Shadow Flight (1990) (5 page)

"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.

Chapter
Three

General Carl Donovan, leaning against his polished mahogany desk, listened to the aircraft commander of Ghost 25. The B-1B had landed only minutes before and was met by Donovan's staff car.

Major Bud Teague, looking understandably nervous, sat in one of the two plush chairs facing the general's desk. The other wood and leather chair was occupied by General Bothwell.

"General," the saddened pilot paused, "that's all I can tell you. After we broke off from Shadow Three Seven, well . . . everything was normal until we had the call on Guard. The weather was fine . . . we encountered no unusual conditions, sir."

"Okay, major," Donovan said, turning to walk behind his desk "Tell me about Chuck Matthews. I understand you went through pilot training with him."

"Yessir, I did," Teague replied, watching Donovan sit down. "We went through flight training at Vance. He graduated first in the class--a real natural and a heck of a leader. I consider him one of the best pilots in the Air Force, sir."

Donovan sat quietly, trying to sort out the mystery, then turned to Bothwell. "General, do you have any questions for Major Teague?"

"No," the Canadian replied, turning to face the B-1B command pilot. "Major, we appreciate your input. I know it's difficult for you."

"Yes, it is, sir. I've known Chuck a long time."

Donovan stood, followed by Bothwell and Teague. "Major, we have rooms ready for you and your crew in the VIP quarters. Get some rest, and take off at your leisure tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," Teague replied. "Have you heard any word yet about the search?"

"No, they haven't spotted a single thing," Donovan answered, checking his watch, "and it's been more than three hours."

"Get some rest, son," Bothwell said, patting Teague on the shoulder. "We'll let you know if we hear anything."

"Thank you, sir. " Teague saluted the two senior officers, then quietly walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

"Walt," the SAC commander asked, "how could a B-2 simply vanish?"

"General, if he was spot on course, they'll find something."

SHADOW 37

The Stealth bomber, still cruising at 50,000 feet, was eighty-five nautical miles north-northeast of Tallahassee, Florida. Matthews had elected to reduce power in order to conserve the rapidly dwindling fuel supply.

Both pilots continuously monitored the global navigation readouts showing distance to destination and time to fuel exhaustion. According to the navigation equation, Shadow 37 would flame out six minutes before they reached San Julian.

Simmons sat quietly in his cramped space and mentally reviewed his instructions. He kept his right hand on the butt of the flare gun, resting it on his lap.

"Larry," Matthews said pleasantly, turning slightly to see Simmons. "I want to ask you a question."

Simmons gripped the flare gun before replying. "Colonel Matthews, I am not going to discuss anything, except getting this aircraft to Cuba."

"Okay, Larry," the pilot continued in a conversational but persistent tone. "Just one important personal question. What happened--what caused you to even contemplate hijacking a B-2?"

Simmons remained quiet, trying to decide whether to respond. He did not need any doubts creeping into his thinking. "I don't want to discuss anything. Just do as I tell you," Simmons answered, wiping his left hand nervously on his flight suit.

"Larry," Matthews said slowly, "I can't imagine anything so bad that it would cause you to . . . to do something that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Simmons remained quiet, clenching his teeth. His mind cried out for understanding, but no one had ever really cared. No one until Irina, his lover and future wife.

Paul Evans, monitoring the Jacksonville Center air traffic controllers, turned his head to the left, then spoke to Simmons in a friendly manner. "Larry, what Chuck is trying to say is that we'll help you no matter what the problem is. You just can't destroy your whole future. We still have time to correct this situation and help you out of whatever you're facing."

"You," Simmons said with bitterness in his voice. "You two don't know what it's like to be a . . . to be treated like I have. You live in the glory world of hotshot pilots. You live in the officercountry-club world with your perfect little families. You've never been kicked around."

The pilots looked at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. Matthews decided to try his previous approach. "Larry, listen to me for God's sake. The Communists aren't going to have any use for you after they've gleaned all the information you can provide. You'll be a liability who might defect back to the United States. They don't trust anyone, especially someone who has been disloyal to his own country."

Matthews glanced at Evans, then continued in an even tone of voice. "They'll kill you, Larry. You're the one weak link who could expose their hijacking. You're signing our death warrants, along with yours, if we don't turn back now."

Simmons glared at Matthews, then replied emotionally but evenly. "I allowed you to express your thoughts, and you are wrong--completely wrong. The Russians I work for are my friends, and I am going to be in charge of Stealth technical evaluations. Besides, I am marrying a Russian citizen."

Both pilots again looked at each other in amazement. Matthews shook his head slowly. "Larry, you've been deceived, and it's going to cost the lives of all three of us if you can't see the picture."

Simmons clenched his jaw before responding defensively. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Irina and I fell in love after she told me who she was . . . and about the B-2 project."

Evans turned his head slightly. "Right."

OFFICIAL RESIDENCE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT

The vice president of the United States, holding a phone to his ear, motioned for Bernard Kerchner and Air Force Gen. Frank Parkinson to join him in his study. They had been summoned hurriedly from the Pentagon.

The tall, lean, impeccably groomed air force deputy chief of staff for plans and operations followed Kerchner into the richly paneled room. The two men sat down in the wingback chairs on each side of the small fireplace.

Kirklin W. Truesdell had a reputation for being a meticulous and highly efficient administrator. The top of his rich cherry wood desk was immaculate, reflecting the organizational skills he had developed as a naval officer and public servant.

The vice president had recently assumed responsibilities as acting chief of staff. The president's closest aide and adviser, the chief of staff had been gravely injured in a boating accident and remained in critical but stable condition in Bethesda Naval Medical Center.

"Yes, sir," Truesdell replied into the phone, writing rapidly on his desk pad. "We'll keep you informed."

The vice president listened a moment longer, then hung up. "That was the president," Truesdell said, swiveling around in his chair. "He wants us to keep him informed of any developments in the B-2 search. Also," he continued, scratching through a message on his pad, "he wants us to be at Camp David at seven in the morning."

The vice president leaned across his desk, frowning, an
d a
ddressed the defense secretary. "Bernie, how the hell did we manage to lose a B-2? They've been searching for almost four hours and haven't found a shred of evidence to indicate that the Stealth crashed."

Kerchner lowered his gaze a moment, then looked at the intense former Central Intelligence Agency Director. "Sir, the aircraft was scheduled to land at Ellsworth approximately fifteen minutes ago. It hasn't arrived, no one has communicated with the crew, the Canadians confirm that there was an emergency code displayed briefly where the aircraft was supposed to be, and . . . , " Kerchner paused, forming his thoughts, "the B-1 crew hasn't shed any light on the disappearance. That's all we know."

Parkinson, resplendent in his ribbon-bedecked blue uniform, spoke to Truesdell. "Mister Vice President, all the information indicates that the aircraft crashed into Hudson Bay where the emergency code flashed briefly. The flight was following a very precise, pre-planned course. We'll know for certain where the aircraft crashed when we search in the morning. The crews will fly the same course, spread out horizontally at half-mile intervals. If the Stealth went into the bay, sir, there will be floating debris, I can assure you."