Shadow Flight

Chapter Four

Matthews, staring through the rain at the MiG-25, wrestled the controls of the bucking Stealth bomber. He constantly jockeyed the number two and three throttles to maintain formation with the agile Soviet fighter.

The MiG on the right had disappeared, but Matthews knew that it was close by, probably on the B-2's tail. "We're committed to this guy," Matthews remarked to his copilot. "I hope he knows where the runway is."

"I'm sure these two are the cream," Evans replied as he watched the fuel totalizer steadily count toward zero. "Less than twelve hundred pounds, Chuck."

"Okay," Matthews replied, showing no emotion. "Switch to Land."

Evans placed the master mode switch to the land position. The flight controls transitioned to the landing mode and the checklist appeared on the multipurpose display units.

The copilot studied the screen before speaking. "We're down to flaps and gear."

"Okay," Matthews responded, concentrating on the MiG. "Too bad we can't talk to our escorts."

"Sure is," Evans said, darting a look at Simmons. "Would have made it a lot easier."

Simmons did not respond. He was nervously watching Matthews struggle to keep behind the MiG-25's wing.

"Thousand pounds," Evans reported, locking his shoulder harness restraints. "We're making a left-hand approach, according to the mileage and heading."

"I know," Matthews replied without turning his head. "Let's pray he makes a tight approach."

Paul Evans did not answer, waiting for the commands to lower the flaps and landing gear. Ten seconds passed as Evans monitored the aircraft commander. "We're outta three thousand."

"Okay," Matthews responded. "We've got terrain up to around two thousand feet northeast of the field. These bozos better have it together."

"This is like flying through Niagara Falls," Evans said, concern edging into his voice. "Nine hundred pounds."

"He's slowing!" Matthews said, caught off guard. "Give me flaps — we'll hold the gear."

"Flaps on the way," Evans responded, straining to see through the rain-splattered windshield. "Out of fifteen hundred, showing eight hundred pounds. Airspeed one-seventy-five."

"Okay," Matthews replied, tight-lipped. "Stand by for the gear and call out my altitu—"

"Shit!" Evans interrupted. "We've lost fuel pressure on number three… we're losing three!"

"Give me cross-feed!" Matthews ordered, advancing the throttle on the number two engine. "Boost on!"

The EICAS screen lighted, displaying the schematic diagram for the complex fuel system. The cross-feed valves and jet pumps had been energized.

"You got it," Evans shouted, monitoring the radio altimeter. "Eight hundred feet — we're bleeding off! Power — power!"

Matthews did not reply as he advanced the number two throttle to the limit. The B-2 surged forward, yawing slightly to the right, as the single 19,000-pound-thrust engine howled at full power.

"Five hundred feet, one-forty-five on the speed," Evans cautioned, squinting through the windshield. "I don't see anything — keep it coming."

Simmons placed the flare gun in the leg pocket of his flight suit, then clutched his seat and closed his eyes. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him when the bomber yawed to the right.

"Three hundred feet," Evans reported, breathing faster. "One-forty… bleeding off."

"I've got it to the stops."

Both pilots flinched when the low-altitude warning alarm sounded.

"I've lost the MiG," Matthews shouted, reverting to his primary flight instruments. The radio altimeter indicated 170 feet above the ground.

"He's going around," Evans said, feeling the B-2's rate of descent increase. "Gotta hold this heading… we're almost there."

"God, I hope so," Matthews answered through clenched teeth. He tried to block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.

"Airspeed — airspeed!" Evans prompted. "Two's fluctuating — we're losing it! One hundred feet. Two's flamed out — raise the nose!"

"Gear down," Matthews yelled, pulling back the control stick to its limit.

Simmons gritted his teeth and squeezed the sides of his ejection seat.

"Wind shear!" Evans warned, snapping the landing gear lever down. "Get the nose up!"

"Yeah!" Matthews replied in a tight, strained voice. "Can't control it!"

Evans, wide-eyed, stared through the windshield at the black void; Matthews's gaze remained fixed on his primary flight instruments.

"I've got runway lights," the copilot shouted, bracing himself. "Gear down and locked. Ease it right — go right!"

"I'm trying… the wind is too strong!"

The B-2 slammed into the runway overrun, bounced back into the air, slewed to the right, then smashed violently onto the runway. "Emergency brakes!" Matthews ordered.

