete its mission, escort the strike aircraft out of the
danger area, then return to La Cieba and land. Every drop of
gas was critical.
     "Well, boys, you got another ten thousand pounds courtesy
of the people of the great state of Arizona, " the pilot of the
KC-10 radioed after he had started his approach to Tegucigalpa,
"Take care, I don't want to read about you in the papers.
     "Likewise,"    replied. "We'll see you in about three hours
if we need you. Over."
          "We'll be waiting and ready. Sun Devil out."
     The channel went dead.    ordered the voice-command
computer to reset the radios to the strike mission channelization,
with the command radio on the strike-aircraft frequency and a
scan on all UHF and VHF frequencies for ground-controlled
intercept activity in Nicaragua. At the same time, Powell started
a turn toward the east and a rapid descent to five-thousand feet
which would put him about a thousand feet over most of the lus@
tree-covered mountains of northwestern Nicaragua. They were
skirting the northern Nicaragua border, staying deep within the
Cordillera Entre Rios valley to avoid Nicaragua's main surveil-
lance radar site situated on top of a fifty-seven-hundred-foot
mountain near Cuyali in the center of the country.
     "Shouldn't we have heard from them?"    asked a few
minutes later. He had fitted a night-vision visor over his eyes to
help him pick out the rugged peaks and valleys surrounding them
in the rapidly growing darkness.
     "Few more minutes," McLanahan told him. He had the sat-

ellite transceiver unit set on the strike frequency as briefed back
at Dreamland; because of the high terrain all around them, UHF
or VHF communications would be impossible. "Then all hell
will break loose."
It wasn't like the old days, Major Kelvin Carter told himself. It
was a damned sight better.
     He was sitting in what could best be described as the inside
of a computer surrounded by multi-function, multi-color com-
puter monitors, LED readouts and synthesized voices. The cock-
pit windscreen undulated with laser-drawn images describing
search radars, terrain and performance data. The big two-homed
yoke and massive center-console throttle quadrant were gone,



392                        DALE BROWN
replaced by static force side-stick controls, a special control stick
that did not move but sensed the amount of pressure being
delivered and commanded the appropriate input to the flight
controls, and electronic mini-throttles.
     He was sitting in what probably was the most advanced elec-
tronic cockpit outside DreamStar's-the cockpit on the upper
deck of Dog Zero TWo, the second experimental B-52 M-model
Megafortress Plus.
     She was a more potent weapon than her predecessor, Old
Dog. Every possible system in the aircraft, from flight controls
to navigation to weapons, was controlled by computer-and
many of those systems could be activated or monitored by voice
commands, helping to reduce workload even more. The Mega-
fortress Plus had been virtually rebuilt from the spine up with
advanced composite materials, even lighter and stronger than
fibersteel.
     But her most outstanding feature was her weapons fit: she had
been redesigned to carry almost every missile or bomb in the
Air Force inventory. In her role as a defense suppression "super
escort" battleship, as on this mission, she carried enough weap-
ons to equip a dozen tactical aircraft-and she could carry those
weapons almost eight thousand miles without refueling.
     For self-defense, the Megafortress Plus carried fifty aft-firing
Stinger "air mine" missiles, which had a range of almost two
miles and could be steered by the fire-control radar operated
from the gunner's position, and six AIM-120C Scorpion air-to-
air missiles, three on each wing pylon, for defense against fighter
attack. She also carried a wide array- of electronic jammers and
decoys to confuse or shut down enemy radars. Her terrain-
following capability, where she could automatically fly any de-
sired altitude above ground "hands off," was also a valuable
self-protection feature.
     For destroying enemy radars and weapon sites, the Old Dog
Two carried four AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow anti-radar drones,

two on each wing external pylon, which would home in on en-
emy radars from long distances. These were planned for use
against the four known fixed-radar defense sites along the flight
route. For unexpected threats she carried six AGM-88 HARM
High-speed Anti-Radar Missiles on a rotary launcher in the aft
bomb bay, designed to destroy mobile anti-aircraft guns or mis-
sile sites.
     For attacking the KGB airbase itself, she carried four AGM-
130 Striker glide bombs in the forward bomb bay, which could
be launched from as far as twelve miles away against the aircraft
hangars or other high-value targets at Sebaco. To destroy run-
way, taxiways and parking ramp she carried two cluster-bomb
dispenser drones on the rotary launcher in the aft bomb bay,
small winged vehicles that would fly around a preprogrammed
or designated spot and scatter (one hundred) twenty-pound
bomblets over a wide area, cratering'concrete and destroying
aircraft or vehicles unlucky enough to be there at the time.
     TWenty-two attack weapons, plus the fifty mini-rockets in the
tail-the weapons on Old Dog Two could outfit four or five mod-
em F-15 or F-" fighter-bombers. The aged B-52 bomber-this
particular airframe first rolled off the assembly line in 1963-
had been given a new lease on life, ensuring its usefulness in a
major combat role beyond the year 2000.
     "One minute to start countermeasures," the navigator, Cap-
tain Alicia Kellerman, reported. The call shook Carter out of
his reverie. It was so easy to slip into a sort of hypnotic trance
flying this beast-it'was as quiet as an airliner and as comfort-
able as the leather recliner back in his own living room.
     Carter checked the threat radar display projected onto his
windscreen after first tearing his attention away from the sight
of the iridescent dark green sea rushing past as they skimmed
only a hundred feet above the Caribbean. A green dome not far
in the distance signified their first electronic barrier, the sur-
veillance and GCI radar at Puerto Cabezas, the large combined
Soviet-Nicaraguan airbase on the Nicaraguan northeast coast.

They were aiming right for the northern edge of the dome, but
because of the interference from the sand dunes and marshes of
Punta Gorda they were able to fly just under the radar coverage.
But in less than sixty seconds they would lose the protection of
even that low spit of land.
     Carter hit the voice-command button on his control stick. "Set
countermeasures release switches to consent," he said in a slight
Louisiana bayou accent, reaccented and measured to make it
easier for the voice-command computer to understand his voice.
It was a humorous problem back in the early years of the project,
he recalled-he refused to believe he was the problem when the
computer continually rejected his commands during testing.
     "Pilot's countermeasures release consent," the computer




394                      DALE BROWN
confirmed. Then to warn the rest of the crew about the move,
the computer came on shipwide interphone and announced,
"Caution, pilot release consent."
     "Co' ming up on SCM point, crew," Kellerman said.
     "Caution, radar navigator release consent, " the computer
said.
     "You're all a bit early," the electronic-warfare officer, Cap-
tain Robert Atkins, said.
     "If it hits the fan up here," Carter said, watching the green
radar sky slowly inching down on top of him, "I don't want to
be fumbling with switches."
          "Amen," radar navigator Captain Paul Scott chimed in.
     Just then Carter heard, "Caution, electronic warfare release
consent. Warning, weapon release consent complete." The last
safety interlock belonging to Robert Atkins had been removed.
     They were sixty miles from the coastline, about seventy-five
miles northeast of Puerto Cabezas. This part of the mission was
almost as crucial as the attack phase. For the next one hundred
twenty miles until they reached the Cordillera Isabella moun-
tains in north-central Nicaragua, they were vulnerable to at-
tack-no mountains to hide in, only marshes and featureless
lowlands-and they would be in range of the powerful search
radar at Puerto Cabezas. Although the exact strength of the de-
fenses was unknown they had been briefed to expect SA-10 air-
defense missiles, MiG-29 and MiG-23 fighters to be operating
in the no-man's land before them.
     But at least this sortie had been planned to challenge those
defenses. They were not relying on air cover, nor were they
taking advantage of overlying friendly territory. This mission
was designed as much for effect as well as results-the idea that
a large American strike aircraft could make it across Nicaragua
and strike a heavily defended target was planned to demoralize
and confuse as much as it was to destroy.
     The green radar dome had almost touched them. "I show

contact with that search radar any second," Carter called out.
"Clear all weapons for release. Station check and report by
compartment when ready."
     Nancy Cheshire performed the pilot's station check, choosing
not to rely on the computer to check switch positions but doing
the checks visually. She was the first female test pilot at HAWC
and one of the first ever anywhere, and the public attention she
had attracted three years earlier at the beginning of the Mega-
fortress Plus program had threatened to undermine her goal to
be the best pilot in the organization.
"Offense ready," Scott reported.
"Defense ready," Atkins responded.
"Station check complete, Kel, warning light coming on
Nancy reported as she hit the EJECT press-to-test button. The
last item on the list.
     Carter looked at the small, red-haired woman for a moment,
studying her face underneath her lightweight flyer's helmet.
"How you doing over there?" he asked cross-cockpit.
     She looked back at him. "I'm scared to death, Kel." But she
sounded more angry than scared. "And why don't you ask any-
one else if they're scared?"
     "Because you're my copilot," Carter shot back. "That's all.
Hell, I never know what you're thinking and you're wrong . . . "
     His attention was pulled away from his copilot as he watched
the green dome descend over his aircraft like some unearthly fog.
"Caution, search radar, ten o'clock," the computer reported.
     "I've got a second search radar, ten o'clock, estimated range
sixty miles," Atkins reported. "Search and height-finder
looks like our shoreline SA-10. Hasn't found us yet, though.
     "Take it out, EW," Carter said. "Jam the search radar-I
don't want to be tracked by anyone out here over water. Kory,
send a warning message on the HAWC satellite net. Tell 'em
               we're coming."
     "Roger," Master Sergeant Kory Karbayjal, the crew gunner
and defense systems officer, replied, flipping down the SAT-

COM keyboard and punching commands to send the preformat-
ted message out on the satellite channel.
                  "Kel?"
     Carter turned to Cheshire.
     "Thanks for asking," she said, giving the control stick a slight
                   shake.
     Carter nodded, lowered his oxygen visor and checked his sys-
tem. "Get on oxygen." She raised her mask.
     "Stand by for missile launch, crew," Atkins said. "Radar
programming complete. I need a hundred feet, pilot."
     "Rog." Carter pulled back on the control stick, manually
flying the Megafortress Plus a hundred feet higher. "Set."
     "Rainbow away," Atkins called out.



396                       DALE BROWN
     The Rainbow was the AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow air-to-ground
missile, a subsonic winged drone aircraft with a small jet engine
that could seek out and destroy enemy radars. If the enemy radar
was operating, it would home in and destroy it with a one-
hundred-pound high-explosive warhead; if it did not detect a
radar it would orbit within ten miles of the target area until a
signal was detected, then fly toward it and destroy it. So even if
the enemy radar was shut off or moved, the missile could still
seek out and destroy.
     Carter shielded his eyes from the sudden glare of the AGM-
136's engine exhaust as the missile appeared briefly past the long
pointed nose of the Megafortress Plus, banked left, then disap-
peared into the darkness. Just then the green-radar warning
sky" projected onto the windscreen changed to yellow.
     "Tracking radar," Atkins called out over the computerized
warning voice. ".SA-10, ten o'clock. I'm getting warning mes-
sages on UHF and VHF GUARD channels." The yellow sky
seemed to undulate, then disappear and reappear at long inter-
vals, showing the effectiveness of Atkins's jamming.
     Kellerman activated her navigation radar. "Land fall in two
minutes. First terrain, fifteen miles, not a factor at this altitude.
First high terrain twenty-five miles, starting to paint over it.
She plotted her position on a chart, cross-checked it with the
GPS satellite navigation readout, then turned the radar to standby.
     Carter released his back pressure on his control stick, allow-
ing the terrain-following autopilot to bring the B-52 back to one
hundred feet above the Caribbean. The radar warning had
changed to solid yellow, then changed briefly to red before being
blotted out.
     "Did they get a missile off, EW?" Cheshire called out.
     "No uplink signal," Atkins replied. "We're at the extreme
outer range of the SA- 10. I don't think they can . . . "
     "There, I see it," Cheshire said. She pointed out the left
windscreen. Just over the horizon was a short glowing line of

fire spinning in a tight circle, growing larger and larger by the
second.
     Carter jerked the control stick hard left toward the missile.
"Chaff, flare." Atkins hit the ejector buttons, sending bundles
of radar-decoying chaff and heat-decoy flares overboard.
     Carter hit the voice-command stud. "Set clearance plane fifty
feet.
     "Clearance plane fifty feet, warning low altitude, clearance
plane one hundred feet." Carter's turn was so tight that, had the
computer set the lower clearance plane, the B-52s left wingtip
would have dragged the water.
     "It's still coming," Cheshire called out as Carter rolled out.
The B-52 dipped as the lower clearance plane setting kicked in.
     "I can't find the uplink, something must be guiding it but I
can't find it .
     The glow was getting brighter-Carter would swear he heard
the roar of the missile's rocket-motor as it sped closer and closer,
jamming wasn't working ... what ... ?
     "Stop jamming, EW," Carter suddenly called out. "It must
be homing in on the jamming source. Go to standby. Fast."
     The result was near-instantaneous. The fast-circling flight-path
of the missile began to wobble, and the tail flame of the missile's
engine began to elongate just as it burned out. Carter nudged
his B-52 as low as he could safely go. It was too late to try to
make a turn, too late even for more decoys . . .
     They heard a thud against the fuselage, then silence. The
B-52 shook as if a iant hammer had hit it.
     "It missed," Cheshire shouted, "that was the supersonic
shock wave, it missed .
     "It must have been a SA-15 SAM," Atkins said. "SA-15s ...
they just started deploying SA-15s in the Soviet Union. Now they
got them in Nicaragua?"
     Carter forced calm into his own dry throat. "Be ready-our
intelligence briefing was obviously missing a few details."
     But Atkins was still rattled. "SA-15 . . . I'm sorry, I didn't

recognize it . . . they're not supposed to have SA-15s in Nica-
ragua . . . I could've gotten us all killed . . . "
     "Snap out of it, Bob." But Carter understood what Atkins
was going through. No one on this crew, including himself, had
ever flown a combat mission-as a matter of fact, until Dog Zero
TWo was ready to fly two months ago, none of his crew members
had been aboard a military aircraft for several months. After
months or years with their mostly deskbound duties at Dream-
land they had become more like engineers than combat crew
members. Now they were being -shot at by the Soviet Union's
most advanced surface-to-air missile. He was sure the rest of the
crew was steeling a panic-Atkins was just the first one to let
loose.



398                       DALE BROWN
     "All of you, settle down and pay attention," Carter called
over interphone. "They took a shot and missed. Fly this mission
as briefed. But we've gotta pull together and back each other up -
All of you know your stuff-now it's time to put it into action.
All right. Check your stations and minimize electronic emis-
sions. Nancy, get another power-plant check."
     The radar sky had turned back to yellow. Carter maintained
his new heading for a few moments, then turned back to the
right and let the autopilot take control.
     " Do you think we should go back on the same course?" Scott
asked. "It'll be easier to find us that way."
     No use in doing that until we get over the mountains," Carter
said. "The faster we get inland the better. Besides, I'll bet there's
no big secret where we're heading. The entire Nicaraguan air
force is probably waiting up there for us."
     "Crossing the coast now," Kellerman announced. Carter
checked out the cockpit window-when only fifty feet above the
surface, the transition from water to land occurred very fast. He
double-checked that the terrain-following system was working
properly and set a two-hundred-foot clearance plane.
     "Tracking radar up again," Atkins said shakily. The yellow
sky was back for only a few moments when it completely blanked
out again.
     "They get another missile off?"
     "I don't think so," Atkins said. "The Rainbow indicates im-
pact-we got it."
     Cheshire slapped her armrest. "All right."
     "Celebration over, copilot," Carter said. "We've got a long
long way to go."
In a matter of only a few minutes the Nicaraguan military air-
base of Puerto Cabezas was in chaos. One moment it was quiet
and peaceftil, a warm, lazy summer evening with a hint of an
evening storm brewing. The next, air raid sirens were screaming
into the night, Russian missiles raised from concrete canisters

like demons rising from their crypts, and the roar of jet fighters
began to fill the air with the pungent odor of kerosene.
     The first SA-15 missile, installed on the coastal Nicaraguan
base only a month earlier in the ongoing Russian fortification of
Nicaragua, screamed off its launch rails less than twenty seconds
later, filling the air with burning acidic exhaust gas. The missile
crews, Nicaraguan with Russian commanding officers, stood and
watched the missile disappear into the night sky until a Soviet
officer yelled an order to prepare the launcher for reload. An-
other SA-15 missile was completing its gyro-alignment-the
Nicaraguan soldiers were skilled at aligning one missile at a time
forlaunch . . .
     It was this deficiency that had probably saved the crew of the
Megafortress Plus. Just before the second missile was ready for
launch a huge explosion lit up the small sandy hill where the
SA-15 tracking and guidance radome was positioned. The golf-
ball-like radome exploded like a burst balloon, scattering pieces
of the antenna within for hundreds of meters.
     From his vantage point in a low-covered concrete revetment
near the flight line, Maraklov saw the golf-ball radome split
apart and explode; now it looked like a cracked egg in a boiled
egg holder. Men were running toward the flight line, but he
knew the attack on the SA-15 guidance radome was a prelude to
the real assault. If it was a Tacit Rainbow cruise missile the
attack would not be for a few minutes because the AGM-136
had a range of almost a hundred miles; if it was an AGM-88
HARM missile the follow-on attack could be any second. Either
way it was going to be an air raid-the attackers had obviously
been waiting for the SA-15 to come up before blowing it up,
and with the radar gone the whole north coast of Nicaragua was
open to air attack.
     Maraklov took a deep pull from a plastic jug of distilled water
as he watched the radar control center begin to bum. Sebaco,
he was sure, was next-except whoever was staging this attack
wasn't going to stop at a radar site.
     
But DrearnStar-it was safe. He was sitting in DreamStar's
cockpit, still wearing his flight suit, his helmet resting on his lap
in front of him. Less than one hour earlier he had landed at
Puerto Cabezas after a low-altitude run from Sebaco. Becau e
he knew that the American AWACS radar planes would be look-
ing for a high-speed aircraft leaving Sebaco, he had made the
flight under two hundred miles an hour and at the lowest altitude
he could muster, flying deep within mountain valleys and jungle
river beds to avoid detection. His gamble that his flight-profile
would resemble anything but a jet fighter had apparently worked.
     To avoid detection he had landed on the taxiway at Puerto
Cabezas instead of the broad ten-thousand-foot runway, taxied




400                       DALE BROWN
to the semi-underground concrete shelter and waited with en-
gines running for any sign of pursuit. None. He shut down but
maintained the ANTARES interface and remained strapped in
place, configured and ready to fire up DreimStar. But still no
sign of pursuit. Exhaustion overtook him, so he shut down the
interface and directed the ground crewmen to begin refueling
his fighter. He had been off the ANTARES interface only fifteen
minutes when the attack began.
     DreamStar was ready for a fight. She carried two more Lluyka
in-flight refueling tanks on the wing pylons plus two radar-guided
missiles on wing pylons and, this time, two infrared-guided mis-
siles on hardpoints on the underside of the fuselage. The two IR
missiles were more of a hazard than a help-if DrearnStar's ca-
nards were down in their high-maneuverability position, the mis-
siles could possibly hit the canards after launch-but for the long
ferry mission, the extra weapons were considered necessary. The
twenty-millimeter cannon was also fully reloaded-DreamStar
was at its heaviest gross weight ever, well over one hundred-
thousand pounds.
     But Maraklov himself wasn't as prepared for either a long
flight or a fight with American fighters. This had been the first
time he had made two flights in DreamStar within twenty-four
hours and the physical and mental strain was immense-like run-
ning the Boston Marathon, getting twelve short hours of rest,
then going out and running a few more Heartbreak Hills. His
body had not recovered from the first mission, but the necessity
was clear-DrearnStar was in danger if it was left there at Se-
baco. That had just been confirmed.
     The whine of high-speed jet engines made Maraklov painfully
turn to scan down the runway. Four MiG-23 fighters were taxiing
to the end of the runway preparing for takeoff. The Soviet gov-
ernment had not been able to send any more MiG-29s or Russian
pilots to Nicaragua on such short notice, so those four MiG-23s
were manned by Nicaraguan pilots. The Mig-23s were twenty

years old, the pilots young or ill trained in night intercepts. If
whoever was attacking Nicaragua destroyed the search and
ground-controlled intercept radars as well as the surface-to-air
missile radars, the MiG pilots would be forced to hunt for the
attackers blind, using their own look-down, shoot-down pulse-
Doppler radars to scan thousands of square miles of territory for
their quarry.
     Maraklov took another drink. It didn't matter, he thought-
he'd be out of this backwater country in a few hours.  And
who knew ... maybe one of the MiGs would get lucky. It hap-
pened ...
     A soldier came up to Maraklov's revetment, showed an I.
card to the guard, and ran to the platform set up beside
DreamStar. He was hesitant to climb up the ladder, but Mar-
aklov saw that he had a message in his hand, motioned him up,
and asked for the paper.
     He got an instant headache after reading the first word. As-
suming he could read Russian, the Spanish-speaking radio op-
erators had scrawled the message out in childlike Cyrillic
characters. Maraklov had enough trouble reading Russian, but
reading this gobbledygook would be next to impossible. He had
to get the soldier's attention away from the interior of Drearn-
Star's cockpit by hammering his shoulder.
     "Read this for me," he said in English.
     The soldier looked at him in surprise. "You speak English,
mister?
          "Yes.
     The soldier looked at the message for a moment, then looked
at Maraklov as if he was going to hit him. "I am sorry, I cannot
read this. This is Russian, no?"
     "This is garbage Russian, yes. Go back to the radio operator
and tell him to write the message out in English           Maraklov
grabbed a pencil from the soldier's shirt pocket just before he
scrambled off the platform-at least while he was getting the
message translated he could work on deciphering this junk.
     
The MiG-23s were still idling at the end of the runway-that
probably meant that the GCI radar was being jammed or had
been destroyed, and the pilots were being held until a heading
to the intruder's position could be established. Don't bother
launching, Maraklov thought. Let the MiGs at Sebaco handle
the American attackers-Sebaco was obviously the American's
target-and leave the Puerto Cabezas MiGs in reserve for when
the attackers try to withdraw. If they chase the attackers they
could wind up getting shot down themselves or run out of fuel
before engaging the stragglers . . . But a moment later the
MiG-23s began their runup and minimum-interval takeoffs. So
much for reserve interceptors. Maraklov guessed that none of
these MiGs would return.




402                      DALE BROWN
     Maraklov had the scribbled Cyrillic characters deciphered
now, but remembering the phonetic pronunciations for each
character was tougher, and it took a few minutes to make the
message intelligible-luckily, most of it was numbers. It was a
satellite message from Moscow informing him that Soviet air
forces would be in place in five hours, ready to escort him out
of the Caribbean basin into the open Atlantic. The message gave
last-minute backup or anti-jam frequency changes and other use-
less infon-nation. If the Americans were broad-band jamming
their primary communications frequencies, they were listening
in as well and were probably vectoring fighters into the source
of their transmissions. With such a large force of combat aircraft
involved, everything relied on secrecy and radio silence, not
secondary and tertiary frequencies.
     The fighters were on the downwind side of the runway, the
long, bright flames of their afterburners still visible. They had
no tankers in Nicaragua (except the one that was lying on the
bottom of the Caribbean), so if those guys in the MiG-23s didn't
come out of afterburner they'd flame out before getting a shot
off at the intruders.
     Maraklov asked himself, "Why am I ragging on those pilots?
DreamStar is safe-if the Americans had pinpointed DreamStar
here in Puerto Cabezas this whole base would be a smoking
hole.
     Was it because he itched to get into battle? No, even if he had
enough energy to take DreamStar aloft, which he didn't, he
wouldn't risk it. With the MiG-29s gone Nicaragua was wide
open to attack-for all he knew there was an aircraft carrier
sitting off the coast with fifty F-18 fighter-bombers ready to take
him on. It would be suicide to try.
     He took another drink of water, emptying the bottle. The real
problem here was that he just wanted a future, and every step
being taken just seemed to drive him farther and farther from it.
DreamStar, he felt, was his life. His whole being was inter-

meshed with it, and the thought of its eventual dismantling or,
worse, destruction was as obscene to him as the idea of a mother
killing her newborn baby. But he was also a soldier, obliged to
obey orders-and he had been ordered to deliver DreamStar to
Russia. But could he obey those orders, knowing what they would
do to his aircraft-and what they would probably do to him as
well? He was already suspect . . . too American . . .
     All the dead-end thoughts he was having were. giving him a
headache even worse than before. He tossed the plastic water
bottle at one of the Nicaraguan military guards at the mouth of
the revetment. "Agua, por favor"-probably the only three
words of Spanish he knew. The soldier began filling the bottle
from one of his canteens-no doubt more of the brackish,
parasite-ridden water of this country. The thought of getting di-
arrhea while in the metallic flight suit made him laugh and cry,
but dying of thirst and trying to withstand these migraine head-
aches were even worse prospects.
     Soon, it would be over, he thought. He'd be on his way out
of this godforsaken country and back to . . . Russia. Back to
. . . what?
     He was too tired to think any more about that. As the flick-
ering lights of the fires in the SA-15 radome subsided, exhaus-
tion overtook him, and he drifted off into a fitful sleep.
"Rainbow two showing impact," Atkins reported. The green
search radar indication on Carter's laser-projection cockpit dis-
play had disappeared-the Tacit Rainbow missile had destroyed
the Cuyali radar site, the last large-scale search radar system
before Sebaco.
     "Coming up on the initial point, crew," Alicia Kellerman
announced. They were deep within the Rio Tbma river valley,
which snaked out of the Cordillera Dariense mountains north of
Managua and fed Managua Lake. Their initial point was, of all
places, the town of Los Angeles thirty miles upriver from Se-
baco.
     "Bomb run briefing, crew," Paul Scott, the radar navigator,

began, "we'll be approaching Sebaco from the northeast on the
military crest of the river valley. There's one SA-10 site on the
top of linotega Mountain at our one o'clock position, but ac-
cording to Powell and McLanahan in Cheetah it's a mobile site. "
     "The system can use infrared to acquire its targets," Atkins
chimed in. "Even though it needs radar for guidance they can
launch on IR azimuth commands and then go to guidance uplink
once the missile is in flight. We could see a snap-launch profile,
where all we get on the threat-warning receivers is a missiLE
LAUNCH warning-we won't get a symbol or missi LE WARNING."
Carter was relieved to hear Atkins back on top of his game-he
was pretty shook after their first encounter with the SA-15.




