by Joe Weber
THE BOMBER
Matthews twisted his head back and forth, exercising his stiff neck muscles. He was thinking about taking off his helmet when something out of the side window caught his eye.
He snapped his head to the left and stared at the cockpit of an F15 Eagle. Matthews saw the Hawaiian Air National Guard lettering on the aircraft at the same instant the fighter pilot transmitted over the radio.
"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow leader on Guard. Do you copy?"
Simmons bolted upright as Brotskharnov leaned over the console and stared at the American fighter in wide-eyed astonishment.
"We better talk to him," Matthews cautioned, turning to Simmons. "The game is over."
Simmons looked at Brotskharnov, who was in shock.
"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow lead on Guard," the F-15 pilot radioed, easing closer to the nose of the B-2. "We have orders to shoot you down if you do not comply. Do you copy?"
Matthews shot a glance at the Eagle pilot and turned to Brotskharnov. "They've got us, goddamnit!"
The Russian blanched, snapped off the autopilot, grabbed his set of controls, and shoved the three throttles forward. "The hell they do!" the Russian pilot barked, yanking the bomber into a tight, climbing turn to the right.
Matthews reached for his controls at the same instant that Simmons pressed the revolver against the pilot's ribs.
The stunned fighter pilot, unprepared for the B-2's abrupt maneuver, tried to close on the bomber. When the two aircraft entered the dense clouds, the F-15 pilot, concerned about a midair collision, pulled his throttles back and shoved the nose over.
"Pelican, Rainbow lead. I've lost the target--he pulled into the clouds."
"Stand by," the controller radioed in a frustrated voice. "Are you in a position to try another intercept?"
"Negative--I'm not painting anything on the scope. They just disappeared in the soup."
The radio remained quiet for a moment before another voice spoke. "Rainbow leader, say fuel state."
"Three point nine," the pilot replied as his wingman rendezvoused on the right side. "We're gonna have to drop back and tank."
"Get the nose down!" Matthews ordered, watching the airspeed decrease rapidly. "We're going to stall!"
Brotskharnov, having changed course forty degrees and climbed 2,300 feet, shoved the nose down and turned back to the original heading. The Russian pilot's hands were shaking as he leveled the bomber at 42,300 feet.
Shadow 37, bouncing lightly in the dense clouds, accelerated to cruise speed again.
"They're going to shoot us down!" Matthews said, feeling the revolver in his side. "It's only a matter of time!"
Simmons shoved harder on the barrel of the gun. "Shut up, colonel!"
Matthews, ignoring the technician, leaned closer to Brotskharnov. "There's no way out . . . they've got us surrounded."
The wily Russian slowly turned his head. "Engage the autopilot. We will be okay if we can remain in the clouds."
Chapter Thirty
THE AWACS
The airborne command and control officer called Shadow 37 on Guard a dozen times, then radioed the E-2C Hawkeye controlling the navy aircraft from Carl Vinson.
The Hawkeye radar controller plotted the coordinates of the B-2 sighting and vectored two sections of F-14s toward a rendezvous with the bomber. "Sundowners, come port fifteen degrees and climb to angels four-five-zero. We've got a B-2 coming down the pike."
"Roger," the operations officer of VF-111 radioed. "Any idea when we'll intercept?"
"Stand by," the controller answered as he conferred with another radar operator. "We're projecting that you'll overfly the B-2 in twenty . . . say twenty-one minutes."
The Tomcat pilot, easing his throttles forward in the climb, looked over his glare shield. "We've got a thick cloud cover out here."
"Copy," the Hawkeye officer replied. "Don't show a thing .. . not a trace of the B-2. We're just extrapolating at this point." "Roger."
The radios remained quiet for a few seconds before the controller spoke again. "Sundowners, we show MiG activity at your four o'clock, climbing out of two-seven-zero. Looks like three aircraft at twenty-eight miles."
The F-14 flight leader checked his armament panel. "Keep us informed."
"Roger that," the controller said as he adjusted his scope. "They're off the Tihlisi--supposed to be helping us--but we haven't received permission to work them."
"Copy."