Evans pulled the yellow-and black-striped handle, then sat paralyzed as the bomber veered toward the left side of the runway. The left main gear dug into the soft, rain-soaked turf, dragging the aircraft farther to the left. Evans gripped the glare shield with both hands. "Here we go!"

The B-2 went off the runway, right brake smoking, and plowed twenty-eight hundred feet to a shuddering stop, leaving three deep furrows in the soggy ground. Both pilots sat dazed, their hearts racing, as they watched the array of vehicle lights approaching them.

"The nose gear held," Evans sighed, letting out his breath slowly. "You did a hell of a job, Chuck."

"We were all passengers the last twenty seconds," Matthews replied, placing his hands on his shaking knees.

Simmons rubbed his bruised left leg, then slowly unstrapped his seat belt and shoulder harness. The color was rapidly returning to his face.

"Well, Simmons," Matthews said, removing his camouflage helmet and flight gloves, "you better step out and greet your associates."

Matthews and Evans unstrapped as Simmons wordlessly lowered the crew entrance hatch and stepped out of the B-2's belly.

Three Soviet GAZ field cars, each equipped with a mounted machine gun, surrounded the front of the Stealth bomber. Three rain-soaked Cubans, clothed in camouflage khaki ponchos, manned the Russian guns.

A dark brown van roared down the wet taxiway, slowed quickly, then turned onto the muddy ground and plowed toward the B-2. The pilots watched the van slide to a stop between the field car on the left of the B-2 and the GAZ at the front of the aircraft.

"Ten to one the guy in the passenger seat is Russian," Matthews remarked as the two pilots watched a Cuban soldier jump out of the van. "Ivan must be the honcho."

The Cuban, carrying a submachine gun, gestured wildly for Simmons to get into the vehicle. The hijacker ran through the rain, splashing ankle-deep mud on his flight suit, and stepped through the van's sliding door.

"Well, Chuck," Evans said slowly, noticing the Russian motioning for them to get out, "it must be our turn."

"I'm afraid so," Matthews replied as he shut off the B-2's electrical system, ignoring the checklist. "We better keep our hands above our heads, Paul. Let's not give them an excuse to shoot us."

"Right," Evans replied, climbing out of his seat. He leaned back to allow Matthews to exit the hatch, then followed his aircraft commander out of the darkened cockpit.

Matthews waited under the B-2 until Evans joined him, then the pilots placed their hands on top of their heads and walked toward the van. The wind-driven rain drenched them as a half-dozen Cuban troops surrounded them. The leader, brandishing a revolver, gestured toward the van's open side door.

"In the car!"

Matthews nodded yes, not saying a word. In his peripheral vision he could see the beefy Russian staring at him. Both pilots stepped up into the van, hands on top of their heads, then sat down across from Simmons.

"Just do what they say," Simmons cautioned under his breath, "and you'll be okay."

Matthews and Evans did not respond, each surveying the inside of the spartan Chevrolet conversion van. Two Cuban troops climbed into the vehicle, slid the door closed, then sat down on each side of Simmons, facing the American captives.

No one said a word as the landing light of the Russian flight leader appeared suddenly in the dense rain. The MiG-25 touched down hard in the violent wind shear, then rolled out of sight toward the end of the runway.

The number two MiG, following his leader by thirty seconds, slammed into the concrete, bounced into the air, dropped back, then hydroplaned out of sight down the runway.

"Put your hands down," the Russian ordered in moderately accented English, then turned halfway around in his seat. "We mean no harm to you, if you cooperate."

The two pilots lowered their hands to their thighs and stole a quick look at each other.

"To the hangar," the Russian commanded. He turned around, folded his burly arms, and stared straight ahead as the van bounced over the sodden ground to the taxiway. The three Americans and their guards remained quiet during the short ride to the local KGB director's office.

The early morning sun, barely lighting the horizon, crept slowly into the haze over the nation's capital. A few cars, many with their headlights still on, were beginning to fill the arterials surrounding Washington.

Standing outside the front door of the vice president's home, PO2C Miguel Santos watched Defense Secretary Bernard Kerchner and Air Force Gen. Frank Parkinson step out of a limousine. The navy steward waited until the two men were fifteen paces away, then opened the door and saluted smartly.

Parkinson returned the salute and removed his cap as he followed Kerchner into the entranceway. Santos took the general's cap, then ushered the men into the vice president's dining room.

