by Joe Weber
Wickham waited a few seconds before he responded. "How many night landings have you made?"
"Relax, Steve," Sandoline replied soothingly. "At night you can't see all the things that tend to scare you in the daytime." Wickham glanced in the mirror again. "Thanks."
SAN JULIAN
Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews had lost track of time. His watch had been smashed during the crash landing and he had discarded it in the Soviet helicopter.
The bruised and battered air force pilot, full of anguish over the loss of his copilot and best friend, looked around the hangar cell. Forcing himself to relax, he walked over to the rumpled bunk and sat down, thinking about his wife and the twins. He was deep in thought, envisioning the pain that Roxanne and the girls, Meredith and Michelle, were experiencing, when the cell door opened abruptly to admit the Stealth project director, accompanied by the KGB security officer and three Cuban soldiers.
Matthews met Gennadi Levchenko's eyes with a cold, unblinking stare. The B-2 pilot's swollen face expressed an intense, unbridled hatred.
"On your feet," the director bellowed.
Matthews remained sitting.
"You will obey me," Levchenko snapped, "or you will pay the consequences."
Matthews stood slowly, not taking his eyes off Levchenko's face. His hair was matted and he had dried blood on his left temple and ear and under his cheek.
Levchenko raised his unfiltered American cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and turned toward Talavokine. "Hand me the list.
The KGB officer stepped forward and gave Levchenko three pieces of paper stapled together. "Now, Lieutenant Colonel Matthews," Levchenko said, exhaling the smoke, "you will answer these questions. If we discover that you have lied about any of them .. . well, let us say that it will not be in your best interest."
"We've been through this before," Matthews replied, controlling his anger, "or have you forgotten?"
Levchenko smiled crookedly, turned halfway around to see Talavokine, then karate-chopped Matthews viciously across the throat.
The fatigued pilot, caught with his guard down, partially deflected the savage blow, tripped, then fell backward onto the bunk. Two Cuban guards rushed forward and placed the barrels of their AK-47s on Matthews's neck.
"I told you before," Levchenko growled, "that we can make it easy, or we can make it difficult. I mean to get the information I need that you possess."
Levchenko inhaled again, then exhaled while he talked in Matthews's face. "I have decided to move our schedule ahead, so it's your choice. Easy, or difficult? Which will it be, Colonel Matthews?"
Matthews glanced at each guard and Talavokine, then back to Levchenko. "Since we're talking about torture, why don't I just go ahead and give your goons a reason to kill me?"
"They won't kill you, colonel, until I have the information I need. You can attack me right now and they will simply beat you into submission."
Matthews swallowed twice, feeling the end of each barrel in the sides of his throat. "Pride. You must fill the mirror with it."
Levchenko grabbed Matthews's flight suit and yanked the pilot into his face. "It's real simple, swine. We don't have to torture you. We use a much more sophisticated system."
"Drugs," Matthews said, moving his head back slightly.
"That's correct, tough guy," Levchenko growled as he crushed out the Pall Mall on the floor. "We use Versed and Brevital. You will tell us every detail you know about the Stealth, along with the operational data and your command's warfare philosophy." Levchenko grinned again and lighted another cigarette. "You won't remember a thing, so don't be stupid and stubborn."
Chapter Ten
MOSCOW
Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev sat in his office at Troops of Air Defense and stared out of the rain-streaked window. His gaze covered the Moskva River and Maurice Thorez Embankment, but his mind was not registering the image.
Voronoteev knew the Soviet military system as well as anyone. If the American Stealth bomber was in Soviet hands, then one of the persons who would know--who would have been included in the logistics--was the commander in chief of Troops of Air Defense, General of the Army Ilych Dankoffevich Borol'kov.
Voronoteev unlocked his desk and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the lower right drawer. He unscrewed the top from the container and took two quick swallows, then recapped the bottle and placed it back in the drawer.
The two-star general, knowing that Borol'kov was on an inspection tour at Kubinka Air Force Base, eighty kilometers west of Moscow, picked up his phone and requested the commanding officer. Voronoteev thought about the animosity that had developed between the two officers.
