Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  "Not really," Wickham laughed, "but the sonuvabitch flies like a maniac."

  "Yeah," McDonald replied. "Slots is one of a kind." Wickham stifled a yawn, then keyed his intercom again. "I'm going to catch a few winks."

  "Good idea," the pilot responded. "The in-flight movie is dull anyway."

  HOTEL METROPOL

  Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev sat quietly in the serene surroundings of the hotel's opulent restaurant. He had elected to bypass his usual luncheon spot, the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, to avoid the crowded conditions. He needed a relaxed, subdued environment to calm his nerves. The facade of being loyal to both the Soviet Union and the KGB had been eating away at his conscience.

  The general had begun doubting the moral rectitude of his acts and motives. He was torn between his view of himself and the moribund system in which he was entangled. His immediate desires as well as his future aspirations had become more distorted with each passing year.

  Voronoteev, dining alone, looked around the large room and noticed two staff officers having lunch with three civilians. Voronoteev shifted his chair in an effort to avoid being noticed. He needed time for quiet contemplation.

  A well-dressed waiter approached his table and hesitated before speaking. "Comrade general, would you care for more vodka?"

  "Yes, thank you," Voronoteev answered, then took a small bite of the jellied sturgeon. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then sipped a spoonful of borscht. Voronoteev had lost his appetite and decided against ordering the lyulya-kebab. The appetizer and soup would be more than sufficient.

  Voronoteev raised his glass and tossed down the last of the chilled vodka. Looking at his watch, he mentally debated making his call to Vienna earlier than scheduled.

  "Your vodka, comrade general," the jacketed waiter said as he placed the small glass on the table.

  "Spasiho," Voronoteev replied, thanking the pleasant young man.

  The waiter raised his writing pad. "Would you care to order, comrade general?"

  "Nyet," Voronoteev replied, folding his napkin next to his plate. "I'll take another vodka and my bill."

  The waiter nodded and hurried to fulfill the request. A Soviet general, the young man had been taught, was not to be kept waiting. Voronoteev quickly finished the last Stolichnaya, paid his bill, and walked to the cloakroom to retrieve his hat and greatcoat. Natanoly Akhlomov, deputy chief of investigations, KGB, watched Voronoteev from an alcove off the main dining room. Akhlomov placed his small transmitter to his mouth and alerted the special agents observing Voronoteev's car and driver.

  SAN JULIAN

  "You have performed in a very distinguished manner," Gennadi Levchenko said in an insincerely smooth voice. "The Soviet Union is proud of your accomplishment."

  "Thank you, ah . . . ," Larry Simmons stammered.

  "Comrade director," Levchenko prompted the American tech-rep. "You are one of us now, Comrade Simmons."

  The technician beamed, feeling more confident with his new countrymen. "Thank you," Simmons paused, "comrade director. I am . . . I feel very privileged to be associated with the Soviet Union. Irina has told me a great deal about your country."

  "We feel the same sentiments," Levchenko professed in an unctuous manner. "Now comrade," he smiled, then deftly punched the record button on the tape cassette, "tell me about the weaknesses of the Stealth bomber."

  "Well . . . ," Simmons said uneasily, "may I ask you a question first?"

  "Of course," Levchenko replied with another reassuring smile. "What would you like to know?"

  Simmons coughed nervously. "When will Irina . . . be joining me?"

  "Soon, very soon," Levchenko answered, then leaned back in his desk chair. "You are not to worry, my friend. Everything will be fine."

  "I'm just concerned about her," Simmons said with an anxious look. "She said she would meet me here."

  "I understand," Levchenko replied patiently as he leaned forward, "and you will be reunited with Irina soon. Now, we have, let us say, priorities we must meet."

  "Yes . . . comrade director."

  The Stealth project officer leaned forward, fixing his eyes on the apprehensive American. "I would like for you to outline any problem areas, or weaknesses, in the B-2."

  "Well," Simmons began slowly, "the airframe-mounted accessory drive cases have been a problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  Simmons, feeling more assured, opened up. "Many of the units have cracked and caused oil leakages, which delayed the flight test phase."

  Levchenko, smiling pleasantly, lighted a cigarette. "Is it a significant problem?"

