by Joe Weber
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.
MARINE TWO
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."
Chapter Five
SAN JULIAN
Matthews and Evans could hear muted sounds coming from the hangar, but no particular sound was distinguishable. Both men had remained quiet since lunch, resting uncomfortably on the well-worn army cots. Their food trays remained on the small wooden table. The leftovers, hardened in the past four hours, were beginning to emit an offensive odor.
Without warning, the heavy cell door opened with a bang, startling the two pilots. "On your feet--now!" the Cuban soldier ordered. "Follow me."
Matthews and Evans looked at each other, shrugged, then walked through the door into the brightly lighted hangar. Two more guards, carrying AK-47 assault rifles, fell in behind the Americans.
Both pilots stole quick looks at the frenzied activity around the Stealth bomber. A power cart had been plugged into the B-2, bringing the aircraft's systems to life. Teams of technicians swarmed over the warplane, taking notes and photographing the interior and exterior. A dozen panels had been removed from the fuselage and wings, exposing the intricacies of the bomber.
Matthews noted that the guards behind them remained at least ten yards away. Well trained, he thought as they reached the entrance to the KGB director's office.
Gennadi Levchenko, sitting behind an olive-drab metal desk, motioned for the pilots to enter. "Have a seat," Levchenko said pleasantly, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. His English, after years in the United States, was excellent.
Matthews and Evans sat down on the long bench across from the Soviet agent. The three guards remained standing, blocking the only exit from the room.
"You will have a cigarette?" Levchenko asked, placing a pack of Pall Malls on the front edge of his desk.
"No, thank you," Matthews replied, placing his hands on his knees and arching his stiff back muscles. Evans, remaining quiet, shook his head in a negative response.
"Well," Levchenko continued, then paused while he glanced at Evans, then back to Matthews. "We can make this easy, or we can make this difficult for you. Very difficult. The choice is yours."
Matthews inhaled deeply, measuring his response, then exhaled. "You know our position. We are being held captive--prisoners. You, whomever you represent, have committed a gross violation of international law."
Levchenko smiled slightly, clasped his hands together, then leaned across the desk. "So, major, you elect to make my job more difficult?"
"My rank is lieutenant colonel, and you get nothing but name, rank, and serial number."
"That will soon change, believe me," Levchenko said without emotion. "You will see."
"Cut the crap," Evans said, openly bristling.
Levchenko's watery, pale blue eyes hardened. "You are right, major. We will cut the crap, as you say."
The room remained quiet while Levchenko stood up, walked menacingly around the side of his desk, then sat on the metal top. The KGB director was only two feet away from the Americans. Both pilots could smell his tobacco-tainted breath.
"You will cooperate with me," Levchenko said in a pleasant, even voice, "or I will place you in a very undesirable environment until you change your mind."
"A gulag?" Matthews responded, staring into Levchenko's cold, cloudy eyes.
"Correct, colonel," the Russian replied, unsmiling. "A reconditioning course until you are ready to cooperate. You will cooperate, I assure you. It is only a matter of time."
"You're wrong," Matthews said vehemently. "We are prisoners of the Soviet Union, or Cuba, and--understand clearly--we will not cooperate with you."
Levchenko smiled broadly, then lashed out, backhanding Matthews into the side of his copilot.
"You goddamn coward!" Evans shot back, helping Matthews regain his balance.
"Take them to Mantua!" Levchenko shouted to the surprised guards, then yanked both pilots up by the front of their flight suits. "You bastards are going to beg me to let you die before I am finished with you."
CAMP DAVID
The late afternoon sun peeked through the trees as twilight settled over the vast presidential retreat. Two
marine corps Sikorsky helicopters, a VH-3D and a VH-60, waited to fly the president and vice president back to Washington.
Alton Jarrett and Kirk Truesdell had agreed the first week of the new administration not to fly together on the same helicopter or aircraft. The risk of losing both the president and vice president in an accident was too great.
Secretary of defense Kerchner talked on a secure telephone as he perused a classified message. He looked up when the vice president walked into the communications room.
"The president is waiting, Bernie," Truesdell said, loosening his tie.
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, folding the slip of paper, "be there in a second."
Truesdell gave Kerchner a thumbs-up gesture, then returned to the conference table. "Bernie's on his way," the vice president reported, then sat down in his seat.
"Thank you," Jarrett responded, turning to Parkinson. "General, what is the current status of our search effort?"
"Not a trace, Mister President," Parkinson answered, pausing while Kerchner entered the room and seated himself. Parkinson sipped a glass of water. "They haven't found a single piece of evidence to indicate that the B-2 crashed into the bay."
"General," Kerchner interrupted. "Excuse me, but I have some disturbing news, I'm afraid. That was Fred Adcock on the phone. The background check on the civilian crew member disclosed a link to the KGB."
"What!" Jarrett exclaimed, anger registering on his face. "How could the FBI determine that so quickly?"
Truesdell and Parkinson stared at the secretary in disbelief.
"Fred said--and I quote--," Kerchner looked down at his hastily written notes. "The civilian technician, identified as one Lawrence Maynard Simmons, has categorically been linked to Irina Rykhov, a known KGB agent."
