Shadow Flight (1990) (19 page)

Wickham, unable to breathe during the catapult stroke, felt as though an elephant was sitting on his chest. He groaned, then grayed out as the g forces rendered him helpless. A microsecond later the F-14 roared over the deck edge as Commander McDonald popped up the landing gear handle and trimmed the nose.

Wickham, regaining his vision, felt as though the fighter had decelerated. He sucked in a deep breath of cool oxygen, then realized that the Tomcat was accelerating, but not at the rate it had during the catapult shot.

"Everything okay?" McDonald asked as he cleaned up the aircraft.

"God . . . damn," Wickham answered, releasing the vice grip he had on the side of the canopy. "That makes a roller coaster feel like a merry-go-round."

"Yeah," McDonald replied, then acknowledged a call from Ranger.

Wickham reached down and retrieved the large manila envelope, then fumbled for the flashlight he had stuffed into his torso harness. He opened the package as he thought about the cryptic message he had read on board the carrier. The agency had directed him to study the contents of the sealed packet in preparation for a reconnaissance mission in Cuba.

Wickham held the flashlight and read the instructions, then studied the enlarged maps and aerial photographs. His orders stated that he must become familiar with the western tip of Cuba. He studie
d t
he detailed picture of Mariel Naval Air Station, then perused photographs of the San Julian military airfield.

What in the hell is going on, Wickham thought to himself. He studied the maps and photographs a few minutes longer, then turned off the flashlight and leaned back to contemplate the situation.

"You might as well get some shut-eye," the pilot said, noticing that the rear cockpit had become dark again. "I've got to keep us subsonic over Mexico--no supersonic footprint over land--so we'll be awhile."

"Okay," Wickham responded. "I understand we have to tank again before Key West."

"Yeah, that's right," McDonald responded, tweaking the nose down. "We'll grab a drink over Brownsville, Texas, and dash into Key West."

"Sounds good," Wickham replied, closing the manila envelope. "Did the slot man bore you with his A-K stories?" McDonald asked as he leveled the Tomcat at 49,000 feet.

Wickham looked up. "I'm not sure I understand your question." "Did Commander Sandoline--he flew the slot position with the Blues--bore you with his almost-killed stories?"

"Not really," Wickham laughed, "but the sonuvabitch flies like a maniac."

"Yeah," McDonald replied. "Slots is one of a kind." Wickham stifled a yawn, then keyed his intercom again. "I'm going to catch a few winks."

"Good idea," the pilot responded. "The in-flight movie is dull anyway."

Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev sat quietly in the serene surroundings of the hotel's opulent restaurant. He had elected to bypass his usual luncheon spot, the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, to avoid the crowded conditions. He needed a relaxed, subdued environment to calm his nerves. The facade of being loyal to both the
Soviet Union and the KGB had been eating away at his conscience.

The general had begun doubting the moral rectitude of his acts and motives. He was torn between his view of himself and the moribund system in which he was entangled. His immediate desires as well as his future aspirations had become more distorted with each passing year.

Voronoteev, dining alone, looked around the large room and noticed two staff officers having lunch with three civilians. Voronoteev shifted his chair in an effort to avoid being noticed. He needed time for quiet contemplation.

A well-dressed waiter approached his table and hesitated before speaking. "Comrade general, would you care for more vodka?"

"Yes, thank you," Voronoteev answered, then took a small bite of the jellied sturgeon. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then sipped a spoonful of borscht. Voronoteev had lost his appetite and decided against ordering the lyulya-kebab. The appetizer and soup would be more than sufficient.

Voronoteev raised his glass and tossed down the last of the chilled vodka. Looking at his watch, he mentally debated making his call to Vienna earlier than scheduled.

"Your vodka, comrade general," the jacketed waiter said as he placed the small glass on the table.

"Spasiho," Voronoteev replied, thanking the pleasant young man.

The waiter raised his writing pad. "Would you care to order, comrade general?"

"Nyet," Voronoteev replied, folding his napkin next to his plate. "I'll take another vodka and my bill."

The waiter nodded and hurried to fulfill the request. A Sovie
t g
eneral, the young man had been taught, was not to be kept waiting. Voronoteev quickly finished the last Stolichnaya, paid his bill
,
and walked to the cloakroom to retrieve his hat and greatcoat. Natanoly Akhlomov, deputy chief of investigations, KGB
,
watched Voronoteev from an alcove off the main dining room. Akhlomov placed his small transmitter to his mouth and alerted the special agents observing Voronoteev's car and driver.

"You have performed in a very distinguished manner," Gennadi Levchenko said in an insincerely smooth voice. "The Soviet Union is proud of your accomplishment."

"Thank you, ah . . . ," Larry Simmons stammered.

"Comrade director," Levchenko prompted the American tech-rep. "You are one of us now, Comrade Simmons."

The technician beamed, feeling more confident with his new countrymen. "Thank you," Simmons paused, "comrade director. I am . . . I feel very privileged to be associated with the Soviet Union. Irina has told me a great deal about your country."

"We feel the same sentiments," Levchenko professed in an unctuous manner. "Now comrade," he smiled, then deftly punched the record button on the tape cassette, "tell me about the weaknesses of the Stealth bomber."

"Well . . . ," Simmons said uneasily, "may I ask you a question first?"

"Of course," Levchenko replied with another reassuring smile. "What would you like to know?"

Simmons coughed nervously. "When will Irina . . . be joining me?"

"Soon, very soon," Levchenko answered, then leaned back in his desk chair. "You are not to worry, my friend. Everything will be fine."

"I'm just concerned about her," Simmons said with an anxious look. "She said she would meet me here."

"I understand," Levchenko replied patiently as he leaned forward, "and you will be reunited with Irina soon. Now, we have, let us say, priorities we must meet."

