Shadow Flight

Chapter Eight

Lieutenant General Yuliy L. Voronoteev folded the slip of paper containing the numbers, placed it in his shirt pocket, and slipped on his uniform jacket. He brushed back his short-cropped salt and pepper hair, picked up his cap and carefully placed it on his head, then walked out of his seventh-story Kalinin Avenue apartment. After carefully locking the door, he strolled the length of the freshly painted hallway.

The slender, sixty-one-year-old former fighter pilot rode the elevator down to the parking deck, then stepped outside into the brisk morning air. Voronoteev inhaled deeply, glanced across the hazy skyline of Moscow, and walked toward his chauffeur-driven sedan.

Voronoteev's driver, standing beside the Voyska PVO (Troops of Air Defense) Moskvich 412, saluted smartly as he opened the door. "Zdrastvuytye, comrade general."

"Good morning, Sergeant Ogorkhov," Voronoteev replied, returning the greeting and salute as he entered the gleaming automobile. "We will make a brief stop at the government department store before going to the Kremlin."

"Da, comrade general," the young driver replied, closing the door carefully.

Yuliy Voronoteev sat quietly, wrestling with his deeply implanted, mixed emotions of loyalty and hostility toward the Rodina — the Motherland. Each time he committed treason, regardless of the magnitude of the offense, Voronoteev justified his act by dredging up his contempt for Soviet ineptness and brutality. After committing treason, the Air Defense officer habitually spent two or three days locked in his Kalinin apartment, drinking Stolichnaya around the clock. After a protracted period of inebriation, he had always managed to purge his disdain for the unnecessary injustices he had endured.

Voronoteev stared out of the Moskvich 412's side window at the overcast sky, lost in the memories of his wife, while Sergeant Ogorkhov negotiated the turn from Kalinin Prospekt onto Manezhnaya Street. The general glanced at troitskiye vorota — Trinity Gate — that led to the Palace of Congresses inside the Kremlin compound.

Returning to his thoughts, he remembered the day that his beloved wife had died under the scalpel of an incompetent butcher. Although that had been thirty-four years ago, the events were as clear in his mind as if the tragedy had happened yesterday.

Larissa Innova Voronoteev, eight months pregnant, had suffered severe complications while her starshiy leytenant husband had been undergoing flight training three hundred kilometers away. Three days past her twenty-fourth birthday, she had died from a massive hemorrhage when the surgeon bungled the cesarean section. The female infant, deprived of oxygen for more than eight minutes, had died the following afternoon.

Voronoteev recalled vividly the utter helplessness he had felt when his squadron commander had met him at the steps to his MiG21F. The young fighter pilot's shock and deep sense of loss had turned to rage when the lieutenant colonel explained that Larissa had died two and a half days earlier.

"The stupid bastards," Voronoteev said quietly, unaware that he had spoken. His mind was consumed by the contempt he felt for the doctor and the administrators who had taken almost sixty hours to relay the message of his wife's tragic death.

"Excuse me, comrade general?"

Voronoteev looked up at the face reflected in the rearview mirror. "What, sergeant?"

"I thought the general had asked a question," the driver said, slowing for traffic.

"No," Voronoteev replied in a pleasant voice, "just thinking out loud again."

"Yes, sir."

Voronoteev gazed at the Kremlin Corner Arsenal Tower as his driver accelerated in the flow of traffic. The anguish and hatred swelled in his stomach again, as it always had, when he thought about Larissa's miserably incompetent doctor.

Voronoteev had doggedly pursued a clear explanation of how and why his wife had died. Weeks after his beautiful Larissa had been laid to rest, the young lieutenant had discovered the awful truth. The relatively inexperienced physician had had a record of substandard performance, coupled with a history of frequent transfers and a known drinking problem. The sad part, Voronoteev thought angrily, was the fact that the marginally qualified doctor was still practicing.

Sergeant Ogorkhov eased the Moskvich 412 to a smooth stop in front of the large government department store, better known to Muscovites as GUM. The driver stepped out and hurried around to open his general's door.

"I'll only be a few minutes," Voronoteev said, stepping into the cold air.

