by Joe Weber
"Jesus Christ," Truesdell said softly, shaking his head in frustration. "How did that information get by the security people?"
"Apparently," Kerchner continued, "from the information Fred has now, Simmons holds a top secret clearance and has worked on the B-2 project for the past three years. He graduated from Cal Poly with honors and is an electronic engineering specialist. The liaison with the KGB agent was nurtured approximately four to five months ago, so the security people had no reason to suspect anything abnormal." Kerchner penned lines through two notations.
"Go on," Jarrett prompted, sitting back in his seat.
"The West Coast bureau," Kerchner continued, placing his pen down, "sent agents to Simmons's workplace, home of record, and usual haunts--the places he is known to frequent." Kerchner looked over the top of his reading glasses at the president. "He had moved from his home into an apartment three months ago. His wife had filed for divorce and left him debt ridden and overextended on all his credit cards. She left town in his only car, taking their daughter with her."
The vice president shook his head. "How did he become associated with the Soviet agent?"
"Well," Kerchner responded, turning to the vice president, "Fred admitted that the bureau backed into the answer. Neighbors and acquaintances of Mrs. Simmons told our agents that she ran away with a boyfriend--a handsome, dark-haired man with a foreign accent."
"I think I have the picture," Jarrett said, glancing at Truesdell.
"One of the FBI agents," Kerchner continued, "remembered a similar situation that happened about a year ago in San Diego."
"Oh, yes," Truesdell said. "The navy submariner--Wilson--the one whose wife jilted him, and he disappeared with his lover and the Trident D-5 information."
"The same team," Kerchner replied. "The FBI agent suspected it was the same KGB couple, and showed pictures to Simmons's neighbors and friends.
"Although Pankyev--Aleksey Pankyev--had altered his appearance since the San Diego operation, it was clearly evident that he was the same person. According to Fred, Pankyev and Rykhov have worked as a team for at least two and a half--possibly three--years."
"So," Jarrett said, "the couple finds a weak individual in a highly classified position, Pankyev romances the wife and destroys the relationship, then the woman--who I assume is very attractive--makes her move on the hapless, distraught husband."
"That is correct," Kerchner responded. "Both Soviet agents are very attractive and charming, and completely ruthless."
"Well," Truesdell replied, clearly disturbed, "we know how the hijacking was set up. Now we need to find out where the aircraft has been taken."
"Yes," the president said, "and who authorized the operation. Pankyev and the woman have to be reporting to someone tied to the KGB."
Truesdell looked at Kerchner, then turned to the president. "I'm sure the answers will fall into place when we locate the bomber." Jarrett nodded, then reached for his attache case. "We need to return to the White House and--," the president paused when he saw the intercom light flash, "get organized," he concluded, depressing the switch.
"Yes, Dorothy."
"Melvin Collins, FAA, for Vice President Truesdell."
"He will take the call in here," the president replied, motioning for Truesdell to answer the phone on the credenza behind him.
The vice president swung around and raised the phone receiver. "Hello, Mel. What have you found out?"
Jarrett, lowering his voice, spoke to the defense secretary. "Bernie, I want that airplane back--whatever it takes, whatever we have to do."
"I understand, sir," Kerchner responded, placing his pen in his shirt pocket. "My guess is that they most likely flew due north--over the pole."
"That's probably correct, sir," Parkinson added. "But they would have had to land for fuel. The best place, in my opinion, would have been on the ice cap."
Jarrett nodded in agreement, then opened his attache case and placed his notes inside.
"We're going to have to . . . "Kerchner trailed off when the vice president placed the phone receiver down and swiveled to face the group.
"Well, gentlemen," Truesdell began, then folded his arms. "I believe I can tell you where our Stealth bomber is located--at the moment."
No one said a word.
"Somewhere in Cuba."
"Cuba?" Parkinson and Kerchner responded simultaneously.