404                       DALE BROWN
     "Our last hazard on the run is the town of Matagalpa, where
some Soviet troops could be garrisoned. Watch out for triple-A
radars. SA- 14 or SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles may also be a
factor but if we stay low and fast we should be able to beat an
SA- 14.
     "We'll approach Sebaco from the southeast side of the base.
Powell and McLanahan saw one antiaircraft artillery battery on
each end of the runway-it'll be worth lobbing a HARM or even
a Striker in there if it engages us. They also saw helicopter gun-
ships on the base. These can carry air-to-air heat-seeking mis-
siles too. Our targets are the three hangars on the southwest side
of the base and the underground headquarters building three
hundred yards southeast from the hangars. The hangars are pri-
mary. We'll also drop the CBU cluster-bomb units on the run-
way and the taxiway-parking ramp area, with emphasis on
destroying any aircraft. If the defenses are minimal we can make
a circle to the north or northeast and come around for another
pass. After the attack, we beat feet to the northeast, terrain-
follow in the Cordillera Isabella mountains, and exit along the
Honduran border. If we're drowned and each module crew gets
separated, evade north or northwest toward Honduras and get a
ride to Tegucigalpa. We've all been briefed on the pick-up points
in Nicaragua where we can maybe get assistance from Contadora
sympathizers. We're using channel Charlie on the survival ra-
dios. "
     They had time to prebrief the details of the mission and talk
about their recommended actions in case they were shot down
or somehow separated, but it was much different this time-they
were actually over hostile territory, surrounded by the military
forces of two nations. It had suddenly all become very real.
"  -band search radar at six o'clock," Atkins called out.
Batwing symbol-there's a fighter up there looking for us."
     "I. inbound, crew," Kellerman said. The Megafortress
made a slight left turn, hugging the side of the rugged, tree-

covered mountains.
     Suddenly a green mushroom-shaped dome appeared briefly
on Carter's windscreen. "Warning, search radar, twelve
o'clock. " "We've got something out ahead of us," Carter called
out.
     "Looks like triple-A," Atkins Uid, studying his threat re-
ceiver. The computer confirmed it seconds later by drawing a
tiny gun-icon underneath the green mushroom. "I've got a
HARM aligning against it. " Just then, the mushroom turned
yellow.
     "Warning, threat radar tracking, twelve o'clock.
     "Should we go around it?" Carter asked.
     "No room," Cheshire said. "We'd have to climb five thou-
sand feet to clear these mountains."
     "Descend and accelerate," Atkins said. "Stand by for missile
launch . . . now. "
     The yellow BAY DOORS OPEN light came on. "Caution, bomb
doors open.....    warning, HARM missile launch command . . .
missile launch.....   bomb doors closed."
     "Missile away." The one-thousand-pound HARM missile was
a yellow streak as it roared away into the darkness. Seconds later
there was a splash of fire on the horizon and the glow of flames.
The yellow mushroom was gone.
          "Warning, airborne threat radar, sU o'clock.
     Karbayjal activated his fire-control radar and slaved it to the
threat receiver so the beam from the tail-mounted tracking radar
would look in the exact direction of the threat. The readout he
got made him yell into his oxygen visor. "Fighter at six o'clock,
five miles, descending rapidly." He hit the voice-command but-
ton on his armrest. "Radar lock. Airmine launch one. Launch
two. Launch three."
     A warning tone sounded on interphone, followed by the hard,
short thuds of the Stinger airmine rockets being shot away. "Ra-
dar lock automatic . . . warning, launch command issued . . .
airmine launch . . . launch two . . . launch three."
     
But moments later the fighter was still coming-all three air-
mine rockets had missed. "He's still coming. Prepare for infra-
red missile attack," Karbayjal called out. "TWo miles . . . one
mile . . . -break le now."
     Carter yanked the Megafortress into a hard left turn. The
terrain-following computer immediately commanded a climb to
allow for terrain clearance. At the same time Karbayjal punched
two flares and chaff out the right side ejectors.
     "One mile . . . half mile . . . he's still coming." Nothing
was decoying this guy-chaff, flares, jammers, even airmine
rockets . . .
     The fire-control radar tracked the fighter as it flew closer and
closer, but a few seconds later the reason for its daringly close




                      DALE BROWN
406
pass became obvious as Karbayjal watched the fighter's altitude
wind down lower and lower until it finally read zero.
     "He crashed," Karbayjal called out. "He-"
     Suddenly they heard on the scrambled discrete strike fre-
quency, "Dog Two, this is Storm Two. Your tail's clear."
     "Powell. McLanahan." Cheshire shouted the names. "Way
to go."
     Carter let out his breath. He tasted blood and found he had
bit his lower lip almost all the way through. As he steered the
Megafortress back on course he opened the radio channel.-
"Thanks, guys. "
   raised Cheetah's nose until he was level with the tops of
the tree-covered mountains, making several tight turns left and
right to clear behind them, searching for a second fighter.
McLanahan, his night-vision visor lowered, searched the sky
behind the F-15. "Clear visually, clear on the threat receiver,"
he said.
     "That MiG pilot had balls,"    said. "Diving down from
twenty-thousand feet like that, it could have paid off for him."
          "But where's his buddies?" McLanahan asked.
        climbed another five-thousand feet, well above the
mountains, and continued his clearing turns. He used the radar
sparingly, relying more on the infrared-laser scanner to avoid
telltale electronic emissions that could give away their location.
"Nothing. One MiG working alone? Unusual."
     "They're not up here," McLanahan said. "That means they've
got to be on the deck, flying down that same river valley as the
Old Dog. We either use the radar to look for them . . . "
     "Or we go down into the valley ourselves and dig 'em out,"
   said. "I was afraid you'd say that." Powell lowered the
nose once more, plunging Cheetah back into the jungle abyss
below.
They had to dodge far south of course, around sprinkles of ore

mines and tiny villages to avoid the spot where the antiaircraft
artillery gun had been destroyed by one of the Old Dog's HARM
missiles. Carter set five hundred feet in the clearance plane to
allow more leeway in terrain clearance as they roared through a
high valley and across a ridge-line south of the town of Mata-
galpa.
DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           407
     "We should have met up with that SA- 10 site by now, " Atkins
said nervously. The calm that he had restored in himself after
the strike against the SA-15 site had come back full force after
the MiG encounter. He was reproaching himself loud enough to
trigger the voice-activated interphone, and KarbayJal had to reach
across the aisle beside him and touch his shoulder, trying to
calm him down. The navigators were quiet. Kellerman had to
be prompted to activate the ground-mapping radar to check ter-
rain. Scott was quiet too. He had activated his laser-scanner in
preparation for the strike, but the scanner was not moving in
any sort of search pattern.
     "Nav, brief us on this axis of attack," Carter said, trying to
bring his crew back together any way he could think of. "You
said we're five miles south of course-how will this affect our
attack plan?"
                   "What?
     "Alicia, get with it," Carter said. "Brief the crew on the
attack profile."
     A strained pause, then: "We . . . we'll be heading more di-
rectly down the runway instead of perpendicular to it," she re-
plied in a ragged voice. "The triple-A will be at our twelve
o'clock. It might be harder to pick out from this direction.
     "You hear that, Paul?"
     11Y . . . yes.
     "What else, Alicia?"
     "The CBUs,- Kellerman said. "We should launch the first
pod down the runway after we defeat the triple-A site. "
     "I can designate the hangars on that pass," Scott put in. He

could lock the gyro-stabilized laser-scanner on up to five differ-
ent images, and no matter how the B-52 turned, the designated
targets could be recalled and attacked at any time once they were
back within range.
     "And the smoke and fire should cover our turn when we line
up on the target," Cheshire added.
     Carter smiled behind his oxygen visor. "All right," he said.
"We're starting to sound like a combat crew again. Now let's
do it and get out of here.
General Tret'yak stood in the control tower of his small airfield,
presiding over preparations for the defense of Sebaco like a
modem-day Nicholas 1, with his almost medieval forces, de-




408                        DALE BROWN
fending the battlements of Sevastopol in the Crimea against the
then-high-tech forces of the upstart Napoleon III -and the un-
stoppable if inept British. He fancied the defense of Sebaco as a
symbol of Soviet power in the western hemisphere, and he was
going to repel the invaders of his twenty-five-square-kilometer
airfield.
     His forces were at the ready, poised for battle as soon as the
message from Puerto Cabezas had been received. An exact num-
ber of attackers could not be determined-Tret'yak had been
bracing for an entire carrier air wing of bombers, but no reports
of an American fleet within striking range of Sebaco had been
reported. That meant it was a smaller, less formidable strike
force on the way, perhaps only a few aircraft. Good-his forces
could handle that.
     To counter the American attackers, four MiG-23s were idling
at the northwest end of the runway, each loaded with four AA-8
missiles on fuselage stations and two infrared-guided close-range
AA-" missiles on underwing pylons, plus a twin-barreled GSh-
23 gun and a centerfine fuel tank. Two more were in reserve,
cannibalized for parts earlier but quickly being repaired and
readied for combat.
     In addition to the fighters Tret'yak had an SA-8 surface-to-air
missile-battery brought up from Managua situated near the cen-
ter of the runway on a small hill about a kilometer north of the
field. The SA-8 was a small, fast missile, capable of destroying
the American navy's F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bomber even during
a supersonic bomb run. The SA-10 missile site had been moved
.once again, down from the hills above Sebaco into the Rio TV=
river valley, and it appeared they had positioned it perfectly-
any aircraft flying toward Sebaco from Puerto Cabezas had to
fly down that valley, right into the jaws of the SA-10 system.
The SA-10 was a longer-range missile, capable of defeating at-
tackers from treetop level up to eighty thousand feet. For close-
in defense, they still had the two fifty-seven-millimeter guns on

each end of the runway, which could create a virtual wall of lead
around Sebaco for two miles.
     They had other defenses, including Nicaraguan anti-air artil-
lery units deployed in three areas around Sebaco. One of them
was located in the Rio Tuma valley, again in perfect position to
engage the American attackers.
     Tret'yak's forces were in excellent position.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            409
     "Message from People's Militia Group seven, sir," an aide
reported.
          "Who?
     "The Nicaraguan militia force northeast of the base, in Mata-
galpa, " the aide replied. "They report they are under attack.
One ZSU-23 anti-aircraft artillery unit destroyed, nine casual-
ties, ten wounded by rocket attack."
     "I need details, Lieutenant," Tret'yak said. "What kind of
rockets? What kind of aircraft? Speed? Direction?"
     As the aide turned to the radio operator, Tret'yak checked his
chart of the area, then looked to the tower controller. "Clear the
flight for launch, Sergeant. Send them down the Rio Ibma valley
and engage the intruders at low altitude."
     The controller nodded, picked up his microphone and said in
Spanish, "Sebaco flight of four, target at heading zero-nine-five,
range twenty miles, cleared-"
     Suddenly they saw a flash of light north of the runway, fol-
lowed by a streak of fire. One of the SA-8 missiles leaped off
its launch rail and roared toward the southeast, the missile so
low and flying in such a flat trajectory that it looked as if it
would hit one of the hangars. The first group of two MiG-23s,
which had already gone into afterburner and had begun their
takeoff roll, abruptly pulled their engines out of afterburner and
stopped as the SA-8 missile roared across the departure end of
the runway.
     "Missile site two engaging low-altitude targets," the radio
operator reported, "bearing one-six-zero true, range twenty

kilometers.
     "I can see that," Tret'yak shouted. "Get those fighters
airborne.
     "Missile-site two reports multiple targets, sir. They recom-
mend holding the launch until they engage again-"
     "No." Then to be on the safe side Tret'yak said, "Tell mis-
sile site two to hold fire to let two aircraft depart. Launch aircraft
one and two. Tell three and four to hold position. Get five and
six ready for takeoff."
     The controller called out the new orders, and soon the first
two MiG-23s were in afterburner once again and roaring down
the runway.
     "Afterburner blowout on fighter two," Tret'yak's aide called
out. Only one glowing engine was visible in the nighttime sky.




410                       DAIE BROWN
Tret'yak sucked in his breath as he watched the fighter skim the
trees to the southeast to build up enough speed for the climb-
out. But soon both birds were climbing and turning northeast to
find the attackers.
     "Have missile site two reengage," Tret'yak ordered. "If they
are still picking up targets we'll have three and four head south
to--
     His words were drowned out by the roar of another SA-8
missile leaving its rails, following the first missile's flight path
except on an even flatter trajectory. The smoke had barely cleared
from the second missile launch when Tret'yak saw a brief flash
of gunfire from the southern fifty-seven-millimeter triple-A em-
placement.
     "What is he shooting at . . . ?" His question was interrupted
by another bright flash and explosion from the mission site, the
boom rolling across the airfield and slamming into the slanted
windows of the control tower-but this time no missile left the
site.
     Tret'yak stared in amazement at the remains of the SA-8 site
on the small hill overlooking the runway-half the hill had been
blown away, men and vehicles scattered around like a child's
upended toy box. The sudden destruction was clearly visible in
the glare of a massive fuel fire on top of the hill.
     "The missile site has been hit," Tret'yak called out. "Launch
the fighters, send units three and four south to engage the aircraft
that is launching those missiles, get five and six airborne-"
     Another volley of gunfire from the fifty-seven-millimeter unit,
followed by an explosion and fireball not a half-kilometer off the
end of the runway that lit up almost the entire base. The shock
wave from the explosion knocked Tret'yak sideways. The area
was littered with secondary explosions, and fires erupted in the
forests surrounding Sebaco.
     "We got one," someone in the tower yelled. "We got an
American aircraft . . . "
     
The celebration was cut short by another volley of gunfire
from the fifty-seven-millimeter gun emplacement. Tret'yak, back
on his feet, stared out to watch the gun's tracers streak into the
night. Suddenly the significance of what he was watching hit
him full force: "Why is the anti-aircraft artillery unit firing
tracers?" he yelled. "Their gun is radar-guided and it's night-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           411
time-they don't need tracers. It will only give away their po-
sition. Order them to-"
     Too late. As Tret'yak watched, the gun site was obliterated.
When the glare of the explosion cleared from Tret'yak's eyes, he
saw that the gun's radar-trailer, located inside a bunker of its
own fifty meters away from the gun itself, had been destroyed.
There was collateral damage to the gun itself but it was still
intact.
     "Anti-radar missiles," Tret'yak said angrily. "They are
launching anti-radar missiles. Order the north gun site to use
infrared and electro-optical guidance. I want an ambulance over
to that south gun sight to-"
     "Another missile," someone yelled, pointing toward the
southeast. In the glare of the forest fires and the burning radar
trailer, Tret'yak saw it-a large, sleek, slow-moving winged-
missile. It drifted lazily past the burning trees, past the fifty-
seven-millimeter gun emplacement-Tret'yak could see men
pointing at the missile, but the gun never slewed around and
never got a shot off at the object. As if the thing was doing an
approach to the runway, the missile cruised right onto the field
just to the south of the taxiway, right on the northern edge of
the parking ramp. As soon as the missile was over the ramp
area, objects like small boxes began to eject themselves from
both sides of the craft.
     And then huge columns of fire began erupting from the park-
ing ramp every ten or fifteen meters. The main taxiway was hit
almost directly down the center, carving large craters in the tar-
mac. The bombs did the same to the north half of the parking

ramp, lifting sections of concrete as if the earth itself was open-
ing up. Bombs fell on the two fully loaded and fueled MiG-23s
on the ramp, creating a destruction that spread across the park-
ing ramp. Burning missiles from the MiGs arched across the
base, and twenty-three-millimeter gun rounds pinged off the
control tower, creating jagged holes in the shatterproof glass.
Tret'yak, the controllers and the radiomen dove for the floor.
The cluster-bomb drone continued on, dropping its load of de-
struction. It missed the two MiGs parked on the runway ham-
merhead by several meters, showering the fighters with pieces
of concrete.
     Tret'yak stumbled to his feet, grabbing for a microphone.
"Sebaco three and four, take off." He did not issue the order




412                      DALE BROWN
in Spanish, but the MiG pilots needed little prompting. The
number three MiG put his plane in full afterburner and roared
down the runway, pulling his nose up in a hard fast climb. The
fourth MiG taxied up to the end of the runway but chose to wait
until the third MiG was clear before starting its takeoff.
     Finally the fourth MiG lined up with the runway, slapped in
max afterburner, released brakes and sped away. The fighterjust
managed to get its gear up at the end of the runway when an
explosion ripped off the MiGs tail section. The MiG flipped up
and backward, and the pilot ejected just as the fighter continued
its backward spiral and slammed into the ground about a mile
off the end of the runway.
     A nightmare, Tret'yak thought-except this one was real.
One by one, Sebaco's defenses had been neutralized-and not
one enemy fighter had yet been spotted-a blur of motion off
to the south attracted his attention, and then he did see it . . .
a massive dark shape hugging the ground no higher than the
ten-story control tower. It flew diagonally across the south
end of the runway about a half-mile from the tower. It was
huge, one of the biggest aircraft Tret'yak had ever seen. The
sound of its engines was like a freight train rumbling by at
full speed.
     The aircraft banked sharply left, aligning itself with the row
of buildings and hangars along the parking ramp area. Tret'yak
could see a few soldiers firing their rifles at the apparition,
but to the KGB general it was as if they were trying to kill a
whale with squirt guns. The aircraft roared down the runway
with the sound of a gigantic waterfall. Illuminated as it was
in the fires on the parking ramp, Tret'yak could see that the
monstrosity had a long pointed nose, no visible tail-control
surfaces and huge sprawling wings with missiles of different
sizes hanging from them. It was not like any aircraft he had
ever seen.
     Just as quickly as the thing appeared it was gone, leaving in

its wake clouds of dust and smoke swirling around the few re-
maining fires. The silence was awesome, as if the huge black
craft had sucked all air and all sound away with it. Tret'yak
stood in the control tower, staring through the shattered glass of
the control tower at the scene below. What had been an impor-
tant Soviet military base a few minutes before had been turned
into chaos.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          413
     "What was that thing?" the senior controller asked, shaking
bits of glass off his tunic. "I've never seen anything like it."
     "It had to be some sort of bomber," Tret'yak said, shaking
his head. "But I've never known such a large aircraft to fly so
low on a bomb run. It was obviously the aircraft that launched
the anti-radar missilesand set off those bombs that cratered our
ramp. I I
          "Could it have destroyed our fourth fighter?"
     "It could not have-- But TYet'yak paused. A bomber car-
rying air-to-air missiles? Why not? That bomber that passed by
seemed to be carrying several kinds of weapons under its huge
wings. Instead Tret'yak replied, "Any reports from our radar
sites? Any reports from Managua?"
     "No, sir, not yet. We should have communications reestab-
lished shortly. "
     Tret'yak turned to the communications operator. "I want a
rescue crew out to find the pilot of our fourth MiG. And I want
that ramp cleared as soon as possible. Our fighters will need to
land in about an hour. " The operator nodded and began to issue
the orders. Lights snapped on, further revealing the damage
caused by the strange drone. But as men and machines moved
out to the ramp to put out the fires, the extent of the damage
was not as total as first thought.
     "We have been hit, but not put out of action," Tret'yak said.
"The runway appears open, our fuel stubs and hangars are intact
and only half our ramp space has been affected. This base is
still operational."
     
"We've been fortunate, sir, " the senior controller said, "that
bomber looked large enough to carry a hundred bombs. It could
have caused much destruction . . ."
     Tret'yak was about to reply, but the words caught in his throat.
He remembered seeing weapons hanging off the wings . . . the
bomber did not drop any bombs over the base . . .
     He suddenly turned to the communications operator. "Clear
that ramp immediately, shut off the lights."
     "But, sir, the firefighters-"
     "That bomber is coming back. It did not withdraw-it only
found more targets. Order the gun sites to-"
     Too late. An explosion erupted in the northern fifty-seven-
millimeter gun-emplacement bunker-Tret'yak didn't need his
binoculars to know that the north gun had just been destroyed.




