by Joe Weber
"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
OFFUTT AIR FORCE BASE
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 ea
ch 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, and addressed 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."
"Have you grounded the other B-2s?" Truesdell asked, studying a Northrop flight test synopsis.
"Yes, sir, we have," Parkinson answered, then added, "until we find out what happened to Shadow Three Seven. We intend to keep the operational B-2s standing alert, but they won't fly unless we encounter a global threat of some nature."
"Sir," Kerchner said to the frowning vice president, "whatever happened, we believe, was catastrophic. The crew never had a chance to get off a message."
"Okay, let's get some sleep," Truesdell said, looking at the mantel clock over the fireplace. "Plan for a five-forty-five brief here, then we'll go to the helicopter pad."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, standing with Parkinson.
Truesdell escorted the two men out, shut the door, and returned to his study. He poured a small amount of Remy Martin into a brandy glass, then sat down on the handsome leather couch. Swirling the amber cognac under his nose, he stared into the glowing embers of the dying fire. He replayed the B-2 events over and over in his mind. Something did not fit.
THE STEALTH
Evans looked at the high-altitude en route chart, then switched the VHF radio from Jacksonville Center to Miami Center. The pilots listened to the busy air traffic controllers and commercial pilots discuss the rapidly deteriorating weather. The tropical depression southeast of Jamaica had advanced to a tropical storm, then to hurricane status as it tracked northwest. Hurricane Bennett was growing in intensity.
"Larry . . . , " Matthews paused, catching a pilot report from a Delta Airlines flight, "you picked a great time of year to go to Cuba. The eye of the hurricane is passing forty miles south of San Julian."
Simmons remained quiet. He had no plan for such an eventuality. Levchenko had not discussed any bad weather alternatives during the planning sessions. Would the MiG pilots be able to rendezvous with the Stealth?
Matthews cupped his hands around his eyes and looked out of his side window. "I can't see Saint Petersburg," the pilot said quietly. "We've got a solid cloud deck below us."
Evans rubbed his eyes, then looked at the navigation plot for the thousandth time. "Cuba--San Julian has to be totally clobbered. Bennett has already engulfed the southern half of Florida."
"Larry," Matthews said, turning slightly to see Simmons. "We're flying into a hurricane without enough fuel to reach our destination. You must listen to reason."
"Colonel," Simmons responded unsteadily, "we are committed to San Julian."
"Goddamnit!" Evans spat, twisting his head to the left. "Listen to reason! This is our last chance to land while we have fuel in our tanks. We aren't bullshitting you. Look at the nav plot, for Christ's sake, and add it up."
Simmons squirmed, then looked between the two pilots. He stared straight ahead into the turbulent black night, averting the pilot's questioning eyes. "We are committed to San Julian."
"Shit!" Matthews exclaimed as he pulled the number one and four throttles to idle, then cutoff.
"What are you doing?" Simmons asked in shock.
"Shut up!" Matthews barked as the EICAS annunciator warning and emergency lights flashed on, illuminating the cockpit with a reddish amber glow. "We don't have any choice," he explained as he and Evans went through the engine shutdown checklist. "It's very simple, Larry. I have to conserve fuel, so we'll fly on two engines. It's still going to be a crapshoot."
Simmons, beginning to have doubts about the outcome of the hijacking, felt his pulse pounding. He stared at the bright warning lights, then at the flight parameters displayed on the EICAS screen. The digital airspeed indicator was decreasing rapidly through 0.71 Mach as the autopilot fought to maintain the preset altitude.
"Here we go," Matthews warned Evans as he squeezed the autopilot disengage button on his control stick, then checked the continuity of the fly-by-wire flight controls. "Descent checklist."
Simmons clutched the flare gun in both hands. "Why are we descending?"
"Because," Matthews replied, easing the B-2's nose down, "we can't maintain fifty thousand feet on two engines. We'll have to drift down to an altitude we can hold with the power we have."
Simmons remained quiet while the two pilots completed their checklist. He could feel the turbulence and rain increasing as the bomber plunged into the thick, boiling storm clouds. "Stop!" he suddenly blurted. "The MiGs are supposed to join us at fifty-one thousand."
"Screw the MiGs!" Evans shot back. "We're trying to survive, you stupid bastard."
Simmons yanked up the flare gun, then shoved the barrel into the back of Evans's neck. His hand shook. He was not as certain as he pretended to be in the face of this unplanned turn of events. "Don't screw with me, major."
Matthews turned his head and glared at the tech-rep. "Put the gun down and hang on. This is going to be a rough ride into San Julian."
Simmons lowered the flare pistol slowly, then leaned back in his seat. He felt exhausted from the strain he had been under for the past three weeks.
"Yeah," Evans said, catching Matthews's eye before turning toward Simmons. "If we don't crater someone during the descent."
The darkened cockpit remained quiet as the bouncing, yawing bomber descended through 39,000 feet. The rough ride, punctuated with violent updrafts and downdrafts, was agonizing for Simmons.
Evans punched in a radio frequency for the Miami oceanic control area, listened to three airline pilots request deviations around intense rain cells, then checked the fuel exhaustion and time to destination readout.
"Chuck, we're behind the curve."
"I know," Matthews responded without taking his eyes off the instrument displays. "All I can do is keep it high, clean, and fast. We've only got one shot."
Simmons, bracing against the severe turbulence, had been watching the distance to destination wind down. Irina Rykhov and Gennadi Levchenko had instructed him to turn on al
l the Stealth's radars, along with energizing the primary transponder, at a point 135 nautical miles north of San Julian. That would be the edge of the Cuban air defense identification zone (ADIZ). The MiGs would be circling at 130 miles to rendezvous with the B-2 at 51,000 feet.
Simmons watched the mileage-137 . . . 136. . . 135. "I'm turning on our radar and transponder," he announced, holding the flare gun chest high. "The MiGs have to find us to lead us to the airfield."
Matthews glanced out of his side window. His gaze met total darkness as the intense rain pounded the bomber. "Larry, we only have one try at this, so I have to improvise."
Simmons's neck tightened as he leaned forward between the pilots. "I have to follow the orders specifically, or they will not attempt to join us."
"Simmons," Evans exclaimed loudly, "you just don't get the picture, do you? We don't have the luxury of following your goddamned orders."
Matthews spoke before Simmons could answer. "Paul, I'm going to pass directly over the field at four thousand, then start a two-seventy to the right. That should give us good terrain clearance and put us into the wind on the east-west runway."
"Okay," Evans replied, tuning the San Julian radio beacon. "Standard altitude calls?"
"Sure," Matthews responded as he looked closely at the world aeronautical chart. "They've only got an eighty-five-hundred-foot runway, so I'll have to be right on the numbers."
Evans nodded in agreement, then half-turned to face the semiairsick tech-rep. "Hope your comrades have the lights turned up for us."
Simmons raised the shaking flare pistol, pointing it in the copilot's face. "Keep your mouth shut, major."
"Back off, Simmons!" Matthews snarled. "We can't go anywhere, so put down the gun!"
Simmons lowered the flare pistol and leaned back, frightened about the consequences of botching the hijacking. He rechecked the covert and phased-array radar units. If the MiGs could not locate the bomber, which was likely now, Simmons would have to rely on Matthews to get them down safely.