"Yes," the vice president answered, noting that Jarrett had closed his eyes and lowered his head. "Mel Collins," Truesdell continued uneasily, "said that a senior air traffic controller in the Cleveland Center reported a strange occurrence last night. A corporate jet pilot radioed a report of a near midair collision seventy nautical miles south of Detroit, and--this is important--the controller's radar didn't show any other aircraft near the civilian jet."
"Would that be so unusual?" the president asked, raising his head. "I haven't piloted a plane for a long time, but it seems as if there have been a lot of close calls lately."
"Yes, it is unusual--very unusual," the vice president answered. "As you know, sir, any aircraft flying at the altitude of a civilian jet--they were cruising at fifty-one thousand feet--has to file an instrument flight plan, and be in radar and radio contact."
"Could the crew have been mistaken?" Jarrett asked. "Did they actually see the object?"
Truesdell met the president's eyes. "The FAA contacted the captain of the corporate jet this afternoon, and he was adamant about what happened. He couldn't distinguish what kind of aircraft it was, but he swore that something flew directly under them south of Detroit. It was too dark for him to see the type of airplane, but he reported seeing a dim glow--like cockpit lights--flash under his jet."
"That still leaves a lot of questions unanswered," Parkinson replied.
"Just a moment, general," Truesdell said, turning toward the air force officer. "The civilian jet was traveling east to west, and the object passed under them from right to left--north to south."
"I understand that, sir," Parkinson responded, "but that certainly isn't conclusive evidence that it was the B-2."
"Perhaps not, general," Truesdell said, "but let me ask you a question."
"Yes, sir."
The vice president leaned toward the officer. "How fast does the B-2 cruise?"
"The Stealth, as you know," Parkinson said, caution creeping into his voice, "is a subsonic aircraft. It cruises in the same range--higher at times--as the majority of commercial airliners. Of course, it does have a substantial dash speed, if needed."
"I understand, general," Truesdell replied. "What is the normal cruise speed, in nautical miles per hour?"
Parkinson thought for a second. "Normal cruise for the B-2 is approximately four hundred fifty to four hundred sixty knots."
The president raised his hand slightly, indicating a question. "I'm not following you, Kirk. What does speed have to do with establishing the whereabouts of the B-2?"
"My point," Truesdell responded, looking directly at Jarrett, "is that the near midair collision happened a little over a thousand statute miles--approximately nine hundred nautical miles--directly south of the last known position of the B-2. Actually, the location of the emergency signal. If you draw a line from that point to the middle of Cuba, the near midair is almost directly on it."
Jarrett glanced at Parkinson, then back to the vice president. Truesdell absently completed an arithmetic equation while he defended his theory. "General Parkinson states that the Stealth cruises at four hundred fifty--let's say four hundred sixty knots at altitude. So, we can assume that it would take two hours to reach the point of the near collision."
"Okay," Jarrett said, "we can assume that the B-2 would traverse the nine hundred nautical miles in approximately two hours. What's the bottom line?"
"A little more than two hours," Parkinson corrected, "counting the time to climb. The B-2, like any aircraft, climbs at a slower speed than its cruise speed."
"All right," Jarrett responded, "a little m
ore than two hours. Do we know the time of the close call--the near midair?"
"Yes," Truesdell replied, then paused to look at his quickly written notes. "Cleveland Center has the occurrence on tape, with time hacks. That's normal procedure, and a copy of the tape is being sent to us.".
"What time was it?" Kerchner asked.
"Nine-fifty-seven, local time," Truesdell replied, then looked over to Parkinson. "Two hours, six minutes after the emergency code flashed on Canadian radar."
THE ROAD TO MANTUA
The last few minutes of daylight were fading away rapidly as the rusted, dented Chevrolet van bounced down the partially paved highway. The torrential rains of the previous evening had washed thick mud and debris across the narrow, winding road.
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Matthews and Maj. Paul Evans sat on a bench in the back of the DAAFAR vehicle. Both men remained quiet, sitting angled away from each other. Their hands had been tied together behind their backs, then tied to each other.
The van lurched to the right to avoid a pothole, then rounded a tree-lined corner into an open expanse of roadway surrounded by grass and stubble. Across an open field, on the far side of a narrow stream, was a small civilian airport.