414                       DAIZ BROWN
"Tell the south gun to open fire. Forget the radar guidance-just
fire the gun to the north, bracket the area. Quickly."
     But the radio operator froze, gaping out the windows to the
north across the runway. Tret'yak grabbed the microphone and
was about to push the man out of the way when he too looked
up and followed the man's stare.
     The dark shape roared out of the jungle surrounding Sebaco
like some sort of prehistoric bird, swooping so low over the trees
that it appeared to be skimming the tops, the wing vortices and
engine thrust snapping branches and parting the forest. When it
cleared the trees it dropped even lower, not more than twenty
or thirty meters above ground. It was headed right for the control
tower, aiming its pointed nose at a spot, it seemed, right be-
tween Tret'yak's eyes.
     In rapid succession four dark streaks arced away from the
bomber's belly. The first headed straight ahead, plowing into
the center of Sebaco's two-kilometer runway. The explosion ob-
scured the bomber for several seconds until the behemoth crashed
through the column of smoke, bearing down on the control
tower.
     A second missile missed the control tower by a few meters,
flew by and hit a building somewhere behind the tower-Tret'yak
immediately thought of his headquarters building a few hundred
meters directly in that weapon's path. The missiles seemed to-
be massive bombs with wings, more flying whales than missiles.
A third and forth explosion rocked the hangars off to Tret'yak's
left, blowing out the hangar doors, collapsing both buildings and
scattering pieces of steel and concrete in all directions. Second-
ary explosions blew the roofs off another hangar, adding more
fuel to the fires now burning out of control all along the flight
line.
     The massive aircraft then executed an impossibly tight left
turn toward the southeast. The roar of the bomber's engines was
so great that it threatened to collapse the control tower. As it

banked away, its broad jet-black fuselage missing the tower by
only a dozen meters, the remaining glass panels exploded as if
grenades had been set off inside the room. Tret'yak was thrown
off his feet, blinded and deafened by the hurricane-like after-
math. Tables, books, chairs and pieces of equipment flew every-
where.
     Tret'yak could not move for several moments, and even
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          415
though he was awake and alert he felt as if he had been dis-
membered. Finally he shook off the piles of debris on his back
and struggled to his feet. The control tower was beginning to
fill with smoke as the fires in the nearby hangars intensified;
the underground fuel pits, containing over forty thousand deca-
liters of jet fuel, were in danger unless the fires could be
contained.
     He helped his men to their feet and toward the exits as he
surveyed what he could see of his airbase. The runway had
one huge crater in the center, leaving about nine hundred me-
ters usable on either side of the crater-not enough to recover
the MiG-23s. It would take a day to repair it; the fighters
would have to land at Sandino International, Bluefields or
Puerto Cabezas. The taxiway was destroyed and the parking
ramp was unusable. Two fifty-seven-millimeter guns and one
SA-8 missile site out of commission-the SA-10 site in the
Rio Turna valley had apparently been destroyed as well. Not
to mention the one MiG-23 fighter destroyed right after take-
off. Tret'yak checked the area behind the tower and found the
second American glide-bomb had hit the roof of the under-
ground headquarters building, but caused no apparent serious
damage or fire.
     One aircraft had done all this. He had planned on taking
on the combined might of an American carrier air group, and
one bomber had wiped out all his defenses in less than ten
minutes.
     He needed to transmit a report as soon as possible back

to Moscow. The stolen American fighter was safe, but the
Americans had just raised the price of keeping it to an all-
time high.
The flight out of Nicaragua was no cakewalk for the Megafor-
tress and her crew, but the loss of all ground-controlled intercept
capability over Nicaragua and the loss of contact with Sebaco
seemed to take the fight out of the Nicaraguan MiG pilots. One
had been destroyed by Stinger fire from the Megafortress as it
tried to tail-chase the bomber at low altitude, and another was
damaged by a near-miss from one of Cheetah's dogfighting AIM-
132 missiles; the rest turned around and headed for Sandino
International Airport. Powell and McLanahan followed the B-52




416                       DAIE BROWN
out over the Caribbean until it was picked up by the E-5 AWACS
radar plan orbiting over the Cayman Islands.
     "First things first," Bradley Elliott said when secure com-
munications with the strike formation had been established.
"Patrick, Wendy's out of surgery. She's still officially in critical
condition. I can't get any other information out of the hospital
staff. We could airlift you from Georgetown and have you in San
Antonio in four hours-"
     "No . . . as long as she's being taken care of. I'm where I
need to be right now."
     "We've got other back-seaters for Powell--
     "I am Powell's back-seater. Maraklov's gotta break out sooner
or later and I have to be there when he does. Oh hell, of course
Id like to go to her, but I also know I can't do her any good.
Not now. And I've got more hours in Cheetah than anyone else.
I'm the only one familiar enough with her systems to take her
into combat. If DreaniStar got away while I was in Texas it
would be a disaster for us all. And if I know Wendy, she'd kill
me if I sat around her bedside while . . . well, you know what
I mean."
     Aboard the E-5 AWACS, Elliott still considered pulling
McLanahan, but not because of Wendy. His near-fixation on
evening it up with Maraklov had come perilously close to per-
sonal, and soldiers on a vendetta made poor fighters. Still, he
was right, he was the best-qualified crewman for Cheetah, and
only Cheetah could hope to take on DreamStar in air-to-air com-
bat. The time to have the first team on the line was right now,
when the chances of DreamStar leaving Nicaragua were most
likely . . .
     "All right, Patrick," Elliott said. "Agreed, at least for now.
Break. Kelvin, job well done to you and your crew. Radar shows
your tail is clear. Climb to flight level two-six-zero. Your tanker
is orbiting over Grand Cayman at two-seven-zero. Everyone
okay? "
     
"Affirmative," Carter replied on the scrambled UHF chan-
nel. "We're beat but unhurt. We might have picked up some
blast damage from the last run we did-we were a little close to
the explosion when we dropped a Striker on the runway, and
with our bay doors open we might have picked up some fuel
leaks-but we should be able to recover in Dreamland. Id like
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          417
to have a tanker meet us over the CONUS in case we have a
leaking aft body tank."
     "We'll work on that for you right away," Elliott said.
     "While you're at it," Cheshire cut in, "maybe you can get
us clearance to land in Georgetown for a few days - "
     "I thought of that, Nancy," Elliott replied, "but we had a
little trouble convincing the government to let the F-16s, the
KC-10s and the AWACS in-a Buff would have been out of the
question. Besides, technically the Megafortress Plus is still clas-
sified. But we can arrange a short TDY for a debriefing, I think.
Break.   , Patrick, any problems with Cheetah?"
     "We're in the green," Patrick told him. "I just wish our late
friend had showed for the party."
     "It was a long shot, Patrick," Elliott said. "There's fifty-
thousand square miles of nothing in Nicaragua where they could
have hidden DreamStar. We've intercepted radio traffic that
seems to indicate it might be in Puerto Cabezas but we're not
positive.
          "It's worth a look."
     "We're not loaded for air-to-mud, Patrick,"    cut in.
"There's nothing we can do to him except wave as we fly by.
Besides, we'd fly right into the teeth of that SA-15 Atkins said
was there."
     "We've done more than the White House wanted to authorize.
We'll maintain our surveillance in case they try to fly DreaniStar
out. We're changing your flight plan, though, because of this
new intelligence," Elliott continued. "We've secured landing
rights at Puerto Lempira, a Honduran army base seventy miles

north of Puerto Cabezas-that was the original base for this op-
eration until we got landing rights in the Cayman Islands. We're
trying to get authorization now from the White House to set up
a photo-run at Puerto Cabezas like the one you did on Sebaco.
We've got fuel and weapons being airlifted there to meet you.
It's not Georgetown but you'll be in position in case DreamStar
tries to make another run for it."
     "Sounds good," McLanahan said. "I want to be there when
he tries to get away again."


A




418                       DALE BROWN
The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR
Monday, 22 June 1996, 0932 EET (0132 EDT)
Outside the foreboding walls of the Kremlin the bright, clear
summer morning belied the internal struggle taking place. There,
two of the government's most powerful men were sitting across
from each other, locked in a silent combat.
     The Chief of Staff of the Soviet military, General Cherkov,
had just delivered a briefing to the General Secretary and Vla-
dimir Kalinin, Chief of the KGB. The General Secretary nodded
to Cherkov, who was unsure whether or not he had just been
directed to leave; he kept his seat, with no objections from the
two principals with him.
     "I disagree with General Cherkov's analysis of the informa-
tion provided from General Tret'yak," Kalinin said. "He says
that the American experimental fighter is safe in hiding at Puerto
Cabezas, guarded by both KGB and Nicaraguan troops, but then
he says that the aircraft is in danger. That is inconsistent.
Tret'yak is understandably shaken after sustaining the Ameri-
cans' preemptive attack-"
     "Your rhetoric is the only thing that is inconsistent here,
Kalinin," the General Secretary said. "The Americans de-
stroyed one of our military bases, shot down two of our fight-
ers and decimated our defenses. Yet you can sit there and say
your plan is progressing well and that there is no cause for
alarm? "
     "We won't know the true extent -of the damage for several
hours," Kalinin hedged. "But what happens to Sebaco is inel-
evant to our mission. The XF-34 is safe, it is still combat ready
and can make the flight to Ramenskoye. In two hours, we will
begin launching escort aircraft from Cuba, and the decoy aircraft
from Managua will make their way north to-"
     "Your plan has failed, Vladimir," the General Secretary said.
"Admit it before any more men are killed and we lose any more
aircraft or bases. " He shook his head. "It is only a matter of

time before they discover the fighter in this, this Puerto Cabezas
place. Then they will proceed to destroy that airfield-- he
scanned the report, tossing it away with a dramatic flourish-
II with one bomber. One bomber. What do we do against one of
their aircraft carriers or a squadron of these bombers?"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           419
     "The attack on Sebaco was expected," Kalinin argued. "That
was the reason why we moved the fighter out of there. Tret'yak
described some sort of new bomber that carried defense-
suppression weapons as well as air-to-ground weapons, and it
possibly carried air-to-air-" Kalinin suddenly stopped. "The
kryepahst ezometyelna," he said half-aloud.
     "The what?"
     "The Megafortress project," Kalinin said. "The highly mod-
ified B-52 bomber developed in the Nevada research Area, the
same place where the XF-34 was built. The American Air Force
general, Bradley Elliott, flew a Megafortress against our strategic-
defense laser-installation at Kavaznya eight years ago; it carried
the same unusual mix of weapons as the bomber that attacked
Sebaco. It must have been a Megafortress they used to beat
down our defenses and attack Sebaco. " Kalinin slapped a hand
on the conference table, muttering to himself. "Parazetyel'na!
Vilizherchev said he met Elliott in Washington at the White
House. We should have known Elliott would be called on to
formulate an attack plan-"
     "You mean you knew the man who would direct this attack?"
the General Secretary interrupted, staring at the KGB chief.
"You knew about this meeting-which did not appear in your
report or Vilizherchev's report-and you knew that this Elliott
would be involved with the planning yet you failed to anticipate
the attack and failed to take actions to protect our base from
attack. I am ending this craziness-"
     "You can't stop it now-all the forces are in place and
ready- I I
     "Then order them to stand down," the General Secretary said.

"Kalinin, how much more do you want? The Americans want
their fighter back, and as long as the aircraft is in Central Arner-
icalthey have the resources to offset every effort we make to
bring it out."
     "One more attempt," Kalinin said. His voice softened, and
he opened his hands, virtually pleading. "I ask for one more
try. All our forces are in readiness, it can begin in two hours .
     "Request denied."
     "If our aircraft are detected and intercepted I will order them
to tum around and return to Nicaragua without a battle," Kalinin
said. "But if we surround the XF-34 with fighter aircraft, even




420                      DALE BROWN
if the formation is detected I think the Americans will have no
choice but to allow us to proceed."
     "I disagree," Cherkov put in. "I believe the Americans would
attack the formation. Even if they didn't openly attack, which
they did not do over the Caribbean on your first attempt to smug-
gle the XF-34 out of Nicaragua, there is too much chance for
disaster. An air battle would almost certainly result. I cannot
endorse such an operation-"
     "You'd do anything to save your pension and yourdacha .
     "Silence, Kalinin.
     "Your defense of me is not necessary, sir," Cherkov said.
"Actions speak louder than words and young Kalinin's actions
in this operation prove what sort of tactician he is."
     "It was not my pilot that tried to ram the American fighters,"
Kalinin said quickly. "It was not my ineffective pilots that could
not defeat inferior American forces." Kalinin chose not to men-
tion that the air-defense troops- around Sebaco were all KGB.
Cherkov did not bring it up either.
     Kalinin turned to the General Secretary, trying to put on his
best humble, earnest face. "Then allow me to bring the fighter
out on one of our carriers, sir. A Kiev-class cruiser with escorts
can be brought from Havana to Puerto Cabezas within the hour.
The XF-34 can easily land on one, and the Americans would
not dare attack a carrier .
     "But one of these Megafortress bombers could send a few of
the carrier's escorts to the bottom of the Caribbean," the Gen-
eral Secretary said. "Vladimir, I have lost count of the number
of fighters, transports, men and equipment we have lost trying
to bring that fighter out of Nicaragua. Even if what you say is
true-if this DreamStar fighter is worth ten of our front-line
fighters-we are definitely on the minus side of the ledger. We
have lost six MiG fighters along with the Ilyushin radar plane,
which I understand is worth ten or twenty fighters, plus the trans-
port helicopter and its men and crew in Mexico. If we then lost

a seven-thousand-metric-ton capital ship to an American attack,
we would all be deposed by the Politburo. That could still hap-
pen . . .
     He reached to the phone on his desk and buzzed his confi-
dential secretary. "I am going to order Vilizherchev to open
negotiations with the Americans for the transfer of the aircraft
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           421
back to them. You will not move the aircraft from its present
location. You will not remove or damage any of its components.
I do want you to collect as much information about the aircraft
as you can without damaging it-we had better get more out of
this nightmare operation than a dozen caskets."
     "Sir, you must reconsider," Kalinin said. "If we stop now,
if we don't attempt to get the aircraft to Russia, all those men
will have been killed for nothing, all of our efforts will have
been for nothing."
     "All of your efforts, Kalinin," the General Secretary said.
     Your operation. I must remind you that I was against this
operation from the beginning. I told you it would never suc-
ceed. I will not accept responsibility for an operation that I
never approved and that was conducted largely without m
knowledge. "                                                    y
     The General Secretary's senior aide came into the office, car-
rying notepaper and pencil. "Now see to it that the XF-34 is
secured and ready for transport."
     "I ask you once more," Kalinin said. The General Secretary
was turned away from him. "If we succeed, and I stake my life
that we will, there will be huge assets for both of us, sir. We
are already committed, we must-"
     "Your career is already at stake here, Kalinin," the General
Secretary said. Mine too, he thought gloomily. "I will concen-
trate on repairing the damage caused by your ill-conceived plan.
Do as I've ordered."
     Outside, Molokov, Kalinin's aide, fell in behind him. "Sir ...
Kalinin gave his instructions.
     
"Back to KGB headquarters," Molokov told the driver. To
Kalinin he asked, "What is the situation, sir?"
     Kalinin filled him in, needing to unload his feelings. "I have
no more authority in this. I am only authorized to collect as
much data as possible on the aircraft without damaging it, then
prepare to turn it over to the Americans."
     They drove through the streets of Moscow in silence until
approaching KGB headquarters, then Molokov said, "Maraklov
will not like this. Turning over that fighter to the Americans,
after all he's done, will be like asking him to turn over one of
his legs to a shark."
     Kalinin suddenly turned to Molokov, an idea forming in his




422                      DALE BROWN
head, becoming clearer every moment. "Maraklov ... yes,
perhaps he can secure the aircraft for us .
"Sir?"
     "Maraklov ... I need a secure satellite channel to Puerto
Cabezas. The General Secretary will brief Vilizherchev in less
than an hour, and Vilizherchev will ask to confer with the Pres-
ident by seventeen hundred hours Moscow time-1 must talk
with Maraklov immediately."
     "There is a transponder set up with the command post at
Puerto Cabezas now, sir," Molokov said. "What will you do?"
     "This operation is still on, my friend," Kalinin said. "There
may still be a way .
Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras
Sunday, 21 June 1996, 0612 CDT (1512 EET)
PATRICK McLANAHAN AND    JC. Powell might have thought they
had been transported to the set of a low-budget Vietnam war
movie. They were sitting on a plastic fold-up picnic table inside
a musty green canvas tent, eating cold scrambled eggs and
canned ham out of tin mess kits. Outside, it was warm and
impossibly humid, with occasional heavy downpours that seemed
to erupt with no warning and then, just as abruptly, end a few
minutes later as if God had simply shut off a faucet somewhere
in the heavens. Their sweaty flight suim, now going on their
second day of use, stuck to their bodies like strips of papier-
mich6 and smelled like the saltwater swamps that surrounded
the tiny Honduranairbase.
     "Airbase" might have been a flattering term for Puerto Lem-
pira. The base was actually a small airstrip clinging to a marsh
near the ocean on the northeast comer of Honduras, only forty
miles from the Nicaraguan border. The place had a nine-
thousand-foot concrete runway, but only six thousand feet of it
was usable, the encroaching swamps having retaken almost half
a mile of the eastern end; workers were busy sandbagging the
end of the runway, trying to drain it. There was a small concrete

aircraft parking area where a prefabricated aircraft hangar had
been erected for Cheetah. Outside the ramp area was a half-
sand, half-rock clearing where the tents and a communication
trailer had been airlifted in-except for the runway, the entire
base may have occupied a total of five acres.
     Almost all the personnel at Puerto Lempira were security




424                        DAIE BROWN
guards, here to guard Cheetah and the support equipment that
had been moved in. Over the years Puerto Lempira had been
used more by smugglers and drug runners than military forces.
Four guards stood watch in Cheetah's portable hangar, two
guarded the communications trailer, and another thirty were sta-
tioned around the airbase's perimeter. Everyone expected trou-
ble.
     "When do you suppose we'll get out of here?"    asked,
frowning at the lump of canned ham in his mess kit and pushing
it away.
     "No idea." McLanahan glanced at the device that had been
set up on the picnic table beside him. "We should find out
soon.
     The device was a field communications unit linked to the sys-
tem of power generators and electronics in the trailer. They had
instant satellite, UHF, VHF and HF communications capability
with most of the rest of the world through that tiny unit, which
was about the size of a cereal box.
     The rains began coming down again, lightly at first, then in
virtual sheets with big fat rain droplets that threatened to shred
their canvas roof. The rain rattled the metal roof of Cheetah's
hangar. Cheetah had been rearmed for air combat with both
long- and short-ranged missiles, but intelligence had been re-
ceived that DreamStar might have been moved to Puerto Cabe-
zas in Nicaragua less than a hundred miles away, and a crew
was standing by to arm Cheetah with its photo-reconnaissance
pod again-as well as an array of air-to-ground weapons.
     The sound of the rain almost drowned out the gentle beeping
of the satellite communications transceiver. McLanahan picked
up the receiver, laying his finger on the SCRAMBLE/DESCRAMBLE
button. When he heard the snaps and whine on the other end he
hit the button. The static disappeared, replaced by a faint hiss.
          "McLanahan'.
     "Patrick, this is Brad Elliott." His heart began pounding-

Elliot rarely used his first name, even to his closest friends and
most senior officers, unless something was wrong.
     "Go ahead, sir."
     "I've sent a F-15E down to pick you up. It should arrive in
about an hour from now."
     "Wendy . . . ?"
     "They've asked you to come back."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             425
     Suddenly, in the heat and humidity, he felt very, very cold.
He forced himself to ask, "What about DreamStar?"
     A slight pause, then: "No word yet. We're bringing your re-
placement on the F-15, a guy from the tactical bomb squadron
at Luke Air Force Base. He'll fly Cheetah if DreamStar tries to
make a break. The F-15E will fly you directly back to Brooks
AFB.
     This time he did not try to rationalize staying with Cheetah
in Honduras. She had spent hours in surgery and a full day in
post-operative intensive care. Now even General Elliott was tell-
ing him to come back ...
     Or maybe he finally realized that it was time for him to start
facing up to reality. He had flown three missions in Cheetah
since she was hurt, tearing himself away-no, running away-
from her agony, claiming that he was the only one who could
do the job, the only one who could defeat James in DreamStar.
In fact, a young F-15E back-seater in Cheetah could probably
do a better job than a forty-year-old desk jockey. His responsi-
bility was with his wife and her family-not hiding behind an
oxygen mask and a radar scope.
     "How's    JC. and your bird?" Elliott asked.
     "Okay. Ready to go."
     "Okay. We've scheduled Cheetah for a photo-recon run over
Puerto Cabezas-we'd like to pinpoint DreamStar's location but
that's unlikely. But they well might think it's another prelude to
an attack, help convince them to turn DreamStar over to us in-
tact. "
                  
Silence.
     "Patrick, about Wendy. What can I say? I wish to God she
hadn't been on that plane-"
     "General, I'm sick and tired of everyone giving Wendy up
for dead. And as far as I'm concerned we should stop pussy-
footing around with the damned Russians. No more damn mes-
sages, no more warnings. If we think DreamStar is in Puerto
Cabezas let's go in and get it. Right now. If we send Cheetah
up to take pictures they'll just move DreamStar somewhere else.
Bring the carrier George Washington in with a naval bombard-
ment squadron, level Puerto Cabezas and let's stop jacking
around.
     When there was no response from the other end he thought




r
426                       DALE BROWN
the connection had been broken. Then Elliott said: "Keep us
advised on Wendy's condition, Patrick. Elliott out."
     He dropped the phone back on its cradle.    was looking at
him carefully. "I'm leaving as soon as my plane gets here,"
McLanahan told him.
The White House, Washington, D.
Sunday, 21 June 1996, 0815 EDT
"All I want to know from ou, Vilizherchev," President Taylor
said as the Russian ambassador entered the Oval Office, "is
where our aircraft is and when it will be returned to us."
     Sergei Vilizherchev was taken off guard but shrugged it off
and continued inside the office. He was followed by Secretary
of State Danahall, who had met the ambassador at the rear en-
trance to the White House. Secretary of Defense Stuart, Secre-
tary of the Air Force Curtis, Secretary of the Navy John Kemp,
National Security Adviser Chairperson Deborah O'Day, Speaker
Van Keller and Attorney General Benson were already in the
Oval Office, summoned there immediately after learning of the
Russian's hurried request for a meeting. The President's advisers
formed a semicircle around Vilizherchev as the ambassador ap-
proached the President's desk. Taylor ignored Vilizherchev's of-
fered hand; he did not stand to greet the ambassador.
     The Russian smiled and made a slight bow. "Very nice to see
you again, sir .
     "I asked you a question, Mr. Ambassador," the President
said. "I want that fighter. Immediately."
     "Mr. President, I am here to deliver my government's most
emphatic protest of the attack on our military installation last
night," Vilizherchev said, as if ignoring the President's out-
burst. "That attack cost the lives of three pilots, four men on
the ground, and millions of dollars worth of equipment and prop-
erty destroyed. The attack was inexcusable-"
     Taylor interrupted: "Mr. Curtis."
     
Wilbur Curtis flicked on a high-resolution video monitor and
began rolling a tape. "This was transmitted to us less than ten
minutes ago, Mr. Ambassador," Curtis said. The monitor
showed a concrete bunker, open at both ends, inside a depressed
rain-soaked aircraft parking area. Soldiers surrounded the stnic-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          427
ture. A few could be seen pointing rifles in the air, obviously
taking aim at the aircraft taking the photographs. Inside one open
end of the hangar the unmistakable forward-swept wings of
DreamStar could clearly be seen in the early-morning sunlight.
     "You moved our aircraft to a different base and we found it,"
the President said. "If I don't get the answer I'm looking for I
pick up this phone and I order the Navy to level that base like
they leveled Sebaco. In fifteen minutes this whole thing will be
over-I guarantee it."
     "The attack will fail," Vilizherchev said quickly. "Such an
offensive has been anticipated. We have strengthened the coastal
defenses and are ready for such an assault-"
     "The crew of this recon jet reported no defenses anywhere,"
Curtis said. "We have pictures of the destroyed SA-15 missile
sites-want to see them, Mr. Ambassador?"
     "I must also tell you, sir, that Soviet forces in the region are
prepared to retaliate. If American bombers cross the border again,
orders have been issued to attack Honduran airfields with Soviet
supersonic bombers from Cuba. They will destroy one airfield
military or civilian, for every Nicaraguan base destroyed. The
bombers are armed with supersonic cruise missiles that cannot
be intercepted. If naval forces are encountered they have been
ordered to attack them as well. Your new aircraft carrier George
Washington is in the area, I believe-will you risk a three billion
dollar vessel for one aircraft? Pride is a poor reason to go to
war, sir. "
     "Likewise stupidity," the President said. "I don't need to
remind you what would happen if the Soviet Union tries to start
a shooting war in the Caribbean."
     
