Shadow Flight

Chapter Seven

"Sonuvabitch!" Matthews swore as he shoved the fuel mixture to full rich and jockeyed the throttle. "Keep running… come on.. do it for us."

"What happened?" Evans shouted. His face was drained of color, and he had a death grip on the instrument panel glare shield. "Get the nose up!"

Matthews eased the nose up, climbed thirty feet, then leveled off again. "I don't know, maybe it took a slug of water through the fuel line. Hell of a rain last night-water may have leaked into a tank."

Evans took a deep breath. "Just keep it going, Chuck, and I'll sign over my retirement pay to you."

Matthews monitored closely the vibrating engine instruments, RPMs remained steady, temperature stayed in the green, but still no oil pressure. "Don't touch anything," he said to himself. "Not until we're over Key West."

Matthews raised his gaze, looked around the moonlit sky, then focused on the cluster of stars he had been using for navigation. Capella remained in the same position, winking through his canopy.

Suddenly his mind issued a sharp alert. Something had moved in the sky. Something very fast. He snapped his head back to the right, searching for the source of light.

"Oh, my God…," the pilot said to himself. He yanked open his canopy, straining to hear over the roar of the howling radial engine.

"Paul!" he shouted, simultaneously rechecking his exterior lights. They were turned off. The Yak-18 was blacked out. "They're on us! We've got fighters overhead!"

"Shit!" Evans exclaimed, scanning the star-filled sky. He quickly spotted the MiGs. "They're slowing — coming over the top from the right."

"We're going down!" Matthews said as he shoved the nose over and concentrated on flying. "Right on the deck!"

Lieutenant Colonel Igor S. Zanyathov, in rumpled street clothes and smelling of rum, listened closely to the Cuban radar controller's instructions. The radar specialist had lost the Yak-18 thirty-three miles off the coast, but the track indicated that the escapees were heading for Florida. The controller had calculated where the stolen aircraft should be by the speed and direction of flight.

The former squadron commander in the Soviet Frontovaya Aviatsiya (Tactical Air Force) cursed Levchenko's arrogance and stupidity, then cursed his own bad luck. The boisterous going-away party for Captain Robanov had progressed far into the second hour when the frantic KGB director had called.

Zanyathov checked the spacing between himself and his wing-man, Maj. Anatoly V. Sokolviy, then rolled gently into a shallow bank to the left.

"They should be right below you," Zanyathov said to himself, repeating the controller's words. "No they shouldn't, you idiot," continued the partially inebriated fighter pilot. "The Americans should be under heavy guard in the B-2 hangar, spilling their guts about every operational aspect of the secret bomber."

Zanyathov searched the surface of the ocean, trying to catch any movement. He glanced at his altimeter, then continued his turn until the moon was directly on the tip of his left wing. The Yak-18 would be hard to spot, but it was down there somewhere.

"Kok pozhivayete, Major Sokolviy?" Zanyathov radioed to his wingman.

"I am fine, colonel, except for my head."

Zanyathov felt the same effects from the potent rum. "I share your suffering."

Sokolviy looked up through his canopy. "The other interceptors are orbiting overhead. I see their anticollision lights."

"You have young eyes, major. Use them well tonight."

"Yes, colonel."

"Follow me down," Zanyathov ordered, easing back his two throttles. "We will not contact the other flight unless absolutely necessary."

"Da."

The MiG-25's powerful Tumansky turbojets wound down as Zanyathov lowered the nose and rolled into a steeper turn. The Russian pilot knew that he had to be successful in thwarting the Americans' bold escape. The KGB director would pay dearly if the news of this fiasco got out. Zanyathov knew that Levchenko would see him dead if he did not succeed in returning the daring Stealth crew.

Zanyathov could still hear Levchenko swearing over the MiG's radio as the two interceptors had lifted off the runway in afterburner. The message had been clear. If the American pilots were not brought back alive — so their operational and technical knowledge could be gained— Zanyathov and Sokolviy had no reason to return.

"I see the aircraft!" Major Sokolviy radioed his flight leader. "Off your right wing, colonel. Just forward of the wing tip."

Zanyathov searched the area, scanning back and forth, then saw the Yak-18 low over the water. The dark aircraft was bathed in luminous moonlight. "Yes, I have them," Zanyathov acknowledged, steepening his descent. "The Americans are brave — they are almost in the water."

Zanyathov set his armament panel switches, then selected his two 23mm guns. The intercept would be very delicate. He had to turn back the Yakovlev without destroying it. Killing the Americans would seal his own fate.