  "I'm not very knowledgeable in that area," Simmons replied uncomfortably. "I know that the engineers have reworked the cases, but it is still a concern."

  The KGB officer made a quick notation before he continued his questioning. "Okay, tell me about any problems or weaknesses in your field of expertise."

  "Ah ... as you know," Simmons responded, taking in the partially dismantled bomber, "the aircraft has very complex electronic and avionic systems."

  Levchenko exhaled impatiently. "The electronic systems have been a problem?"

  "Yes . . . and still are," Simmons answered hurriedly. "The extreme environment that the B-2 operates in has caused continual reliability problems."

  Levchenko's face hardened. "You have to be more specific, Comrade Simmons. Define the nature of the electronic problems you have encountered thus far."

  Simmons hesitated, then spoke rapidly. "The weapons systems have been adversely affected by a number of things, including shock, vibration, impact, salt fog, and heat."

  Levchenko turned off the recorder and eased back his chair. "Comrade Simmons, your knowledge is invaluable to your new country. I have some business to take care of, so I want you to sit here and list every B-2 strength and weakness you can think of .. . every one."

  LEADFOOT 107

  Steve Wickham dozed uneasily, dreaming sporadic scenes of Becky and Cuba. Interspersed were flashbacks to his harrowing escape from Russia. The mission to extract the Kremlin mole had almost cost Wickham his life, along with that of the Moscow operative.

  "You awake back there?" Commander McDonald asked.

  Wickham's eyelids fluttered, then squeezed shut when the early morning sun struck them.

  "Reveille," McDonald said over the intercom. "Next stop is Key West."

  Wickham groaned as he fumbled for the tinted visor on his helmet. "Key West?" he asked as he attempted to move his cold, stiffened limbs. "Aren't we going to take on fuel first?"

  "You must've been out of it," McDonald laughed, "or my flying skills have improved. We tanked about an hour and fifteen minutes ago.

  Wickham looked at his watch to confirm the time lapse. "You need to talk to management about these seats."

  "Yeah," McDonald replied, "they have to have a solid bottom so your spine won't break if you have to pull the 'loud handle.' Can't allow any compression before the seat slams into your ass."

  "How far out are we?" Wickham asked, yawning.

  "A hundred and ten nautical miles," McDonald answered between conversations with the air traffic controllers. "We'll be overhead the air station in . . . nine minutes and fifty seconds."

  Wickham was amazed. "Nine minutes?"

  "And forty-five seconds," McDonald replied. "We're in projectile mode now, but I'll be throwing out the anchor when we approach the beach."

  Wickham rubbed his eyes, checked to see that the top secret packet was still in place, then looked down at the Gulf of Mexico. He watched two oil tankers disappear rapidly under the right side of the F-14's fuselage.

  "We're starting down," McDonald said as he smoothly lowered the Tomcat's nose. "This will be a steep descent, followed by a rapid decel in close."

  "After landing on the carrier," Wickham responded, looking at the water, "I think I can handle about anything."

  "You should ride through an ACM gaggle," McDonald replied, lowering the nose further.
/>   Wickham looked in the rearview mirror again, catching the pilot's eyes. "A what?"

  "Air combat maneuvering," McDonald explained. "A dogfighting hop."

  "I'll pass," Wickham said, then returned to his sight-seeing while the pilot conversed with the controllers.

  "Rog, Miami," McDonald radioed, "Key West approach on two-sixty-three point six, switchin'." McDonald programmed the frequency into his primary UHF radio. "Key Approach, Navy Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta one-seven thousand."

  "Navy One Zero Seven, Key West Approach." The veteran controller spoke in short, clipped bursts. "Continue descent to three thousand, runway seven currently in use, wind one-two-zero at twelve, gusting to twenty. Altimeter two-niner-niner-eight."

  The pilot repeated the instructions. "One Oh Seven down to three K, two-niner-niner-eight." McDonald could see the naval air station rapidly filling his windshield. The F-14, rocketing toward the island at 960 miles per hour (1.25 Mach) descended through 11,000 feet.

  Wickham watched, fascinated, while Marquesas Keys and Boca Grande Key flashed under the right wing.