"We have two aircraft-carrier groups, three strategic air di-
visions and nine tactical air divisions ready to send into the
area," Stuart said. "That's twenty capital ships and twelve hun-
dred aircraft that can be deployed in less time than it will take
you to get back to your office."
     "And all I need, mister, is one Russian cruise missile," the
President said. "Just one. It doesn't even have to hit anything.
One missile or one bomber aimed at American forces and we
end the Soviet presence in the Caribbean for good. I'll wipe out
everything with a red star on it - "
     Vilizherchev stood in front of the President's desk, virtually
in shock. "You . . . you are talking a major war, Mr. Presi-




428                      DALE BROWN
dent," he said. "You are threatening war over this ... this
mere aircraft .
     "I'm threatening over your lies, your deceit. And your mur-
dering. You stole our aircraft, murdered our soldiers, killed and
destroyed and killed again all through Central America just to
steal one fighter. What you've done is declare war on the United
States. I'm going to start answering you by destroying Puerto
Cabezas. " He picked up the telephone and punched two digits
on the keypad.
     "This is the President. Unlock file nine-six-zero-six bravo,
authenticate with line charlie-charlie and execute immediately.
Send reports to the Situation Room. I'll be there in ten minutes."
He hung up the phone and pointed to Vilizherchev. "Good day,
sir. "
          "Will we not discuss this, Mr. Pre sident . . . ? "
     Just then two beepers went off-Vilizherchev spun around at
the sound as if it had been a gunshot. Both Kemp and Curtis
retrieved their tiny credit-card-sized pagers from jacket pockets
and checked the message on its tiny liquid-crystal screen.
     "Execution cross-checks, Mr. President," Curtis said.
"Crews are responding. I'd like to take it in the Situation
Room.
          "You're dismissed, John, Wilbur .
     "Wait, Mr. President, Secretary Curtis, Secretary Kemp,
please," Vilizherchev said. "We must discuss this .           Curtis
and Kemp turned and headed for the door.
     The President turned to his Secretary of State and his aide.
"Dennis, Paul, escort the ambassador out of the White House.
Deborah, I need you to call your staff down to the Situation
Room in ten minutes to-"
     "I am authorized to release the aircraft to you, Mr. Presi-
dent," Vilizherchev shouted. Everyone in the room froze. The
President pointed to the Secretary of the Navy.
     "Get going, John. This sounds like a stall to me. Get your

planes from the George Washington airborne. I want a prestrike
briefing from the Navy when I get there. Wilbur, hang on for a
minute." Kemp opened his mouth, was about to say something,
then decided against it and hurried out.
     "I came here to organize a transfer of the aircraft back into
your control, Mr. President," Vilizherchev said, staring at the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          429
closed door of the Oval Office through which Kemp had just
exited. He turned back to the President. "The General Secretary
has directed that the aircraft be turned over to you immedi-
                   ately.
     "So what about all that garbage about retaliatory strikes,
bombers and -cruise missiles? " Deborah O'Day asked. "Was
that a bluff?"
     "The same as your bluff with the attack on Puerto Cabezas ...
     "That is no bluff, Vilizherchev," the President said. "I've
got bombers from the George Washington lined up to attack that'
base, whether DrearnStar is there or not. When the air attack is
completed I've ordered a company of Marines to land, occupy
that base and take control of the area. If they don't find that
aircraft they'll move down to Bluefields and level that base.
After Bluefields they'll move inland all the way to Managua."
     "This is not a bluff, Mr. Ambassador," Curtis said. "Once
those planes are airborne, we're committed."
     "The President has approval from Congress, sir," Van Keller
said. The Speaker of the House of Representatives and the con-
gressional Majority Leader was sweating. "The plan was pre-
sented early this morning to the Senate and House committee
chairmen. We stand behind the President."
     "All right," Vilizherchev said. "The bombers, the cruise
missiles, the attacks against Honduras          I invented them. I
had to find a way to regain at least some of my bargaining po-
sition-"
     "This is not the time for diplomatic face-saving, Mr. Ambas-
sador," the President said. "In five minutes those planes
                   
launch.
     "I have been ordered to negotiate a way to turn the fighter
back to you," Vilizherchev said. "No conditions. The General
Secretary has directed it be done immediately."
     "Is the aircraft flyable?" Curtis asked.
     "Yes. It is at Puerto Cabezas, as you already know. It was
flown there to avoid the attack against Sebaco."
          "What about the pilot? What about James?"
     "A KGB agent, the project was run by the KGB. The General
Secretary learned of the theft of the aircraft only afteritlanded
in Nicaragua. The General Secretary never agreed to keep the
aircraft in Nicaragua-he never knew of the plan to move it out




430                        DALE BROWN
of your country. The whole affair was run by Vladimir Kalinin
of the KGB. "
     "So why should the KGB turn the aircraft over to us now?"
Deborah O'Day asked. "If they control the aircraft . . . "
     "The aircraft is now in the hands of the Soviet army, not the
KGB. Colonel Maraklov has been ordered to return to Sebaco
to await transportation to Moscow via Managua. The army has
orders to make the aircraft ready to be flown out of Nicaragua."
     Deborah O'Day looked at the President. "Sir, it is over . . . "
     "Not yet," the President said. "I'll cancel the air strike, but
I'm keeping the George Washington on station. I don't trust
these people. Not any more. Wilbur, I want you in the Situation
Room for a meeting. Postpone the air strikes for now." Curtis
nodded, a faint hint of a smile on his face not detectable by
anyone, and departed.
     "Then I suggest sending in a security force to guard the air-
craft," Stuart said, "until we can figure out how we can get the
aircraft out of there."
     "General Elliott is in the Cayman Islands in control of the air
forces," O'Day said. "He has a man that can fly DrearnStar-
only specially trained pilots can fly it. He can send in a security
unit with the pilot and some technicians that can inspect the
aircraft. He can make the decision on how to get DreamStar
out. "
     The President nodded to O'Day, then looked at the Russian
ambassador.
     Vilizherchev under-stood that look. "I assure you, the General
Secretary is anxious to be done with this . . . incident. "
     "Bill, get down to the Situation Room, advise Mr. Kemp to
hold the Second Fleet's air raid but tell them to stay on the
alert." Stuart nodded and departed.
     "Deborah, set up a satellite call in the conference room with
General Elliott. We will plan this thing together so the ambas-
sador knows what we'll want from his people and the Nicara-

guans. I'll meet you all there in a minute. " Van Keller, Danahall
and Vilizherchev filed out of the Oval Office, led by Cesare, but
Deborah O'Day stayed behind.
          "What is it, Debbie?"
     "Did I hear all this correctly a minute ago? Did I hear you
say you had elements of the Second Fleet ready to invade Nic-
aragua?
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             431
     "You must have heard it correctly," the President said with
the hint of a smile. "Kemp and Curtis heard it, too."
     O'Day said, "Strike aircraft with heavy bombs on board usu-
ally have to jettison their bombs before recovering back on the
carrier. But I'm confused. I didn't know anything about an in-
vasion plan. Did you formulate a plan with John and-- She
stopped, then stared at the President. "You made that up?"
     "I thought Vilizherchev might be lying to me again," the
President said, "so I raised the stakes on him. He had nothing
in his hand but he wanted to challenge me. The guy has balls.
Without authorization, without anything to back himself up with,
the guy stood in front of me and threatened us with war if we
didn't back off."
     "So what will you do if the Russians won't turn DrearnStar
over to us? Will you invade Nicaragua after all?"
     "Yes. He forced my hand, whether he knew it or not. Now
we both have to live with that threat. Hell, I wish we did have
congressional authorization for an invasion. Van Keller makes a
good poker player, too. He played right along, just like you and
Wilbur.
     "If the Russians don't turn over DrearnStar, I'm prepared to
destroy Puerto Cabezas, then order the Marines to occupy it.
We'll have -to make a decision on whether or not to go after
those other airfields and bases after that.
Sebaco, Nicaragua
Sunday, 21 June 1996, 1132 CDT (1032 EDT)
"Am I under arrest?" Andrei Maraklov said, pulling himself

away from the KGB Border Guards that had escorted him into
Sebaco's command post.
     General Tret'yak turned toward him, waving at the guards to
leave him. "Arrest? No, Colonel, you are not under arrest. Why
would you think such a thing?"
     "Because some Russian and Nicaraguan army bozos dragged
me out of DreamStar and threw me into a helicopter to take me
back here," Maraklov said. "What the hell is going on? I can't
allow DreamStar to be left alone and unprotected like that. And
I want my flight suit back. That's a delicate piece of equip-
ment-"




432                        DALE BROWN
     "It's no longer your concern, Colonel. You don't look so
well, Colonel Maraklov. Apparently Central America does not
agree with you."
     Actually Maraklov did look in poor health. Most of the men
under Tret'yak's command, because of bad water, stress and the
spicy food had lost weight after coming to Nicaragua, but Mar-
aklov had only been here a week and he looked emaciated. The
elastic belt on his flight suit was drawn in so much that the ends
overlapped halfway around his waist, and his eyes looked almost
ghostly in the command center's stark overhead lighting. He also
seemed to be losing hair. Could he be on drugs? No-Maraklov
was guarded night and day and observed through hidden cameras
while in his room. If he was doing drugs he was being very
crafty indeed to escape detection.
     Maraklov's anger flared. "Forget my waistline, General. What
do you mean, DreamStar is no longer my concern?"
     "The army has been ordered to take control of the aircraft,
effective immediately."
          "And what are they going to do with it?"
     "I don't know or care. My job is to get this base operational
again. Your fighter, or you for that matter, are no longer my
concern. "
     "My mission was to deliver that aircraft to Ramenskoye Test
Center in Moscow," Maraklov said. "I have authority to de-
mand assistance from all Soviefor allied forces. That includes
you-"
     "Nyet. My last order concerning you was to see to it that you
board an Aeroflot plane in Managua for Moscow when you are
told to do so, which will be in the next two or three days. Mean-
while you are not to return to Puerto Cabezas or go anywhere
near the DrearnStar aircraft. You will not be placed under arrest
but I trust you will do as you are told."
     "This is nuts. Why is the KGB; abandoning the project now?
We can still get DreamStar to Russia-why are they giving up

like this?
     "I don't know," Tret'yak said. "The KGB troops under my
command have not been used to secure the fighter-they Eire
using only Red Army troops. Who knows, perhaps they have
made a bargain with the Americans for the return of the fight-
er .      He paused, staring at Maraklov. "Perhaps they do not
trust you any longer."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            433
     "What do you mean by that?"
     "I mean, Colonel Maraklov, where were you when Sebaco
was under attack? You had four missiles and extra fuel on board
your fighter, and yet you stayed in Puerto Cabezas and hid in
your concrete bunker while my airbase was being blown to hell
by an American B-52 bomber. You--
          "A B-52 bomber? You mean one B-52 bomber?"
     "Yes, one B-52," Tret'yak said, "armed with air-to-air and
air-to-ground weapons. Certainly your amazing fighter plane
could have shot it down with ease-if you had bothered to join
in the fight. "
     "Well how the hell was I supposed to know it was only one
plane? We were expecting a major assault-I got into the bunker
and shut down before they could track me. Besides, I was never
informed-"
     "It was never your intention to help defend the base,"
Tret'yak said. "One plane or a hundred-you were not going to
come to our aid." He rubbed his eyes irritably, then held up a
hand before Maraklov could speak. "Your special metallic flight
suit has been impounded-you will have no use for it. It will be
sent with you when you leave for Moscow. Lieutenant Zaykov
has asked to remain your aide until you leave, and her request
has been granted. You are dismissed."
     "I want to contact Moscow for clarification of instructions."
     Tret'yak waved toward his office. "Do what you want. KGB
headquarters wanted to speak with you when you arrived from
Puerto Cabezas anyway. The channel has already been set up.

But until I receive orders to the contrary, Lieutenant Zaykov is
to escort you to Managua first thing in the morning and to see
that you are on your way to Moscow. Good-bye, Colonel Mar-
aklov.
     Maraklov hurried into Tret'yak's office and ordered the call
be put through to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Things had
gone to hell real fast, he thought. Tret'yak was naive if he
thought Moscow would risk using DreamStar to defend his little
jungle base. Hell, Sebaco, Puerto Cabezas, Bluefields, even Ma-
nagua were going to be sacrificed-anything to get DrearnStar
off safely. Somebody changed their minds in Moscow. The
B-52 must've really shaken them up. Kalinin must have screwed
up. The responsibility of getting DreamStar out of Nicaragua
was obviously his, and he slipped up-this was the first time




434                     DALE BROWN
anybody but KGB troops had had anything to do with Drearn-
Star. Obviously there had been some sort of shakeup in Moscow
and someone else was in charge now ...
     So the question was-what could he do to get around this?
How could he turn disaster to his advantage?
     The satellite transmission went through after several at-
tempts-the American bomber attack had done extensive damage
to the power transformers and underground communications ca-
bles, and they had only a patchwork setup still running. Mar-
aklov shook his head as he thought of a single B-52 bomber
attacking Sebaco. It had to be another of Elliott's toys, he
thought-another Megafortress Plus, or maybe the resurrection
of the one he had shot down? Would he never be rid of Drearn-
land's ghosts?
     "Tovarisch Polkovnik, dobriy vyechyer, " the voice on the
other end of the line greeted him. "Ehtah General-Major Kali-
nin. Kahk dyela . . . ?
     "You have to speak English, Sir," Maraklov said. "My Rus-
Sian is still very poor. Vi gavaretye angleyski?"
     "Of course, yes, I speak English," the man replied. "I am
Director Kalinin."
     Damn . . . it was the KGB director himself on the line.
     "I assume you have received your orders from General
Tret'yak, vyehma?
     "Yes, Sir.
     "What is your . . . kak gavaretye . . . how do you say,
thoughts?
     "My opinion? Of my orders, Sir?"
     "Yes, your opinion."
     What the hell was going on? The director of the KGB was
asking him if he agreed with his orders? He was screwed either
way he answered. Well, no use dodging this              "I do not
agree with them, Sir.  We must not give the aircraft to the
Americans.  We have already paid a very dear price for it-it

is ours now .
     To his surprise he heard Kalinin say he agreed with him.
     There was a long pause on the channel. What was going on?
Was Kalinin going to disobey his own orders and bring
DreamStar back to Russia? Were they trying to set him up, use
what he said against him in a trial once he returned to the Soviet
Union?
               DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          435
     "Colonel, I will transmit message to you, in confidence, soon.
It will be in English. The message for you only. Not Tret'yak.
Vi pahnyemahyo?
          "No, I don't understand, Sir."
     "I will give you orders. New orders. Carry them out if you
can. Etah srochnah. It is urgent - Da svedahneya. " And the line
went dead.
Brooks Medical Center, Brooks A", San Antonio,
Texas
     Sunday, 21 June 1996, 1305 CDT (1405 EDT)
"O God of heavenly powers, who, by the might of thy com-
mand, drivest away from men's bodies all sickness and all infin-
ity; be present in thy goodness with this thy servant, that her
weakness may be banished and her strength recalled; that her
health being thereupon restored, she may bless thy holy Name;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
     Patrick and   , who had come back with him, then would
return as needed, stood apart from the small circle of Wendy's
parents and relatives around her bed in the intensive care unit as
the doctor checked Wendy's eyes and skin. They had had no
time to change out of their flight suits. After securing the still
heavily armed Cheetah in a guarded hangar they had gone right
from the aircraft parking ramp to a waiting Air Force sedan and
on to the hospital. McLanahan had knelt beside his wife only
briefly, then backed away when he noticed the number of rela-
tives present and their faces. Now, with the minister and rela-
tives crowded around her, he felt more excluded, more isolated

than ever.
     A minister had been there for the last twelve hours. When he
first arrived the prayers were full of uplifting, optimistic words.
Now the prayers had taken a sudden shift toward the irremedi-
able.
     The doctor finished his examination, took notes on the mon-
itor readouts, changed an intravenous fluid bag, then moved
away. McLanahan saw the minister touch the doctor's arm, and
they spoke briefly. Did he see the doctor shake his head? He
drove murderous thoughts out of his mind and got the doctor's
attention.




436                        DALE BROWN
     "What's the story, doctor? "
     "The right lung sounds clear. I think we stopped the edema.
But she's very weak. I'm sorry, but we have to expect respira-
tory failure-
          "No.
     "The damage was massive. She's a strong woman, Colonel.
But for every step she takes forward, her body takes two back-
wards. She's fought back bravely, but . . ."
     McLanahan could not stand to look at the doctor any more.
He sought his wife's face from the foot of her bed. They had
removed the larger tubes from her throat, leaving only the nasal
cannula in place to feed her oxygen. Many of the bandages had
also been removed, and the bums on her face and neck looked
markedly better. Wendy's mother had even brushed out her hair.
"She looks better to me," McLanahan said. The doctor made
no comment. "Why isn't she on a respirators If you say her
respiratory system can collapse, why can't she be on life-
support ... ?"
     "We can keep her alive indefinitely, Colonel, but is that what
you really want?
     "Yes. I I
          "Think of the pain you'd be subjecting her family to-"
     "I'm her family too." He ignored the faces around her bed-
side. "Stop trying to spare us pain and help her, dammit. Right
now." The doctor nodded, put his hand on McLanahan's shoul-
der and turned away. The relatives and friends turned away;
some filed out of the intensive care ward, not looking at him or
saying anything. A few minutes later he felt a hand on his shoul-
der. Hal Briggs was standing beside him. "Man, I came as soon
as I could . . . "
     "Thanks for coming, Hal. I appreciate it. Is the general
here? "
     "He's still . . . away," Hal said. McLanahan knew that meant
the Cayman Islands, as leader of the air cordon around Nicara-

gua. "There's DOD investigators all over the Center, and they
have authority to go any damn place they want. I got sick of
them and took off. "
     "I'm really glad you guys are here," he said to both Powell
and Briggs. He noticed Briggs wearing his earpiece transceiver.
He was also armed, his ever-present Uzi submachine pistol on
his waist. Hal nodded, then motioned his eyes off toward the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            437
     door, and all three men walked outside and found an isolated
area in the hallway.
                "How is she?"
     "The doctor says she's worse. Who the hell knows? What's
going on, Hal?"
     "   might have to return to Puerto 1,empira right away,"
Briggs said. "They made a deal with the Russians. They're go-
ing to turn DreamStar over to us-maybe tomorrow morning.
They say it's flyable, so the general wants   , Dr. Carmichael
and Master Sergeant Butler to go out to Puerto Cabezas and
inspect her.    might be able to fly the thing back to Dream-
land.
     "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 pa-
rade. "
     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 con-
ventional radio system. Briggs listened for a few moments, then,

replied, "Copy"'all. Briggs out." He turned to McLanahan.
"Word's ip/,'tolonel- The plane's been sealed off in a concrete
shelter on 'Puerto Cabezas airfield. Tomorrow morning at Six A.,
we've been cleared to fly no more than four more people in to
inspect DrearnStar-that means Carmichael, Butler,    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    back immediately. I've got to get
his gear together back at Dreamland. "
     McLanahan glanced down the hallway and saw Wendy's doc-
tor 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 beep-




438                       DALE BROWN
ing was coming from Wendy's body-monitor. The relatives were
crowded around her bedside, blocking the doctors and techni-
cians from reaching her. The minister was kneeling beside
her . . .
     "Get away ftom 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 arrhythinia," 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, dimmit. " 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 gumey was wheeled into the room.
"All right, please move aside, everyone. " Wendy was trans-
ferred to the gumey, 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.
     I, Why are you doing this, Patrick?" Betty Tork said in a low
voice.
     I'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    back to Honduras," he told them. The two officers
stared at him. "We'll fly back in Cheetah. Hal, go back and get
  's flight gear and Carmichael and Butler and meet us in
Puerto Lempira. "
             said gently, "Do you think you should?"
     "Wendy's back on a respirator. I think she's going to make
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           439
     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 DreaniStar. 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 fight-
ing too. And I can't fight wringing my hands in this place. Let's
get the hell out of here."
Sebaco, Nkaragua
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.
     It would be that much easier to get away from Sebaco. Mar-
aklov 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




440                        DALE BROWN
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. the next morning and put him on a
nine A. Aeroflot flight to Moscow. If he could keep Musi quiet,
maybe tie her up and hide her in the jungle where she'd even-
tually be found, they would think they had left for Sandino In-
ternational Airport as scheduled. They wouldn't know until the
Aeroflot's departure time of nine A. 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 consid-
ered 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 tam?
     "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, An-
drei.- 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 befieve
we're just going to give up Dreanl$tar. After all that's hap-
pened.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             441
     "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
comer 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 gong 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
                      A




442                       DALE BROWN
you from Moscow, directing you to go to Puerto Cabezas and
steal the DrearnStar aircraft. What is this about?"
     "Just what it says, Musi. I've been ordered to steal the damn
thing again and fly it to a secret base in Costa Rica. " As he said
it he took the opportunity to take a half-step toward her. "They
figured I did such a good job the first time, they wanted to see
if I could do it again."
          "If that was meant to be humorous, Andrei, you failed,"
     Za kov said. "My last orders from General Tret'yak were to see
     y
     to it that you are confined to the base until morning.
          "Well, I have orders too, Musi. Given to me by Vladimir
     Kalinin. I'm sure you have ways of confirming that. I don't have
     much time to waste."
          "I must check this with General Tret'yak. If what ou say
                                                            y
     is true, this contradicts previous orders. Orders must be veri-
     fied-
          "There's no damn time to verify anything. DreamStar will be
     gone in ten hours, maybe less."
     "   m And you had to come here to get your flight suit and hel-
          et," Zaykov said. "Then you had to do one more thing-kill
     me. You could not make it appear that we had gone to Managua
     as scheduled unless I was out of your way." `
          "I wasn't going to kill you. I could never do that. I'm much
     too fond of you . . . you know that . . . " He searched her face,
     found little softening in it. "You can help me, Musi. You can
     get a helicopter to take me to Puerto Cabezas-"
          "I can't do that. Even if these orders were fully authorized I
     would not do it. "
          Something else was wrong. "Musi, what is it?"
          She let the first letter drop to the floor, then drew another one
     from her jacket. "Some research I did when you left Sebaco for
     Puerto Cabezas . . . The morning after your attempt to fly to
     
Cuba you were delirious from dehydration. You called out a
     woman's name-Janet. "
          "Janet? You mentioned that name moments ago. I don't know
     a Janet."
        -You did know a Janet, Andrei-or should I say, Kenneth
     ames. I knew a Janet too. Janet Larson. We were good friends
     back at the Connecticut Academy."
          Now the words hit Maraklov like a baseball bat against his
     skull. He had forgotten the name the minute he left the Soviet
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           443
Union for Hawaii all those years ago. The delirium caused by
the ANTARES interface somehow had unearthed it-unfortu-
nately, in the presence of another Connecticut Academy gradu-
ate who knew her.
     "Yes, I knew Janet ... Janet Larson. What has she got to do
with my orders?"
     "Perhaps nothing-perhaps everything," Zaykov said - "Janet
Larson-Katrina Litkovka-was found dead in a car crash. They
say she had been drinking, that her car went off the road. But
Katrina was fond of having affairs with many of the students at
the Academy. You were one of them." She paused, then said,
"I was one of them too."
          "You and Larson were lovers?"
     "Those of us in courtesan training at the Academy were taught
to . . . to please women as well as men," she said. "It was all
part of the game at the Academy. But mostly we were friends,
damn it, friends . . . She, apparently had been drinking an ex-
pensive Scotch whiskey. Even though she didn't have much al-
cohol in her blood, drunk driving was blamed for the accident.
But the whiskey was very suspicious. Under questioning, a truck
driver that delivered supplies to the Academy admitted that he
sold or traded bottles of contraband foreign liquor to students
and employees. One of the students he sold the whiskey to was
you.
     Zaykov took a tighter grip on the weapon. "All of Katrina's

lovers were suspects in the investigation. All of us were officially
cleared-all but you. No investigation was started on you be-
cause you had just been inserted into the United States Air Force
Academy training program. After a time interest in the case
disappeared. Katrina Litkovka's murderer was never found."
     "I still don't see what this has to do with anything, " Mar-
aklov said. "Are you accusing me of her murder? Now, after all
these years, you're on a manhunt for a murder that happened
over a decade ago and ten thousand miles away?"
     "There is no statute of limitations on murder." She held up
the paper. "I did some more checking, Mr. Kenneth James. A
report don e by a KGB agent that assisted you in killing the rea
Kenneth James in Hawaii during the substitution. He reported
that the dying American admitted to two murders in his pres-
ence-the murder of his infant brother, and the murder of his
high school girlfriend.




