Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  Ridgefield looked concerned. "How far down in the agency are we going to reach, general?"

  "You're looking at us, along with the director of covert operations," Lasharr answered, then gathered his messages into a pile. "Secretary Kerchner said to put a lid on it for the time being. Dave, I want you to initiate contact with RAINDANCE as soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We're going to have to use the Vienna loop," Lasharr instructed. "The East German operative has been under surveillance since the wall crumbled, and we can't take the risk of exposing her. We'll have to retrieve her soon, but now isn't the time."

  Ridgefield nodded in agreement.

  "Also," the director continued, "locate our man with nine lives."

  "Will do, general," Ridgefield replied, checking his government-issue watch. "So, you're going to place Wickham back in the saddle?"

  Lasharr stopped and looked Ridgefield in the eye. "No one is better qualified, in my opinion, for this kind of operation."

  MANTUA AIRFIELD

  "Turn into the airfield!" Matthews ordered. "They know something's wrong."

  "Chuck," Evans responded, swerving onto the muddy road leading to the small civilian airstrip. "Let's stop here and nail them when they come around the corner."

  Matthews glanced down the road at the barely distinguishable hangar, then made a snap decision. "Okay, but we've both got to open up on them."

  "Hang on," Evans shouted as he viciously jammed on the brakes, sending the careening van into a four-wheel sideways drift. As the Chevrolet ground to a halt, both pilots jumped out and crouched down in the muddy roadway.

  "Go for the windshield!" Matthews ordered, raising the barrel of his rifle. "We have to make this count."

  Fourteen seconds elapsed before the Soviet field car lurched through the corner, slid toward the edge of the road, then straightened.

  "Now!" Matthews barked, squeezing the trigger on his Kalashnikov.

  The GAZ swerved to the right in a spray of glass, spun around to the left, then slid to a stop. The driver, badly wounded, fell out of the vehicle and crawled a dozen feet before collapsing.

  "Let's check it," Matthews said in a cautious voice. "Back me up, Paul."

  "I'm right beside you," Evans responded as he stood erect in the mud. "We better see if--SHIT!"

  Both men fired simultaneously when the other Cuban in the GAZ lunged for the mounted machine gun.

  "Goddamn," Matthews shouted, watching the soldier slide down into the field car. "Let's move it!"

  The pilots threw their weapons into the Chevrolet. Evans jumped into the driver's seat while Matthews pulled the four guards out of the van. He left the bruised men lying in the spongy mud and crawled into the passenger seat. Evans stomped on the accelerator as Matthews swung his door shut. The oversized tires threw up a shower of mud, then found traction.

  "Head for that--whatever it is," Matthews ordered, bracing himself when the Chevrolet bounced across the bridge over the narrow stream. The van slewed sideways, then plowed onto the slippery road. Evans kept his foot firmly planted on the accelerator, whipping the steering wheel left and right to straighten the careening van.

  "See any activity?" Evans asked as they neared the rusting hangar.

  "No," Matthews answered, pointing at the dark-colored single-engine aircraft. "Take it straight across the ramp. Turn off the lights."

  Evans pushed in the light switch and turned sharply to the right. "Hold on."

  The van hit the edge of the slightly raised tarmac, bounced a foot into the air, landed with a jolt, and shuddered to a stop. Evans and Matthews, carrying the guards' AK-47s, leaped out of the Chevrolet and raced toward the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-18. The Soviet State Industries--manufactured trainer, circa 1957, squatted on its tricycle landing gear. A large white star, bordered in red with a blue stripe on each side, adorned the tail of the tandem seat aircraft.

  "What is it?" Evans asked as they slowed to a walk beside the dull black, low-wing airplane.

  "Beats me," Matthews responded, looking into the radial engine. "Let's hope we can get it started."

  "Right," Evans replied, checking the landing gear and wheels. "It must be flyable--there's grease drippings on the struts and oil residue under the cowling."

  "Okay, Paul, let's give it a try."

  Matthews ducked under the left wing and raised his right foot up to the step leading to the back of the wing. He pulled himself up, tossed his rifle into the back seat, and turned toward Evans. "I'll fly

  "You'll get no argument from me," Evans replied as he followed Matthews onto the wing. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  Both pilots slid back their respective canopies, jumped in, and fastened their webbed seat belts.

