Shadow Flight

Chapter Two

Peter Dawson, journeyman traffic controller, stared at his radarscope, mesmerized. The emergency transponder squawk-7700was real. The code, which set off the control center alarm, had appeared instantaneously without even a primary radar return.

Dawson's supervisor, Bruce Cochrane, was already standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder. "Where the blazes did that come from?"

"You've got me," Dawson replied, looking confused. He had not been tracking any traffic twenty-five nautical miles west of the southern tip of Belcher Islands.

"Get on the land-line, Peter," the supervisor ordered, looking closer at the radarscope, "and find out what's going on out there."

Dawson nodded in response, then talked briefly with a controller in the Winnipeg sector. The young air traffic specialist listened to his associate, signed off, and turned to his supervisor. "They don't have a clue, Bruce," Dawson said, checking his pad. "That squawk popped up from an area that's temporarily restricted… some kind of military operation."

Cochrane shrugged his shoulders, exhaling loudly. "How long was it on the scope?"

"I'm not sure," Dawson responded, searching his mind for the answer to Cochrane's question. "Four, maybe five seconds. Long enough to trigger the alarm."

"Lad," Cochrane placed his left hand on Dawson's shoulder, "better whistle up the military boys and signal the rescue people. I think someone is shy one airplane."

Major Paul Evans, frozen in terror, stared at the business end of a bright orange flare gun. The muzzle was only four inches from his face.

Evans glanced down at the object in Simmons's lap. The technician had opened the valve of his temporary oxygen bottle. He was filling the cockpit with pure oxygen. One spark and Shadow 37 would explode in a thundering conflagration.

"What the hell are you doing?" Evans shouted as he reached over to tap Matthews on the sleeve.

The aircraft commander glanced quickly over his right shoulder. "Goddamn, Larry, wh—"

"Shut up, both of you," Simmons said in a shaky, strained voice. He was having a difficult time remembering the speech he had been taught. The hours of rehearsing had been wasted as the spiel evaporated slowly from his frightened mind.

Both pilots, remaining silent, gave each other a fearful look. Matthews raised the B-2's nose slightly, reaching for the safety of altitude. The mission had now become a matter of personal survival.

Matthews and Evans were surprised when the AWACS radioed on the emergency Guard, 243.0, frequency. The airborne controllers had also seen the emergency code flash on their radarscopes.

"Ghost Two Five and Shadow Three Seven, this is Mystic," the AWACS officer said. "Acknowledge."

Matthews attempted to speak to Simmons as Evans keyed his radio.

"Larry, you can't get—"

"Don't use the radio!" Simmons commanded, holding the quivering flare gun next to Evans's neck. "Unplug your radio cords — both of you. NOW! We're shutting down all systems emissions — everything."

Matthews and Evans again exchanged concerned looks as they complied with the order. Matthews scanned the primary flight instruments, checked the engine readouts, then spoke to his copilot. "Paul, take the controls, stay on course, and level at twelve thousand."

Simmons hesitated a second, then spoke to the aircraft commander in a steady voice. "Major… Colonel Matthews, I am in control of the flight."

Simmons waved the 12-gauge signal gun nervously between the pilots. "I give the orders. Turn to a course of one hundred eighty-seven, and go up to fifty-one thousand feet."

Evans paused, questioning Matthews.

"Go ahead, Paul," the pilot replied, then turned slightly to the right in order to face Simmons more fully. "Larry," Matthews said in a soothing voice, "we're going to comply — no problem — whatever you want, okay? Just relax, and listen."

"No," Simmons replied in a normal tone. "You are not going to talk me out of this. Just follow my directions, and you and Major Evans will be okay."

Matthews started to speak, then decided to let Simmons have his say.

"I am defecting to a Communist state and taking this airplane with me."

The two pilots looked at each other with blank stares. They were incredulous.

"Larry," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly, "this is insane… the biggest mistake you could ever make. We still have time to salvage this… error in judgment, if you'll give us a chance."

"Colonel," Simmons replied, pointing the flare gun in the pilot's face. "I will not hesitate to blow this airplane out of the sky if you attempt to resist."