444                       DALE BROWN
     Maraklov took a step forward. The gun did not waver. "Musi,
I still don't understand. What does this have to do with what's
going on here? Yes, the real Kenneth James killed his brother-
he admitted that. He was seconds away from death when he said
he killed his girlfriend. He was delirious-"
     "Perhaps. Perhaps not. My friend Katrina Litkovka used to
tell me about you, about the stories you supposedly made up,
about how realistic they were. She told me about how you told
her about how James killed his girlfriend before he went to Ha-
waii. Katrina said you were close to killing her then. Strange,
isn't it-the real Kenneth James confessed to the very crime that
you described to Katrina."
     That made Maraklov stop in hopeless confusion. The parallels
between the real Ken James and what he thought was James' life
were indeed startling, but he had never thought of it as his
thoughts versus James' real life. At the very instant that he re-
alized he had been left alone in that hotel room in Honolulu, he
became the ultimate extreme of his training . . . he became Ken-
neth Francis James. He evaded the security checks, the encoun-
ters with James' friends and lovers, even related intimate details
about James' childhood because he had ceased to be Andrei
Ivanschichin Maraklov and had become Ken James. Which was
more than they wanted at the Academy.
     Zaykov let the report fall to the floor and took out still another
piece of paper from her jacket. "I am detaining you so we can
speak with General Tret'yak, but I am also reopening the inves-
tigation of Katrina Litkovka's murder.
     "Motive: She told me you threatened to kill her if she ex-
posed your behavior to Headmaster Roberts. That would have
destroyed your chances to go to America, something you had
spent half your life and every part of your peculiar mind training
for. I recall the talk that your mission was to be canceled be-
cause you were unprepared emotionally for the role. Opportu-
nity: The whiskey you bought two days before the accident. The

security guards testified that Litkovka was not drunk before leav-
ing the Academy. You arranged the accident, made it look like
Katrina had been drinking, then killed her, Kenneth James . . . "
     I II am not Kenneth James," Maraklov said. "I am Colonel
Andrei Maraklov, an officer in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Be-
zopasnosti, a trained deep-cover agent just like yourself. And I
am not a murderer .
                     JL
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           445
     Zaykov held up the last piece of paper in her hand. It was a
photograph. She tossed it across to him. Maraklov stepped for-
ward to pick it up, she moved backward to stay out of his reach
     Look at it.
     Sweat popped off his forehead as he studied the picture. It
was an old photocopy of a picture of Kenneth James, the real
Kenneth James, taken in Hawaii, obviously by a KGB hidden
camera. It appeared to have been taken not long before he had
arrived in Hawaii to make the switch-possibly it was the photo
used by the plastic surgeons to give him his new face before
replacing James.
     Even though the photo was much enlarged and grainy, Mar-
aklov could still make out the drawn features, the thinning hair,
the sickly appearance. The guy had been tearing himself apart
from the inside out for ten years over the murder of his infant
brother. He had destroyed not only his own life but the life of
his natural father as well. No wonder he had expressed such
relief when he realized he was dying and had confessed the truth
to Maraklov that evening.
     "What about this, Musi? We're wasting time .
     She motioned to a mirror on the living room wall. "Take a
                   look. "
     Maraklov dropped the photograph and moved over to the mir-
ror. He stared at the face in the mirror. It was Kenneth Francis
James-at least the face of James in the photograph. The plastic
surgery Maraklov had undergone before coming to America kept

most of his face looking like it was still seventeen years old, but
it couldn't hide the thinning hair, the hollow cheeks, the sunken
eyes, the thin neck and protruding Adam's apple . . . in his case,
the strain of the ANTARES interface and the other attritions in
the theft of DreamStar had chewed away at Maraklov's body,
much as the murders of his brother and girlfriend had eaten away
at James.
     "I'm arresting you for the murder of Katrina Litkovka, " Musi
Zaykov said. "You come with-"
     Ignoring the weapon pointed at his chest, he reared back and
hurled the Scotch bottle at the mirror. The bottle hit the glass
and exploded. Instinctively Zaykov turned at the sound, the gun
still pointed at Maraklov, but her head turned toward the shat-
tered mirror. It was the opening Maraklov needed. Forgetting
the pistol she still held, he covered the few steps between him




446                         DALE BROWN
and Zaykov, and with the skill and precision developed from
years of training, turned the pistol away from his left hand and
delivered a solid roundhouse kick with his right foot. Zaykov
collapsed to the floor, but Maraklov could not take control of
the gun. As she doubled over and fell, she swung the gun back
up and squeezed the trigger.
     The gun exploded, he felt his left shoulder yanked backward,
there was a loud buzzing in his ears and the blood drained from
his head. His knees buckled and he dropped backward, clutching
his shoulder. There was no pain-yet-only a steady rivulet of
blood leaking from between his fingers, and the disorienting
feeling of confusion mixed with fear. The room began to spin.
He felt lighthearted, almost intoxicated.
     Gasping, Musi crawled up to her hands and knees, reaching
for the pistol. Maraklov caught it first. Musi dug her nails into
the back of his left hand, raked the nails of her right hand across
his face. He let go of the gun. She tried to grab the gun but the
hot silencer-barrel burned her fingers, and before she could grab
the stock he had tumbled on top of her. He rolled her over onto
her back and sat on top of her, trying to pin her arms down.
          "Musi ' don't . . . "
     Blood ran down from his shoulder over her T-shirt, covering
her chest, her face and hands. He put one hand over her mouth,
ignoring the pain as she bit into it. With his other hand he pulled
the hunting knife out of his boot. "Musi, all I want is the flight
suit . . . "
     Zaykov freed her right arm, punched Maraklov in the left
shoulder, then on the jaw. He toppled off her and she rolled to
her right away from him, reached out and grabbed the pistol.
She swung it up and fired.
     The bullet just missed Maraklov's left ear. Before she could
get off another shot he had knocked the pistol aside, swung
around and, before he realized what he was doing, plunged the
hunting knife into her abdomen. The blade pierced her dia-

phragm and punctured the right lung. She took one more breath,
exhaled, blood coming from her open mouth in spasmodic
coughs. She shuddered slightly, stared at him with a look of
surprise, and then lay motionless underneath him.
     He rolled off her, staring back at her lifeless eyes, then away.
Janet Larson, James' girlfriend . . . all over again . . .
     He shook himself back to the present . . . pulled the pistol
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                              447
from her fingers and crawled to the window, checking outside.
Nothing. He checked the side windows, the bedroom, the back
door. Nothing. The gunshots that had shocked him had not car-
ried beyond her secluded quarters.
     He went back to the living room. Forcing himself back to her,
forcing himself to touch her, he grabbed her hands and dragged
her to the bedroom, then into her closet. There was little blood-
her heart had stopped beating almost instantly. He rested her as
best he could in the closet and closed the door. She would not
likely be discovered until morning.
     His shoulder wound hurt badly now, but the bullet had only
taken a shallow, ragged gouge out of his left shoulder muscle.
Maraklov found bandages, disinfectant ointment and tape and
wrapped the wound tightly as he could. The pain began to build,
but he decided against any of the pain-killers he found in Zay-
kov's medicine cabinet-the drive would be long enough, and
any drugs might later interfere with the ANTARES interface.
The pain also acted like a stimulant, helping to clear his mind.
Fortunately, he thought wryly, he could fly DrearnStar without
a fully functioning left arm.
     He found the two aluminum cases in a living-room closet and
made a fast check of the flight suit and superconducting hel-
met-both were as he had packed them the day before. He pock-
eted the pistol, picked up the two aluminum cases and headed
for the back door. After checking outside for several minutes he
brought the cases out to the car, got behind the wheel, and drove
off.
     
He followed the access road out from the southeast runway
hammerhead toward the destroyed anti-aircraft gun emplace-
ment, then turned onto a dirt road that led toward the perimeter.
No patrols were in sight. He followed the road right to the base
perimeter fence and found a long-unused gate secured by a chain
and a rusty lock that gave way when he rammed it open with
the sedan. Ten minutes later he was on the Isabella Highway
heading east toward Puerto Cabezas.




448                       DALE BROWN
     Puerto Lempira Airbase, Honduras
Monday, 22 June 1996, 0515 CDT (0615 ED7)
Powell and McLanahan had just finished refueling and securing
Cheetah in its portable hangar on the Honduran coastal airbase
about eighty nautical miles north of the concrete bunkers at
Puerto Cabezas. They were also watching the construction of a
second portable aircraft shelter right beside Cheetah's hangar.
The second hangar was for DreamStar. After leaving Puerto Ca-
bezas, Powell was to take it here to Puerto Lempira, where tech-
nicians would give it a thorough going over before Powell would
fly it first to Houston, and then on to Drearriland in Nevada.
     Cheetah was still armed for combat-there had not been time
in nearly two days to disarm her. She still carried four AIM-
120C Scorpion radar-guided missiles in semi-recessed fuselage
stations, and two AIM-132 infrared-guided missiles on wing py-
Ions-two other AIM-132 missiles had been expended on Soviet
fighters during the bombing raid on Sebaco-PIUS FASTPACK con-
formal fuel tanks and five hundred rounds of 20-millimeter am-
munition.
     "The Russians figured out how to put external fuel tanks on
DreamStar," Powell was saying as they watched the final parts
being assembled onto the steel-and-fiberglass structure. "We
should be able to do it. With external tanks I'm sure I can fly
her all the way back to Dreamland. "
     "I'm sure you can, but it's too risky. From what you said
yourself, you'll be flying DreamStar right on the edge of your
capabilities to begin with-it's been at least two years,   ,
since you've flown her. The Russians probably didn't bother
testing DreamStar with the external tanks-they just slapped them
on and hoped they'd work. I don't know about you, but I'd
rather make a few fuel stops along the way than trust those
tanks. "
     "I know. Well, I've no big desire to fly that thing all the way
from Central America to Nevada in one leg. Four hours hooked

up to ANTARES? Gives me a migraine just thinking about it."
     "A bad time for a headache," McLanahan said. "We want
that plane out of there today."
     "Hell, why don't you fly it out of Nicaragua then? You at
least flew in DreamStar's simulator a couple weeks ago. You'd
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           449
probably do better than me. I could fly Cheetah on your wing
and keep you company . . . "
     "It's an idea. But you know what happened the last time I
flew in the simulator-1 crashed and burned, in more ways than
one. If you think you can't do it, we'll just call Elliott on the
horn and get that Navy barge in here. No, I think I'll let you
have all the pleasure of flying DreamStar. I'll be in Cheetah on
your wing."
     Powell looked at him. "I'll be happy if I can just keep it
upright. "
     A few minutes later they heard the steady rhythm of helicopter
blades approaching. An Air Force HH-65A Dolphin helicopter
swung in over the saltwater marshes, down the runway and over
to the asphalt and concrete parking area. A security guard di-
rected in the chopper with lighted wands, and it settled gently
in for a landing. As the rotors began to spin down, a fuel truck
and maintenance crew began making their way toward the
chopper, and the passengers began to deplane. Powell and
McLanahan went over to greet them.
     "These helicopters have some real possibilities," Master Ser-
geant Ray Butler said as he exited the Dolphin. "But I'll take
solid wings and big turbofans any day." He shook hands with
McLanahan. "How are you, sir?"
                "Okay, Ray."
          "Sorry about Dr. Tork," he mumbled.
     Alan Carmichael wrapped his big arms around McLanahan
before saying a word. "I called Brooks before we left La Cieba,
Patrick. Wendy's hanging right in there. Still on full respiratory
life support but she's a fighter. I thing she's going to pull out of

it. "
          "Me too. Thanks for the news, Alan."
     There were a few extra security guards along, plus several
cases of supplies that were hauled out. The last man off the
chopper was Major Hal Briggs. "Patrick,   , things are look-
ing better," he said. "Wendy's gonna do okay, and we're gonna
get our baby back." He checked his watch. "It'll take us less
than an hour to get to Puerto Cabezas. We should plan to leave
in about forty-five minutes, right?"
     "Wrong," McLanahan said. "I want the chopper fueled and
ready to go fifteen minutes max."
     "But they said we can't be there any earlier than eight A."




450                       DALE BROWN
     "Push them. Ask for immediate clearance into Nicaraguan
airspace and clearance onto Puerto Cabezas. If they won't let us
near the plane until eight, fine-but I want to get on the base as
fast as possible. "
     "You're the colonel, Colonel. " Briggs stuck his head back
in the helicopter cockpit to talk to the Dolphin's pilot and have
him arrange for clearances.
     McLanahan turned to Butler. "Got everything you need? I
know this was short notice. "
     "I could've brought half my shop if Briggs had let me,"
Butler said. "I've got two portable logic test units, assorted
toolkits, and supplies, about a thousand pounds worth. The best
test unit we have, though, will be Captain Powell. Once he's
interfaced with ANTARES, we can diagnose and fix any prob-
lems. "
     "Good. " McLanahan found Carmichael alone with    JC.
Powell in one of the nearby tents. Powell was leaning back
against a tent pole, his head bent down as if he was napping;
Carmichael was just a few inches from his ear, saying something
to him. As McLanahan approached, Carmichael held up his hand
to keep him away. A few moments later Carmichael pulled a
stethoscope from a jacket pocket and placed the electronic pickup
against Powell's chest, then stood and walked over to Patrick.
     "I saw it right away," Carmichael said. "He was jumpy as
hell. "
          "  ? I didn't notice anything. He seemed himself."
     "He's like that. He's the most laid-back guy I've ever met.
The differences were subtle, but after working with him for eight
months on the early ANTARES project I can tell when he's
nervous. I put him in a mild hypnotic state to help him relax-
actually he took my suggestion and put himself in a hypnotic
state. "
     :'Will he be able to interface with ANTARES?"
     'We won't be able to tell until he tries it, but I'd say yes. He

put himself right into alpha-state as if he had been doing it for
-years. He should be able to go into theta-alpha. Whether or not
he can maintain it during the interfacing-well, we'll find out
soon enough.
     "Sooner than you thought," Briggs said as he came over to
McLanahan and Carmichael. "We've got clearance to cross the
border and into the Puerto Cabezas control zone. Final clearance
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            451
     onto the base will be issued through the control tower. The Dol-
phin will be topped off in five minutes."
     "Then tell everyone to get back on board," McLanahan told
Briggs. "Let's go get our fighter back."
     Puerto Cabezas Airbase, Nicaragua
Monday, 22 June 1996, 0605 CDT (0705 ED7)
This was the one of the hardest jobs General Tret'yak had ever
performed in peacetime, rivaling the unpleasant duty of telling
mothers or young wives of their son's or husband's death in
some training accident. To be ordered by the Kollegiya, the se-
nior political-military staff in Moscow, to give back the
DreamStar aircraft was one thing-to have the Americans land
here and take it from him was doubly embarrassing.
     The DreamStar aircraft was right where Maraklov had left it
two nights ago. The airfield at Puerto Cabezas, originally built
in 1987 as a combined air force and navy base, was designed as
the primary air-defense base in Nicaragua besides Managua it-
self. A series of semi-underground aircraft shelters had been
constructed to house Nicaragua's alert fighter-interceptors. The
shelters, six in all, were concrete pads with six-foot-high walls
and concrete roofs. They were located one hundred meters north
of the west end of Puerto Cabezas' single east-west runway, well
distanced from the rest of the base.
     But as the strategic importance of Nicaragua had tended to
diminish over the years, fewer and fewer shelters were used until
all alert air-inter-ceptor operations were relocated to Managua.
These revetments had been unoccupied for years, used only for

annual Soviet-Nicaraguan exercises. Until now.
     Tret'yak and two armed KGB Border Guards waited outside
the revetment where DrearnStar had been parked. All of the Ni-
caraguan troops on the base were kept away from the alert shel-
ters-that was as much to avoid the embarrassment of the
Nicaraguans finding out that they were turning over DreamStar
to the Americans as it was for security. A landing pad had been
prepared just inside the alert area fence on the throat or exit-
taxiway from the alert area. A three-meter-high fence sur-
rounded the entire alert area. Tret'yak's men had checked the
perimeter and found the fence in disrepair but intact.




452                       DAIE BROWN
     "Why must we even be here, sir?" one of the guards asked
Tret'yak. "Let the Americans get their own plane."
     "We are here because I personally want to meet the men who
built this incredible machine," Tret'yak told him. He studied
the amazing shape of DrearnStar for at least the tenth time since
arriving on the base. "She's a masterpiece of aeronautical de-
sign." The guard looked disgusted. Tret'yak shook his head.
"It may be hard for you to understand, but building a machine
like this is an art. And sometimes art can transcend politics."
But don't quote me, he added to himself.
     A few moments later Tret'yak heard the rhythmic beating of
helicopter blades. They looked up to find an American HH-65
transport helicopter flying down the runway. It slowed to just a
few miles per hour as it approached the west end of the runway,
then barely to walking speed as it flew up the throat and over
the security fence. Tret'yak signaled to one of his men, who
pulled a flare from his belt, popped it and set it on the edge of
their prepared landing area. The HH-65 dropped its landing gear
and settled in for a landing.
     The first man out of the helicopter was a tall, thin black man.
One of the Border Guards smiled. "There is your artist, sir,"
he said to Tret'yak.
     "Quiet," the KGB general said. "He's carrying a weapon,
obviously a security guard." The others quickly moved off the
helicopter-one civilian, a non-commissioned officer in dark
green -fatigues, and two U. Air Force officers in light green
flight suits. As the rotor blades slowly moved to a halt and the
turbine noise subsided, the five men walked toward Tret'yak.
The short, thickly muscled officer in the flight suit headed over
to Tret'yak while the others stopped about ten paces behind.
     "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United
States Air Force," the man said in slow English. In hesitant but
obviously pre-rehearsed Russian, he asked, "Vi gavaretye an-
gleskiy? "
     
"Yes, I speak English," Tret'yak said. "I am General-Major
Pavel Tret'yak, senior KGB field commander in Nicaragua. " He
looked over McLanahan's shoulder at the other men. "I was
told there would only be four persons coming here."
     "My fault and my responsibility," McLanahan said, and
turned toward them. "Major Briggs, my security chief. Dr. Alan
Carmichael, chief engineer. Sergeant Butler, senior maintenance
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          453
non-commissioned officer. And Captain Powell, senior test pi-
lot. "
     "And your function, Colonel?"
     "Officer in charge of the DreamStar projects
     "Ah. Captain Kenneth James' senior officer." McLanahan's
only reaction was to narrow his eyes, his mouth tightening.
     Tret'yak nodded toward the four men. "Well, you are here,
and I would prefer to get this business over with as quickly as
possible. You are cleared to enter." McLanahan nodded, then
waved the four men behind him to follow.
     Butler was the first to react when he saw the XF-34. "Oh,
boy," he muttered, ran ahead and into the shelter. Carmichael
and Powell followed. McLanahan studied the two Lluyka tanks
and the missiles hung on the fighter. "I see you made a few
modifications. "
     "Modifying a fighter for external ferry tanks, in-flight refu-
eling and foreign-made weapons is a major task. Our devices
worked very well."
     "You didn't need extra tanks to fly to Cuba."
     "But to fly to Russia, our original and eventual destimtion . .
     "This plane and its pilot shot down two American fighters-
after you stole it."
     "Come now, Colonel, the theft, the air battles, all part of the
game. We both played it."
     McLanahan shook his head. Get on with it, he told himself.
     Butler finished a cursory inspection and came back to Mc-
Lanahan. "Looks like they used two pylon hardpoints on each

wing to stick those tanks on. Simple electronic pyrotechnical
jettison squibs. Same with the missiles. We can punch 'em off
here but there's no telling what damage it might cause."
     "Leave them on, then," McLanahan told him. "I want
DreamStar out of here fast as possible. " Butler nodded and trot-
ted back to the helicopter to get his gear. McLanahan turned
back to Tret'yak. "Where is Maraklov?"
     "On his way to Moscow. He will be debriefed. Even though
he was not given the opportunity to bring this aircraft back with
him, he carries a great deal of information. His talks with our
intelligence people should be revealing."
     "And after that?"
     "After that, I cannot say. He is a difficult man, but if I were




454                        DAIE BROWN
the General Secretary of the Kollegiya I would make Colonel
Maraklov a Hero of the Soviet Union. We like to reward loyalty,
courage and initiative," Tret'yak said.
     "Thanks for the compliments, General," a voice behind them
said. Tret'yak and McLanahan turned. And saw Andrei Mar-
aklov emerging from behind the concrete walls of the revetment.
Tret'yak and McLanahan saw the man, but the two KGB Border
Guards accompanying Tret'yak saw the pistol he held. They
lifted their rifles and swung them toward Maraklov. With two
muffled puffs of the nine-millimeter automatic pistol, they were
dead as fast as they had reacted.
     Maraklov then turned the pistol toward Hal Briggs, who had
only gotten as far as reaching for the Uzi at his hip. "Don't do
it, Hal. Left hand, unbuckle your holster and toss your gun over
here." Briggs hesitated, -his hand still poised near the Uzi. "I'll
kill you otherwise." Briggs had no choice, did as he was told.
Maraklov picked up the Uzi and took its safety off.
     "You had a detour on your way to Moscow," McLanahan
said.
     "There's been a change in plans, Colonel. It happens."
     "Where is Lieutenant Zaykov?" Tret'yak said.
     At that, Maraklov's attention seemed to wander, but only for
a moment. "She found out about our plan."
     " 'Our' plan?' " McLanahan said, turning to Tret'yak. "You
never intended to turn DrearnStar over to us."
     "I know absolutely nothing about this," Tret'yak told him.
"He obviously has killed the officer I ordered to escort him to
Managua.
     "What counts," Maraklov said, "is that DreamStar is mine.
It always has been. I decide what to do with it." Not quite the
case, he realized, but by now it felt like it was . . . "It's not
going back to the United States, and it's not going to be hacked
up in the Soviet Union. I'm flying it out of here to a place where
it'll be safe. " He stuck the automatic pistol in his pocket, cocked

the Uzi, raised it and aimed at them-
     Out from behind the Dolphin helicopter, Sergeant Butler ap-
peared holding one of the computer logic test devices, a large
suitcase-sized object, up before his body like some huge heavy
shield. And proceeded to run full speed at Maraklov, who
whirled, dropped to one knee-more out of surprise than to help
his aim-and fired at Butler.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             455
     The Uzi had been set for single-shot. Maraklov squeezed off
two, three rounds, swore and reached down to move the action
lever. Butler had eaten up all but a few yards of the distance
between them before Maraklov switched the weapon to full au-
tomatic and sprayed the charging man. But Butler had finally
reached Maraklov and crashed into him before one of the bullets
found Butler's unprotected legs and cut him down. Butler drove
the test device into Maraklov's face, then used his body weight
to haul him to the ground.
     Lying on top of Maraklov, Butler tried to raise the test device
over his head and drive it into Maraklov's skull. But he was too
late. Maraklov put the muzzle of the Uzi into Butler's stomach
and pulled the trigger. The senior NCO's gut exploded, he
dropped over backward, dead before he hit the ground.
     McLanahan yelled, "Run for cover," and made a dash for
the helicopter. The pilot immediately started the engines in the
Dolphin, and Powell and Carmichael, both inside DreamStar's
shelter, ran for the helicopter.
     Briggs made his run at Maraklov, but to his surprise, General
Tret'yak turned, blocked his path, then pushed him back toward
the helicopter. As Briggs stumbled backward and fell to the con-
crete taxiway, Tret'yak turned on Maraklov. "Ehtat yah sven-
yena mo sahm. This pig is mine."
     Tret'yak never had a chance. He'd take no more than three
steps when Maraklov raised the Uzi and emptied its magazine
into the KGB general.
     "Hal, run for it," Patrick called out. The Dolphin's rotor

blades were spinning up to takeoff RPMs- Hal got to his feet
and sprinted for the open door.
     Maraklov got to his knees, took aim at Briggs, squeezed the
trigger. Nothing. He had emptied out the magazine on Tret'yak.
He'tossed the machine pistol aside and pulled out the nine-
millimeter silenced pistol. Briggs had just gotten to the Dol-
phin's starboard side-door and jumped inside, so Maraklov
swung his aim left to the two running figures and squeezed off
a shot.
     Alan Carmichael grabbed the right side of his chest and pitched
forward.    JC. Powell skidded to a halt, knelt down and began
to drag Carmichael toward the helicopter. Maraklov took aim
once again, and before McLanahan or Briggs could react, fired.