  "What a bucket of bolts," Matthews remarked as he surveyed the antiquated, well-worn cockpit. "There must be some kind of master switch in here."

  "Come on, Chuck," Evans urged, sliding shut his grazed canopy. "I don't like sitting here."

  "I'm trying," Matthews replied, feeling hastily around the cockpit. "I need a goddamn flashlight."

  Suddenly the silence was shattered when machine-gun fire ripped into the Chevrolet van.

  "Oh, shit!" Evans shouted, ducking down into the dark cockpit. "That's coming from the field car. The sonuvabitch is still alive!"

  Matthews frantically flipped two more switches, then another. Nothing happened.

  "Oh, mother of Jesus," Matthews said, gritting his teeth as another burst of gunfire tore into the van.

  "Come on!" Evans shouted, peeking over the edge of the canopy rail. "The bastard is coming up the road!"

  "I'm trying!" Matthews yelled, toggling another switch. The cockpit came to life as gyros spun up, pumps surged, and a low hum settled over the interior.

  "Go!" Evans shouted. "Let's go!"

  Matthews found the well-worn starter engagement, shoved forward the fuel mixture lever, pumped the throttle, then toggled the starter.

  "Come on, baby," Matthews said under his breath. "Do it for us."

  The big, nine-cylinder, air-cooled, 260-horsepower Ivchenko AI-14R radial cranked over slowly. The fat, two-bladed propeller turned over four times before the engine coughed, then fired momentarily, and quit.

  "Shit!" Evans swore, yanking his canopy backward to the open position. He raised his AK-47 and fired his last seven rounds at the approaching field car, then tossed the rifle over the side.

  Matthews had the propeller turning again, and was pumping the throttle slightly, when the machine gun rounds ripped into the left wing.

  "Oh, God," Matthews groaned a split second before the laboring engine coughed twice, belched a cloud of white smoke from the exhaust stack, then settled into an uneven idle.

  "Go!" Evans shouted, firing the remaining rounds of the other Kalashnikov at the GAZ.

  The Yak-18 surged forward as Matthews shoved the throttle halfway open, then stomped on the right rudder pedal. He had to make the takeoff from the middle of the short runway.

  Evans tossed out the second rifle and slammed his canopy closed as the lumbering aircraft slid sideways onto the dark runway. Matthews shoved the throttle all the way forward. The cold engine hesitated, backfired twice, then surged to full power. The paddle-bladed prop slashed the air as the nine cylinders created a deep-throated roar.

  The pilot watched the airspeed indicator register slowly, then move steadily faster. "Come on . . . come on . . . , " Matthews urged, watching the airspeed needle move upward. "We don't have much runway left. Go . . . , go . . . "

  The Yak-18 was beginning to feel light--ready to fly--when several machine gun rounds tore into the right wing and fuselage. Two more shells sliced through the right main gear, exploding the tire. Shredded rubber slammed into the underside of the wing as the aircraft yawed violently to the right.

  "Sonuvabitch!" Matthews shouted as he kicked left rudder, pulled back on the stick, and banked the struggling trainer to the left. The aircraft staggered, then straightened as h
e fought the controls.

  "Hang in there!" Evans encouraged, willing the Yak-18 to fly. "Get the nose down!"

  Matthews had already started easing the stick forward. The aircraft settled into ground effect, then accelerated to normal climb airspeed.

  "You did it!" Evans screamed over the roaring engine. "Goddamn, you did it!"

  Matthews did not reply as he smoothly banked the straining aircraft, then rolled out on a northeasterly heading. Key West, Florida, home of a naval air station, Matthews reasoned, would be the closest sanctuary.

  The Cuban soldier, bleeding profusely from hip and shoulder wounds, cursed the fleeing aircraft. He fired a three-second burst in frustration, then collapsed across the blood-soaked passenger seat. The small man, in shock and pain, grabbed the radio microphone and screamed into it. "Necesito ayuda, pronto!" I need help, quick.

  The radio crackled. "Repita, por favor."

  The soldier shouted "escape" three times, then calmed enough to tell how the Americans had gotten away and what direction they had taken.