The driver acknowledged Voronoteev, then quickly returned to the driver's seat to stay warm.

Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev, ramrod straight, shoulders squared, entered the mammoth department store and walked to a bank of public telephones. He unbuttoned his jacket, reached into his shirt pocket, and glanced around the cavernous building before extracting the piece of paper.

He placed the call, then waited for his contact to answer. Voronoteev could feel his pulse quickening as he continued to scan the interior of the building. No one appeared to be taking any interest in the handsome officer.

Fritz Kranz sat quietly at the small birch desk, tapping his fingers absently on the smooth top. He looked at the telephone, took a deep breath, then stood and started toward the shuttered window.

Kranz flinched when the phone rang. He hurried back to the desk and lifted the receiver. "Peter Wipplinger," Kranz answered, using the fictitious code name.

"Hello, Peter," Lieutenant General Voronoteev said cheerfully. "Alexei Arbatov, returning your call. It has been a long time."

"Yes, my friend," Kranz responded evenly. "Good to hear your voice again."

"Thank you, professor," Voronoteev replied, carefully scrutinizing the dirigible hangar — shaped building. "What news have you heard?"

"My colleagues at the university," Kranz answered uncomfortably, "have reported that a B-2 Stealth bomber is missing. The speculation is that it did not crash."

"That is very interesting," Voronoteev replied, placing the small strip of paper back in his shirt pocket. He knew what Kranz was alluding to. Some Soviet faction apparently had their hands on the top secret bomber.

"Peter, I have a call on another line," Voronoteev said, seemingly surprised by the news. "I'll contact you when I am not so busy."

"That will be fine, Alexei. I look forward to hearing from you," Kranz replied, then acknowledged Voronoteev's salutation and replaced the receiver in the cradle.

The Austrian physician felt somewhat relieved, knowing that his contact would not call again until the next day. The follow-up calls were always between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, allowing Kranz to return home while he retained the room. He always left toilet articles strewn in the bathroom, and he rumpled the bed, as if it had been slept on.

Kranz walked into the well-appointed bathroom, then stared at his puffy face in the oval mirror. "Fritz, you're too old and you get too nervous for this kind of nonsense."

The captain of the power catamaran Quicksilver II waited patiently, along with his thirteen scuba diving enthusiasts, for one of their companions to complete his telephone conversation. The noisy group, anxious to reach the outer regions of the Great Barrier Reef, had been delayed already by a faulty fuel line.

After receiving a new fuel hose, Quicksilver II had cast off scant seconds before the Sheraton Mirages courtesy van had slid to a grinding halt at the dock. The ensemble had watched curiously as the tanned American had leaped from the catamaran to the pier and run the short distance to the shouting messenger. Most of the passengers had noticed the two large scars on their American diving companion, one on the right shoulder, the other across his lower back.

"I'll go see what the problem is," Rebecca Marchand offered, stepping onto the wooden dock.

"Thanks, mate," the leathery-skinned captain responded, admiring the beautiful, blond-haired young woman. He could clearly see the skimpy blue and white bikini under her thin cover-up.

The Pan American Airlines flight attendant was only twenty feet from the small passenger shelter when her fiance, Stephen Wickham, raced out the door. "Becky, we have to cancel — I'll explain later."

"What's wrong, Steve?"

"I'm not exactly sure," he answered, darting a look at the catamaran. "Let's grab our gear."

Steve turned to the hotel driver. "Hang on, we'll be just a couple of seconds."

"Take your time, Mister Wickham," the easygoing Australian said, leaning against the front fender.

Steve and Becky trotted down to the waiting catamaran, apolo-_ gized to the skipper and their fellow passengers, retrieved the rented diving gear, then hurried back to the Sheraton's passenger shuttle.

"Honey, I have to go back," Steve said, lowering his voice when the driver opened his door to get in. "Some kind of crisis at the agency."

"You've got to be kidding," Becky responded as the shuttle van accelerated toward the hotel.

"Becky, I know this isn't fair to you, but something very important — really big — has happened. I honestly don't know the particulars, but it's a category one panic."

"Steve, can't they assign someone else? You're on vacation — a well-deserved vacation I might add — and we've only been here three days."