The Hawkeye officer changed to a frequency used by the Soviet fighter pilots, adjusted his lip microphone, and flipped the frequency switch. "This is navy airborne controller, call sign Eight Ball. All Soviet aircraft are warned to stand clear of U. S. operations. Repeat, all Soviet aircraft remain clear of U. S. operations."
The four F-14s, breaking out of the dark clouds at 43,000 feet, continued toward the projected position of the Stealth bomber. The fighter pilots listened to the radar controller alternately warn the Soviet aircraft, then change to Guard and call the B-2. The orders to the pilot of the bomber went unanswered.
Chuck Matthews had resigned himself to the only choice he had left. He needed to create a major distraction in order for his desperate plan to work.
General Brotskharnov, staring intently through the curved windshield, saw flecks of blue sky overhead. "We must descend to stay in the clouds."
Matthews, contemplating the odds of his survival, wordlessly programmed the flight director to descend back to 40,000 feet.
SUNDOWNER LEAD
The F-14 passed over Shadow 37 a half mile off the bomber's left wing. The B-2 was visible as it descended through the wisps of clouds.
"0. . . kay," the pilot said to himself as he called the Hawkeye and started a left 180-degree turn. "Eight Ball, Sundowner One has a tally on the B-2."
"Roger. Stand by."
"Two," the pilot radioed, "come port with me and let's start a descent."
"Two."
The fighter pilot eased the Tomcat's nose down and talked to his flight again. "Hal, you and Rich fly high cover."
"Three."
"Four."
"Sundowner lead," the Hawkeye controller said in a slow, even voice. "Make visual contact with the crew and attempt comm on Guard-call sign Shadow Three Seven. Have the aircraft turn toward Hawaii."
"Roger," the Tomcat pilot radioed. "Sundowners, come up Guard."
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
Sundowner One looked over his shoulder. "Two, stay high behind me."
"Copy."
The lead F-14 closed rapidly on the B-2, then deployed his speed brakes and radioed the bomber on 243.0. "Shadow Three Seven, Sundowner lead on Guard. Come port one-five-zero . . . acknowledge."
Matthews, startled by the unexpected radio call, looked out of his side window as the Tomcat slid into view. The pilot raised his visor and waved. Brotskharnov swore loudly and grabbed the flight controls, shoving the nose down.
"Jesus Christ," Matthews said, feeling the negative g load as loose objects floated up in the cockpit.
Simmons, almost dropping his revolver, gripped his seat tightly.
"Shadow Three Seven," the F-14 pilot said as he countered the violent maneuver. "We have been ordered to shoot you down. Do you copy?"
Matthews decided to make his move. "Let me have the controls!"
Brotskharnov appeared suspicious, then released the stick.
"I know the aircraft better," Matthews shouted, clutching the control stick. "I can evade them!"
The B-2 was between cloud layers when Matthews snapped the bomber into a tight left turn. "Check out the right," Matthews ordered. "See anyone?"
Brotskharnov and Simmons leaned closer to the right side window, gazing out over the wing. Matthews, seizing the opportunity, reached up and pulled his red-flagged ejection seat pin. The rocket-powered seat was now armed to fire.
Matthews quickly stuffed the bright cloth and metal pin under his left
thigh as Brotskharnov turned to him. "I do not see fighters."
"Keep checking," Matthews replied, then trimmed the B-2's nose full up, fighting the stick to keep the bomber from climbing.
"Shadow Three Seven," the F-14 pilot radioed in a strained voice. "I am going to fire a missile in thirty seconds. Turn to onefive-zero . . . your last warning."
The Tomcat dropped back 200 yards as the pilot selected master arm on and heard the lock-on tone. "Ten seconds," the pilot radioed, watching the bomber turn again. "Five seconds."
Matthews quickly moved his hand toward the alternate ejection handle. The bomber was nearing a thick wall of clouds when the F14 pilot fired a Sidewinder at Shadow 37.
"Fox Two!"
Matthews jinked the bomber up. Brotskharnov and Simmons braced themselves as the B-2 plunged into the cloud bank. The missile, fired too close to track properly, flashed under the bomber's left wing.
The Hawkeye controller watched the Sidewinder continue toward the horizon, then noticed something alarming. "The MiGs fired!" the radar controller shouted over Guard. "They detected your shot! Two missiles . . . the MiGs have two missiles away."