"General Borol'kov's office," the senior warrant officer answered in a high, nasal voice.
"General Voronoteev for General Borol'kov," Voronoteev said as he placed the latest monthly air defense report in an Eyes Only folder.
The administrative officer responded in his most pleasant manner. "I am sorry, comrade general, but the commander is visiting Kubinka today. May I be of assistance to the general?"
Voronoteev knew the unctuous and politically savvy warrant officer well. "I'm sure you can, Lugayev. I have a readiness report for General Borol'kov, and I need access to the last combat efficiency report."
"Absolutely, comrade general," Lugayev answered smartly. "I will have it delivered to your office immediately."
"No," Voronoteev responded, closing the snap on the classified folder. "It is past time for my morning walk. I will be over in a few minutes."
"As you wish, comrade general."
Voronoteev placed the receiver down and thought back to his first encounter with Borol'kov--the encounter that had cost Voronoteev his first major command and tainted his entire service career.
The date had been September 6, 1976. The place had been Sakharovka Air Force Base, near the village of Chuguyevka, 200 kilometers northeast of Vladivostok. Voronoteev had commanded the 3d Squadron of the 513th Fighter Regiment of the Soviet Air Defense Command. The incident had been the defection to Japan by squadron pilot Lt. Viktor Belenko. He had flown a MiG-25 to asylum in the West, landing out of fuel at Hakodate Airport in northern Japan.
The loss of the highly classified front line interceptor had been difficult enough, but the defection of a Soviet officer and an elite combat pilot had been devastating to the Kremlin leadership.
Heads rolled, including Voronoteev's, Belenko's commanding officer. After the board of inquiry, presided over by then Col. Ilych Borol'kov, Voronoteev had been reassigned to the staff of the deputy commander in chief for Military Schools, Strategic Rocket Forces. The nonflying billet had been humiliating, but the removal from command and subsequent censure had destroyed Voronoteev's career in the military.
Voronoteev cleared his mind, shoved back his chair, stood and placed the Eyes Only folder under his arm. He opened the door to his outer office and spoke to the starshina in charge of the clerical staff. "I will return in a few minutes," Voronoteev said as he walked through the cluttered office.
"Yes, comrade general," the chief master sergeant replied, rising to attention.
Voronoteev walked the length of the command and staff offices, passing the first deputy commander and chief's austere quarters, then climbed the wide stairs leading to Borol'kov's spacious suite. The impressive office, replete with bedroom, large bath, walk-in vault, and entertaining salon, was a subject of much discussion among the lower ranking officers.
Voronoteev opened the door to the small outer office and approached Starshiy Praporshchik Lugayev. The smiling senior warrant officer popped to attention and held out a large folder for Voronoteev. "The last combat efficiency report, comrade general."
Voronoteev accepted the bound folder wordlessly, leafed through it, then frowned. "This does not reflect our implementation of Armaments and Aviation Engineering. This report is ambiguous." Voronoteev could see that Lugayev, who blanched, had been taken by complete surprise. "Did you compile this repo
rt, Lugayev?"
The short, dapper warrant officer, still at attention, hesitated a moment. "Yes, comrade general."
"At ease," Voronoteev said in a pleasant tone. "Has General Borol'kov read this report?"
"I'm sure the commander has, comrade general," Lugayev answered, clearly uneasy. "I believe that he has endorsed the last page."
Voronoteev thumbed through to the final page. "So he has. It is unusual for the general to miss such a glaring oversight."
Lugayev remained quiet, studying his immaculately manicured fingernails.
"Well, Lugayev, we can let this be our secret. I'll correct your figures as I adjust my readiness report. Open the vault and I'll get the two previous efficiency reports."
"Comrade general," Lugayev said haltingly, "I am expressly forbidden to allow anyone access to the vault, sir."
"Open the vault, Warrant Officer Lugayev," Voronoteev ordered sternly. "I take full responsibility for the security of the contents."