456                      DALE BROVIN
Powell flew backward away from Carmichael's inert form, and
lay still.
     "You bastard. " McLanahan was screaming, rushing out of
the helicopter and heading toward Maraklov. He had just cleared
the Dolphin's right door when the Dolphin pilot yanked the chop-
per off the ground, hovering less than three feet above ground,
and aimed the helicopter at Maraklov. McLanahan, knocked
aside, crawled on hands and knees toward Powell and Carmi-
chael, trying to shield his eyes from the flying gravel and sand.
     Maraklov took aim on the helicopter's canopy, fired. The shot
missed the pilot by inches, but it sped through the cabin and
through a circuit breaker panel, showering the cockpit with
sparks, The helicopter engine faltered, lost power, then regained
it. Maraklov tried to get off another shot but the rotor's down-
wash forced him to his knees, and he had no choice but to crawl
away from the blast, though he was still sideswiped by the Dol-
phin's fiberglass nose.
     Meanwhile Briggs had jumped out and run over to Carmi-
chael. McLanahan took Powell, and together they began to drag
the wounded toward the helicopter.
     The pilot halted his advance at the body of Sergeant Butler.
McLanahan and Briggs dragged Carmichael and Powell through
the side door, then together they picked up Butler's body and
carefully as they could manage put his body in the helicopter.
Blood and viscera were everywhere, on their faces, covering
their uniforms. Briggs and McLanahan jumped inside the chop-
per, ignoring whatever they were stepping or slipping on. Patrick
shouted to the pilot, "go," and the chopper lifted off.
     Maraklov had crawled back to DreamStar's shelter just as the
chopper rose off the concrete. Again he took aim at the canopy
and fired, but at this angle the bullets were ricocheting off, not
penetrating. He fired once more on the retreating helicopter, do-
ing no more damage that he could see-but the chopper's engine
was definitely faltering. He had hit something vital-no way it

would make it back to Honduras. No reason to worry about
McLanahan any more-he would be long gone before Mc-
Lanahan could call in a counterstrike, and Powell was definitely
no worry.
     But Maraklov had a new worry: the Nicaraguans. If anyone
from the base came out here to investigate, the game would be
over. He ran back to the taxiway and dragged the bodies of the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         457
two KGB Border Guards and General Tret'yak out of sight in
the aircraft shelter, then checked the ammunition in his pistol.
Three shots left. Two for any curious spectators that decided to
investigate-and perhaps one for himself.
     He sat down in front of DreamStar's nose gear, peering up
over the edge of the semirecessed parking stub, waiting for any-
one to approach. After ten minutes there was still no sign of
activity. Either no one had heard the shots-unlikely-or no one
cared enough to interfere.
     Maraklov felt a rush of excitement. He had snatched
DreamStar out of the hands of the Americans once more, just as
he had done back in Drearnland. This fighter was destined to be
his. More than ever, he felt it must be.
     He ran out the back of the shelter toward the perimeter fence,
checking for any sign of intruders or surveillance. He went to
where he had hidden the cases containing his flight suit and
helmet and quickly brought them back to the shelter. He checked
the perimeter once more-once he had the metallic flight suit on,
it was going to be impossible for him to defend himself. The
aircraft shelter had a set of steel doors that could be motored in
place, but Maraklov h ad no choice but to keep them open-there
was no one alive to open them again.
     No matter. In two hours, perhaps less, he'd be airborne, head-
ing away from this damned place, once and for all.
     Maraklov dragged the aluminum cases up onto the service
platform beside the cockpit, then climbed up the ladder and be-
gan opening them. Already, he was beginning the deep-breathing

exercises that would relax his body, open his mind and allow
the electronic neural interface to begin. In fi ve minutes he had
stripped down, put on the pair of thin cotton underwear, and
began connecting the fiber-optic electrical connections between
the suit and helmet and from -the suit and helmet to the interface
inside the cockpit. He could feel the familiar, soothing body
cues beginning to wash over him as he entered the first level of
alpha-state, the primary self-hypnosis level of his mental relax-
ation. Coincidentally, this alpha-state was helping to block out
the throbbing pain in his shoulder and calm the quivering in his
muscles as adrenaline began to be dissipated from his blood-
stream.
     He opened DrearnStar's canopy and climbed inside. No longer
needing the platform, he unlatched and collapsed it, then kicked




458                      DALE BROWN
it away as hard as he could. The ladder rolled across the stub,
hit the revetment wall and fortunately did not roll back toward
DreamStar's wings or canards.
     Next he activated DreamStar's internal battery power and did
a fast system self-test to make sure he had all the connections
right-the self-test reported fully functional and ready to receive
computer commands. The test also reported on any ground saf-
ing pins, access panels, or covers out of place. The standby
gauges read full tanks, full twenty-millimeter ammunition drum
and connectivity with the four remaining air-to-air missiles.
DreamStar was ready for engine start as soon as the ANTARES
interface was completed.
     Finally, standing on the ejection seat, Maraklov began to put
on the flight suit. He had thought it would be impossible to do
it without help, but it was turning out to be less of a problem
than he'd anticipated. In twenty minutes he had put on and ad-
justed the sixty-pound suit, then carefully lowered himself into
the ejection seat and fastened as many body restraints as he could.
The suit was not designed for free range of motion-it resisted
any movements that departed from the normal cockpit flight po-
sition-but he was soon strapped in tight.
     After a few moments of concentration he had his breathing
back to normal, then well below normal as he reentered full
alpha-state hypnosis. Still no sign of interference as he closed
his eyes to begin the progressively deeper levels of self-hypnosis.
     Soon, DreamStar would be his once more. And he would be
DreamStar's . . .
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo
Three-Four on GUARD frequency, twenty miles east of Lecus
Southeast airport at two thousand feet. We are a United States
Air Force military flight. Three on board plus three casualties,
seven thousand pounds of fuel, heading two-niner-zero degrees
magnetic toward Buena Vista airport at one hundred knots. En-
gine and electrical damage and uncontrollable fuel loss. Request-

ing search and rescue meet us along southern Honduran border
south of Puerto Lempira. Emergency. Please respond. Over. "
There was no reply. The pilot repeated the call on both UHF
and VHF GUARD emergency frequencies.
"Nothing from the Nicaraguan military?" McLanahan asked.
"It's like they all disappeared off the face of the earth," the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          459
pilot said. "When we crossed the border into Nicaragua, they
were all over us every second. Now they don't even answer a
distress call. "
     "They might not hear you," Briggs said, checking the over-
head circuit-breaker panels. "Your radio panel looks like it might
be damaged. " The pilot kept trying. Briggs moved up beside
McLanahan, who was scanning a chart and keeping track of their
progress. "Patrick . . . LC. . . . he's had it."
     The chart dropped from his lap. His mouth turned dry as sand.
His fingers trembled. "Jesus, no - . ." He shut his eyes. "  ,
   JC., darnmit . . . " His only immediate relief was to allow the
grief to overflow into blinding rage at Maraklov. That sonofa-
bitch was going to pay, somehow, he was going to pay . . .
     McLanahan's anger was disrupted by a hard thump and a low-
frequency vibration that began to echo through the helicopter.
The pilot tapped him on the shoulder. "Behind your seat, in the
survival kit, there's a hand-held radio." He was also struggling
against a sudden vibration that shook the entire helicopter. "We
were briefed to use rescue channel alpha on this mission. See if
you can raise anyone with that." But before Briggs could re-
trieve the kit the chopper took a steep dive. The pilot had to pull
with all his strength on the collective to keep the helicopter air-
borne.
     "I'm losing it fast," the pilot said. "I've gotta set it down.
     McLanahan picked up the chart and relocated their position.
"Try to make it across the Rio Coco river into Honduras. No
way we want to go down in Nicaragua."
     The pilot shook his head. "I don't know how far we can go

but I'll try. You two better strap in. " McLanahan stuck the chart
in a flight-suit pocket. Briggs grabbed the survival kit, found a
seat between the bodies on the chopper's aft deck and strapped
in.
     Somehow the helicopter did manage to stay intact for ten more
minutes. McLanahan directed the pilot farther west toward a
road leading northeast, and the pilot found it just as a yellow
caution light lit up on the front instrument panel. "She's seizing
up, " the pilot said. "We can't autorotate with all these trees
around us. We land now or crash."
     Following the road as best they could, they glided in over the
forests, searching for a clearing. They found a bend in the road,
and the pilot headed for it. He had timed it well. The Dolphin




460                       DALE BROWN
hit the road, hard, just as the overspeed safety system in the
chopper's transmission automatically uncoupled the rotor.
. "Out! " the pilot yelled, cutting off fuel and power and acti-
vating the automatic fire-extinguishing system. "Form up off the
nose. Fast. " The three men dashed from the helicopter and ran
a hundred yards away from the chopper, then turned and waited
for an explosion or fire. Smoke billowed from the engine and
power-train compartment behind the cockpit, but there was no
explosion or fire. The three collapsed on the driest spot they
could find beside the road, too weak from fear, tension, and
worn-off adrenaline to stand any longer.
     After a few silent minutes McLanahan unfolded the chart he
had stuck in his flight suit and pointed to the bend in the road.
"Here we are, I think, about three or four miles from this town,
Auka. Puerto Lempira is about twenty-five miles by this road. Hal,
see if you can raise someone on the survival radio." Briggs got
out the radio, set it to emergency channel alpha and GUARD and
began calling for help.
     "I got Puerto Lernpira, " Briggs said a few moments
later. "Storm Control, this is Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo
Three-Four. You are weak and barely readable. We are down
zero-three miles south of town of Auka. Requesting pickup for
three souls and three fatalities. Over." He listened for a few
moments, made a few responses and orders for priority assis-
tance, signed off.
     "Our base says they don't have another helicopter at Puerto
Lernpira, " Briggs said. "They've called for one from La Cieba.
They might be able to get one from private companies but we
can expect at least an hour before pickup, maybe ninety minutes.
We have to get to Auka, then find a clearing and vector the
chopper in. That's the soonest they can make it."
     "Too damn long," McLanahan said. "Maraklov will be off
in DreamStar before then. We've got to get hold of Elliott and
tell him to set up the air cordon again."
     
"What about fighters from Puerto Lernpira?" Briggs asked.
"Don't you have that F-15E there any more?"
     "They withdrew it to the States when the Russians cut their
deal. We had to take down the whole air cordon out of the
Cayman Islands as a sign of good faith. Let's just secure the
chopper and get moving."
     As they headed back to the Dolphin, McLanahan asked Briggs
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          461
if General Elliott wasn't supposed to be on his way to Puerto
Lempira. by now.
     "Should be."
     "You think you can set up a patch with General Elliott through
Puerto Lempira? He can get the air cordon put back up around
Nicaragua-at least get the AWACS back up there to watch for
DreamStar when it heads out - "
     "I can try. Reception is pretty poor from here but at least I
can get the ball rolling." He began another call to Puerto Lem-
pira as they walked. When they got to the Dolphin, McLanahan
and the chopper pilot locked up the helicopter while Briggs stayed
in as much clearing as he could find to maintain radio contact
with the Honduran military base.
     "No good," Briggs said as McLanahan and the chopper pilot
joined him on the road heading toward Auka. "Can't raise the
base any more. We'll have to wait until we get to Auka and find
a telephone, or just get to a clearing where we've got a straight
shot to Puerto Lempira.
     McLanahan muttered as they set off on a fast walk. "After
everything . . .    . . . Maraklov is still going to get away
with DrearnStar? And there's nothing we can do to stop him?"
Over the Caribbean Sea
Monday, 22 June 1996, 0748 CDT
"What the hell was that?" General Elliott said into his earset
microphone. He was on a JC.-21B military Learjet en route from
Georgetown in the Cayman Islands to La Cieba, where he would
pick up@a helicopter from there to Puerto Lempira. The relief

he'd felt as he left Grand Cayman to see DrearnStar safe and
sound in U. hands was shattered once again. "Say again that
last transmission."
     "Message received from a Major Briggs, crewmember aboard
Air Force helicopter Triple-Echo Three-Four," the communi-
cations man said. "Briggs requested immediate emergency as-
sistance. He said his helicopter was down four miles south of
Auka, approximately thirty miles south of Puerto Lernpira. He
reported three survivors and three fatalities."
     "Oh, God," Elliot muttered. Over the radio he said, "When
did the rescue chopper depart?"




462                         DALE BROWN
     "We dispatched your HH-3 from La Cieba immediately after
receiving the call," the operator replied. "ETA to Auka is 0815
local. "
     "From La Cieba? That was the only chopper available?"
     "Affirmative, sir. "
     Elliott slammed a fist against the JC.-2 I's front instrument con-
sole, then keyed his mike button. "Control, did Briggs report
what happened?"
     "We lost contact shortly afterward, sir," the operator re-
ported. "He was calling in on a rescue channel, apparently using
a hand-held survival radio. I think he's been trying to call us but
we can't pick him up."
     Elliott clicked on the JC.-2 I's interphone and turned to Marine
Corps Major Marcia Preston, National Security Adviser Debo-
rah O'Day's aide and the JC.-21's pilot. "Major, head toward
Puerto Lempira airbase instead of La Cieba at best possible
speed. We'll fly near where Briggs went down and try to find
out what's going on."
     "Yes, General." The JC.-21 jet banked left as Preston took up
a rough heading to the Honduran airbase, then began calling up
the base's coordinates on the inertial navigation unit and calling
La Cieba air traffic control for a change in her flight plan.
     Elliott left his seat and went back to sit with Curtis and O'Day.
They had flown from Washington to the Cayman Islands after
the deal had, they thought, been set to recover the XF-34, and
Elliott had gone along with them in the JC.-21 for the flight to
Honduras. "We've got a big problem," Elliott told them. "My
security chief Briggs is on the ground in Honduras with two
other survivors and three casualties from our recovery party. No
other information. There's a chopper on the way, but it won't
arrive for another forty-five minutes-"
          "What are we going to do, Brad?" O'Day asked.
     "I want to get in contact with Briggs soonest-he's on a sur-
vival radio and our people at Puerto Lempira lost contact. I've

told Marcia to head over to where the pickup point will be and
we'll try to contact Briggs ourself.'
          "What the hell do you make of it?" Curtis said.
     "Not enough infon-nation to tell, but we'll act on what you
guys like to call worst-case scenario . . . they tried to make the
swap for DreamStar, the Russians reneged, shot up our chopper
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                             463
and our people. Major Briggs and whoever's with him managed
to get away across the border but not all the way back to base."
     "So that means the Russians still have DrearnStar," O'Day
said. "And if they reneged on the deal and went so far as to
attack our people, they'll probably be trying to get it out of the
country as fast as they can."
     "And there's very damned little we can do about it," Elliott
said. "We've got no assets close enough to stop them. We've
still got the AWACS and some of the F- l6s in the Cayman Islands,
but we'd have to get a tanker from Puerto Rico or Florida down
here to support us-that'll take a few hours at least. The two F- 15E
ground-attack fighters we brought to Honduras are on their way
back to Arizona.  We've got some Honduran ground-attack planes,
but if the Honduran air force gets into the act we'll start a war in
Central America. The President will never go for it .             Elliott
paused for a moment, then: "Cheetah .
          I 'What? "
     "Cheetah. My modified F-15F fighter. It's down in Puerto
Lempira-Powell and McLanahan flew it back to the States and
then back to Honduras. It can do both air-to-air and ground
attack.
     "But you said that McLanahan and Powell went on this mis-
sion into Nicaragua. That means-"
     "That means that one or both of them may be dead," O'Day
said. "Can't anyone else fly it?"
     Elliott rubbed his throbbing right leg-the developing head-
ache he had was starting to rival the pain in his leg. "It's like
asking if anyone can race in the Indianapolis 500. Sure, anyone

can drive the cars, and you might even survive the race without
killing yourself. But only a very few can reall race in it
Only a few people can fly Cheetah well enough even to have a
chance of getting DreamStar," Elliott said gloomily. "Most of
them, my senior test pilots, are two thousand miles away in
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-"
     "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.
"That's an-" But Brad Elliott had put a hand on his shoulder.
          "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
stick would send Cheetah into an unexpected pitch-up or away.

He tried to loosen his tight grip on the control stick, but it was
hard to reprogram his head to the realities of electronic fiber-
optic controls-and    had set the system to its lowest sensi-
tivity.
     To complicate matters, a universe of information kept flashing
on the windscreen, changing so quickly that McLanahan didn't
have time to read it before it disappeared and another line of
numbers or symbols danced across his eyes. He had experi-
mented with turning off most of the laser-projected symbiology
but found himself repeatedly calling the information back up a
few moments later. Finally he decided to leave it there and just
deal with it-he hoped it wouldn't distract him too much when




472                       DAIE BROWN
the shooting started. How    could assimilate all this infor-
mation was beyond him.
     Suddenly Patrick saw a gloved hand reach across his shoulder.
"By the way, I'm Marcia Preston." He realized only then that
he had not said a word except "prepare for takeoff" to his new
back-seater. With all the things going on in Cheetah's cockpit,
he managed to reach across with his left hand and shake Mar-
cia's extended hand.
     He had just leveled Cheetah off at only five thousand feet as
once again he steered it southward toward Puerto Cabezas. At
full power he was maintaining just under Mach one as he raced
across the lush tropical forests and salt marshes of northeastern
Nicaragua. He hit the voice-command control on the stick and
in a deliberate voice said, "Autopilot, on, altitude, hold." The
computer repeated the command, which reminded McLanahan
to double check the autopilot status indicators. Cheetah's voice-
command system had been programmed by   , and although
it was supposed to be -adaptable to any pilot, the subtle differ-
ences in pitch, accent and volume of voices sometimes confused
the computer.
     "Marcia," McLanahan said after setting the autopilot, "I've,
got a question-why the hell did you volunteer for this mis-
sion?
     "Because you needed me, and mostly because I wanted to
go. "
     :'There's a chance we won't make it back."
     'Not to toot my own horn, sir, but your chances of making
it back are much better now."
     "Can the 'sir,' okay?"
          "Okay, Patrick. Where to?"
     "It's an outside chance but it's possible that DreamStar could
still be on the ground. We need to check the shelter at Puerto
Cabezas. "
     At seven miles per minute they reached Puerto Cabezas in a

little over ten minutes. McLanahan pulled the power back to
eighty percent. "I'll line up so I can give you a good look out
the right side," he said. "The shelter is pretty low but you
should be able to see if an aircraft is in there."
     Their arrival at the Nicaraguan military base was greeted by
a.cacophony of warning messages in English, Spanish and Rus-
sian, ordering them to turn away. He ignored them-and there
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           473
were no radar threat-warnings anywhere in the vicinity. They
had decreased speed to less than five miles per minute to get a
good look in the shelter. As they approached the base Mc-
Lanahan hit the voice-command switch: "Arm, cannon, mode,
                  strafe. "
     " Warning, cannon armed, strafe mode, five hundred rounds
remaining. " An holographic aiming-reticle appeared on the
windscreen in front of McLanahan. He switched off the autopi-
lot, descended to one thousand feet and began to line up on the
shelter.
          "You're arming the guns?"
     "If DreamStar is in there I want to shoot before he gets off
the ground." He hit the command button again: "Target se-
lect." The reticle began to blink. He moved his head until the
aiming reticle, slaved to follow the pilot's head movements, was
directly on the mouth of the shelter, then hit the voice-command
button again: ". . . Now." The reticle stopped blinking and a
series of lines drew themselves on the windscreen like an
instrument-landing director. Once McLanahan centered those
lines, the cannon would blast the target to pieces.
     "Target designated, select target q .ff to cancel.
     "Watch your altitude," Marcia Preston said. "You're less than
five hundred feet AGL with autopilot off."
     "Thanks." McLanahan put the altitude-hold autopilot back
on.
     As they raced across the Nicaraguan base they could see men
and vehicles darting all across the airfield, even over the run-

way-it was much too crowded on the flightline for normal air
traffic. A number of emergency vehicles crowded the throat taxi-
ramp that led to the alert parking shelters.
     When they were about two miles from the alert area Marcia
called out, "I can see the shelters. No aircraft in any of them."
Men were running from the shelter. "They think you're going
to bomb them, I think."
     "I should put a few rounds in there."
              "Waste of ammo."
     "It would make me feel better, though." Instead of firing,
however, McLanahan hit the voice-command button. "Target
off. Cannon safe." The computer repeated and verified. He shut
off the autopilot and began a shallow climb, putting in full mil-
itary power once again.




474                       DAIE BROWN
          "Long gone," Marcia Preston said. "Which way now?"
     "Not sure." Patrick McLanahan climbed to ten thousand feet,
well above the mountains of central Nicaragua far off to the
west. "James' original plan was to fly DreamStar to Cuba. More
secure than Nicaragua. Then on to the Soviet Union . . . " He
switched frequencies to the channel set up with the communi-
cations facility at Puerto Lempira. "Storm Control, this is Storm
T\,vo. How copy?"
     "Loud and clear, Storm Two," General Elliott replied im-
mediately.
     "Our target wasn't at Puerto Cabezas. Is the AWACS up?"
     "Affirmative," from Elliott. "He's got complete coverage of
the Caribbean north of Nicaragua. He's got one F-16 with him.
No word from him yet."
     "Target must be heading south, back to Sebaco or Managua."
McLanahan called up Managua on the inertial navigation unit
and set the autopilot on course. "We're en route back to Sebaco
to check it out, then Managua."
          "Roger. Keep us advised. Storm Control out."
     They flew on for another few minutes, then Marcia clicked
on the interphone: "Colonel, you said we're flying to Sebaco,
then Managua . . . What kind of air defenses does Sebaco have?
I know Managua is heavily protected. Isn't Sebaco that KGB
base where they kept DrearnStar?"
     "Yes," he replied testily, the questions interrupting his train
of thought. "Sebaco was protected by fifty-seven-millimeter guns
and SA-10 missiles and a few MiG-29 fighters. We destroyed
them two days ago."
     "Are they back in place?"
     "I don't know."
     "What about Managua? What kind of defenses does it have?"
M "Probably like Puerto Cabezas. SA-15 missiles, MiG-29 or
iG-27 fighters, probably tactical anti-aircraft artillery. Why?"
     "Why? Well . . . do you think the Nicaraguans are just going

to let us fly over their cities? Don't you think they're going to
throw everything they got at us?"
     "We're going anyway. I don't care what defenses they have,
we've penetrated them before, and--
     "No, sir-   JC. Powell and you defeated their defenses. You
were in the backseat-"
     "What the hell does that mean?"
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          475
     "It means that you can't just charge -in over Managua and
Sebaco without some kind of a game plan," she said. "We were
lucky over Puerto Cabezas, sir-you assumed that the defenses
that were destroyed by the B-52 two days ago were still de-
stroyed, or they didn't bring in more fighters just waiting for you
to fly over looking for DreamStar. What if they'd been replaced?
We would have been dead ten minutes in the sky. You can't
assume anything."
     No response from McLanahan. "I'm not trying to chicken
out. I'll fly wherever you want, and I'll help you defend this
aircraft the best I can. But we've got to do this the smart way or
we'll be dead without ever getting off a shot at Ken James . . . "
     "You're right. I took off from Puerto Lempira with no idea
where I was going after checking Puerto Cabezas. And we did
receive intelligence that the runway at Sebaco had been re-
paired-they could have moved in a whole squadron of MiGs by
now. We could be jumped at any moment, and we have no air
cover, no surveillance and only six missiles to defend ourselves.
Stupid. Damned stupid - . . "
     "The question is-what are we going to do now? We can't
just drone around in circles."
     "We've got to get an idea which way we went." But how . . .
He ordered the voice-command computer to set a frequency in
the number two VHF radio.
     "Sandino Tower, this is Storm Zero Two on one-one-eight
              point one. Over."
     "Storm Zero TWo, this is Augusto Cesar Sandino Interna-

tional Airport tower," a controller with a thick Spanish accent
replied. "State your position, altitude, type of aircraft, departure
airport and destination. Be advised, we have no flight plan for
you. You may be in violation of the air traffic laws of Nicaragua.
Respond immediately."
     "Tower, Storm Zero, Two is an American military fighter. I
am in pursuit of an American aircraft piloted by a Russian crim-
inal. I intend to overfly Sebaco and Managua in search of this
aircraft. I request assistance. Over."
     "Storm Zero Two, overflight of Nicaragua by American mil-
itary aircraft is prohibited. You are in violation of national and
international law. You are directed to land at Sandino Interna-
tional immediately or you will be fired on without warning.
Over.




476                       DALE BROWN
     "Sandino Tower, I say again; I am in pursuit of a criminal
piloting an American aircraft. He is a danger to you as well as
to the United States. I request assistance in pursuing this air-
craft. I am not hostile to Nicaragua. Please assist. Over."
     "It's not going to work," Preston said. "They're just trian-
gulating our position. We've got to get out of here, head back
across the Honduran border-"
     "Storm Zero TWo, this is Sandino Tower. Please stay on this
frequency for important message. Acknowledge."
     He did not reply. A message flashed on his windscreen, warn-
ing him that a search radar was in the vicinity. From the rear
seat Preston said, "We're getting close to Managua's search
radar. "
     "Storm Zero Two, contact the man on frequency one-three-
one point one-five VHF. Important. Sandino Tower out."
     He began a left turn away from Managua and changed chan-
nels. Preston asked, "Are you going to talk on that frequency?
It could be a military ground-controlled interceptor's direction-
finder. They could pin-point our location as soon as you key the
mike without using radar."
     " Maybe. But I don't think so." He hit the mike button. "This
is Storm Zero Two on one-three-one point one-five. Over."
     "Storm Two, this is General-Lieutenant Viktor Tcharin, Dep-
uty Commander of Operations for Soviet Central America Op-
erations Base Sebaco. Whom am I addressing?"
     "It's a damned Soviet general," Preston said. "What the hell
does he want?"
     Patrick keyed the mike. "General Tcharin, this is Lieutenant
Colonel Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force. State your
request. Over. "
   "McLanahan . . . McLanahan .      Then, sounding as if he
was reading from a script, went on:  'Senior project officer,
Midnight Sky. Code name for XF-34    DreamStar advanced tac-
tical fighter aircraft flight technology validation project. Age

forty-one, white male.' Ochin kharasho. Very good. Colonel
McLanahan, I believe we want very nearly the same thing. You
want the XF-34. We want Colonel Andrei Maraklov. Perhaps
we can make an arrangement-"
     "I want Maraklov and the XF-34, General. Do you know
where Maraklov is headed?"
     "We have evidence to that effect, yes," Tcharin told him.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            477
"We believe we have tracked his course on radar. But we do not
have the air assets to pursue him.  You reported to the Nicaraguan
tower controller that you are in command of a fighter plane. Is
it your intention to attack Colonel Maraklov?"
                  "Yes. I I
     "We have information that may be of use to you. In exchange
for this information we want you to deliver Colonel Maraklov to
us, should he survive. Is that agreeable to you, Colonel Mc-
Lanahan?"
     "I'm not making any deals," McLanahan told him. "I don't
trust you any more than I trust Maraklov. But if you tell me
where he went, and if he survives, I promise not to kill him
myself. What happens to him after that is up to our governments.
How about that?"
     A pause, then: "I agree. Colonel Maraklov had received in-
structions" . . . he did not say from whom . . . "to fly the
aircraft south, to an isolated landing strip somewhere in Costa
Rica. He was detected flying forty nautical miles west of Blue-
fields in southern Nicaragua about ten minutes ago, We have no
other information. He was at twenty thousand feet, flying at five
hundred nautical miles per hour."
     "Copy that down for me, Marcia," McLanahan said. On the
radio: "How do I know you're telling the truth? He could be
flying north to Cuba, or east. He could even be on the ground
in Managua or Sebaco. "
     "You contacted us for assistance and I have given it to you.
If you do not trust us, your request makes no sense."
     