The gun wavered slightly, prompting Simmons to use both hands to steady the weapon.

"All right, Larry," Matthews responded with a resigned look. "No problem… Just don't do anything irrational, okay?" Simmons nodded, then leaned back and wiped the perspiration from his cheeks. His chest pounded as he realized that he, Lawrence Maynard Simmons, had done it. Crossed the line. No one would ever take advantage of him again. Not his company. Not his boss, Ronald, who persistently called him "May-nerd." Not his former wife, Colleen, the bitch who had taken his home, his car, and, most importantly, his beautiful daughter.

All the miserable years of debt, humiliation, divorce proceedings, and broken promises were over. He would be a hero in his new country. A man admired by the leaders of the most efficient intelligence agency in the world. A man admired by his lover, Irina Rykhov.

Matthews pondered their options as Evans checked their rate of climb, added more power, then turned his head to glance at Simmons.

"Ah… Larry," Evans said in a questioning tone. "Two minor details. We're headed for Cleveland, not to any foreign country, and we don't have the fuel to make it to any other part of the world. We're only carrying enough fuel to fly the strike profile."

Simmons awkwardly unfolded a large chart and handed it to Evans. "Yes, we do," Simmons replied, watching the surprised copilot glance at the map, then hand it to Matthews.

General Donovan noticed the absence of radio chatter from the two AWACS aircraft. The large room had suddenly become quiet. Too quiet.

Donovan was startled when his radio speaker came to life. "Veil Control, Mystic. We have an emergency. Repeat, we have an emergency."

Donovan's eyes grew larger as he keyed his communication button. He normally did not talk directly to the participating aircraft. "Mystic, this is General Donovan. Explain the nature of your emergency."

The atmosphere in the control center had changed from being relaxed, almost casual, to surprised tension.

"We just received a confirmed seventy-seven hundred squawk, sir. The IFF code came from the area we suspect the B-2 was penetrating."

Donovan and Bothwell looked at each other in agony. They had had to confront the air force chief of staff, who had been concerned about the safety factor of the mission, to have the unusual operation approved.

"Abort the mission, Mystic," Donovan ordered in an anxious, but controlled voice. "Break radio silence and call both aircraft."

"General," the AWACS controller paused, "we've called both aircraft on Guard. Ghost Two Five checked in immediately. Shadow Three Seven hasn't responded, sir."

The SAC commander grimaced, then spoke slowly to the AWACS controller. "Activate air-sea rescue on the double. I want every available piece of equipment over the area where the distress signal originated."

"Wilco, Veil," the controller replied.

The control center remained silent a moment, everyone apparently digesting the awful thought. Had Shadow 37 crashed?

"Carl," Bothwell said in a hushed tone. "I think we should have the B-1 crew recover here. We need to debrief them personally while everything is fresh in their minds."

"You're right," Donovan replied, keying his microphone.

"Mother of God," Matthews said as the B-2 climbed through 7,000 feet. "Cuba?"

"Yes," Simmons answered nervously. "San Julian."

Matthews stared at the Jeppesen high-altitude flight planning chart. Attached to the bottom was a narrow portion of a world aeronautical chart depicting the western tip of Cuba. The aircraft commander quickly saw their destination. San Julian was a military airfield with an 8,500-foot runway.

Evans talked to,Simmons without taking his eyes off the flight instruments. "We're going to have a difficult time making fifty-one thousand."

Simmons did not answer, knowing that the B-2 could climb above the advertised service ceiling of 50,000 feet. Matthews punched in the coordinates for San Julian on his touch-sensitive miligraphics terminal.

The global positioning navigation system flashed on the screen, showing the B-2's present position, course to destination, nautical miles to San Julian, time en route, and total fuel consumption.

"I'll tell you what our real problem is going to be," Matthews said, pointing to the screen. "Even Cuba is beyond our fuel range, including reserves."

Simmons's eyes hardened. "No tricks, colonel. I mean what I say. I'll blow us out of the air if you try to stop me."

