Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  "Power . . . power," the LSO coached as the F-14 sank slightly below the optimum glide path, then leveled off until Sandoline intercepted the proper descent profile again. "Lookin' good, turkey."

  "Hang on!" Sandoline warned three seconds before impact.

  Wickham grabbed the sides of the canopy in a death grip and held his breath. The Tomcat, traveling at 145 miles per hour, flashed over the rounddown and slammed into the steel flight deck without flaring. The tailhook screeched down the deck, showering sparks, then snagged the number three wire and snatched the fighter to an abrupt halt.

  Wickham, still holding his breath, shot forward violently as his head snapped downward. The shoulder straps dug deep into his shoulder blades. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed as the F-14 rolled backward to allow the arresting cable to fall out of the tailhook. "You people are crazy."

  "Yeah," Sandoline responded with a laugh, "being certified crazy is the first qualification."

  Wickham quickly unfastened his restraints, unsnapped his oxygen mask, then rubbed his neck. "I think my back is broken."

  Sandoline raised the tailhook and flaps, retracted the speed brakes, and added power to follow the two lighted wands beckoning him forward and starboard. He was barely able to see the petty officer holding the soft, glowing lights.

  "You got a little CAG to escort you," Sandoline said as he taxied close to the carrier's superstructure.

  Wickham held his oxygen mask to his mouth. "What's a little CAG?"

  "The deputy carrier air group commander," Sandoline answered as he opened the canopy and shut down the engines. "Good luck, Steve, in whatever it is you do."

  "Thanks," Wickham responded as he prepared to remove his helmet. "Hell of a ride."

  SAN JULIAN

  Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews sat back in the hard, rough chair and watched the Soviet medical technician prepare the syringes. He could see into the hangar through the KGB director's window.

  Workers continued to remove components from the Stealth bomber. Larry Simmons stood in the middle of a group of Soviet officials, answering questions and pointing out various components on the B-2.

  Matthews, bound to the heavy chair with wide leather wrist straps, flexed his fingers and glanced at the two Cuban guards. They remained impassive, showing no emotion.

  Matthews watched as technicians, dressed in light blue smocks, placed thick mats over portions of the wing. They were being extremely careful not to step outside the walkways outlined in white paint. The mats provided protection for the bomber's composite wing.

  The American pilot remained quiet when Gennadi Levchenko walked across the hangar, entered his cluttered office, then stepped into the small interrogation cubicle. The chain-smoking director ordered the two guards out, then turned to Matthews.

  "Shall we proceed, colonel?" Levchenko asked as he motioned for the gaunt, droopy-eyed technician to inject Matthews with Versed.

  "You cowardly bastard," Matthews retorted in a low, hostile voice.

  "Do it," Levchenko ordered.

  Matthews looked out the window while the skinny Russian pulled up the sleeve of his flight suit and placed a rubber tourniquet around his right bicep. The specialist picked up a freshly opened syringe and leaned over the pilot.

  "Goddamnit," Matthews snapped, then winced again when the technician shoved the needle in further.

  Levchenko looked at the B-2 aircraft commander, sat down in a chair, lighted a Pall Mall, then turned on a Panasonic cassette tape recorder. "Tell me about the materials that make up the leading edge of your bomber."

  Matthews looked Levchenko in the eyes, darting a glance at the needle in his arm. The syringe was almost empty. "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Charles Edward Matthews, United States Air Force. I have been drugged and coerced to compromise my country."

  Matthews continued to talk, appearing to be alert and cognizant.

  His mind, however, failed to record the conversation. The drug-induced amnesia prevented the nerve cells and their fibers from processing and storing the brain's activities.

  Levchenko interrogated Matthews for more than two hours, stopping only to allow the medical technician to inject more Versed. Matthews outlined the operating parameters of the B-2, including the dash speed, absolute altitude, range without aerial refueling, armament capability, and maximum load. He also explained the intricacies of the Hughes APQ-118 multimode radar, detailing the penetration, target search, navigation, detection, and tracking capabilities.