"Sundowners," the flight leader ordered, "unload--let's go for the deck! Take it down!"
"Oh, Jesus!" a voice shouted as Matthews grasped his ejection handle. "Lead is on fire! Lead is hit!"
"All aircraft," the Hawkeye controller shouted, "go Weapons Hold . . . Weapons Hold."
Matthews gripped the handle firmly, focusing on the next three seconds. His mind raced as he fought to hold the nose in level flight. Adrenaline pumping, Matthews paused a fraction of a second, then yanked on the ejection handle.
The explosive blast hurled the American pilot more than 150 feet above the B-2. Matthews tumbled through the sky, separated from his seat, then went into free-fall to a lower altitude, where his parachute would automatically open.
The Stealth, trimmed full nose up, pitched violently upward into the clouds. Brotskharnov, blinded and burned by the rocket blast, slumped semiconscious in his seat. The Russian pilot groaned in agony as Simmons unstrapped, then staggered to grab Matthews's control stick. The entire front and left side of the technician's body was blackened by the explosive ejection.
Simmons grasped the stick with his burned hands, shoving forward to lower the nose. He could barely see as he forced the B-2's nose toward level flight. Unaware that the trim was full nose up, the technician kept pressure on the stick. His mind, desperate in his pain and panic, searched for a way to remain alive.
Simmons horsed the bomber around, forcing the nose down. Feeling the howling wind increase, Simmons pulled the three throttles back to idle and raised the nose.
Brotskharnov, now unconscious, was hanging over the left side of his ejection seat. His limp body was impeding Simmons's efforts to control the B-2. The technician shoved the Russian back and to the right. Brotskharnov's head flopped over onto his right shoulder, pulling his upper torso over the right side of the seat.
The gravely injured technician, on his knees in the cavity left by the pilot's seat, felt the bomber tremble at the verge of a stall. The B-2, pointed skyward, was losing speed rapidly. As the airspeed decayed, the nose dropped dangerously low.
Simmons, recognizing that the Stealth was becoming unmaneuverable, shoved the throttles forward and pulled savagely on the control stick. Shadow 37 stalled, rolled off on the right wing, then spun out of control toward the cold, windswept sea.
The bomber, spinning inverted, fell seven miles through the dark clouds as Simmons tried to recover control of the aircraft. He cried out in anguish as the image of Irina Rykhov flashed through his mind. He was rolling the B-2 when it emerged from the low rain clouds. As he screamed in terror, Shadow 37 slammed into the water and exploded in a thunderous fireball.
EPILOGUE:
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Matthews was the only witness to the crash of Shadow 37.
He was hanging from his parachute, descending in the cold rain, when the Stealth bomber exploded three miles away. The flash and low, rolling rumble startled the B-2 pilot as he prepared his life raft for entry into the storm-tossed ocean. Matthews plunged into the ice-cold water, gasping for air as his windswept parachute dragged him over 200 yards through the towering waves. He swallowed two gulps of seawater before he could release the parachute risers.
Freeing himself from the parachute canopy, he struggled into the one-man raft, shivering uncontrollably until he was able to zip the raft's rubber and nylon cover closed around his neck.
Sundowner One, hit by the Soviet air-to-air missile, trailed flames from its starboard side until the pilot secured the right engine. The blazing fire went out after the engine fuel and hydraulic systems were stopcocked.
The F-14 limped back to the USS Carl Vinson where the crew discovered the right main landing gear was jammed in the up position. After repeated attempts to deploy the landing gear the crew faced the inevitable; they would have to abandon the wounded Tomcat.
The pilot, who was the operations officer of VF-111, conferred with the Air Boss, briefed his radar intercept officer, then flew by the carrier and made a controlled ejection 300 yards to the left of the bridge.
Both men arced through the freezing rain, separated from their seats, then stopped in midair as their parachutes opened. They watched the F-14, nose down, dive into the mountainous waves and disappear.
The radar intercept officer, followed by the pilot, splashed down. Quickly releasing their parachutes, they fought to keep their heads above water as the giant waves washed over them.