"How damned ironic," Zanyathov said to himself, spitting out the words. "The Americans are more important to my country than I am." He keyed his radio. "Major Sokolviy, I am descending for a firing pass. Remain in high cover."

"Da, colonel. Be careful."

The lead pilot descended to fifty meters above the water, slowing the MiG-25 to thirty kilometers above the clean configuration stall speed. He rechecked his gun switches, turned slightly to line up on the Yak-18's left side, then added a small amount of power.

"Major, I will make a firing pass to the left, then pull up in front of them. Keep a close watch, in case I lose the Yakovlev in the turn."

"I will not lose them, colonel."

Zanyathov, rapidly approaching the fleeing Americans, pressed lightly on the firing button.

"Here he comes!" Matthews shouted over the screaming radial engine. "Goddamnit! We're not turning back!"

Red tracer rounds spewed out of the Foxbat, flashed by the side of the trainer, arched out in front, then disappeared in the distance.

"Stay low," Evans yelled, watching the MiG-25 approach, "and start jinking!"

Matthews watched his altitude closely, then turned his head to the left. The MiG would be abreast of the unarmed Yak-18 in four seconds. "Hang on!" he warned. "Here goes!"

The desperate pilot pushed the control stick to the left, turning in knife-edged flight directly at the MiG-25.

"Oh, God…," Evans moaned, flinching as the Foxbat's nose snapped up and the two afterburners went to full military power. The roar of the thundering turbojets was earsplitting as the Yak-18

passed twenty feet below the MiG. The small trainer almost rolled inverted before Matthews could snap the wings level.

"They're going to blow our asses off!" Evans shouted, sliding open his canopy. "The MiG driver has to be one mad sonuvabitch."

Matthews was working the controls in an effort to constantly change their path of flight. He guided the Yak-18 through a series of skidded turns, slips, and porpoise maneuvers while maintaining the general heading to Key West. He looked over his left shoulder again, then sideslipped the Yak close to the water. "Keep an eye on him!"

The Foxbat pilot wrapped the fighter around in a tight turn, continuing to slow, then eased the nose toward the fleeing trainer. The MiG pilot was in a perfect guns position.

"Hang on!" Matthews cautioned as he rolled the low-flying Yak-18 into a seventy-degree right turn and chopped the power to idle. The deceleration was instantaneous.

Straining under the g loading, Matthews looked over his right shoulder as the MiG-25 snapped into a tight right turn, stalled, then slammed into the water a split second after the afterburners were lighted. The Foxbat exploded in a blinding flash as cold water rammed through the air intakes into the red-hot turbojets.

"You suckered him in!" Evans shouted, pounding the cockpit glare shield. "You did it!"

Matthews added power and leveled the wings, then looked up and scanned the dark sky. "Where's the other MiG? I've lost him!"

"Ahh… okay, I've got him," Evans responded, tightening his seat belt. "Four o'clock and coming down fast."

Anatoly Sokolviy, adrenaline pumping through his veins, was in a frenzy. The pilot knew that Director Levchenko, the omnipotent mastermind of the B-2 operation, would have to answer for the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Zanyathov. Sokolviy's mission had changed. He was driven to stop the wily Americans-any way possible-and avenge the death of his flight leader.

The MiG-25, Sokolviy knew only too well, had not been designed to fight slow-moving light aircraft flying on the deck.

Many fine pilots had lost their lives the same way as Zanyathov. He had let his aircraft get behind the power curve, then attempted an abrupt maneuver low and slow.

Sokolviy adjusted his armament panel, selecting his single AA-7 Apex missile. If he missed, he had two more AA-8 Aphids to fire at the fleeing aircraft. He checked the missile arming control, then heard the rescue helicopter.

"Sudak Chetirnatsat [perch fourteen] is on station," the excited Soviet helicopter pilot blurted. "Did the runner go in the tank?"

"Nyet," Sokolviy growled over the frequency. "Stay off the radio."

The Yak-18 was only three kilometers ahead of Sokolviy when the fighter pilot lowered the MiG's nose. "Kiss your asses goodbye, you clever bastards," Sokolviy said under his breath when the ready-to-fire light glowed. "Come on… track…"

Sokolviy raised the MiG's nose a couple of degrees, then rolled into a gentle right turn to line up with the tail of the Yak-18. "Got it!" Sokolviy said triumphantly as he squeezed off the air-to-air missile.