"Yes, comrade general," Lugayev replied as he rounded his desk and entered the spacious office. Voronoteev followed Lugayev into the commander's suite and waited until the vault swung open.
"Comrade general, this is highly irregular, and I must ask you to certify that I was ord--"
"Lugayev," Voronoteev interrupted, "this is official business and I don't have time to waste. We will seal the vault as soon as I compile the figures."
Lugayev nodded his head, stealing a glance toward the outer office entrance, then backed through the open door and closed it behind him.
Voronoteev quickly yanked open the bottom slide-out drawer and began flipping back each SECRET file folder, scanning the content heading. Opening the ninth file, titled ATB, he discovered the B-2 advanced technology bomber scheme.
He was overwhelmed by the complexity of the secret endeavor. The KGB had apparently engineered the operation on its own, and had pulled it off. The supersecret Stealth bomber was in Cuba, secure in the hands of the KGB.
"San Julian," Voronoteev said to himself as he closed the file. He straightened up, opened a larger upper file drawer, then closed it loudly and walked to the door. He opened it and shook his head. "You were right after all. The Armaments and Aviation Engineering data will be included in the annual efficiency report."
"Yes, sir," Lugayev responded as he hurried through the door to close the vault.
Voronoteev tucked his file under his arm and walked out of the small office. He took a few steps, checked his watch, then started down the stairs. He would stop by his office, remember a forgotten meeting in the afternoon, go to the Hotel Metropol for a leisurely lunch, then make his way to the international post office.
Lugayev had paused at the vault and watched Voronoteev leave. Each working day the warrant officer was responsible for checking the security of the secret files in Borol'kov's vault. He kneeled down, opened the bottom drawer, and slid out the secret files. Lugayev checked each folder rapidly. When he looked at the file labeled ATB, he knew that Voronoteev had opened it. Lugayev had no idea what ATB represented--he only placed the folders in the vault for his commander--but he had checked only hours before and the hair-thin, almost invisible thread had been across the seal. The thread now rested on the bottom of the drawer, severed.
Lugayev shut the vault, then rushed out and closed the door between his small office and the hallway. He had been ordered by General Borol'kov to contact the chief of investigations at the KGB--the Committee for State Security--if the vault was compromised or if anything suspicious happened in the general's absence.
Senior Warrant Officer Lugayev had wondered, on more than one occasion, why the general did not want the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU) to investigate any questionable act. It seemed only logical to Lugayev that military matters should be investigated by Soviet Military Intelligence.
The conscientious administrative officer was not aware that most of Borol'kov's secret files involved KGB clandestine operations outside the Soviet Union. The GRU operations were confined, for the most part, within the boundaries of the Rodina.
Lugayev had been to the KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square only once, and he did not look forward to a repeat visit. Orders were orders, however, and the general had been explicit. Lugayev could not contact the KGB via phone. He had to present himself in person, along with the proper credentials. He dialed the master sergeant of administration and had a clerk sent to the commanding general's office to answer the phone. Lugayev gave the airman first class clear instructions, grabbed his cap, and raced down the stairs.
LEADFOOT 107
"Are we starting down?" Wickham asked the Tomcat pilot when he felt the F-14D nose down slightly.
Lieutenant Commander Reed Sandoline, quiet for the past fifty minutes, chuckled softly. "Yeah, Steve, you're about to get initiated into the Tailhook Association."
"I can't wait," Wickham laughed, mentally envisioning a fireball tumbling down the flight deck of the carrier. "Can't they just send up another tanker from the carrier?"
"Steve, you're going to have to readjust your thinking," the fighter jock replied. "You're trying to make this mission too simple."
"What do you mean?" Wickham asked as he tightened his shoulder straps.
"We have to land to switch pilots," Sandoline answered, then kidded his VIP passenger. "The Navy doesn't like paying overtime."
"You have some kind of limit to how long you can fly?" Wickham asked, massaging his tingling calves.