"Good morning, sir," Parkinson said as Truesdell rose from his chair.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the vice president responded, pointing toward the two place settings on the table. "Please have a seat."

Kerchner and Parkinson took their seats as Truesdell sat down and replaced his napkin. The three men remained quiet while another steward placed a hot urn of decaffeinated coffee on the table, then poured freshly squeezed orange juice for the two visitors.

When the stewards returned to the kitchen, the vice president addressed both men. "Any news?"

Kerchner, looking fatigued, sounded unusually glum. "Only that our morning search is getting under way. We have had a lot of help from the Canadians throughout the night., They provided four search vessels, but not a trace of debris has been located."

"Nothing?" the vice president asked, sipping his coffee.

"No, sir, not a single thing," Kerchner responded, then turned slightly to face Parkinson. "General, how long will it take to thoroughly cover the area where we think the Stealth went down?"

Parkinson set down his juice. "Three to four hours, depending on the weather. We're using seven helicopters and four fixed-wing aircraft, augmented by a couple of helos and three aircraft supplied by the Canadians. Of course, we will continue the search much longer, but we should have some idea of what happened inside of four hours."

Parkinson hesitated a moment, then turned to face the vice president. "As I stated last evening, sir, if the B-2 went into the bay, which seems most likely, there will be evidence floating on the surface."

Truesdell remained quiet, ignoring his breakfast. After a silent minute, the vice president looked at Parkinson. "Tell me about the pilots — their credentials, service records, and backgrounds."

"Sir, I don't have all the information at the moment." Parkinson looked uncomfortable. "General Donovan assured me that he would have their biographies, officer evaluation reports, and flight records available by the time we leave for Camp David. They'll be waiting for us at the helicopter pad."

"Very well," Truesdell responded, looking at his watch. "Time to go. The president is waiting for a full report."

The Revolutionary Air Force and Antiaircraft Defense Base, guarded heavily by a combination of Soviet and Cuban soldiers, lay adjacent to the sleepy village of Mendoza. The air base, on the western tip of Cuba, near the Gulf of Mexico and Peninsula de Guanahacabibes, was 170 kilometers west-southwest of Havana.

Soviet Stealth experts, technicians, and combination soldier/construction specialists had been preparing San Julian for the B-2 hijacking for more than seven months. An underground hangar had been built below the guise of a baseball field. The camouflaged facility, wide and deep enough to conceal the bomber with four feet to spare at each wing tip, had been constructed with cement blocks.

A row of offices, work spaces, sleeping quarters, a kitchen, a restroom, a sophisticated communications center, and a reinforced cell stretched the length of the back of the hangar. After three sides of the hangar had been completed, Soviet and Cuban construction workers placed steel beams across the top to support a section of playing field in front of the bleachers.

Virtually all construction had taken place at night, with the bright playing lights diffusing the work lights under the well-used ballpark. The excavation process had consumed five months because of the difficulty in disbursing the soil around the air base. Satellite reconnaissance had not detected any changes at San Julian over the course of construction.

Shadow 37 had been towed back onto the runway, then down a specially prepared road to the hangar. The half-mile path to the secret hangar, after the rocks, foliage, fences, and posts had been replaced, disappeared prior to dawn. Steel mats had been used to transport the Stealth to its hiding place, eliminating any telltale ruts in the soft, rain-soaked ground.

The secret bomber now sat in the brightly lighted underground shelter. The sloping ramp into the hangar had been covered and now supported a section of bleachers. Two Cuban workers, wielding high-pressure water hoses, were washing mud off the B-2's modified Boeing 757 landing gear. The right gear door had been damaged slightly during the slide through the muddy field.

Chuck Matthews placed his spoon on the food tray and looked at his watch. "Six-twenty-five. No sleep. Reasonable breakfast. Must be about time for a friendly session with the interrogator."

"I've been thinking about that, Chuck," Evans responded, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. "No harm, boys, as long as you cooperate."

Matthews snorted. "As long as you sing like magpies, we won't kill you… yet." The fatigued bomber pilot ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Do you figure the Pentagon believes we're at the bottom of Hudson Bay?"

Evans thought about it. "Even if they don't believe that we crashed, where in the hell would they start looking for us?"

Matthews placed his tray on the floor, then met his copilot's eyes. "Paul, do you think the Soviet government is really behind this?"