"Break right! Break right," Evans screamed. "Missile!"

Matthews tightened his stomach muscles, then groaned under the snap g load he forced on the trainer. The Yak-18, in knife-edged flight, changed course ninety degrees in three seconds. "Coming back!" Matthews said in a strained voice. "We gotta stay down—"

The pilot's statement was cut off by a flash and a deafening explosion forty yards in front of the aircraft. The AA-7 Apex had missed the trainer and impacted the water, detonating with a thunderous roar.

"Oh, shit!" Matthews swore as he leveled the wings and yanked back the stick.

The Yak-18 flew through the geyser of water and debris, staggered, shuddered, then dropped off on the right wing.

"Hang on!" Matthews shouted, chopping the throttle. "We're goin' in!"

Both pilots grabbed their glare shields and braced themselves for the impact. The Yak-18's right wingtip sliced into the water, sending the trainer into a cartwheeling, end-over-end crash landing. The crumpled fuselage, missing the right wing and three feet of the left wing, came to rest inverted.

Matthews yanked repeatedly at his seat belt, thrashing from side to side. Finally, when his lungs felt as though they had been set on fire, the pilot freed himself and struggled out of the sinking aircraft. Orienting himself with the rising bubbles from the sinking wreckage, he kicked off from the side of the cockpit and clawed his way upward.

Gasping and sucking air, he broke the surface and looked around frantically for Paul Evans. The slightly injured pilot could see bits of floating debris surrounding him, but nothing that resembled his friend.

"Paul!" Matthews shouted, treading water and turning constantly. He could taste the foul, greasy aviation fuel. "Paul!"

Matthews, who had been on the swimming team at the Air Force Academy, gulped more air and dove below the surface. He fought his way downward in the pitch-black water, felt the stub of a propeller blade, then crawled along the side of the mangled fuselage. He passed the front cockpit, cutting his right hand on the fractured canopy, and reached into the rear seat. His left hand touched Evans's arm, then moved up to his face. Matthews yanked back his hand, recoiling in horror.

Paul Evans had not suffered long, if at all. His face had slammed into the instrument panel, breaking his neck. Matthews was sickened by the unnatural twist and angle of his friend's head.

Feeling the water pressure build as the Yak-18's fuselage sank below twenty feet, Matthews tugged at Evans's seat belt. The locking device opened easily and Matthews pulled on Evans's torso.

He yanked repeatedly on his copilot, then realized the problem. Evans was trapped in the twisted cockpit, crushed between the seat pan and the glare shield.

Matthews, in agony and frustration, and feeling the onslaught of oxygen starvation, let go of his close friend and shot for the surface.

His oxygen-starved mind was slipping into unconsciousness, a kaleidoscope of colored lights dancing in front of his eyes, when his face popped out of the water.

The pilot treaded water instinctively while his lungs heaved in an effort to suck in life-sustaining air. He felt his head clear rapidly and his strength return. His mind shifted from concentrating on survival, to rage.

Four seconds later, Matthews heard the combined sounds. They had been there all along — the MiG-25 overhead and the approaching Soviet helicopter — but he had blocked them out in his mental trauma.

"You SONS OF BITCHES," Matthews bellowed, watching the approaching searchlight from the rescue helicopter.

Pete Vecchio stared at the APS-138 radar screen as he recorded the time and exact location. "Ah… Willie, I can't believe this."

"Believe it, Pete," Overholser replied quietly, energizing the LINK-11 secure data communications system. "The MiG flight leader went in the drink, and his wingman, as I see it, splashed the slow mover."

Vecchio turned to the air control officer (ACO). "We better get on the horn."

"Yeah," Overholser responded, keying the communications button. "Stay with 'em." The ACO adjusted his lip microphone, rechecked the radio frequency, then spoke to their operations center. "Corpus Operations, Tar Baby One Five."

"Corpus Ops, One Five," the Texas-based coordinator replied, "go ahead."

"One Five has a priority," Overholser radioed in an even voice. "We just witnessed two aircraft crash in the water seventy nautical miles west of Havana. One of the aircraft, we believe, was a Cuban MiG."

Vecchio and Overholser listened to the surprised operations officer as they watched the three MiGs return to their respective air bases.

Gennadi Levchenko anxiously waited at the control tower for the rescue helicopter to return. The tower chief, Starshiy Praporshchik (Senior Warrant Officer) Yevgeny Pogostyan, had just sent word that the helicopter was nine minutes out.