  "Navy One Zero Seven," the clipped voice said, "contact Key West tower, three-four-zero point two."

  McDonald keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven, switchin' three-forty point two. So long." The pilot reset the UHF frequency, then called the control tower. "Key West tower, Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta eight thousand."

  "Roger, One Zero Seven," the laconic tower chief replied calmly. "Cleared for a left break, runway seven, wind one-two-zero at fourteen, gusting to twenty-two. No reported traffic."

  "Copy, Key tower," McDonald acknowledged, then pressed the intercom switch. "Better brace yourself. I'm gonna slam on the binders."

  "I'm ready," Wickham replied as he watched the shoreline rush toward them.

  McDonald yanked the twin throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes open. Both men were thrown forward, hanging by their shoulder restraints. Wickham tightened his neck and leg muscles, then gulped a lungful of cool oxygen. He felt as though they had run into a brick wall.

  "Hold tight," McDonald warned as the F-14 roared across the beach.

  Wickham grasped the canopy rails tightly as the end of the runway flashed under the fighter. His nerves tensed in preparation for the overhead break.

  McDonald had the Tomcat slowed to 490 knots by midfield. He tightened his stomach muscles and slapped the stick hard to the left. The F-14 snapped into knife-edged flight, splitting the air in a deafening howl.

  Wickham's helmet ricocheted off the right side of the canopy, then slumped onto his chest as McDonald pulled 4 1/2 g's through the turn. The g forces rendered each man unable to move their heads.

  The pilot waited until the aircraft had completed a 180-degree course reversal before he eased off the g loading. The sensation was that of weightlessness. "Still breathing?" McDonald asked as he leveled the wings and waited for them to sweep forward.

  "Well," Wickham paused, taking stock. "If you discount the concussion, I'm fine."

  "Navy One Zero Seven," the tower controller said, "check wheels down, cleared to land."

  "Cleared to land," McDonald repeated.

  The former TOPGUN instructor lowered the flaps, dropped the landing gear, and rolled onto the final approach. Wickham could see the big number 7 painted on the end of the 10,000-foot runway.

  "Navy One Zero Seven," the controller radioed. "After rollout, follow the cart at the end of the ramp. They'll park you by the Gulfstream jet-the air force VIP bird sitting by itself."

  "Copy," McDonald replied as the hurtling Tomcat thundered onto the concrete, briefly leaving two white puffs of tire smoke.

  "Well," McDonald said over the intercom, "I wish you every success in whatever it is you are about to do."

  "Thanks," Wickham replied as the F-14 came to a rapid halt. "Just getting here has been a hell of an experience."

  Chapter Twelve

  MOSCOW

  Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev gazed out of the Moskvich 412's window with a vacant stare. Have I gone too far? he asked himself. Would the preening Lugayev say anything to General Borol 'kov?

  "To the post office, comrade general?" the sergeant asked as he pulled away from the Hotel Metropol.

  "I have some time to spare," Voronoteev replied. "Let's take a slow drive through Sokolniki Park before we stop at the post office."

  "As you wish, comrade general."

  Voronoteev thought about the privacy of the telephone booths in the international post office. He had known about the secure phone lines for the past three years. The government department store and the post office were two of the three dozen unmonitored trunk lines in Moscow.

  The general had resisted the CIA's supposedly more sophisticated means of transmitting classified information. Their method of transfer required a five-step process-three more than he believed necessary. Voronoteev had explained his position to the CIA and they had agreed reluctantly to follow his procedure.

  "Did you have lunch?" Voronoteev asked his recently promoted chauffeur.

  "No, comrade general," the clean-cut sergeant answered, glancing at the approaching traffic. "The cafeteria was closed for the employees' lunch break."

  "We will stop in the park, sergeant," Voronoteev said, shaking his head in exasperation, "and find some proper food for you."

  "Thank you, comrade general," the young man responded gratefully, "but I am fine for the time being."

  "Nonsense," Voronoteev said, watching the Mayakovsky Museum glide past. "We will stop."

  "Da, comrade general."

  "Where is he going?" Akhlomov's driver asked as they passed the Kazan railway station.