Evans paused, analyzing the question. "I can't see it… not with the Communist empire falling apart."

"But there might still be some hard-liners, some factions holding on. Obviously there are, and our fate is in their hands."

Evans exhaled in frustration. "Who knows what the hell is going on.

"Christ," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly. "I really blew this one."

"Chuck," Evans responded in a comforting tone, "easy on yourself. You did the only thing you could do, short of killing all of us. You're not a suicidal moron."

Matthews looked at his friend. "Well, Paul, we're on our own. We better think about a way—"

Evans placed his right index finger to his lips, then cupped his hand, fingers down, and walked it across the table like a spider, mouthing, Let's be quiet, this place is bugged.

Matthews nodded in agreement as he plucked a pen from the left shoulder pocket of his still-sodden flight suit. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head no and replaced the pen. The Russians would anticipate that move. The pilots had to sign and mouth the words to each other.

Evans nodded yes, then looked for any possible opening for a hidden camera. Matthews tapped his copilot on the shoulder, then used hand signals and exaggerated mouth movements to set their first priority. Reconnoiter in preparation to escape.

The gleaming Sikorsky VH-60 Black Hawk lifted off the helicopter pad, turned away from the White House, then accelerated toward the presidential retreat.

Kirk Truesdell picked up the blue leather-bound folder next to his seat, then settled back for the seventy-mile, half-hour trip. Kerchner and Parkinson, along with a military aide and three Secret Service agents, sat quietly while the vice president read the information concerning Shadow 37's crew. The defense secretary and General Parkinson had their own copies.

Truesdell read slowly, writing notes on the scratch pad attached to the inside of the folder. After ten minutes, the vice president closed the folder, then stared out the cabin window.

Turning back to Kerchner and Parkinson, Truesdell reopened the folder. "Lieutenant Colonel Matthews has a very distinguished background."

"Yes, sir," Parkinson replied, looking closely at Matthews's record. He shifted his gaze to the page with Evans's background. "Major Evans is impressive, too."

"Yes, he is," Truesdell responded, turning a page. The vice president studied the flight record section before speaking again. "They certainly have amassed a great deal of flying experience," he remarked, then looked at his comments. "Both are qualified aircraft commanders, and Colonel Matthews is a B-2 instructor pilot."

The vice president glanced at his folder again, turning a page. "I see that Major Evans had a reprimand for buzzing Falcon Stadium in a B-1."

Parkinson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes, sir, but it was an authorized flyover before the air force — navy football game. He just made the pass a little low."

Truesdell smiled. "Professional enthusiasm?"

"Yes, sir," Parkinson grinned slightly. "The crews train hard to fly on the deck, and Major Evans wanted to show the taxpayers what kind of capability they were getting for their dollars."

"Apparently the academy brass didn't buy that," Truesdell replied, turning to the background sheet. "Colonel Matthews graduated fourth overall in his class at the academy, then finished first in flight training. Earned a master's in aeronautical engineering at MIT."

"Yes, sir," Parkinson responded. "Evans has a graduate degree, too. Physics."

Kerchner looked up, adjusting his reading glasses. "Both married, have children, and live on base."

"Yes," the vice president replied. "Outstanding flying records and solid credentials. They appear to be excellent pilots and officers."

"They are, sir," Parkinson responded. "General Donovan told me, in confidence, that both families are happy and well adjusted."

"We don't have much information about the civilian yet," Kerchner added, "but we expect the contractor to provide what they have in the next couple of hours."

Truesdell acknowledged Kerchner's comment, then looked out the window again, not focusing on anything in particular. He remained quiet, watching the colorful fall foliage pass under the helicopter. His mind shifted back to the present when he saw the presidential retreat come into view. Camp David, nestled in Maryland's Catoctin Mountain Park, was covered with bright gold and red leaves.

As the marine helicopter slowed, then descended toward the landing pad, Truesdell could see the compound clearly. He studied the dining lodge and ten cabins, then gazed at the two swimming pools, horse stables, tennis courts, one-hole golf course, and the stream noted for its trout fishing. The vice president rechecked his seat belt as Marine Two came to a stop in midair, then gently, almost imperceptibly, descended to the ground.

When the main rotor blades began winding down, a marine sergeant in dress blues opened the sliding door, then locked it into position. Truesdell, followed by Kerchner and Parkinson, stepped out of the helicopter and walked past the saluting sergeant. The president of the United States, Alton Glenn "AG" Jarrett, walked forward to greet his three guests.