Matthews sighed, then spoke with anger. "Goddamnit, Larry. It won't make any difference whether you destroy us now or we wait to crash in the Gulf of Mexico. Dead is dead. We aren't carrying a full load of fuel."

Simmons remained quiet a moment, contemplating the flight information that Irina had given him.

Evans looked at the navigation readout, then broke the silence as the powerful bomber climbed through 13,000 feet. "Larry, he isn't trying to trick you. Look at the figures. It isn't that difficult to understand."

Simmons stared at the screen-1,820 nautical miles to San Julian; range to fuel exhaustion, counting the built-in reserve, indicated 1,790 nautical miles.

The Stealth bomber, fully fueled and loaded to its maximum takeoff weight of 390,000 pounds, had a high-altitude range of more than 6,800 nautical miles —10,800 miles with one air refueling. The low-level range subtracted more than 2,000 nautical miles.

"Major Evans," Simmons said, placing the safety pins into the pilots' ejection seats to disarm them. "I know you can step-climb to fifty-one thousand as we burn off fuel, then make an idle descent into Cuba."

Evans spoke slowly. "That is correct, to a certain point. The higher we go, the less fuel we burn — true. But we don't know what the winds are going to be like at altitude, we don't have any current weather information, and we don't have any instrument approach plates for San Julian."

Simmons remained quiet as he secured the supplemental oxygen system.

"Larry," Matthews said, "thirty nautical miles is a lot of space to make up between here and Cuba, especially if the weather is rotten for our approach and landing. The weather report I saw this morning showed a tropical disturbance in the Caribbean, but I didn't pay any attention to the exact location."

Simmons struggled to extract three pieces of tightly folded paper from his left thigh pocket. "This will help guide us in, colonel," Simmons said, handing the Cuban Revolutionary Air Force and Antiaircraft Defense airport diagrams to the pilot.

Matthews looked at the DAAFAR instrument approach plates with the hand-drawn lines. One prominent line began at the airfield and continued due north to the edge of the page. Matthews then looked at the Cuban aeronautical chart. The same line extended north approximately ninety nautical miles to a point just inside the Cuban air defense identification zone.

"I assume, Larry," Matthews paused to hand the diagrams and charts to Evans, "that we're going to have an escort down that line to San Julian."

"That's correct," Simmons responded evenly, feeling more confident. "When we reach that point, still at our cruising altitude, we'll energize our transponder and radars so the MiGs can join up with us.

"Great," Evans replied, handing the wrinkled papers back to Matthews. "We're going to have a damned steep descent into the field."

The cockpit remained quiet as Shadow 37, climbing rapidly through the overcast, passed 27,000 feet. The bomber was lighter than it would be after becoming operational. The Boeing-built advanced rotary weapons launchers did not contain the normal complement of sixteen nuclear cruise missiles.

Matthews checked his instrument panel, then spoke to the civilian. "Well, Larry, you've thought of everything except one item — if we don't run out of fuel, that is."

Simmons waited a few seconds before responding. His mind whirled, trying to comprehend what the aircraft commander was talking about. "Yeah, colonel?" Simmons asked, trying not to show any of the fear growing inside him. "What's the one item?"

Matthews turned to face the Stealth's hijacker. "That the commies are going to dispose of you — kill you — after they get their hands on this airplane."

Secretary of Defense Bernard D. Kerchner, sitting at his secluded table at Twenty One Federal, lifted his aperitif glass. "Here's to you, darling. The quintessence of the perfect wife."

Kerchner touched the outstretched glass lightly, then looked into the dancing green eyes. "Happy thirty-first anniversary, Liddy."

The radiant, petite woman brushed back her chestnut hair, then squeezed her husband's left hand. "Bernie, I have always loved the irrepressible romantic in you."

Kerchner started to respond, then stopped. He had noticed the maitre d' hurrying toward their table. Renoir Dutilleux, always the gentleman, apologized for intruding, then handed Kerchner a slip of paper.

"Thank you, Renoir," Kerchner said, slipping his reading glasses from the holder inside his coat.