Steve placed his hand on Becky's thigh and patted her in an affectionate manner. "Hey, kiddo, I know you're upset, but it isn't as simple as it sounds."

Becky raised Steve's hand and held it between hers. "I'm not upset with you, Steve. It just seems that every time we arrange anything together…"

"I know," Steve responded, "and I can only apologize."

Becky turned slightly to look directly into Steve's sparkling green eyes. "What could be so important that you have to cancel your vacation and race back to Langley?"

Steve remained quiet a moment, selecting his words carefully. "Stephen," Becky said, tilting her head slightly, "you're holding something back, aren't you?"

"Could we give this a rest," Steve said in a hushed whisper, "until we get to our room?"

Becky paused, giving her fiance a stern but understanding look. "Yes, Clark Kent. Just one thing."

"I know," Steve replied, trying to suppress a grin.

"Well, why not?" Becky asked in a pleasant manner. "After risking your life in the Marine Corps and damn near getting killed last year in Russia… Steve, taking an administrative position isn't the end of the world. You're an excellent manager and leader."

Becky stopped, knowing that this was not the time to discuss her ongoing concern about Steve's profession. "I love you," she said, still clutching his hand, "and I want to spend a long, happy life with you."

Steve Wickham grinned again, revealing his even, white teeth. "Sitting together in our rocking chairs, staring out across the lake?"

"That's right," Becky chuckled, nudging her husband-to-be with her shoulder.

The van stopped at the entrance to the hotel. Steve tipped the driver and followed Becky to their room. Closing the coral pink door of their suite, Steve turned to his fiance. "Honey, do you want to stay over for a couple of days?"

Becky looked at Steve with a quizzical expression. "No. I want to be with you. We'll go back together and I can spend some time in Washington."

Steve put up his hand, indicating that he needed to explain the situation. "Becky, it isn't quite that easy. I won't be going back on the airline, and… I won't be going to Langley."

Becky sat down on the floral print couch and crossed her slender legs. "Okay, Steve, out with it."

Steve walked to the small refrigerator and grabbed a can of Foster's lager. "Care for anything?"

"Yes," Becky replied, pulling a pillow toward her. "An explanation."

Steve popped the top and sat down in a chair across from Becky. "Honey, you don't hold a clearance, but I'm going to tell you as much as I can." Becky nodded, curling her shapely legs under her thin cover-up.

Steve swallowed a quick mouthful of the cold brew. "The Navy is sending a fighter — an F-14 Tomcat — to pick me up and boom me to Key West, Florida.* That's all I know right now, honestly."

"Steve," Becky hesitated, "fighter planes don't have the ability to fly nonstop from Australia to Florida."

"Honey," Steve responded, sipping his Foster's, "the Navy is going to aerial refuel the Tomcat all the way across."

"I don't like this, Steve," Becky said, a frown on her attractive face. "The agency doesn't fly CIA agents halfway around the world in a fighter plane if it isn't some kind of crisis."

The former marine corps infantry captain placed his aluminum can on the end table, hesitated a brief second, then leaned forward. "Becky, I haven't explained to you what I'm doing at the present time… in the agency."

Becky stood, walked to the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of chilled champagne. "I was saving this for tonight, but I believe now would be an appropriate time to open it. Please go on."

Steve cleared his throat quietly. "I was reassigned to Clandestine Ops after I came back from recuperative leave."

"Clandestine Ops," Becky repeated, popping the cork out of the cold bottle. "That sounds like a nice, safe, long-term career position."

Steve could see the concern on Becky's face. Of all the women he had known in his life, Rebecca Marchand was the first who had made him have second thoughts about marriage and his CIA career. He put his arms around his future wife, then placed her head on his shoulder. "Honey, I promise we'll talk about alternatives when I get home, okay?"

"I'll bet you tell that to all the girls," Becky replied, smiling slightly. "How long until they pick you up?"

Steve looked at his watch. "About two hours. A Tomcat is en route from Cubi Point — it was already airborne when I got the message."

"Well," Becky said as she untied her cover-up and let it drop to the floor, "let's enjoy the time we have."