  "How would I know?" Akhlomov said icily. "Concentrate on your job."

  The unadorned KGB car followed Voronoteev's Moskvich 412 at a distance of 150 meters. A second vehicle, 50 meters behind the deputy chief of investigations, stayed in contact using a Western-made walkie-talkie. Akhlomov knew that he had to catch Voronoteev in the actual act of passing state secrets. The general was shrewd and had powerful friends in the Kremlin. If the KGB bungled the collar, Akhlomov knew he would be spending a protracted period of time in his own Lefortovo prison.

  "Comrade deputy," the gravel-voiced driver said with a hint of sullenness. "They are turning into the park."

  "I can see that," Akhlomov replied with a look of disdain. "Slow down."

  Both KGB automobiles turned left off Cherkizovskaya Boulevard and followed Voronoteev's car toward the Sokolniki Exhibition. Akhlomov placed the walkie-talkie to his lips. "He is stopping at the corner food vendor. Park by the knoll and mingle with the people."

  "Da, comrade deputy," the agent responded, slowing to a smooth stop under a grove of birch trees.

  Akhlomov and his driver remained in their car while his fellow officers got out and blended into the crowd around the portable luncheonette. The four KGB men watched while Voronoteev's driver grabbed a snack, wolfed it down, then hurried back to the car. The general remained in the Moskvich, staring at the paintings propped against the rustling trees. The park was filled with people attending the weekly art fair.

  Akhlomov, anticipating some form of information drop, watched Voronoteev closely. He was surprised when the general's car pulled away from the curb and rejoined traffic. "Let's go," Akhlomov ordered, then swore. "The treasonous bastard is up to something. He isn't just joyriding for the sake of it." Akhlomov glanced at the two agents who were scrambling into their car. "Stay close."

  Voronoteev remained silent during the short drive to the international post office. He could not shake an apprehension concerning the B-2 bomber. With so many problems confronting the Soviet Union, why had the KGB undertaken such a politically dangerous operation?

  Voronoteev focused his eyes as the post office came into view. He forced his mind back to the present and steeled himself for his task. He flexed his fingers nervously as the Moskvich slowed to a stop.

  "I'll be a few minutes," Vorono
teev said, opening his own door and stepping out.

  "Da, comrade general."

  Voronoteev walked up the steps, returned a crisp salute from a captain (second rank) of Naval Forces, and entered the deteriorating building. The faded walls and darkened ceiling reflected the state of decline prevalent throughout the sprawling city.

  The general of Troops of Air Defense looked around casually before proceeding to a row of antiquated telephone booths. Voronoteev opened his tunic cautiously, pulled out the telephone number for his Vienna connection, then stepped into the dusty opening.

  The phone booths did not have doors, making it difficult for the caller to hear over the incessant drone. As everywhere else in Moscow, the international post office had long lines of Muscovites shuffling along slowly, Voronoteev picked up the receiver, stole a quick glance around the large room, dropped two kopecks into the phone, and waited for the operator.

  The general did not see the KGB officer dart across the room and yank the woman out of the booth next to his. Natanoly Akhlomov flashed his credentials in the frightened woman's face and thrust her aside. The KGB still had power to instill fear. The woman gripped her shopping bag and hurried off.

  "Operator," the flat-pitched female voice answered.

  "Soyedinite menya s etim nomerom?" Voronoteev asked. "Can you get me this number?" Voronoteev gave the operator the phone number for the Hotel Sacher in Vienna, then waited, glancing nervously around the large room.

  "I am sorry," the operator said after a few seconds. "The wait for international calls is approximately two hours. You can book a reservation, if you like."

  "This is official state business," Voronoteev blustered in his most authoritative manner. "I am First Deputy Litvinov, commander in chief of the main inspector staff, Kremlin code one-eight. Put the call through immediately, or give me your supervisor."

  "Yes, comrade first deputy," the operator replied with a trembling voice. "I will disconnect a line. One moment, please."

  Akhlomov, who had clearly heard the general's bold lie, motioned for his three associates to move closer. The damned fool was going to pass top secret state information over a common telephone line. Enormous stupidity, Akhlomov thought as he leaned closer to the partition separating him from Voronoteev.