  Levchenko pressed harder, wanting to know if the aircraft had an Achilles' heel. Matthews cited the Red Team counterstealth study, which indicated that the technology would not be vulnerable for the foreseeable future.

  During the second hour, Levchenko had Matthews explain the tactical advantages of the supersecret bomber. "Tell me, Colonel Matthews," Levchenko said, noting the time, "precisely how the B-2 will be deployed in the event of a nuclear war."

  Matthews spoke slowly and clearly, pausing at times. "Our primary mission . . . is to seek and destroy mobile Soviet SS-20, SS-24, and SS-25 missiles. We will approach from high altitude, after being refueled en route, and . . . use reconnaissance satellites to pinpoint our targets. We are prepared to do this . . . ," Matthews said, hesitating again, "anywhere in the world. . . ."

  "What is the next step?" Levchenko asked, realizing that Matthews was beginning to shake off the effects of the drugs. "Tell me your priorities after you find the mobile weapons."

  "We strike the known . . . relocatable targets," the pilot responded in a halting manner, "then continue to other designated areas and attack . . . hardened underground command centers and . . . control installations for space-based reconnaissance satellites." Matthews, attempting to regain consciousness, twisted his face and stuttered slightly.

  Levchenko ordered the technician to inject a small amount of Versed, then checked off another line on his list of questions and rechecked the cassette recorder. The second ninety-minute tape was nearing the end of the first side.

  The KGB agent leaned closer to Matthews. "What is your priority after you attack the command centers and satellite control centers?"

  "We would search," Matthews answered, pausing when his head drooped, "on our own for missiles . . . and military targets of opportunity."

  Levchenko looked at his watch. "What are the primary means of detecting Soviet missiles?"

  Matthews's face contorted slightly, then relaxed again. "We use passive . . . infrared, and laser sensors."

  The interrogation expert knew that Matthews needed time to recover from the extended questioning period. "What weapons would you use against the missiles?" Levchenko asked, then wrote a quick note.

  "Nuclear bombs . . . ," Matthews replied with a discernible slur, "and nuclear . . . armed SRAM Two missiles."

  Levchenko waved the thin medical technician over to Matthews. "Stay with him until he has recovered. I will send in the guards."

  "Da, comrade director," the technician replied, then checked the wide straps holding the American pilot to the chair. "Will you be conducting another session before--"

  "I will let you know," Levchenko interrupted, "when the next session will be."

  "As you say, comrade director."

  Levchenko turned off the recorder, retrieved the two tapes, ground out his cigarette, and walked into his office. He placed the tapes carefully in their original containers, then into watertight bags. After sealing the bags, he placed them in metal containers and locked the square boxes in his desk. The KGB director picked up his phone receiver and punched in three numbers to connect him with the KGB senior security officer.

  "Talavokine," the agent answered quickly.

  "Send in the guards," Levchenko ordered, "and have that other slime--Simmons--sent in."

  "Da, comrade director," Talavokine answered. "The pilot is to return to his cell?"

  "Yes," Levchenko responded. "He is to be exercised and fed only--no shower."

  "Da, comrade director," the ag
ent replied, spying Larry Simmons. "The guards are on the way and I will escort the traitorous American to your office."

  Chapter Eleven

  MOSCOW

  Senior Warrant Officer Vitaliy Lugayev had grown impatient with the snarled traffic. His driver had been trying to negotiate the approach to Dzerzhinsky Square, but an accident 200 meters in front of them had brought the vehicles to a halt.

  Lugayev, exasperated, could see the imposing Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti building. The Kremlin spy headquarters was less than a kilometer away. "I will walk the rest of the way," Lugayev said as he opened the door and stepped out. "Park in the Kremlin spaces, and do not go to lunch."

  Lugayev slammed the Moskvich 412's door, muffling the driver's acknowledgment. The warrant officer hurried toward the KGB building, darting between the gridlocked cars and buses. He cursed the ministry of transportation for their inefficient traffic system and complex driving regulations.

  "What has happened?" a shriveled old man asked as Lugayev passed the window of a faded Zhiguli.