Levchenko had already spoken with Maj. Anatoly Sokolviy, who had been extremely hostile and defiant. The confrontation had ended abruptly when the MiG fighter pilot, encouraged by his fellow aviators, walked away from the contentious KGB director.

Pogostyan ran down the steep stairs of the control tower, then hurried across the tarmac toward Levchenko. "Comrade director, the helicopter pilot reports only one American survivor."

"We only need one," Levchenko snorted. "What condition is he…"

"He is reported," Pogostyan said cautiously, "to have suffered only cuts and bruises."

"Excellent!" Levchenko spat, turning to the ranking KGB officer now in charge of security. "Talavokine," he shouted at the short, beefy agent. "Come here!"

The security officer turned to the Cuban army lieutenant, said a few quick words, then walked over to Levchenko. "Da, comrade director," the security expert said, standing uneasily.

Levchenko glared at Talavokine. "You will be personally responsible for the confinement of the American. I don't care if you have to guard him yourself-twenty-four hours a day. Do you understand me, Talavokine?"

"Yes, clearly, comrade director."

"Good."

The surprised KGB officer avoided Levchenko's eyes by staring over his right shoulder.

"If there is one screwup," Levchenko said, shaking his right index finger in the officer's face, "I will see that you spend the rest of your miserable career as a clerk on Taymyr Peninsula in Siberia."

The agent swallowed, then nodded his understanding.

"If you allow him to escape again," Levchenko warned, "plan your own escape. You will both be dead men."

"Da, comrade director," the officer stammered. "I will not allow anything to happen."

"Meet the helicopter," Levchenko ordered, seeing the approaching Mil Mi-17's landing light illuminate, "and escort the prisoner to the hangar."

The KGB agent backed away without responding, then turned and walked toward the squad of Cuban soldiers.

Levchenko, shielding his eyes from the rotor wash, watched the Mi-17 descend to a hover in front of the tower. The big Isotov turbines caused the ground to vibrate as the pilot lowered the helicopter gently onto its wheels. Levchenko turned and walked to his field car, then ordered the driver to take him to his office.

Fritz Kranz was startled awake when the phone rang. The sixtyeight-year-old, white-haired, heavyset, retired thoracic surgeon struggled with the bed cover, then freed his feet. "One moment, please," Kranz mumbled, fumbling for his robe. He patted his wife. "Sorry, my Katy."

"Who could it be at this hour?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear."

The phone rang again and again, loud and obtrusive in the quiet cottage. Kranz searched for his slippers, then gave up and crossed the bedroom cautiously, opened the door fully, and stepped into the hallway. He turned on the single light and picked up the ringing phone.

"Kranz."

"Herr Doktor," the cheery male voice said, "I am Johann at the cable office."

"Yes."

"I apologize for the untimely intrusion, but we have a cable for you, marked most urgent."

Kranz's mind raced. He had received only four urgent cables during the nine years he had worked with the Central Intelligence Agency. "Oh, yes," Kranz replied, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes. "We have been expecting an urgent message. I must be in the city early this morning, so I will stop by your office."

"Very well, Herr Doktor," the pleasant voice said. "Again, my apologies."

"You are very kind," Kranz responded, straining to see the grandfather clock in the living room. The antique timepiece indicated 4:54 A. M. "Good morning."

Kranz replaced the phone receiver, then started for the small bathroom. He replayed the procedures in his mind. Was RAINDANCE still secure?

"Who was it, Fritz?"

"One of my patients, dear. They don't seem to understand that I am retired."

Kranz dressed hurriedly, grabbed his medical bag, kissed his dozing wife good-bye, and drove the sixty kilometers into the heart of Vienna.

Entering the city, Kranz slowed near the Hofburg. He glanced at the Lippizaner stallions across the avenue. The beautiful horses turned the cold morning air to steam with their breath.

As he passed the historic imperial palace, Kranz mentally reviewed the CIA code and procedures used to contact RAINDANCE. This type of connection was referred to in the agency as a threearms'-length transaction. Trust and obscurity held the loop together.

Nearing the cable office, Kranz allowed his mind to drift back a few years. He could clearly see his dear friend and mentor, Doctor William G. Keating, former Dean of Medicine at Harvard University. What wonderful years we had, Kranz thought to himself, remembering how Keating had arranged for Kranz to enter the prestigious medical school.

Fritz Hoffmann Kranz had been one of three highly gifted foreign medical students whom Keating had sponsored in 1948.