"Again, my apologies, Mister Secretary. The general said it was most urgent."

"It always is," Kerchner replied, smiling. He waited while the maitre d' bowed slightly and walked away.

"Oh, Bernie, not bad news," Liddy said softly, watching her husband's brow furrow.

"I'm afraid so," Kerchner replied, sliding back his chair. "I have to call General Parkinson at home."

The short, balding, round-faced defense secretary motioned for their waiter, then patted his wife's hand. The white-jacketed waiter crossed the elegant marble and wood floor and approached the table.

"Nicky, I have to make a phone call, so we'll order in a few minutes," Kerchner said, opening the wine list. "In the meantime, we'll sample a bottle of Cotes du Rhone Beaucastel."

"Excellent choice, Secretary Kerchner."

Elizabeth "Liddy" Kerchner, feeling cheated by the government once again, watched her husband walk to the phone near the entrance. She and Bernie seemed to have so little private time together since the shake-up at "crisis management" — Bernie's nickname for the National Security Council. The gracious, attractive woman accepted the glass of red wine the waiter had poured, then watched her husband place the phone receiver down and remove his glasses. She could see the anguish in his eyes.

Kerchner walked to the table, pulled back his chair, slid into his seat, and took both of his wife's hands in his. "Sorry, honey," Kerchner said, massaging the top of Liddy's hands gently with his thumbs. "I've got to rush over to the Pentagon. Why don't you order, then take a cab home… and don't wait up. I promise we're going to do this again — until we get it right."

Liddy laughed in her warm, soft manner. "I know, Bernie… I know. Can you tell me what has happened?"

"Yes," Kerchner replied, lowering his voice slightly. "We've lost one of our B-2s."

Liddy Kerchner was visibly shocked. "One of the new Stealth bombers crashed?"

Kerchner glanced around the room, then spoke quietly. "They don't know what happened. The damned thing disappeared over Hudson Bay — joint exercise with the Canadians — and the speculation is that it crashed in the bay."

"Oh, God," Liddy said in a hushed voice. "How awful."

"Yes," Kerchner responded somberly, signaling for their regular waiter. "I'll call you later, as soon as I know anything."

Liddy watched, unsmiling, as her husband signed the open check, retrieved his topcoat, then walked out the door.

Matthews and Evans had remained quiet as the bomber struggled to 51,000 feet. Shadow 37 was now passing directly over Detroit, invisible to radar screens in the Cleveland air route traffic control center.

"Larry," Matthews said in a conversational tone. "I recommend we turn on the radios, so we can at least monitor traffic and get some weather information."

Simmons thought about the suggestion, suspicion written on his face. "Why?"

Matthews looked at Evans out of the corner of his eye in time to catch the copilot roll his eyes upward. "Because we are currently traveling through one of the highest density air traffic areas in the country. There's a lot of congestion up here, Larry, and no one knows we're overhead."

Simmons remained quiet, mulling over the reasonableness of the request.

Evans half-turned, facing Simmons. "Goddamnit, we aren't going to transmit anything."

Simmons still did not trust the pilots but reluctantly acquiesced. "Okay, but don't try anything, I warn you. One word and I'll pull the trigger."

Neither officer answered as they quickly activated the VHF and UHF radios and plugged in their radio cords. The B-2 normally used UHF, or the classified MILSTAR system, but the crew also needed the VHF frequencies used by civilians.

Matthews reached down behind the console separating the pilots, and retrieved the U. S. government IFR en route high-altitude charts. The charts would allow the pilots to orient themselves and, most importantly, identify the radio frequencies they needed to monitor each air traffic control center.

"Looks like one-thirty-two point forty-five," Matthews said, tuning the VHF channels.

The padded earphones in each crew member's helmet immediately crackled to life. "United Two Seven Four, cleared present position direct to Indianapolis."

"Direct Indianapolis, United Two Seven Four," the pleasant female voice replied.

Both pilots listened to the radio chatter, waiting for ten minutes after the top of the hour. That would be a good time to eavesdrop on the civilian flight service frequencies for a picture of the weather in the southeastern United States.

