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Authors: Day of the Cheetah (v1.1)
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slacks and a red polyester pullover shirt from the suitcase,
slipped on a pair of Nikes—they fit perfectly—slipped on the Rolex and gold
chains, pocketed the room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied
himself 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 Connecticut Academy .
“Good
evening, Mr. James.”
Maraklov
willed himself not to show what he felt. A waitress in a tight sarong slit up
each side nearly to her waist had come up behind him and put down a cocktail
napkin. “Hi, there, Mr. James. Your usual?”
Maraklov
nodded.
“I
need to see your I.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 laminated 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.D. Apparently 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. “Champagne
cocktails, 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?”
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 experience his first night as an American
named Kenneth James. Now he was the
real Ken James. The only one.
McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas
August 1994
“Required
SATCOM reports are as follows,” Air Force Captain 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 execution message we
transmit a strike-message confirmation report.” 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, advising 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
slipped on a pair of Nikes—they fit perfectly—slipped on the Rolex and gold
chains, pocketed the room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied
himself 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 Connecticut Academy .
“Good
evening, Mr. James.”
Maraklov
willed himself not to show what he felt. A waitress in a tight sarong slit up
each side nearly to her waist had come up behind him and put down a cocktail
napkin. “Hi, there, Mr. James. Your usual?”
Maraklov
nodded.
“I
need to see your I.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 laminated 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.D. Apparently 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. “Champagne
cocktails, 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?”
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 experience his first night as an American
named Kenneth James. Now he was the
real Ken James. The only one.
McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas
August 1994
“Required
SATCOM reports are as follows,” Air Force Captain 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 execution message we
transmit a strike-message confirmation report.” 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, advising 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
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