Keating had respected the young Austrian for his study habits and diligence in pursuing the highest standards of the medical profession. The two men had developed a close relationship — some said like father and son — and Fritz became part of the Keating family.

During the Christmas holidays of 1949, Kranz had married Keating's daughter, Kathryn Lynne, two years his junior. During the spring of 1955, the Kranzes, with their three-year-old daughter, Anna, moved to Austria. Fritz and Kathryn had made it a ritual to return to Cambridge, Massachusetts, every other year for the holiday season.

Kranz had never known about Keating's involvement with the CIA until the day Keating had recruited him. That had been three weeks before Keating died. Fritz and Kathryn had rushed home, accompanied by Anna and her children, to be with the terminally ill doctor. Bill Keating had called his son-in-law into his bedroom, offered him three fingers of Chivas, then laid out his desire for Kranz to accept the responsibility that Keating had been fulfilling for the CIA.

Fritz Kranz had been incredulous initially. The retired Dean of Medicine had explained to Kranz the proposed relationship with the CIA, who the contact would be, the fact that Kranz, with his background, would never be suspected of espionage, and that he would be serving a very worthy cause.

Kranz had resisted politely but firmly until Keating had reminded him of the question he had asked his sponsor upon entering Harvard. Fritz Kranz had remembered the words clearly. "How can I ever repay you, Doctor Keating?" Keating followed the reminder with the disclosure that he could not, under any condition, trust anyone else except his son-in-law. Fritz Kranz had embraced the dying man, then vowed solemnly to continue the service that Keating had been providing for the CIA.

Kranz snapped back to the present as he parked at the cable office. The streets were slowly beginning to fill with people and traffic. The retired surgeon stepped out of his well-worn BMW, shut the door, and walked into the small, unadorned office.

"Good morning," the jovial clerk said.

"Good morning," Kranz replied. "I am Doctor Kranz. You called in regard to a cable."

"Oh, yes," the young man responded. "Have it right here."

Kranz quickly signed for the cable in an unreadable scrawl, then took the envelope and placed it inside his jacket pocket. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Herr Doktor," the clerk replied as Kranz opened the squeaky door and stepped outside.

Well, Fritz, Kranz thought, let us pray no one has been compromised. He returned to his automobile, started the engine, patted his jacket pocket nervously, then drove to the Hotel Sacher at Number 4 Philharmonikerstrasse.

The CIA intermediary, carrying a small overnight bag from his trunk, checked into the elegant hostelry, then hurried to his room on the second floor. He placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, locked the door, and reached into his jacket for the cable.

Kranz sat down at the wooden desk, opened the envelope, and spread out the paper. He looked only at the first word in each sentence.

Kranz checked his watch, lifted the phone receiver, and rang the switchboard.

"Hotel operator," the soft female voice responded.

"Yes," Kranz said, looking at the cable. "Please connect me with the international operator."

"One moment."

Kranz waited, running RAINDANCE's phone number through his mind. He had had to memorize a new seven-digit number after Mathias Rust, the West German private pilot, landed his Cessna 172 on Red Square. The upper echelon of the Troops of Air Defense had been shuffled, resulting in a new assignment and relocation for RAINDANCE.

"May I help you?" the international operator asked.

"Ah, yes," Kranz responded, looking at his hotel phone number. "I wish to place a call to Moscow. The number is two-four-onefour-four-three-zero." Kranz glanced again at his watch, hoping that his Kremlin contact had not left his quarters.

The phone rang three times, then a fourth, before it was answered. "Lieutenant General Voronoteev."

"I have a person-to-person call for Pyotr Syrokomskiy," Kranz said, then waited for RAINDANCE to respond to the code name.

"You have the wrong number," Yuliy Lavrent'yevich Voronoteev, deputy commander of Rear Services, Troops of Air Defense, replied in heavily accented English.

Kranz hesitated two seconds, allowing Voronoteev time to prepare to write seven numbers. "This is not six-five-four-one-five… ah, eight-two?" Kranz asked, giving Voronoteev his five-digit phone number in reverse, then adding his room number in reverse.

"Nyet," Voronoteev answered bluntly, abruptly banging down the phone.

Kranz hung up and looked again at the cable. He knew that Voronoteev would call him back as soon as the Soviet officer could reach a public phone. Kranz got up and walked to his window, feeling uncomfortable with his espionage role. He gazed at the Vienna State Opera House a few moments, then scanned the cable again.