President Jarrett was a personable, compassionate, family-oriented man who divided his free weekends between Camp David and his home on the New England coast. "We have had word from General Donovan," Jarrett said, as they made their way to the presidential retreat. "The airborne search is under way — has been for more than an hour — and they haven't spotted anything thus far."

"I don't expect they will find anything," the vice president responded, "if my hunch is correct."

Kerchner and Parkinson looked at each other in surprise, then glanced at Truesdell. The president was already forming his words. "What do you mean, Kirk?" Jarrett asked, frowning.

"Let's wait until we have some privacy," Truesdell responded, "if you don't mind, sir."

"I agree, Kirk," the president replied, arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question. "I've had a strange feeling about this since our conversation early this morning."

The group walked the last few yards to the main lodge in quiet contemplation. Each had questions to resolve in the strange mystery of the missing Stealth bomber.

After the four men had settled into the president's office, Jarrett opened the conversation. "Kirk, tell us what's on your mind."

Truesdell reached for the writing pad on the small conference table. "I'm not as well versed about airplanes as General Parkinson," the vice president said, "but I've been a licensed pilot for more than twenty-two years, and this disappearance defies everything I've ever heard of — short of being swallowed by a UFO."

Kerchner and Parkinson glanced at each other, clearly puzzled.

Truesdell paused a moment, contemplating the bizarre situation. "An airplane the size of the B-2 doesn't disappear without any trace. Especially on a designated and precise route segment."

The president turned to Parkinson, waited a moment, then asked a question. "General, what is your professional judgment — what do you think happened to the B-2?"

Parkinson calmly folded his hands together on the conference table. "I'll be very candid, Mister President. I don't know what happened."

Jarrett pressed harder. "You must have a personal feeling, or some intuition, general."

"Yes, sir," Parkinson responded guardedly, "I do. First, and most logical, is that the aircraft strayed off course and crashed in some remote area. It could be anywhere — it's invisible to radar, especially low to the water, or ground."

Kerchner raised his hand slightly, indicating he had a question. "Bernie," the president acknowledged quietly.

"I'm sorry, general," Kerchner said in a pleasant voice, "but I can't subscribe to that theory. The crew was highly qualified, as we discussed, and they had the most precise navigation system available." He saw Truesdell nod his head in agreement. "Besides," Kerchner continued, "General Donovan says that the emergency code flashed on the Canadian radar screen directly over the route the Stealth was flying, at the exact time the aircraft should have been there."

Kerchner looked at Parkinson, then Jarrett. "Too coincidental:* "You're right, Bernie," Truesdell replied. "I believe that the Stealth was commandeered — hijacked."

"What?" Kerchner said, stunned. "You believe the B-2 was stolen?"

Truesdell waited to respond, seeing the surprised look on everyone's face. "Yes, I do. Our Stealth bomber is one of the most highly classified weapons systems we have. We know the Soviets have been trying, without much success, to develop a Stealth aircraft for the past six years. There are undoubtedly some in the military who aren't willing to accept the loss of power. It would be a real coup to snatch a Stealth aircraft."

Parkinson tensed. "Are you suggesting that our pilots would defect?"

"I'm not accusing anyone, at this point, general," Truesdell said, then turned to Jarrett. "I have a couple of suggestions, with the president's permission."

"Of course, Kirk," Jarrett replied, taken aback by Truesdell's speculation.

"First, we need to run a thorough background check on all three men aboard the B-2. At the same time, we need to query every air traffic control center and sector in the Stealth's range," Truesdell said calmly, fixing his gaze on General Parkinson. "The aircraft didn't vanish into thin air."

"I concur," Jarrett replied, turning to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, call Fred Adcock at FBI. Make it top priority. We have to have answers in a matter of hours, not days. I want them to concentrate their efforts on the civilian technician."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner responded, shaken by the thought of a B-2 being captured by renegade Russians.

The president turned to Truesdell. "Kirk, have Mel Collins get the FAA moving. We need to know if any FAA facility had anything unusual occur last night. Have him go directly into the system — no passing it down the ranks."

"Yes, sir," the vice president responded, sliding back his chair. "General, check with SAC and see what they've found."

"Yes, sir," Parkinson replied, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "They should be into their third sweep."