  Matthews eased back the throttle and lowered the Yak's nose as they skirted along the coastline a hundred feet off the water. The bright moonlight provided good visibility for low flying. The fatigued pilot glanced up at the sparkling stars, thankful that the storm had moved rapidly to the west. He reached up, closed his canopy, and looked around the cockpit.

  Evans cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted forward. "We have to stay on the deck!"

  Matthews turned his head and shoulders as far as he could to the left. He could see Evans's taut face clearly. "We will." He turned back around and studied the worn cockpit. No radios or navigation gear, he noted, then checked the engine instruments. Uh, oh, he said to himself, then turned back to his copilot. "We don't have any oil pressure."

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  "Norm Lasharr understands the urgency," Kerchner reported to the president, "and the sensitivity of the situation. The agency expects to make contact with RAINDANCE in a matter of hours."

  The Oval Office, at this time of the evening, was as quiet as a tomb. An eerie silence had settled over the White House, replacing the usual hustle and bustle of the staff.

  "We have to have confirmation," Jarrett said, "and location, or our hands are tied. I intend to find the B-2 and retrieve it, or destroy it. Those are the only two options I will consider."

  The vice president turned to Jarrett. "I have a suggestion that would give us some leverage in Moscow. Even if the Kremlin is not behind the hijacking, they must be aware of the operation."

  Jarrett looked at Kerchner, then back to Truesdell. "I'm listening.

  "We could seize one of the new Soviet Akula submarines. The Russians regard them as supersecret--their "Walker-class" boats. The subs are the quietest in the world, with their state-of-the-art propellers and polymer friction systems. They've been tracked underwater at fifty knots." Truesdell glanced at Kerchner. "If an Akula disappeared, I'm positive that Moscow would help us locate our missing B-2."

  Jarrett and Kerchner thought for a moment. "Kirk," the president responded, "I have two questions. Do you really believe that we have the capability to snare one of their submarines, and, in the event we are successful, what happens if they don't have the bomber?"

  "We have the technical ability--the hardware--to seize an Akula, no question about it." Truesdell paused, evaluating the president's concerns. "Who else would hijack an American B-2? I feel that we need to play hardball with the Kremlin, beginning right now."

  "Let me think it over for a while," Jarrett replied, looking at Kerchner. "Bernie?"

  "Well, sir," the defense secretary responded, catching Truesdell's eye, "I feel confident that our Moscow informant will be able to ascertain the information we need."

  The vice president rose from his chair and walked over to the window. "I suggest we form a contingency plan for every possible scenario we can envision, including the submarine option."

  After a moment, Jarrett responded. "Kirk, I agree with you, and our first priority is to deal with the media. The pressroom has been packed since early this morning, and the rumors are spreading like a plague."

  "True," Kerchner said. "We need some damage control--a press conference-to set the record straight. I recommend that I do that now, before we take any further steps."

  Jarrett, deep in thought, nodded his head in agreement.

  "I agree," Truesdell said, walking back to his seat. "It's very simple. The secretary of defense tells the media the truth. A B-2 is missing, and an investigation is under way. More details when they are available. Period."

  "I concur," Jarrett responded, then faced Kerchner again. "Bernie, what about the agent-I've forgotten his name--who Lasharr wants to drop in Cuba?"

  "Wickham," Kerchner answered. "Steve Wickham."

  "Oh, yes," Jarrett nodded. "He did a magnificent job rescuing our Kremlin mole when that Russian madman was about to destroy the world."

  Stephen Wickham, former marine corps captain, and decorated combat veteran of the Grenada invasion, was a minor legend in the Central Intelligence Agency. The rugged, dark-haired, six-foot-oneinch agent was considered a real-life hero. Wickham had been reassigned to Clandestine Operations after he had recuperated from injuries sustained during the Moscow rescue.

  "General Lasharr," Kerchner continued, "believes that Wickham should reconnoiter the island--actually the location of the bomber, if we can ferret out the information--before we confront the Soviets."

  "I agree," Jarrett said. "We need to move fast, and aggressively. Bernie, I want the latest satellite information, along with aerial reconnaissance of Cuba, at daybreak."

  "Yes, sir," Kerchner responded. "I'll set it in motion, then go to the pressroom."