"Why can't you get Maraklov by yourself? Isn't he delivering
the XF-34 to you?"
     "It's not clear what orders Colonel Maraklov has chosen to
follow. Our last orders, from the Kollegiya, were to turn over
the XF-34 to you at Puerto Cabezas. Why he took the aircraft,
I do not know. We want to question him about that matter, as
well as the killing of two Soviet officers and two soldiers. My
orders are to capture Colonel Maraklov for questioning, but I
have no resources to do it. That is where you can help . . . "
     If this Soviet general was lying, every mile he flew south
could be two miles that Maraklov was increasing the distance
on his way to Cuba or someplace to the east. Yet he had no other
possible options.
                  "Marcia?"




478                       DAIE BROWN
     1 1 1 don't see much of a choice. I don't trust him either, and I
sure as hell don't like making deals with him, but it's the only
lead we have. Our AWACS from Grand Cayman is covering the
north Caribbean-so south seems like a good direction for us to
be heading. Might as well try it."
     .McLanahan keyed the radio again as he began a right turn
toward the south. "General Tcharin, if I get Maraklov alive I
promise you'll have an opportunity to question him about the
murders. I was a witness to three of them in Puerto Cabezas."
     "Unfortunately an American is an unacceptable witness in
our military court of law," Tcharin said, "but I believe we have
a deal ... Colonel McLanahan, the XF-34 is armed with twenty-
millimeter shells, two radar-guided missiles and two infrared-
guided missiles-not the most modem Soviet weapons but
proved effective against your F-16s over the Caribbean. One more
item: Maraklov is wounded. We have tested and found his blood
at a site here in Sebaco as well as the blood of one of his victims.
You have clearance to transit Nicaraguan airspace west and south
of Bluefields. Costa Rican approach control frequency for cross-
ing border restricted airspace MRR Three is one-one-nine point
six, El Coco Control."
     And the channel went dead. McLanahan told the computer to
set the frequency, and he checked the computer flight-
information database and double-checked the flight information
files for Costa Rica-Tcharin's information seemed right on.
     "Well, you wanted a plan, Marcia," he said as they ap-
proached the border. "I never expected to get it from the Rus-
sians, but we'll take it."
Pain. Intense, burning.
     For at least the past year the pain that always came to Andrei
Maraklov when the ANTARES interface was completed was
fairly easy to suppress. The concentration and the exhilaration
of flying a machine like DreamStar usually did the trick, but this
time it wasn't working. Obviously the shoulder wound was the

culprit. Every time he thought about his throbbing left shoulder
his body would receive a jolt of pain from the ANTARES sys-
tem.
     So far it didn't seem to affect his flying performance or his
ability to monitor his ship's functions. In spite of the hard flying
that DreamStar had done during the past week she was running
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           479
perfectly. Her automatic monitors detected a higher than normal
level of metal particles in the oil, suggesting an overdue engine
overhaul or contaminated oil; other systems detected clogged
fuel-metering systems from dirty fuel, moisture in computer
components and a few loose panels. He made a mental com-
mand to have a list of these items recorded and played back to
him just before the next shut-down, to remind him to have them
checked. It was a long list, but Maraklov told himself he would
have time to check over his bird. In any case, these minor dis-
crepancies did not seem to be affecting DreamStar's perfor-
mance.
     He was flying in the deep mountain valleys of the Cordillera
de Guanacaste mountains of northwestern Costa Rica, staying as
low as possible to avoid detection from radar sites at Santa Maria
International Airport to the east and Lomas Guardia Interna-
tional to the west. Although Costa Rica had an air force de-
ployed at Santa Maria Airport and a few other small training
bases, it was made up of a handful of aging American-built F-5
day VFR fighters to scare away drug smugglers, plus several
single-engine piston prop planes for surveillance. The federal
military forces were very small-the nation's popular phrase
nowadays was "we have more teachers than soldiers," and for-
tunately for him that was true.
     It was also true in Costa Rica that most provincial and mu-
nicipal security (it could not be called "law and order") came
from privately funded and equipped armies, which was legal in
this country of only three million people. If you were rich enough
you could own a good-sized town in Costa Rica, which could

eventually turn into one's own little nation-including one's own
army, and it was legal for certain citizens to make their own
stamps, set prices, deal with other countries, appoint their
own judges and mayors.
     One such privately owned city-state was Venado, a thirty-
thousand-acre plantation in the heart of the Guanacaste Moun-
tains. Two thousand people lived and worked on this plantation,
nearly half of whom were soldiers. The entire plantation, the
well-equipped army and the airport within it were all funded
and maintained by the KGB, one of dozens of secret KGB bases
scattered over the world, bases so secret, so well disguised, that
most party members outside of a few ranking officers in the KGB
knew nothing about them. This was Maraklov's destination.




480                      DALE BROWN
     Finding the airport was no problem, but making an approach
to it in daytime without being seen was going to be difficult.
Maraklov had already had to weave around scores of private
airstrips dotting the San Juan Valley and the northern Costa Ri-
can jungles to stay out of sight; he could not afford just to shoot
directly into Venado, with some farmer or peasant watching his
approach and blabbing to his boss or the police. Maraklov's plan
was to hug the northeast rim of the Guanacaste Mountains, stay
as deep in the valleys as possible, sweep around the valleys to
the southwest and then come back up over Venado from the
west. This way, he should be shrouded by mountains almost all
the way to landing.
     There was another summer storm brewing out over the Pacific
to the west as Maraklov started his low-altitude swing to the
southeast along the mountain range. His holographic display
showed slivers of surveillance radar above him, but most of the
energy was blocked out by the tall mountains of central Costa
Rica. The area was sparsely settled, but occasional glances out
the cockpit showed a few very beautiful haciendas below, where
men had retaken the jungle and turned it into lush fields of coffee
or fruit. Maraklov throttled back on the power as much as pos-
sible, balancing his energy to avoid making as much noise as
possible but keeping up his speed to avoid letting anyone on the
ground get a good look at him.
     The inertial navigation computer warned Maraklov that its
precision was not great enough to find Venado with less than the
usual quarter-mile accuracy, and since the satellite-navigation
unit was unavailable for use (it required a daily code) it recom-
mended that the attack radar be activated in ground-mapping
mode to update the computer's position. Any radar emissions
were dangerous, but Maraklov had no choice-DreamStar was
not the type of aircraft specifically designed for pilotage or for
navigating by use of visual references.
     He allowed the computer to activate the radar, which trans-

mitted in thirty-mile range for five seconds, then went back to
standby. DreamStar steered west-southwest for a few miles, until
the very rim of a beautiful mountain lake could be seen, then
began a right turn on top of a ridge-line toward Venado. After
an instantaneous mental inquiry he knew that they were exactly
four point one nautical miles from the center of the runway. One
pass over the field was all it would take to make a radar survey
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          481
of the field for landing data, and the computer would do the rest.
The turbofan engine throttled back to seventy-five percent, the
canards moved from cruise position to high-lift position, and the
mission-adaptive wings began to reshape for approach speed-
"DreamStar, this is Cheetah on GUARD channel. We've found
you.
     The sudden radio message screamed in Maraklov's brain like
a siren. Instinctively he increased power to ninety percent and
reshaped the wings and moved the canards back to high-speed,
high-maneuverability position, ready to evade a missile or gun
attack. The attack radar also activated in air-to-air search mode
for three seconds before Maraklov commanded it to stand by-
at this altitude he would see very little on radar, while his own
radar energy could be seen for miles by aircraft at higher alti-
tude. He also punched off the Lluyka tanks in preparation for
the fight-he hoped he could somehow fool Kalinin into getting
him another pair of external fuel tanks. As for Cheetah, by de-
nying DreamStar a long-range cruise capability once again, it
had already won a considerable victory.
     Maraklov found it hard to believe. Cheetah? Cheetah was
here? How was that possible? Who was flying it?
"Got him," Marcia said. "Brief airborne search radar at one
o'clock position. Hot damn. This time the Russians were telling
the truth."
     McLanahan hit the voice-command switch: "Arm, missiles,
arm, cannon."
     "Warning, all weapons arined, select safe to safe all weap-

ons. I I
     "Weapon, select, radar, missile." The computer repeated the
command, and on the weapon-status display one of the four
radar-guided AIM-120C Scorpion missiles on the fuselage sta-
tions was highlighted.
     "Radar, mode, air, range, maximum. Radar on." The attack
radar came on, showing no air targets within one hundred miles.
     "Check your radar," Marcia said. "You've been transmitting
for twenty seconds at ftill power."
     "I know," McLanahan said. "I want him to know we're
here. "
     ' I' ISir," Preston said, "he doesn't need any of our help to hose
US.




482                      DALE BROWN
     "The smart thing for him to do would have been to land,"
McLanahan said. "If I was close to my destination I'd hightail
it over there and hide and not risk an air-to-air engagement. But
if I look inviting enough for him, maybe he'll come up and
fight.
     "Don't take unnecessary chances," Marcia said. "You might
flush him out, sure, but then you have to deal with him on your
tail. Don't be so anxious to mix it up with him. The fight will
happen. "
     He smiled. Her words in his helmet sounded a lot like    JC.
Powell. Powell had been a skilled flight instructor, with seem-
ingly infinite patience in spite of some of the stupid mistakes
McLanahan would make-Marcia Preston seemed a lot like him.
          "Radar, standby," he commanded. "Thanks, Marcia."
     "Electronic jammers are on," she reported. "Keep your
power up. Remember, you're the power fighter, he's the angles
fighter. He might be able to move like greased lightning but you
have the speed and the power ... You've been too long on this
constant heading, too," she said. "Give me a few clearing turns.
Let's take a look-bandit, three o'clock, low. Break tight!"
     He slammed the stick hard right. Cheetah executed a hard
right full roll, then another half-roll until he could regain con-
trol. When his eyes were adjusted after the spin, he saw
DreamStar headed right at him, less than a hundred yards away,
with its nose high in the air but tracking Cheetah's every move
as if the two were mechanically linked. And in a way they were,
now in more ways than one . . . He saw DreamStar's nose light
up as he fired his cannon.
     McLanahan pushed the stick full forward, sending Cheetah in
a screaming dive. He released the back pressure almost imme-
diately, but Cheetah wasn't pulling out.
     "Pull up," he heard Preston yell. He hauled back on the
stick. It did not move-it was as if Cheetah's controls were
locked, which made McLanahan push or pull harder each time.

He realized that was the reason for the steep dive-the rigid side-
stick control had no play, which automatically made him push
even harder to try to move it. He zoomed Cheetah up into a
climb, gaining two thousand feet in altitude but losing two hun-
dred knots of precious air speed. Finally he leveled off and took
a deep breath, the first one he remembered taking since the
attack began.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          483
     "He's right above us, still at ten thousand feed," Preston
said. "Be careful dogfighting with this guy. He knew exactly
which way we were going. Keep your speed up. That's your
advantage.
     He took a look at DreamStar's position once more. "I'm
                                                            gD_
ing for a shot. Hang on. " He pulled back on the stick and aimed
the nose at DreamStar, then waited for the radar-lock-on tone.
When he heard it he moved his right thumb over to the missile-
launch button and pressed.
     "Warning, min range inhibit, " the computer announced.
The AIM-120C Scorpion was too close to its target to arm its
warhead, so the computer automatically overrode the launch
command.
     McLanahan slipped his right index finger down onto the can-
non trigger, but just as he squeezed, DreamStar turned as if
doing a pirouette in mid-air and dived so fast and so sharply that
it virtually disappeared from sight.
     "I see him," Preston said, grasping the back of her ejection
seat to turn herself around so she could watch DreamStar. "Four
... five ... six o'clock, he's coming around on us. God, I've
never seen a plane move so fast. "
     Suddenly McLanahan and Preston felt a banging and shud-
dering sound throughout Cheetah, as if a giant hand had grabbed
the F- 15's entire tail section, held it fast and started shaking it
back and forth. The laser-projection screen reported a half-dozen
faults. "Right rudder actuator out, " he said. "Right radar warn-

ing receiver and ECM antennas-looks like he shot off our right
rudder. I I
     "Fox Four, at your six o'clock," they heard on the radio. It
was a cold, monotonous, mechanical voice, as eerie as listening
to strangers' faraway voices in a dark cave.
     "What the hell is that?" Preston asked.
     Nt's his," he told her. "His voice is computer-synthesized.
     "He's right behind us, right between our tails."
     "Who is in command of Cheetah?" the eerie voice said on
the GUARD channel. "McLanahan? Elliott?"
     Before McLanahan could reply, Preston called out, "He's right
beside us-"
     Patrick snapped his head around. DreamStar was precisely on
Cheetah's right wing, flying in perfect formation. At first, a
completely disoriented feeling came over him-this was like it




484                       DALE BROWN
always had been, Cheetah in the lead, DreamStar on the wing. They
had flown like this for months, talking over a maneuver, doing the
maneuver, then fon-ning up as they repositioned themselves, cri-
tiqued the previous maneuver's results and talked over the next one.
But this wasn't Dreamland, and that wasn't Ken James.
     "Marcia, there's a satellite transceiver unit on your right rear
panel. Ever use one before?"
          "Yes, we have a larger version in the NSC office."
     "Send a clear-text message to Storm Control and to the Joint
Chiefs about our location. Tell them we found DreamStar in
Costa Rica." On the emergency radio frequency he said, " Mar-
aklov, I want you to land. I've been in contact with the Russian
authorities. What you're doing isn't authorized even by yourgov-
ernment. You've got the U. and the USSR both wanting your
head on a platter. Give it up. "
     "Colonel McLanahan, I will never give up DreamStarl" Mar-
aklov replied. "I am ordering you to withdraw across the border
immediately. Otherwise I will destroy Cheetah piece by piece
before I put the final missile into her. Comply immediately."
     "Maraklov, there's no place you can run. The KGB knows
where your landing base in Costa Rica is, and pretty soon we'll
know it too."
     As he watched, DreamStar began to slip aft. "Patrick, he's
moving behind us again," Preston called out.
     This was it, Patrick thought. Ken James is going to shoot
me out of the sky. He had no place to run. DreamStar already.
had an attack planned for every climb, descent and turn imagin-
able . . . It was time to act . . .
     No.    JC. Powell's words came back full force . . . DreamStar
does not play defense. Act unpredictably, force her into a defen-
sive situation and take advantage of its programming deficiency
to try to turn the tables-
     The computerized voice of the ANTARES computer cut in:
"You have been warned, Colonel McLanahan. This is your last

chance. I will open fire if you-"
     He did not wait for the rest of Maraklov's warning. He yanked
the throttles to idle. On the throttle-quadrant on the left Side-
panel, a large guarded switch read REVERSE. McLanahan flicked
the guard away, selected full-reverse thrust on the two-dimension
vectored-thrust nozzles and cut in full military power. The rect-
angular engine-exhaust nozzles reduced down to their smallest
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           485
size, and steerable exhaust louvers over and underneath the en-
gines opened, blowing the engine exhaust toward the nose. As
the thrust came back to full power, Cheetah's airspeed was cut
in half in a matter of seconds.
     Cheetah's steel and titanium airframe shrieked, and the com-
puterized stall and airframe overstress warning messages blasted
in their helmets. McLanahan's and Preston's bodies were thrown
forward against their shoulder harnesses. Struggling against
the G-forces, he waited until he was abeam DreamStar again,
then yanked the control stick over, and rolled right into Dream-
Star . . .
Even if the ANTARES computer had not warned Maraklov of
Cheetah's sudden decrease in airspeed, he had seen Cheetah's
engine exhaust nozzles snap closed and the ventral louvers open,
and had time to react. What he wasn't expecting was the suicide-
move that McLanahan made after that. Before he knew it Chee-
tah had banked up on its right wing and was turning directly
into DrearnStar on a collision course.
     Maraklov's first decision was to roll with Cheetah and out-
turn him, but the radar quickly informed him that he had no
room to bank away from the sudden roll-Cheetah was so close
that if DreamStar went into a right bank his left wingtip would
certainly strike Cheetah's right wing. Marakl6v was near-
transfixed by the sight of Cheetah swooping in on him. He had
no place to run. Only a few yards remaining . . .
     Suddenly the pain that had been with him ever since his suc-
cessful interface with ANTARES returned full-force. It was so

intense it nearly blinded him. His shoulder throbbed, the pain
seemed to spread out across his entire body, intensifying the
electrical shock generated by the metallic flight suit. The head-
ache that had seemed to go away when he attacked Cheetah was
now like a red-hot thing buried in his head. He knew he did not
black out-his seat was still upright and he was not being force-
fed blasts of oxygen-but he was out of control as he tried to
figure a way to escape Cheetah's attack.
     At some point during the maneuver ANTARES took control.
The computer commanded full down deflection on the nose ca-
nards, full downward thrust from the vectored-thrust nozzle, full
adverse pitch on the flap strakes in the tail. The effect was a
rapid elevator zero-pitch descent at negative seven Gs, almost




486                       DALE BROWN
at the structural limit of DreamStar's airframe and, more im-
portant, twice the normal safe negative-G limit of the human
body. Cheetah's right wingtip missed DreamStar's bubble can-
opy by a few yards-if the canopy had been made of anything
but ultra-strong polymer plastics it would have shattered from
the hurricane-like force from Cheetah's wingtip vortices.
     Maraklov, already partially incapacitated by the sudden in-
tense sheets of pain rolling across his body, was on the verge of
unconsciousness from the negative Gs. He was quickly past the
red-out stage, where blood was forced up into his brain. Blood
vessels burst in his eyeballs and nostrils, and one eardrum ex-
ploded. The computer sensed Maraklov's semi-conscious state,
immediately reclined his ejection seat and shot pure oxygen into
his face mask. But the increased pressure in his face only forced
blood from his n-o-strils back into his throat, nearly drowning
him.
     Once DreamStar's all-aspect radar detected that Cheetah had
rolled well clear, it discontinued the hard horizontal descent,
selected full afterburner and began a hard climb up to a safer
altitude. But DreamStar was flying on full-computer control as
Maraklov fought for consciousness. The pain had suddenly sub-
sided, but Maraklov was still trying to recover from the effects
of the negative Gs as DreamStar zoomed to thirty thousand feet,
then leveled off.
     ANTARES performed a systems self-test and prepared to is-
sue an all-systems-nominal report-as soon as Maraklov re-
gained full consciousness.
The system self-test never included the pilot.
"Colonel, what the hell are you doing? " Preston called out.
"Recover, dammit, recover."
     McLanahan immediately let up on the stick pressure, allowing
Cheetah's automatic roll-and-yaw damping mechanisms slow the
roll rate. When he firmly saw which way his roll was going, he
eased in left-stick force and rolled Cheetah wingslevel.
          
"Where is he, Marcia? Where did he go?"
     She was still shaken from the sudden maneuver but quickly
pulled herself together. "God, what a ride. I don't see him any-
where.
     "I've gotta risk using the radar." He hit the voice-command
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           487
button while continuing to search the skies around Cheetah.
"Radar, search, transmit, voice warning."
     "Attack radar transmit, " the computer replied. "Voice warn-
ing activated. Fifty mile range selected, no targets. "
     "Get some altitude back," Preston said. "He had the upper
hand when he got above you. You can use your power more
effectively if you stay above him."
     He began a rapid climb. "But remember, DreamStar is a new
kind of fighter. It's hard to explain-it took    years to figure
it out and months to explain it to me. There's only one way to
get him, and I just showed it works."
     "By almost killing us? By pulling a kamikaze on him? If that's
how we're going to play we might as well get out-"
     The computerized voice cut in: "Target, range twenty miles,
bearing ten left.
     "There he is," Preston called out. "Eleven o'clock high,
straight and level." -
     Tally ho. I'm going for a shot." He hit the voice-command
button. "Radar target designate . - . " The blinking circle-aiming
cursor appeared on the windscreen, superimposed on DreamStar
as the only radar target in range. "Now."
     'Radar lock. " McLanahan hit the missile-launch button and
watched as one of the AIM-120 Scorpion missiles streaked out
from underneath the fuselage toward its target.
     "Missile's tracking by itself," Preston said, scanning her
weapons indications. The Scorpion missile needed guidance
from its launch aircraft only until its own on-board radar locked
onto the target. Then the carrier aircraft could disengage and
look for other targets. "Try a left turn, get around behind him

in case he gets past the missile."
     "He'll get past it-guaranteed," McLanahan said. To the
computer: "Select radar missile. Arm missile."
     "Warning, radar missile armed. " He hit the launch button
and a second Scorpion missile streaked out.
     DreamStar abruptly heeled over to the right, making a turn so
tight that the Scorpion missile's automatic proximity detonation
missed by over a hundred feet-the proximity detonation circuits
could not keep up with DreamStar's remarkably fast jink.
McLanahan watched, transfixed, as DreamStar headed directly
down at Cheetah, rapidly closing the distance even before his
AIM-120 medium-range missile left the rails. Shaking himself,




488                        DALE BROWN
McLanahan banked hard right and up, selected zone-five full
afterburner, trying to get underneath DreamStar, spoil his aim
and get out of the way before Maraklov could finish his sudden
attack.
Maraklov had recovered from the effects of negative Gs just in
time to receive the new warning of radar lock-on and missile
uplink-a Scorpion missile was in flight. This time there was no
pain-in an instant Cheetah's location was plotted, its direction
and all three of its axis velocities were recorded and assimilated
and a counter-offensive move and several alternate maneuvers
processed. He selected the first choice a fraction of a second
later. It had been timed perfectly, and the missile rushed well
past DreamStar without detonating until it had passed out of
lethal range.
     In the same instant ANTARES had selected an AA-" infrared-
guided missile and had just received a lock-on signal from the
missile's seeker-head when a new threat was detected-a second
missile in flight from Cheetah. A moment later he saw Cheetah
head straight for him, chewing up the distance. Now two threats
were closing on him-the second Scorpion missile and Cheetah
itself, fast approaching optimal cannon range.
     ANTARES commanded the AA-" to launch. At the same
time it made a tight right roll followed by a hard break, turning
in a tight circle to align once again with Cheetah.
     "Missile launch! Dead ahead!"
     McLanahan hit the voice-command button. "Chaff. Flare.
As the radar and infrared decoys ejected off into space, he jerked
the control stick right, descended a few hundred feet, then lit
the afterburners and pulled up. But not fast enough. DreamStar's
AA-" missile followed Cheetah's turn and descent, then deto-
nated its ninety-pound warhead just as McLanahan began to hard
six-G pull. The missile detonated ten feet to the right and slightl
aft of the right engine, piercing the engine case and sendin
9

showers of metal and compressor blades in all directions.
     But at the same time ANTARES detected Cheetah's second
Scorpion missile still in flight-the two or three seconds it had
taken to launch the jury-rigged Soviet missile gave the big, high-
speed AIM-120 missile time to lock on and reach full speed.
The all-aspect radar detected the missile still closing fast.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                            489
     The radar range to Cheetah's second missile turned into a
high-pitched squeal of warning, transmitted directly to Marak-
lov's already exhausted brain. ANTARES had no choice but to
evade the missile-DreamStar's jammers' ere ineffective against
Cheetah's radar or the Scorpion missde'swon-board radar-they
had reprogrammed the AIM-120's on-board radar to a different
frequency outside DreamStar's known jammer-range in antici-
pation of this fight-and DreamStar could not continue the right
turn to pursue Cheetah with the missile closing in.
     With Maraklov allowing ANTARES now to select the fighter's
maneuvers and counter-maneuvers, ANTARES reversed its di-
rection of flight, went to full afterburner, and aimed its nose
right at the missile, presenting its lowest radar cross-section. At
the last possible moment DreamStar jinked upward hard ...
and the missile passed underneath.
'.'Engine fire on the right," Preston called out. McLanahan
yanked the right throttle to idle, lifted it out of its idle detent
and moved it to cut-off, then hit the voice-command switch:
"Right engine fire, execute." The computer commanded the
right-engine fuel valves and supply lines closed and fire retar-
dant sprayed inside the engine compartment.
     "I'm showing fuel cutoff and engine fire light out," Preston
said. She turned in her seat, scanning the area for damage. "We
might have a fuel leak on the aft body tank. The smoke is clear-
ing.
     "Where's DreamStar? Is he behind us?"
     Preston scanned the skies, expecting to see that unreal plane
diving out of nowhere with guns blazing. But it was nowhere to

be seen. "I can't see him."
     "I'm getting some altitude. Power coming back to mil,"
McLanahan said. With an engine fire and the potential of more
damage in the left engine casing, the use of afterburner was
unwise exce      in an emergency. "I've still got full flight con-
Pt
trol." The engines were close enough together on the F-15 so
that single-engine handling was not a problem, and the vectored-
thrust nozzles, mission-adaptive wings, and canards would com-
pensate for the loss of rudder control and the asymmetric thrust.
     "Airspeed's down below five hundred knots," Preston said,
continuing to search for DreaniStar. "And you're hardly climb-




