by Joe Weber
No one said a word as the Stealth descended through the torrential rain and jarring turbulence.
Evans peered out of his side window, then flinched. "We've got company. Looks like a Foxbat."
Matthews looked out to the left. He could barely make out the Cuban MiG-25 on his side. The three planes were bouncing all over the sky, making it impossible to hold any reasonable formation. Matthews quickly flipped on his navigation and formation lights.
"Yeah," Matthews replied. "I have one on this side. He has a flashlight . . . looks like he's signaling something."
"Same here," Evans responded, pressing his face closer to the window. "Looks like he's signaling to go down. Yeah, he wants us to descend."
"It's too early," Matthews said in exasperation. "We can't afford to waste the fuel." He turned slightly to see Simmons. "Is there any provision to talk to the MiGs or the San Julian tower?"
"No, colonel," the chalky-faced tech-rep answered. "They don't want any radio transmissions from the B-2."
Evans looked quickly at the fuel gauges and navigation readout, then back out of the side window. "Sorry, comrades, we can't let down just--"
The copilot's sentence was cut off by a burst of cannon fire from the MiG on the left side of the B-2. The bright red tracers lit up the night, slashing through the waterfall of rain.
"Ah . . . Christ," Matthews said in a resigned voice. "We're starting down."
SAN JULIAN MILITARY AIRFIELD, Province of Pinar del Rio
Gennadi Dunayevich Levchenko, Stealth project officer and director of the renegade KGB operations at San Julian, paced nervously back and forth in the control tower. The portly, bushy-haired man was the Soviet Union's highest regarded field operative. He was a ruthless, driven agent who had fought his way politically to the top echelon of the world's largest spy and state-security machine.
Now, at age forty-six, Levchenko had been given the responsibility of stealing the American B-2 Stealth bomber. The Chief of the KGB, Vladimir Golodnikov, had withheld the fact that the Kremlin was unaware of the secret mission. Levchenko had been operating on the premise that the B-2 project was a Kremlin priority.
Levchenko had attended Syracuse University, sponsored by an international exchange scholarship, where he had graduated with a bachelor of arts degree in political science. His minor had been international relations. After receiving his diploma, the future KGB agent had returned to his homeland to complete an advanced degree in international studies. He had not been aware that his activities were monitored closely while he was in the United States.
The KGB had been very pleased with Gennadi Levchenko's academic achievements while attending the American university.
They were particularly proud of his unwavering dedication to the Motherland.
Barely three months into his advanced studies, Levchenko had been approached by two persuasive recruiters from the KGB. The pair had been very friendly and had outlined an agency career with unlimited potential for an individual with his credentials. Levchenko had been euphoric but managed to quell his excitement so as not to appear too eager. He had wanted to be an officer in the KGB from the age of eleven and accepted the offer gladly.
Levchenko had distinguished himself at the KGB training academy, demonstrating many of the traits that would later propel him to the top of his profession. As a new KGB officer, he quickly developed a reputation for being ruthless in his quest for perfection and recognition.
His first assignment had been a plum. Levchenko had returned to the United States, where he had masqueraded as an assistant to the Soviet ambassador. He nurtured many friendships from his university days and courted influential politicos around the Washington beltway. Charming the power brokers in the nation's capital, he gathered every piece of classified intelligence he could grasp or buy. His career flourished for years, culminating in his present assignment.
Levchenko could barely make out the MiG-23s and -25s lined up on the tarmac directly below the San Julian tower. He silently cursed the driving rain and hurricane-force winds, then walked over to the tower chief. "How far out are they?" Levchenko asked the senior warrant officer.
Yevgeny I. Pogostyan looked at the radarscope. It was almost impossible to see the two MiG-25s in the pounding rain. The B-2, squawking the preplanned transponder code-4276--registered clearly on the brightly lighted radar screen.
"Ninety kilometers, comrade director," Pogostyan replied respectfully. "We have the runway lights at the highest intensity."
"Balshoye spasibo," Levchenko said, thanking the tower controller.
"Do not worry, comrade director," assured Maj. Gen. Petr V.
Brotskharnov, commanding officer of the Voenno Vozdushniye Sily (VVS, the Soviet Air Force) detachment. Assured, the general stared at the radar screen, then looked into Levchenko's cold eyes. "Lieutenant Colonel Zanyathov and Major Sokolviy are the two best pilots in the VVS. They will guide the Americans down safely."
"I hope you are right, general," Levchenko replied out of the corner of his mouth, "for the sake of all of us."
Both men watched the radarscope, listening to Pogostyan converse with the lead MiG pilot.
Lieutenant Colonel Zanyathov had not disclosed that he had fired his cannon in front of the bomber. His concern was landing in the hurricane conditions. The Russian fighter pilot knew his career would be over if he failed to successfully complete the secret operation.
Chapter Four
THE B-2
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.
OFFICIAL RESIDENCE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT
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."
SAN JULIAN AIRFIELD
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.