  "Proizoshla avariya," the warrant officer shouted. "There's been an accident."

  Lugayev stopped and moved between two cars when a motorcycle traffic policeman waved him out of the way. The armed militiaman, dressed in a gray uniform and carrying a white baton, weaved through the narrow passage with ease.

  Lugayev raced across the square in front of the spy headquarters, slowed to a walk to recover his wind, and entered the massive structure.

  Vitaliy Lugayev nervously removed his hat and approached the information desk. "I am Senior Warrant Officer Lugayev," the dapper administrator announced, proudly flipping open his credentials for inspection. "I am General Borol'kov's aide--Troops of Air Defense--and I must see the chief of investigations immediately."

  The white-haired, bleary-eyed man did not respond. He continued to scrutinize Lugayev's papers.

  "At once," Lugayev said impatiently.

  The information clerk closed Lugayev's credentials and handed the folder back to the warrant officer. "The chief of investigations," the elderly clerk droned slowly, "is out of the city."

  "Then I must see his assistant," Lugayev almost shouted, "or someone in charge."

  The withered clerk looked up sluggishly, staring into Lugayev's eyes. "You will have to have an appointment to see the assistant chief of--"

  "You blubbering old fool!" Lugayev said, trying to control his voice. "This matter is of the greatest concern--I represent General of the Army Borol'kov. I must see an official--immediately!"

  "What is the problem?" a senior officer walking by interrupted.

  Lugayev quickly explained the situation to the startled bureaucrat.

  "Nikolai," the well-groomed KGB officer said to the aging clerk. "Inform investigations that I am on my way to see Akhlomov."

  The solemn clerk raised his telephone handset. "Yes, sir, comrade inspector."

  The KGB officer, followed by Lugayev, hurried to the elevator. After a brief ride, both men walked at a brisk pace to the office of the deputy chief of investigations.

  Natanoly F. Akhlomov, second in command of the department, remained seated while Lugayev introduced himself. "Have a seat, Starshiy Praporshchik Lugayev," the unsmiling deputy said, then turned his attention to the head of the KGB training academy. "Join us, Pyotr."

  Both men sat down while Akhlomov energized a recorder built into the front of his desk. Then Lugayev explained, in detail, what had transpired in General Borol'kov's private office.

  Akhlomov, without taking his eyes off the warrant officer, wrote quick memos to himself. "Tell me, Comrade Lugayev," Akhlomov said, darting a glance at his KGB associate, "where is General Voronoteev at the present time?"

  Lugayev, trying to conceal his anxiety, looked at his shiny black-market watch. "The general is preparing, I'm sure, to go to lunch."

  "Thank you," Akhlomov said as he stood from behind his cluttered desk. "We will be in touch if we need further information."

  Lugayev rose awkwardly from his chair, grasping his hat with both hands. "Thank you, comrades," he ventured, then walked out the door held open by the other KGB officer.

  Akhlomov waited until the door was closed, then turned off the recorder and smiled at his friend. "Well, Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said quietly, turning serious, "the general finally surfaces for what he is--a treasonous scum."

  "I . . . as we have suspected for a long time," the chief of training offered, than lowered his head slightly. "This is a sad day, comrade."

  "I agree," Akhlomov replied in a disappointed tone. "We have to move fast--the traitorous bastard knows about the ATB project."

  The academy training director looked confused. "The what project, comrade?"

  Akhlomov moved quickly around his desk and clasped his friend's shoulders before speaking. The deputy chief of investigations knew that he had made a mistake by blurting out "ATB." "Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said, convincing in his pretension, "I will explain the project to you when I have authorization."

  "I understand, comrade," the training director replied uncomfortably.

  Akhlomov walked his associate to the door, then continued down the corridor to the files section. He bypassed the superintendent and personally gathered the dossier of Lt. Gen. Yuliy Lavrent'yevich Voronoteev.

  Akhlomov returned to his desk, phoned Voronoteev's office, under the guise of a fellow general, and gleaned the knowledge he needed to locate the traitor. Voronoteev was at lunch and would be out of the office for the afternoon. Voronoteev's aide also provided the names of the places the general normally frequented for lunch.