Overhead, an SH-3 Sea King plane-guard helicopter pitched and rolled as the pilot wrestled the controls. Seconds later, a rescue harness was lowered to the F-14 crew.
The RIO grabbed the sling in a death-grip, placed it over his head and slipped the collar under his armpits. The hoist operator immediately raised the officer to the helicopter's open hatch, helped him in, then lowered the harness to the other crewman.
The pilot, freezing and exhausted, tried in vain to don the collar as it skipped across the swells. The hoist operator, seeing that the pilot was in jeopardy, ordered the swimmer into the water.
The rescue specialist, wearing a thick wetsuit, leaped from the Sea King and assisted the fatigued pilot into the elusive harness. The hoist operator quickly plucked the pilot from the water and again lowered the sling. The swimmer was then winched up to the hatch while the Sea King headed for the Carl Vinson.
Both Tomcat crewmen were returned to flight status forty-eight hours later.
American and Soviet carrier aircraft separated without further escalations in hostilities, but tensions remained high as both sides evaluated the situation.
The message traffic increased threefold during the two hours after the air-to-air missile attack. Both governments voiced cautious apologies and encouraged open discussions to prevent further incidents.
Aircraft from Carl Vinson, supplemented by a variety of airplanes from Alaska, continued the search for the Stealth bomber.
Three hours after Shadow 37 had actually crashed, with the weather worsening and darkness approaching, the search was cancelled. By that time, if it had not crashed, the commanders agreed, it would have already landed on Russian soil.
Twenty-five minutes after the search was terminated, a White House message was sent to the task force commander who was on the Carl Vinson. The message stated that the president of the Soviet Union had guaranteed the safe and expeditious return of the crew and the aircraft if the bomber was found to have landed anywhere in Russia.
Chuck Matthews, after spending a chilly night in his life raft, heard a jet early the next morning. He fired four flares, then shouted with joy as the jet turned toward him.
Matthews was surprised when the Sukhoi Su-27 pilot circled the raft twice and rocked his wings. The Russian fighter pilot, flying a regular maritime patrol, radioed the coordinates to the Tbilisi and then returned to the carrier.
Fifty minutes later, Matthews
was hoisted aboard a Soviet helicopter and flown to the USS Carl Vinson.
After Matthews had undergone a quick debrief, the White House was immediately notified of the fate of Shadow 37 and Major Paul Evans.
Matthews remained on board the carrier for twenty-four hours before being transported to Elmendorf Air Force Base. From there, he was flown to Washington, D. C., in an Air Force KC-135, and was thoroughly debriefed at the White House and the Pentagon. After a thirty-day leave, Matthews returned to Whiteman Air Force Base where he was promoted to squadron commanding officer.
Aerial photographs of San Julian after the air attack indicated that the Stealth hangar had been gutted by fire. The Joint Chiefs assessed the damage and concluded that the tapes that Matthews had mentioned must have been destroyed. The Stealth was gone, but the secrets of its technology remained documented only in the United States. Nevertheless, the president of the Soviet Union publicly apologized for the B-2 affair, and pledged to prosecute the chief of the KGB. The promise was fulfilled when Vladimir Golodnikov was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the Borisovka Prison. Only a few individuals close to the Soviet president knew that Golodnikov had never reached the prison. His body, accompanied by papers with a false identification, had been buried in a shallow grave at a cemetery on the outskirts of Moscow.
Gennadi Levchenko and Natanoly Obukhov, relieved to learn that Vladimir Golodnikov had confessed to directing the rogue Stealth operation, had been returned to Moscow after the former KGB chief had been sentenced.
Levchenko was reassigned to duty in the United States and continued to work with Irina Rykhov and Aleksey Pankyev. The threesome would be responsible for gleaning critical information about the Navy's A-12 Avenger II advanced tactical aircraft.
Gennadi Levchenko, coordinating the efforts of Rykhov and Pankyev, had later established a residence close to Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico. He had been pleased when security guidelines had been relaxed, allowing the F-1 17A Stealth attack aircraft to transition form Tonapah to Holloman.
His next assignment involved finding a knowledgeable F-1 17A crewmember to join the fold. The Kremlin had given the operation a high priority.