"That's it," Sandoline replied as he slowly reduced power and lowered the F-14's nose further. "We've had new guidelines issued in regard to daily flying and duty times. I'm already illegal."
Wickham returned to his thoughts as he listened to Sandoline communicate with the carrier. Logic told Wickham that Key West could only mean some covert assignment in Central America or the Caribbean. What puzzled him most was the urgency of the operation.
Sandoline lowered the Tomcat's nose even further, eased the twin throttles to idle, and popped the wide speed brakes partially open. The F-14 shuddered slightly and plummeted toward the USS Ranger, steaming parallel to the coast of Baja California Norte 600 miles southwest of San Diego.
Wickham's mind returned to the present when he heard his name mentioned on the aircraft radio.
"Leadfoot One Zero Seven," the carrier air traffic controller radioed, "we have a top secret message waiting for Mister Wickham."
"Copy, One Oh Seven," Sandoline replied, then clicked the intercom. "You hear that?"
"Yes," Wickham answered as he snugged his shoulder straps even tighter. "How long until we're down?"
" 'Bout four and a half minutes."
"You gotta be kidding," Wickham responded. "I can't even see anything down there."
"Leadfoot One Zero Seven, come port to zero-four-zero and descend to one-one thousand."
Sandoline checked his altitude, then toggled his throttle-mounted radio switch. "Roger, zero-four-zero, down to one-one thousand, Leadfoot One Oh Seven."
"Leadfoot," a different controller radioed. "We have a change in plans."
"Go," Sandoline replied as he rolled out on heading and prepared to level at 11,000 feet.
The air traffic specialist spoke slowly. "We've got a turkey on the cat ready to launch. Mister Wickham will be escorted to the island, then to the Tomcat."
"One Oh Seven, copy," Sandoline replied as he closed the speed brakes and added a small amount of power.
"Come port three-five-zero," the original controller ordered. "Descend to three thousand and call the ball."
"One Oh Seven," Sandoline responded as he reduced power and lowered the nose again, "outta one-one thou for three, three-fifty on the heading."
Wickham quietly surveyed the dimly lighted cockpit, then watched the twinkling stars change position as Sandoline turned to the new heading.
"Steve," the pilot offered, "watch over my left shoulder and tell me when you see the orange ball of light."
"I can't see a thing
," Wickham responded, straining to locate the carrier. "It's pitch-black out there."
Sandoline swept the wings forward, lowered the flaps, extended the landing gear, set his power, and dropped the tailhook. "When you enter the island," he instructed, "use the head, drink as much water as you're comfortable with--it'll help stave off altitude dehydration--and run in place to get the blood circulating."
"Will do," Wickham responded at the same time he saw the "meatball"--the primary optical landing aid. "I can see the ball, but I don't have the carrier."
"You won't see the boat until we're on deck," Sandoline replied, then keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven Tomcat. Ball. Four point nine."
"Roger, ball," the landing signal officer acknowledged in a studied, nonchalant manner.
"A bit more advice, Steve," Sandoline offered as he extended the speed brakes to stabilize the approach. "Don't ever call a ship a boat around the blue water sailors. The black shoe Navy would have you keelhauled on the spot."
"Yeah," Wickham replied, "they told me that when I joined the Marines."
"Oh, shit," Sandoline said in mock disgust, "how am I going to live this down?"
"You'll make it," Wickham laughed, knowing what the navy fighter pilot was going to say.
"I've been chauffeuring a jarhead around," Sandoline laughed, then concentrated on flying the meatball.
The pilot's labored breathing became erratic gasps as the Tomcat descended through 600 feet, three-quarters of a mile behind the Ranger.
"See the horizontal green lights?" Sandoline asked, working the stick and rudder pedals.
"Yes," Wickham answered as he braced himself, "the ball is even with them."
"We gotta . . . keep the ball . . . centered there," Sandoline said, fighting the oxygen mask. "Nailed . . . till we hit . . . the deck."
Wickham stared at the approaching lights but still could not see the carrier. He listened as the Ranger's landing signal officer (LSO) talked to Sandoline.