"Cleveland Center, Citation Five-Fifty-Five Tango Charlie with ya at five-one-oh."

Matthews and Evans, startled, looked at each other, then listened intently to the conversation. The business jet was cruising at their altitude.

"Five Five Tango Charlie," the center controller radioed, "we have a change in routing. Ready to copy?"

"Tango Charlie, go ahead."

"Five Five Tango Charlie is cleared via Jay sixty-four Bradford, direct Des Moines."

The Citation copilot read back the clearance. "Sixty-four Bradford, direct Des Moines, triple nickel Tango Charlie."

Matthews tapped the high-altitude chart. "Look! We're about to cross Jet sixty-four."

Evans turned down the cockpit lights to the lowest setting, then looked at the chart. "It runs east and west; he has to be closing from the left, westbound, if he hasn't already crossed in front of us."

"You're right. Let's step down," Matthews ordered.

Evans gently eased the autopilot into a descent, then turned toward Simmons. "We're going to cruise at fifty thousand — it isn't a cardinal altitude."

Simmons nodded his agreement, watching the altimeter readout.

Both pilots saw the business jet's flashing strobe lights at the same instant. "JESUS!" Matthews yelled as the B-2 was rocked violently by wing-tip turbulence from the Citation III.

Evans let out his breath slowly. "We didn't miss him twenty feet vertically."

"Yeah," Matthews replied grimly. "His wing went right over our cockpit."

Evans continued the descent as the pilots listened to the frightened Citation copilot.

"Cleveland, Five Five Tango Charlie!"

"Cleveland Center," the controller answered, alert to the change in the pilot's voice.

"Ah… Cleveland, we almost had a midair. You have any traffic in the vicinity at our altitude?"

"Negative, Five Five Tango Charlie," the surprised controller replied in a questioning voice. "Closest traffic is eastbound, eight miles at your eleven o'clock — a Gulfstream at four-one-zero."

"Okay, Cleveland, but we want to report a damned close call. Something, and it was definitely there, passed right under us — didn't miss us more than fifty to a hundred feet."

"I don't show anything on radar," the controller replied, disbelieving. "I'm not seeing any other returns in your area."

"Well, it wasn't our imagination," the excited copilot responded. "Something went under us."

Matthews and Evans exchanged anxious looks before the aircraft commander turned toward Simmons. The tech-rep's face was contorted in fear as he watched Evans level the Stealth at 50,000 feet.

"Fifty thousand," Matthews explained to Simmons, "is a non-used altitude. We'll be in a safer position here, unless someone is climbing or descending through our altitude."

Simmons, grim faced, nodded in return.

Matthews concentrated on his flight instruments while his brain sought a way to disarm the hijacker. In spite of the imminent danger of his position — or maybe because of it — he found his thoughts interrupted by the faces of his wife, Roxanne, and their twins, Meredith and Michelle.

He had met Roxanne Paquette during his senior year at the Air Force Academy. Six months later, the day after his graduation, the happy couple had exchanged marriage vows in the academy chapel.

As a newly minted second lieutenant, who had earned his private pilot license during high school, he had taken his wife on a flying honeymoon. He had leased a Cessna 182 and they had toured the Bahamian Islands from end to end.

After returning from the islands, he and his bride had driven from Colorado Springs to Boston. His first assignment as an air force officer required that he obtain an advanced degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Fifteen months later, with a master's degree in aeronautical engineering, he and Roxy had departed Boston for undergraduate pilot training at Vance Air Force Base, Enid, Oklahoma.

A popular couple, they had rented an apartment off base. Their Friday evening steak cookout and beer bust had become a weekly ritual for friends and classmates during the long, hot Oklahoma summer.

Once a month, during a weekend, they had driven to Wellington, Kansas, to visit his parents and grandmother. Roxy had spent many Sundays helping his mother and grandmother prepare the large dinner.

Three days after he received his shining silver wings—

Matthews was jolted from his thoughts when Simmons coughed. He stole a glance at his copilot, who was glaring with open hostility at the tech-rep.