490                      DAIE BROWN
ing. We've had it, we don't have the power to even consider
dogfighting with him any more."
     "I'm not giving up. Listen, something's happening here. If
Maraklov was flying at one hundred percent we'd be dog meat by
                     "
now. He's not engaging, I think maybe he's reached his limit ...
Wishful thinking ... ? He began a turn back in the opposite
direction and activated the air-to-air attack radar.
     Immediately the computer reported, "Radar target, range
twelve miles, bearing fight.
     He hit the voice-command button: "Select radar missile.
Launch missile. Launch missile."
The pain that racked Maraklov's body was constant now, rolling
across every nerve ending like a brush fire out of control. The
numbness in his left shoulder spread to his left arm and elbow-
it was the first time in two years that Maraklov ever noticed
anything about his appendages while flying under the neural-
computer interface system. The sensory dichotomy created mo-
mentary confusion. He became aware of still more problems
with his body-he was incredibly thirsty, weak as a kitten. He
was aware of the taste of blood-he could even feel blood drip-
ping down the side of his head and pooling inside his oxygen
mask. Taste? Feel? These sensations were as foreign to him while
under ANTARES as mental radar images had been when he first
saw one.
At the same time, ANTARES was warning him about a hun-
dred other things. Cheetah was in a left turn, heading back for
him. Fuel state was critical-less than twenty minutes fuel left,
without reserves. Oxygen was low. That last Scorpion missile's
miss was not altogether harmless-ANTARES was now report-
ing minor ventral fin actuator damage and a few sectors of the
ventral superconducting radar arrays malfunctioning.
     It was time to destroy Cheetah, once and for all.
But DreamStar had barely completed its turn back toward

Cheetah when more missiles were detected in flight. And now
they were in a head-on engagement, with one, then two missiles
in flight. Maraklov began a series of high-speed random, maneu-
vers, trying to make the missiles swing farther and farther away
on each turn. At the same time he moved farther and farther
from Cheetah, getting a few more yards of lateral separation,
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                          491
waiting for the moment to begin a lead turn into the F- 15 to start
his gun pass.
     This time, Maraklov thought, he could not miss. McLanahan
had become lazy-never go head-to-head with his DreamStar.
"Scorpion missile tracking ... stay with him, Patrick, he's get-
ting outside you
McLanahan blinked beads of sweat out of his eyes as he
nudged the control stick farther right toward Cheetah. He had a
steady JOKER indication on the heads-up display-less than fif-
teen minutes of fuel remaining, enough to get him back to La
Cieba or Puerto Lernpira. If he continued to fight much longer
the number of possible landing sites, ii Honduras or Panama,
would steadily decrease to zero until he would be forced to put
down somewhere in Costa Rica.
     "Patrick, watch it," Preston called out, "he's turni ng in on
you-"
He had let his mind drift off at the worst possible moment.
That momentary lapse of concentration had allowed DreamStar
to get the angle on him. Maraklov was now bearing in on Chee-
tah from the right side. A turn in either direction would expose
himself even more to a cannon attack.
     He lit the left afterburner and pulled Cheetah up into a hard
climb. Preston hung from the handlebars in the back seat, strain-
ing against the G-forces as she tried to keep DrearnStar in sight
over her right shoulder.
II Warning, missile launch,      the computer threat-receiver
blared. Then: "Warning, airspeed low. Stall warning. Stall
warning. "
     
"He's turned inside us. Missile launch. Get out of here."
     McLanahan hit the voice-command button: "Chaff . . .
Flares," he grunted, forcing the words out from the pressure
against his lungs. He saw the decoys-eject indications on the
heads-up display.
     "Where is he?" he called out to Preston.
"Five o'clock low, climbing with us. He's still coming
McLanahan pulled back on the stick even harder, his neck
and jaw muscles quivering against the pressure. He rolled in-
verted, ejected more chaff and flares to decoy the missiles, then
plunged Cheetah earthward. They were head-to-head once again,
but this time they were fighting in the vertical, not the horizon-




492                       DALE BROWN
tal-Cheetah was in a full-power descent, rapidly building air-
speed, and DreamStar was in a screaming climb, heading right
at him ...
ANTARES adjusted each flight control surface and every pound
of two-dimensional vectored thrust to keep Cheetah centered in
its crosshairs. Measuring by DreamStar's precision millimeter-
wave radar and calculating by computer several times a second,
Maraklov commanded DreamStar to open fire seconds before
McLanahan's finger even closed on his trigger. They were still
almost two miles apart when DreamStar opened fire, dead on
target . . .
     The cannon reported locked-on and firing-then stopped.
     After several days of misuse, inexperienced handling, and lack
of routine preventive maintenance, and because the Russian-
made ammunition was not precisely compatible with its Amer-
ican counterpart, DreamStar's twenty-millimeter cannon fired
five rounds, then jammed solid. The M61 A5 cannon's automatic
jam-clearing mechanism tried to reverse the cartridge belt-feed,
spin past the portion of the belt where the jam occurred and
refeed the belt through the firing chamber, but the jam could not
be cleared in flight.
     At the speed of thought, ANTARES transmitted several bits
of data to Maraklov's exhausted mind. The cannon jam was re-
ported in minute detail-he knew exactly where the jam was,
the status of the unsuccessful attempts to clear it and the chang-
Ing status of all the attack options that had been computed using
the cannon. He also knew the range to Cheetah, knew Cheetah's
Doppler-measured velocity, and knew that Cheetah was within
lethal gun range. And he knew to the nearest one-tenth of a knot
his own decreasing airspeed and the position of his wings and
canards to overcome his speed deficit. He commanded his last
AA-" missile to launch, but it was a desperate snap-shot, with
only one or two seconds guidance time and launched with a
much higher launch angle of attack than the Russian missile was

designed for.
     With the realization that a defensive turn and descent away
from Cheetah was the last available option, the pain returned
full-force to Maraklov's already tortured nervous system. This
time, the pain was unbearable . . . He never knew that AN-
TARES' stabilization system automatically corrected the im-
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           493
pending stall condition. He also was not conscious enough to
realize that DreamStar had taken several direct hits all across its
wings and upper fuselage as ANTARES pulled its nose back to
the horizon.
     Warning messages began flooding in from almost every sys-
tem on board the fighter, but Maraklov was too dazed by exhaus-
tion and too overloaded with pain to assimilate them all-now
the ANTARES computer was forced to take over all safety and
flight control functions. The computers aboard DreamStar de-
tected a fire in the engine compartment, momentarily shut down
the engine, put out the fire and restarted the engine all in a few
seconds. Engine-fuel feed was rerouted to draw fuel from leak-
ing tanks before they ran dry. The mission-adaptive wings re-
shaped themselves to compensate for hydraulic actuators
damaged by gunfire.
     But through it all, Maraklov hovered on the brink of uncon-
sciousness. And without him, for all ANTARES' capability,
DreamStar was no longer capable of fighting.
McLanahan came out of military power and set the throttles to
eighty percent. He saw the BINGO low fuel warning projected
onto his windscreen-less than ten minutes of fuel remaining-
but for now he ignored it. He clicked open the interphone. -Ws
what?
     "I see smoke coming out of his exhaust," Preston said. "Not
heavy but I can see it. He's flying straight and level, not maneu-
vering. You got him
     McLanahan looked over far to his right and spotted
DreamStar. He turned toward him. Preston said, "You've got

two-hundred rounds remaining and two missiles. Take the shot.
We're low on fuel.
     He lined up on DreamStar, selected an AIM-132 infrared mis-
sile, aligned it, hit the voice-command button: "Safe all mis-
siles. Safe cannon."
     "Caution, all weapons safe.
     "Patrick, what are you doing? You got to bring this guy down.
There's no other choice. He can turn on us .
     McLanahan's reply was to click open the emergency fre-
quency: "DreamStar, this is Cheetah. I'm at your six, five miles.
I'm joining on your right side.  Do you hear me?"
     "Stay away           The pain in his voice was obvious, even




494                      DAIE BROWN
through the computerized distortion. "Do not come any clos-
er ...
     "It's over, I'm joining on your wing. When you see me stay
on my wing. We're landing. Do you understand'?"
     He maneuvered Cheetah closer to DreamStar, finally overtak-
ing him.  "I've got the lead, coming right.  You're on the wing,
stay there." He began a shallow right turn.
     I am not giving up this aircraft               the computer-
synthesized voice said. "I am not ... not going to surrender
DreamStar .
     "It's over. Listen to me. DrearnStar is damaged, you're hurt
bad. You'll destroy DrearnStar or force me to destroy you. You've
got a chance to live. Take it-"
     Suddenly Marcia called out, "He's turning behind us ... ! "
     But it was only a momentary deviation. A moment later
DreamStar moved into perfect fingertip formation with Cheetah.
:'That's it, stay in position. " On interphone McLanahan said,
'Marcia, get on the radio to an air traffic facility you can
reach. Tell them we need vectors to a hard-surface runway
ASAP.-                                                        'Iwo
He paused, taking his first real deep breath, then added:
American military aircraft landing, both require assistance."
                    Vv%ffopue
                    XIP       40-





Brooks AFB Hospital, San Antonio, Texas
Thursday, 25 June 1996, 2037 PDT (2337 EDT)
"SHE'S A REMARKABLE woman," the doctor told him. "You
were right. She just refused to give up."

He I bent over and kissed her. " She's a tough broad.
     Wendy returned the kiss, reached up and touched his face,
ran her fingers across his temples. "You've gotten a few gray
hairs in the past few days, Colonel." Her smile dimmed as she
saw his eyes, remembering. "I'm sorry I won't be there for
     JC.'s service tomorrow.  I'm going to miss him . . . "
     He nodded. "I've never felt as secure, or as happy in an
aircraft until I started flying with    And he was afriend.-
McLanahan was silent a few moments. "But seeing you like this
again, it overwhelms everything ... How do you feel?"
     "Like they say, lucky to be alive. Also tired as hell. The
doctor says I'll be out of here in a couple of weeks, then a few
months' convalescent leave. I think that's too much. Four, five
weeks should do it." She took his hand, squeezed it tight. "I
...  I heard about what you did before you left for Honduras
again. I heard everyone was ready to let me go. I--
     Patrick put a finger on her lips. "I did it because I'm selfish.
What the hell would I do without you?"
     He knelt down beside her bed and she wrapped her arms
around him, pulled him close to her. They didn't say a word.
Even one would have been superfluous.
     They heard a polite cough behind them. Joe and Betty Tork
were standing in the doorway. "May we come in?" Betty asked.
McLanahan moved aside. Wendy's parents gave their daughter




496                       DALE BROWN
a hug and spoke in low whispers. Then Joe Tork stood and faced
Patrick.
     "Congratulations, Patrick," he said in a low voice. "Thank
God Wendy is doing all right."
     "Yeah, well, I have to be going." Joe put a big hand on his
shoulder.
          :'Hey, McLanahan, I'm trying to apologize."
     'Colonel, it's not so bad for an ex-Marine. Okay?"
     "Okay. All even."
There was one spot in the thousand-square-mile Dreamland
complex not classified top-secret or restricted access, although
it was one of the most difficult places to get in to visit. Sur-
rounded by a simple picket fence and a grove of trees, a green
oasis in the middle of miles of desert and rocks, was a cemetery
dedicated to the most extraordinary aircrewmen and support per-
sonnel in the world.
     The cemetery, belonging to the men and women who died in
the service of the top-secret weapons and aircraft laboratory in
the high desert of southern Nevada, had seen a lot of use in the
past few days. The services for the dead security guards and the
crew of the Old Dog had already taken place here; their grave
sites, only a few yards away, still bore fresh flowers. Granite
walls had been erected near the plots, telling who these men and
women were and how they died; the walls were concealed by
black plastic covers because the incident was still classified and
under investigation. Now three more burial places and another
granite wall, covered with secretive black as well, had been pre-
pared for Alan Carmichael, Raymond Butler and Roland Powell.
     No matter how much he prepared, the sound of the shots from
the seven rifles over the graves of his friends stung McLanahan
right to the heart. The echoes of the twenty-one shots reverber-
ated off the surrounding Groom Mountains, seemingly rolling
off the hills and echoing on forever.
     As taps were played by a lone bugler, McLanahan heard the

roar of jet engines passing overhead. At first he had no desire
to watch the planes-the realization that he would never see these
three men again had hit him with full force. They were such an
important part of his life that their loss made him feel weak,
completely drained. Then he looked across to the grave site, and
the further realization of the deaths of Ormack, Pereira and the
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           497
other members of the Old Dog's crew made it especially hard.
There seemed to be no future beyond this place ... his future
seemed to be lying at his feet ...
     He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned and saw Brad Elliott.
Standing on one side of Elliott was Deborah O'Day, and on his
other side was Hal Briggs. Elliott motioned skyward with his
eyes, and McLanahan looked up and saw the astonishing for-
mation passing overhead.
     The sky seemed to be filled with planes. 'Me lead formation
was composed of some of the most high-tech machines in ft
world, led by a B-52 Megafortress. The formation also had
"flying-wing" B-2 stealth bombers, a B-1 Excalibur bomber,
one of the new stretched FB-111 bombers and a large aircraft
that looked a lot like a smaller version of the B-1, with its wings
pulled back to its fully swept high-speed setting. The second
formation was composed of five F-15F fighter-bombers, and it
was from this formation where one aircraft,   's Cheetah-he
recognized it immediately, its right vertical stabilizer was still
missing-peeled off from the rest to form the "missing man"
formation.
     Among the onlookers was a man who had had more than a
little to do with this ceremony. Ken James . . . Maraklov. He
had been allowed, over protests of some members of HAWC, to
attend the service, handcuffed and surrounded by two security
guards. Eventually he was taken away by the security agents.
     Elliott and McLanahan turned back toward the three grave
sites as the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed. "I feel
like everything's come to an end here, General."
     
"Not quite." Elliott motioned skyward again, and Mc-
Lanahan followed his lead. The unusual B- I lookalike had moved
its wings up from its full aft-sweep position to a forward-swept
position like the XF-29 fighter's high-maneuverability wings. The
amazing hybrid plane then pulled up out of the formation, lit its
twin afterburners with a rolling boom and did a spectacular
climbing roll, accelerating quickly out of sight.
     "The new XFB-5 Tracer," Elliott said in a low voice. "First
generation, designed for strategic escort-duties like the Mega-
fortress. We combined the technology of the F-29 and the B-1
and came up with a plane that's twice as good as the sum of its
parts. It's as fast and agile as a fighter, but with almost the same
payload and power as a supersonic bomber."




498                     DALE BROWN
     The officer in charge of the ceremony handed the folded
American flags to Secretary of the Air Force Wilbur Curtis, who
in turn handed them to the widows and families. Elliott said,
"Meet me in my office tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock," and
walked off with Deborah O'Day and Briggs to join Curtis and
pay his respects to the families.
The next day McLanahan walked into Elliott's office in the heart
of the HAWC complex. Elliott, O'Day, Preston and Briggs all
had snifters of brandy, and Hal offered one to McLanahan.
     "To our friends," Elliott said, raising the glass. He took a
sip, then set the snifter down on his desk. "I never realized how
young Powell was. His parents still look like college gradu-
ates.
     "Powell was the one who made it happen," McLanahan said.
"He gave me the key to beating DreamStar . . . no matter how
advanced a system is, human unpredictability and flexibility can
overcome it. Funny, the very thing that made DreamStar sup-
posedly unbeatable actually led to its defeat-its single-minded
command to attack meant it didn't know what retreat or caution
were.    had the intelligence and insight to discover that."
     "Well, he gave you the key just in time," Elliott said. He
turned to O'Day. "It was very . . . generous of you also to
recommend that James be allowed to attend the ceremony
"Very, " Briggs said.
     McLanahan said nothing. His sentiments were obvious. This
was his buddy.
     "My lieutenant says Maraklov wants to make a deal-asylum
for information," Briggs said. "I'm going to talk with him.
Frankly, Id just as soon turn his butt over to the Russian gov-
emment. I'm sure they d show him a good time."
     "I have some bad news, people," Elliott said. "As you know,
the Defense Intelligence Agency, the CIA, and the Pentagon are
all conducting investigations at HAWC. I don't know what the
future of the Center will be. But we do know some of the first

casualties. As expected, Hal and I have been relieved of our
assignments, effective at the end of the year.
     "That's lousy," McLanahan said. "Neither of you deserve
it-"
     "There will be another casualty." He looked at McLanahan.
"Sorry, Patrick. I think the housecleaning will be total."
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                         499
McLanahan looked neither shocked nor even surprised. "If any-
one didn't deserve this, it's you. Your actions during this whole
business have been above and beyond."
     "So were   's. So were General Ormack's. Maybe I deserve
what I got-they sure as hell didn't."
     "It's not the end, though," Elliott said. He turned to Deborah
O'Day, who took another sip of brandy and got to her feet.
     "No, it is not the end. The fact is, in this room right now is
the heart of an entirely new outfit. We have groups that can
specialize in many different types of operations, all working di-
rectly for the President, and all supervised to various degrees by
Congress. This group,.including Marcia Preston, will carry on
with the type of work you've been doing for the past few years,
except now you'll be doing it directly and accountably for the
White House."
     She picked up her brandy snifter. "Of course, all of this might
come to a crashing halt if Lloyd Taylor doesn't get reelected.
But that's not up to us. " She held up her glass. "Ladies and
gentlemen, all those here present interested in working more
long hours for low pay and probably lower recognition, but hav-
ing the absolute time of their lives, signify by saying 'aye.'
The ayes had it. Unanimous.
     "Here's to the charter members of Future Flight. And may
heaven have mercy on the bad guys."
The whole second floor of Dreamland's small detention facility
had been turned into a huge high-security area. Guards were
posted on the stairways and in every hallway. All personnel were
screened and checked any time they came in or out of the build-

ing.
     Andrei Maraklov was the floor's only occupant. He had a
room to himself in the center of the second floor, guarded inside
and out by armed soldiers and undercover CIA operatives. All
in all, twenty soldiers and agents were assigned to him round-
the-clock.
     Even for other agents, it was tough to get near him. From the
time he came onto the grounds of the High Technology Ad-
vanced Weapons Center, Defense Intelligence Agency operative
Anthony Scorcelli, Jr., was searched, had his I. checked and
was electronically scanned for weapons as well as by teams of
bomb dogs. He went through one metal detector at the entrance,




Soo                     DALE BROWN
     one before getting into the elevator and one before getting near
Maraklov's room. After the last machine he was carefully pat-
searched and sniffed over by an explosives dog as his name and
I. were checked once again.
     "No gun?" the Air Force soldier asked. "Doesn't the DIA
carry guns?
     "I don't chase bad guys," Scorcelli told him. "I wait until
they're in custody, surrounded by blue-shirts. What do I need a
gun for?"
     "He checks," another guard said. The pat-search revealed a
few pens-the guards even pushed the plungers on them and
scribbled circles on a sheet of paper to make sure they worked-
a small notebook, an appointment book with a credit-card-sized
computer inside, wallet with seven dollars in it and a set of car
keys from a rental car agency. "He's okay."
     "What are you doing here this late?" the second guard asked,
taking a sip of coffee as Scorcelli retrieved his belongings.
     "First opportunity the DIA's had to interview him," Scorcelli
said. The first guard consulted his log to double-check that fact-
he was the first DIA representative here today. "This is the.
CIA's and the Air Force's ballgarne. We just want to see what
the guy has to say. I understand he wants to make a deal."
"Go ahead," the guard said. "Twenty minutes, max. Doc-
tor's orders
     Scorcelli entered Maraklov's room and closed the door-and
was immediately grabbed from behind by another guard. "You
scared the crap out of me," Scorcelli said.
     "Sorry," was all the guard said, but he didn't loosen his grip.
-talkie the guard car-
Scorcelli then heard two beeps on a walkie
ried on his belt, and the guard replied with two beeps of his
own. Finally the guard released him. "Go ahead, sir."
                                     forgot what I was going to
     "Man, with all these searches I

ask this guy," Scorcelli said - The guard smiled and walked back
to his seat on the far side of the roorn.
     "Where's our friend?"
     "Taking a leak," the guard said. He got up and knocked on
the door to the adjacent bathroom. "Someone to see you."
     "I'll be out in a minute," Maraklov called from inside the
bathroom.
     "He doesn't sound like a Russian to me," Scorcelli said.
                    DAY OF THE CHEETAH                           501
     "He's a Russian, all right. He says he's been trained to act
like an American. Can you believe it?"
     I 'Sounds weird." Scorcelli unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled
Out the small notebook and a pen. He was about to write some-
thing when he looked up at the floor beside a sofa near the wall.
"You got rats in here."
     When the guard walked in front of Scorcelli to check for rats,
Scorcelli jabbed the point of the pen into his neck. The guard
was conscious just long enough to reach up to his neck, then
instantly fell asleep. Scorcelli lowered him to the floor, dragged
him out of sight, then took his sidearm from his holster. Hiding
behind the bathroom door, Scorcelli took the second pen from
his shirt pocket, twisted the cap and pressed the pocket-clip.
     When Maraklov emerged from the bathroom, Scorcelli
reached around behind him, grabbed his chin with his left hand,
pulled his head over to the left to expose his neck and pressed
in the point of the pen. When he depressed a plunger, a one-
inch long needle shot out and injected its contents directly into
Maraklov's carotid artery.
     Maraklov managed to push Scorcelli away, but the poison was
already starting to take effect. He sagged to his knees, trying
but unable to call for help. He strained to focus his eyes on
Scorcelli. "What . . . who are you?"
     "Don't you remember, buddy?" Scorcelli said. "JC.'mon, you
remember.
     Maraklov shook his head.
     
"You're a smart guy, Ken. You remember. I'll give you a hint.
We went to school together." Maraklovs eyes suddenly opened,
and he struggled to get to his feet. Scorcelli put a hand on his
shoulder, and in Maraklov's weakened condition it was easy to
hold him steady.
     "I'm your old buddy, Tony Scorcelli, " the DIA "agent" said.
"Remember? We played softball together. I'll never forget that
last game we played, Ken, the one we played just before you
went to Hawaii. You got me busted back after that little scuffle,
did you know that? I wanted to go to law school in the United
States. But after that fight, Roberts busted me back and I ended
up in a nowhere little job in the DIA pushing papers."
     Maraklov tried to rise again but was too weak. "But I got an
interesting call from my handler the other day, and guess what?
The KGB wants my old buddy Ken James dead. It seems he




502                      DALE BROWN
began spilling his guts to the Americans. Actually wanted to
defect or something like that. Fell in love with an airplane, can
you beat it? There was word that he was responsible for killing
that nympho, secretary back at the Academy. When I heard all
this I just had to run right over from Washington, get myself
clearance to enter your little condo here . . . "
     Scorcelli pulled Maraklov up and sat him on the chair. "Sorry
I can't stay and shoot the breeze, old buddy, as us Americans
say, but you've got a date in hell and I'm on my way back to my
Black Sea condo. It's beautiful there this time of year."
     Just then the door opened behind Scorcelli and McLanahan
and Briggs walked in. "Hey," McLanahan called out when he
saw Scorcelli standing over Maraklov. "What the hell are you
doing? "
     Briggs drew his sidearm just as Scorcelli reached for the gun
he had taken from the drugged guard. He pushed McLanahan
aside, fired one shot into Scorcelli's chest and dropped him.
Briggs checked over Scorcelli and the Air Force guard as more
security agents ran into the room. McLanahan went over to Mar-
aklov.
     "Ammonium cyanide," Maraklov got out, barely strong
enough to draw breath. "Standard KGB issue. Scorcelli's KGB.
Deep cover, like me . . . "
     McLanahan found the doctor's call button and pressed it.
"Easy . . . "
     "No, listen. Wall safe in my apartment . . . behind the book-
case. Careful . . . I wired it. Names of KGB handlers and Acad-
emy grads. Not many but it'll help .        Dying, he looked as
if he was falling asleep.