"Paul," Matthews said under his breath, "look out to your left."
Evans glanced quickly at the four men in the forward portion of the van. One Cuban guard, sitting behind the steering wheel, was accompanied in the front seat by the chief of KGB security at San Julian. Another Cuban guard and a KGB security officer sat on opposing benches behind the front seats.
Evans studied the guards for a moment, then darted a look at the small private airstrip. He studied the layout of the short runway, then turned to Matthews, smiling.
Both pilots had seen the two ancient, dilapidated DC-3s rotting behind the single hangar. They had also seen an old, radial-engined trainer sporting a huge paddle-bladed propeller. Neither was sure of the country of manufacture, but the aircraft appeared to be of Soviet design.
"The gooney birds," Matthews said, barely moving his lips, "aren't airworthy, but the small plane looks like it's flyable."
Matthews stopped talking when the closest KGB agent looked back at the two pilots. The short, wiry Cuban also glanced at the Americans, then resumed his animated, noisy discussion with the driver. The senior KGB agent carried a 9mm Beretta. The two men in back held their AK-47s across their laps, seemingly unconcerned with the two disheveled Americans.
"Chuck," Evans whispered, straining against the rough ropes binding his wrists. "I think I'm almost out of this lash-up. Can you move your hands farther behind me?"
Matthews darted a quick glance at the guards, then moved his bound hands as far as he could stretch them.
"Just a couple more seconds," Evans said, struggling with the final binding that was cutting into his bruised wrists. "You ready to go for them?"
"Damned right," Matthews replied without moving his bruised lips. "Can you get me loose?"
"Yeah, I think so--just a second."
"Okay," Matthews said, sizing up their four adversaries. "You take scarface, and I'll get the one on the right."
Evans nodded. "Can you pull your left hand loose?"
"Yes," Matthews responded, feeling the cord go slack around his left wrist. "Jesus, Paul, you're amazing."
"You still have the end around your other wrist," Evans whispered, "but you're free."
Matthews, watching the guards, turned slightly to see Evans in his periphery. "When I say 'now,' let's go for their weapons and shove the bastards forward."
"It's our only shot, Chuck."
"You're right, and a damned good one," Matthews replied, feeling the adrenaline surge through his body. "Ready--one, two, three, now!"
Both officers catapulted across the van, smashing into the two guards with brutal force. Matthews yanked the AK-47 away from the smaller man, kicking him off his bench into the back of the front passenger seat. Evans had punched the KGB agent straight in the nose and ripped his rifle loose.
"Don't move!" Evans yelled, pointing the barrel into the Russian's face.
The Cuban driver panicked, then slammed on the brakes, sending Evans crashing over the Soviet officer into the back of the driver. Matthews fell on top of the other Cuban as the van slid to a stop.
"Don't move, goddamnit!" Matthews shouted, pointing the assault rifle at the soldier. "You okay, Paul?"
"Yeah," Evans replied, shoving his rifle barrel into the mouth of the KGB guard. "I'm fine."
"Get in the back," Matthews ordered, motioning for the four guards to move to the rear. "Move it, now!"
The Cuban, along with the two Russians, scampered to the back of the battered Chevrolet while Evans yanked the driver between the front seats.
"You heard the man!" Evans barked, gouging the driver in the ribs. "Move it, asshole!"
"Stretch out, face down!" Matthews ordered, shoving the startled men down on their stomachs. "Side by side."
"You, too," Evans said, kicking the driver in the back of his knees. "On the floor."
Evans held his AK-47 on the soldiers while Matthews removed the long, dangling cord from his right wrist. He tied the quartet together quickly, then unzipped the front of his flight suit and tore off his turtleneck. He ripped the soiled pullover into four strips and gagged each man.
"Paul," Matthews said, picking up his assault rifle, "turn this wreck around and let's take that narrow road about three-quarters of a mile back--the one just before the airfield road."
"The one going east into the trees?" Evans asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.
"Yes. We've got to get rid of these bastards, then try the airfield."