"Yes . . . comrade director."

The Stealth project officer leaned forward, fixing his eyes on the apprehensive American. "I would like for you to outline any problem areas, or weaknesses, in the B-2."

"Well," Simmons began slowly, "the airframe-mounted accessory drive cases have been a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

Simmons, feeling more assured, opened up. "Many of the units have cracked and caused oil leakages, which delayed the flight test phase."

Levchenko, smiling pleasantly, lighted a cigarette. "Is it a significant problem?"

"I'm not very knowledgeable in that area," Simmons replied uncomfortably. "I know that the engineers have reworked the cases, but it is still a concern."

The KGB officer made a quick notation before he continued his questioning. "Okay, tell me about any problems or weaknesses in your field of expertise."

"Ah ... as you know," Simmons responded, taking in the partially dismantled bomber, "the aircraft has very complex electronic and avionic systems."

Levchenko exhaled impatiently. "The electronic systems have been a problem?"

"Yes . . . and still are," Simmons answered hurriedly. "The extreme environment that the B-2 operates in has caused continual reliability problems."

Levchenko's face hardened. "You have to be more specific, Comrade Simmons. Define the nature of the electronic problems you have encountered thus far."

Simmons hesitated, then spoke rapidly. "The weapons systems have been adversely affected by a number of things, including shock, vibration, impact, salt fog, and heat."

Levchenko turned off the recorder and eased back his chair. "Comrade Simmons, your knowledge is invaluable to your new country. I have some business to take care of, so I want you to sit here and list every B-2 strength and weakness you can think of .. . every one."

LEADFOOT 107

Steve Wickham dozed uneasily, dreaming sporadic scenes of Becky and Cuba. Interspersed were flashbacks to his harrowing escape from Russia. The mission to extract the Kremlin mole had almost cost Wickham his life, along with that of the Moscow operative.

"You awake back there?" Commander McDonald asked.

Wickham's eyelids fluttered, then squeezed shut when the early morning sun struck them.

"Reveille," McDonald said over the intercom. "Next stop is Key West."

Wickham groaned as he fumbled for the tinted visor on his helmet. "Key West?" he asked as he attempted to move his cold, stiffened limbs. "Aren't we going to take on fuel first?"

"You must've been out of it," McDonald laughed, "or my flying skills have improved. We tanked about an hour and fifteen minutes ago.

Wickham looked at his watch to confirm the time lapse. "You need to talk to management about these seats."

"Yeah," McDonald replied, "they have to have a solid bottom so your spine won't break if you have to pull the 'loud handle.' Can't allow any compression before the seat slams into your ass."

"How far out are we?" Wickham asked, yawning.

"A hundred and ten nautical miles," McDonald answered between conversations with the air traffic controllers. "We'll be overhead the air station in . . . nine minutes and fifty seconds."

Wickham was amazed. "Nine minutes?"

"And forty-five seconds," McDonald replied. "We're in projectile mode now, but I'll be throwing out the anchor when we approach the beach."

Wickham rubbed his eyes, checked to see that the top secret packet was still in place, then looked down at the Gulf of Mexico. He watched two oil tankers disappear rapidly under the right side of the F-14's fuselage.

"We're starting down," McDonald said as he smoothly lowered the Tomcat's nose. "This will be a steep descent, followed by a rapid decel in close."

"After landing on the carrier," Wickham responded, looking at the water, "I think I can handle about anything."

"You should ride through an ACM gaggle," McDonald replied, lowering the nose further.

Wickham looked in the rearview mirror again, catching the pilot's eyes. "A what?"

"Air combat maneuvering," McDonald explained. "A dogfighting hop."

"I'll pass," Wickham said, then returned to his sight-seeing while the pilot conversed with the controllers.

"Rog, Miami," McDonald radioed, "Key West approach on two-sixty-three point six, switchin'." McDonald programmed the frequency into his primary UHF radio. "Key Approach, Navy Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta one-seven thousand."

"Navy One Zero Seven, Key West Approach." The veteran controller spoke in short, clipped bursts. "Continue descent to three thousand, runway seven currently in use, wind one-two-zero at twelve, gusting to twenty. Altimeter two-niner-niner-eight."

The pilot repeated the instructions. "One Oh Seven down to three K, two-niner-niner-eight." McDonald could see the naval air station rapidly filling his windshield. The F-14, rocketing toward the island at 960 miles per hour (1.25 Mach) descended through 11,000 feet.

Wickham watched, fascinated, while Marquesas Keys and Boca Grande Key flashed under the right wing.

"Navy One Zero Seven," the clipped voice said, "contact Key West tower, three-four-zero point two."

McDonald keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven, switchin' three-forty point two. So long." The pilot reset the UHF frequency, then called the control tower. "Key West tower, Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta eight thousand."

"Roger, One Zero Seven," the laconic tower chief replied calmly. "Cleared for a left break, runway seven, wind one-two-zero at fourteen, gusting to twenty-two. No reported traffic."

"Copy, Key tower," McDonald acknowledged, then pressed the intercom switch. "Better brace yourself. I'm gonna slam on the binders."

"I'm ready," Wickham replied as he watched the shoreline rush toward them.

McDonald yanked the twin throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes open. Both men were thrown forward, hanging by their shoulder restraints. Wickham tightened his neck and leg muscles, then gulped a lungful of cool oxygen. He felt as though they had run into a brick wall.

"Hold tight," McDonald warned as the F-14 roared across the beach.

Wickham grasped the canopy rails tightly as the end of the runway flashed under the fighter. His nerves tensed in preparation for the overhead break.

McDonald had the Tomcat slowed to 490 knots by midfield. He tightened his stomach muscles and slapped the stick hard to the left. The F-14 snapped into knife-edged flight, splitting the air in a deafening howl.