  THE YAKOVLEV-18

  "See if there are any life jackets back there!" Matthews shouted over the roar of the big radial. "I'm going to circle close to shore, in case the engine quits."

  Evans searched frantically under his seat, along each side, and under the instrument panel. "Nothing back here!" Evans reported. "Anything up front?"

  "No!" Matthews said, tapping the oil pressure gauge. It continued to indicate zero pressure. "We may have taken a round in the oil line."

  "Chuck, the gauge could be faulty. Let's take our chances and get the hell away from here!"

  "Okay," Matthews replied, checking the engine RPMs, then the two fuel gauges. The right wing tank indicated full; the left side showed three-quarters of a tank. "One more circle," he yelled over his shoulder, "and we'll head for Key West. We've got plenty of fuel."

  Matthews banked the Yak-18 to the left again, visually checked his height above the water, then rapped the oil pressure gauge with his left fist.

  The aircraft, bathed in soft Caribbean moonlight, circled once again over Cayo de Buenavista. Matthews knew that they could glide to the beach if the engine seized. "Here we go!" Matthews said, rolling out again on the northeasterly heading.

  The air force pilot flew the Yak-18 along the Cuban coast, skirting the coastline at an altitude of 100 feet. They quickly passed Dimas, Nombre de Dios, and Cayo Ines de Soto, then turned a few degrees to the left, leaving the coastline.

  Matthews checked the engine parameters for the thousandth time, looked down at the water, then turned to Evans. "So far, so good."

  "Yeah," Evans shouted, "the gauge has to be faulty." "You doing okay back there?"

  "I'd be doing a lot better," Evans yelled, "if we were landing in Key West right now."

  Matthews looked at the vibrating airspeed indicator. The large pointer, mounted through an oil-soaked, yellowed card, bounced from 190 to 260 kilometers per hour. "Paul," Matthews said, turning around again to Evans. "I can't tell what we're doing speed-wise."

  Evans leaned forward, then shouted. "Feels like one-fifty to one-sixty."

  "Yeah," Matthews replied. "From the sound of this engine, you'd think we were makin' three hundred knots."

  "I'm counting the minutes," Evans
said, looking back at the shrinking island. "How long do you figure before we hit the Keys?"

  "I don't know," Matthews answered, cross-checking their altitude. He eased back on the stick to level the Yak-18. "I can't really visualize the distance. I'd say an hour and a half."

  "Who cares!" Evans shouted. "We're on our way!"

  "Damned right we are!" Matthews responded, watching the erratic wet compass. There was a hole in the instrument panel where the gyrocompass should have been. "This wet compass is all over the place."

  "There isn't anything back here," Evans said, searching the instrument panel. "Line up on that constellation at your two o'clock-the one with the bright star in the lower left corner."

  "Yeah, just above the horizon," Matthews replied, staring at Capella in the constellation Auriga. "Help me keep it in the same position."

  Evans leaned forward in his seat. "I'll handle the nav and you can watch the alti--"

  Both pilots were caught off guard when the Yak-18's rumbling Ivchenko radial engine surged, coughed, backfired repeatedly, then surged again.

  THE P-3 BLUE SENTINEL

  The United States Customs Service Lockheed P-3B Orion, November 91 Lima Charlie, cruised in a seventy-mile racetrack pattern twenty-five nautical miles west of Andros Island.

  Two of the reconnaissance aircraft's four turboprop engines had been shut down to increase the loitering time. The gleaming white Orion, with two engines caged, easily maintained an altitude of 20,000 feet. The airborne early warning and control aircraft had been upgraded recently with new APS-138 radar, along with an AYK-14 computer.

  Blue Sentinel number one, based at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, was flying the second of two eight-hour surveillance missions. The crew, four and a half hours into the shift, were vigilant in their quest to detect drug smugglers amid the Caribbean air traffic. Because Hurricane Bennett had forced the Customs Service to cancel the previous evening's mission, the P-3 crew knew that the smugglers had also been grounded, so they expected the volume of airborne traffic to be greater than usual.

  Pete Vecchio, former navy lieutenant and E-2C Hawkeye combat information control officer, sat in front of his radar screen, tweaking the display board continuously in an attempt to filter out false returns from actual air traffic.