Evans pulled over to the side of the road, cranked the wheel hard to the left, then gunned the engine. "Are you going to kill them?" The van spun around, slamming the prisoners against the right side, then straightened out and accelerated.
"No," Matthews answered, leaning against the back of the front passenger seat for balance. "I thought about running over their legs to immobilize them, but that--"
"Oh, shit!" Evans said as another DAAFAR vehicle rounded a curve a quarter mile in front of them. "Grab a couple of their caps."
Matthews scooped the two Cuban military hats off the floor, handing one to Evans. "Paul, if we get stopped for any reason," Matthews said, checking the safety on his Kalashnikov, "we've got to take our chances--we've got to shoot it out."
"I know," Evans replied as he shoved the khaki uniform cap on his head. "I'm with you."
The pilots watched the approaching vehicle. One headlight cast a beam straight toward the van, partially blinding the two Americans; the other headlight pointed slightly downward at the road.
"Uh, oh," Evans said, squinting into the bright beam of the single headlamp. "It's one of the Russian jeeps!"
"Keep going straight," Matthews ordered. "Don't turn off the road."
The Soviet GAZ field car passed the van, continued a hundred meters, then rapidly slowed.
"Son of a bitch," Matthews swore under his breath. "Keep going." At that moment, the brake lights of the DAAFAR field car illuminated.
Chapter Six
CIA HEADQUARTERS
The offices on the top floor of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), based at Langley, Virginia, were quiet. The deputy director of the CIA, David Ridgefield, sat staring out the window at the star-filled sky. The reed-thin, partially bald, fifty-three-year-old former attorney turned his gaze toward the twinkling lights of Washington. He waited patiently for his boss, Gen. Norman Lasharr, director of the intelligence agency, to conclude his phone call.
Lasharr, a ruddy-faced, no-nonsense leader, wrote two lines on his scratch pad, tore the page loose, and handed it to his second in command. Ridgefield reached over, grasped the piece of paper, then sat back. He could not believe his eyes.
Lasharr ended his conversation, placed the receiver on its cradle, and turned to his assistant. "I can't believe it either."
&n
bsp; Ridgefield shook his head. "A renegade faction in Russia has one of our Stealth bombers?"
"I'm afraid so," the former marine corps commandant replied with a look of disgust. "Sorry to call you in at this time of the evening, but we have a major hill to take."
"No problem, general. I'm just astounded that anyone in the Soviet Union would even think of capturing a B-2, in light of their reforms."
Lasharr pushed himself back from his desk. "That makes two of us, but there are still hard-liners--many of them wearing stars--who are blatantly resisting the military restructuring."
"How did whoever . . . ," Ridgefield paused, "how did this happen, sir?"
"It's a long story," Lasharr answered as he removed his military-framed reading glasses. Everyone at the intelligence agency called Lasharr either general or sir in his presence. When the director was out of earshot, his associates referred to him as Rambo. "I'll tell you about it later, Dave. Right now, we--the CIA--have a formidable task to accomplish."
"Find the B-2," Ridgefield stated.
Lasharr smiled slightly, then reverted to his normal, dour self. "That was Secretary Kerchner on the phone. The White House wants to use covert means to find out if the B-2 is in Cuba."
"Cuba?" Ridgefield responded, puzzled. "Are they--is the secretary positive it's in Cuba?"
"No, he isn't," the scrappy director answered. "However, all the evidence points to Cuba, and we have our marching orders."
"General," Ridgefield began, formulating a suggestion. "Should we use RAINDANCE?"
"Absolutely," Lasharr replied. "Secretary Kerchner made one thing very clear. The president wants that aircraft back in our hands as expeditiously as possible. The pressure is on the CIA, but we have carte blanche to find the B-2."
"We're not actually being charged with the responsibility to retrieve the aircraft," Ridgefield paused, "are we?"
"No," Lasharr answered, leaning back in his chair. "The White House doesn't want to make any accusations, or confront the Soviets or Cubans, until we know for certain where the Stealth is located. Our job is to find it, and find it fast."