  Akhlomov placed a second call to his subordinate, detailing the description of Voronoteev and his chauffeur-driven automobile. Akhlomov's orders were clear. Locate Voronoteev, using any means available, and report back immediately. Time was extremely critical, Akhlomov explained, then he hung up and rushed downstairs to the transportation section.

  USS RANGER

  Steve Wickham adjusted his oxygen mask and wedged the sealed manila envelope between his ejection seat and the right side of the F-14D's cockpit.

  Up front, Comdr. Dalton McDonald eased the howling Tomcat over the catapult shuttle and stopped. The green-shirted catapult crews scurried under the fighter as the blast deflector was raised.

  Wickham watched in fascination as a flight deck crewman held up a lighted display board to the pilot. McDonald acknowledged the deckhand with a thumbs-up, indicating that the number on the board corresponded to the F-14's weight.

  "Brace your helmet against the headrest," McDonald instructed, simultaneously advancing both throttles to military power.

  Wickham, without replying, leaned back his head and braced himself for the night catapult shot. When the nose of the Tomcat dropped, his mind ceased thinking about the top secret message he had read.

  "You ready?" McDonald asked as he scanned his engine instruments quickly.

  "All set," Wickham responded, breathing heavily.

  McDonald moved the control stick and rudder pedals to their full extensions, then returned them to the neutral position. The procedure ensured that the primary flight controls were functioning correctly.

  Wickham darted a quick look toward the catapult officer at the center of the flight deck. The yellow-shirted figure was twirling a lighted wand, which signaled the pilot to apply full power. McDonald flipped on his external light master switch, signaling that he was ready to be launched.

  The cat officer dropped to one knee as he swung the lighted wand over his head to touch the deck. The big Tomcat, straining under the powerful turbofans, squatted on the main gear and thundered down the starboard bow catapult.

  Wickham, unable to breathe during the catapult stroke, felt as though an elephant was sitting on his chest. He groaned, then grayed out as the g forces rendered him helpless. A microsecond later the F-14 roared over the deck edge as Commander McDonald popped up the landing gear handle and trimmed the nose.

  Wickham,
regaining his vision, felt as though the fighter had decelerated. He sucked in a deep breath of cool oxygen, then realized that the Tomcat was accelerating, but not at the rate it had during the catapult shot.

  "Everything okay?" McDonald asked as he cleaned up the aircraft.

  "God . . . damn," Wickham answered, releasing the vice grip he had on the side of the canopy. "That makes a roller coaster feel like a merry-go-round."

  "Yeah," McDonald replied, then acknowledged a call from Ranger.

  Wickham reached down and retrieved the large manila envelope, then fumbled for the flashlight he had stuffed into his torso harness. He opened the package as he thought about the cryptic message he had read on board the carrier. The agency had directed him to study the contents of the sealed packet in preparation for a reconnaissance mission in Cuba.

  Wickham held the flashlight and read the instructions, then studied the enlarged maps and aerial photographs. His orders stated that he must become familiar with the western tip of Cuba. He studied the detailed picture of Mariel Naval Air Station, then perused photographs of the San Julian military airfield.

  What in the hell is going on, Wickham thought to himself. He studied the maps and photographs a few minutes longer, then turned off the flashlight and leaned back to contemplate the situation.

  "You might as well get some shut-eye," the pilot said, noticing that the rear cockpit had become dark again. "I've got to keep us subsonic over Mexico--no supersonic footprint over land--so we'll be awhile."

  "Okay," Wickham responded. "I understand we have to tank again before Key West."

  "Yeah, that's right," McDonald responded, tweaking the nose down. "We'll grab a drink over Brownsville, Texas, and dash into Key West."

  "Sounds good," Wickham replied, closing the manila envelope. "Did the slot man bore you with his A-K stories?" McDonald asked as he leveled the Tomcat at 49,000 feet.

  Wickham looked up. "I'm not sure I understand your question." "Did Commander Sandoline--he flew the slot position with the Blues--bore you with his almost-killed stories?"