by Joe Weber
THE KNEECAP 747 7:22 A. M.
A haggard President Jarrett sat alone in his suite, listening to his defense secretary on a secure line. The vice president, at Raven Rock, and the secretary of state, at Mount Weather, were also listening. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were monitoring the conversation.
"Goddamnit, Bernie," the president said, hunched over his desk, "I want containment . . . saturation bombing until Castro is completely neutralized . . . on his knees. He's going to pay a heavy price for the men we've lost."
"Yes, Mister President," Kerchner replied, resting his head on his left hand. "We have twenty-three more B-1 s en route to Barksd--"
"I'm aware of that," Jarrett interrupted tersely. "I also want the Navy to deep-six--to sink every Cuban warship and patrol vessel. I don't want anything flying or floating when we're finished."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner responded, glancing across the table at the tense faces of the Joint Chiefs. "Mister President," the defense secretary continued, "the carrier battle groups are preparing for a second Alpha Strike. We anticipate a launch in two hours fifteen minutes. The strike will be a maximum effort, utilizing the reserve aircraft, too."
"Sam," Jarrett said without acknowledging his defense secretary, "what is Ignatyev's position?"
"Mister President," Gardner answered from Mount Weather, "the Kremlin is pursuing an investigation of KGB officials, but they are flatly refuting any involvement. President Ignatyev contends that our pilots defected to Cuba, and that Castro is operating on his own."
Gardner hesitated a moment, expecting the president to reply. The secretary of state cleared his throat and continued. "Sir, Ignatyev has completely absolved the Soviet Union from any responsibility in the B-2 affair."
The secretary of defense was listening to Sam Gardner when his CIA line buzzed. He switched off the speaker phone and picked up the receiver. "Kerchner."
"Norm Lasharr," the director said, sounding out of breath. "We've just heard from our operative--from San Julian."
"Just a second, Norm," Kerchner interrupted. "The president is on the line . . . I'll put you through." Kerchner punched the conference call button and waited for a pause. "Mister President, Norm Lasharr is on the line with an update from our San Julian operative." The president spoke quickly. "Go ahead, Norm."
"Sir, we have recovered our agent," Lasharr said hurriedly. "They crash-landed off the coast near Cancun . . . out of gas, but they're okay. The agent confirms that the B-2 departed San Julian around four o'clock this morning. He couldn't tell the direction of flight, but he's positive it took off."
"Okay," Jarrett responded. "Stay on the line."
"Yes, sir."
The president addressed the entire group. "Gentlemen, we've got an entirely different situation now. A hundred and eighty out. Bernie, let's stand down from the second air strike and concentrate on finding the B-2."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied. "We need to be very cautious though, in regard to retaliatory strikes."
"Of course," Jarrett agreed, remembering what General Rafael del Pino, who had defected from Cuba during 1986, had told the CIA. Fidel Castro had planned an air strike against a nuclear power installation in southern Florida if the United States had blockaded Cuba during the Grenada invasion.
"Bernie," the president continued, "we want to maintain our battle groups on station for the time being. Do you have any idea where the B-2 might be at the present time?"
Kerchner had been calculating the possibilities but kept coming back to one point. "Sir, my bet is that they're flying away from the sun, to stay in the dark as long as possible. We have to assume," Kerchner said slowly, "that they're counting on getting the bomber to a safe haven before we have time to find out it hasn't been destroyed in Cuba."
Jarrett thought a moment. "Any other theories?"
"Mister President," the vice president said from Raven Rock, "Secretary Kerchner is probably on the money. My guess is they're traveling west, or northwest-the quickest way to another hiding place with the least exposure to daylight."
"Bernie," Jarrett said calmly, "the B-2 has been airborne about three and a half hours. That has to put them out somewhere around seventeen to eighteen hundred miles."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, thinking about possible contingencies.
Jarrett, sounding more upbeat, continued. "Okay, let's move. Bernie, get every aircraft we can muster airborne. We have to have a semicircle of airplanes, from the mid-Atlantic across North America to the western Pacific, beginning at a radius of two thousand miles from San Julian."
Jarrett, thoroughly engaged, continued. "I want layers of aircraft all the way to the territorial limits of the Soviet Union. Sam, you notify the Kremlin . . . just in case . . . and make our position crystal clear."
"Yes, sir," Gardner answered, harboring reservations. Kerchner was already scratching a note for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
"Bernie," the president said sternly, "the only way we're going to find the B-2 is to spot it visually in the daylight."
"You're right, sir," Kerchner responded, then added a question. "What action do you want to take when we locate the B-2?"
Jarrett responded without hesitation. "If the pilot doesn't respond to the order to land, shoot it down."
Chapter Twenty-nine
SHADOW 37
The Stealth bomber cruised serenely at 44,000 feet as Matthews and Brotskharnov monitored the radios for converging air traffic. Matthews, to avoid a possible midair collision, continued to fly between cardinal flight levels. Simmons, exercising his numb limbs in the confined space, remained alert and uncommunicative.
The morning light was rapidly overtaking the B-2 as it passed a point 1,180 miles northeast of Honolulu. Shadow 37 would be visible to aerial observers in forty-five minutes.
Matthews was surprised when he heard a Northwest Airlines pilot call another Northwest flight. "Ah . Northwest Sixty-Seven, Northwest Three-Twenty-Nine."
"Sixty-Seven, good morning."
Brotskharnov cocked his head, listening to the exchange.
"Morning," the pilot responded, then hesitated a moment. "We just had a call from operations. Seems the word is being passed to look out for the B-2--the Stealth bomber that disappeared."
Matthews sensed Brotskharnov glance at him. He looked over at the officer, noticing the Russian gripping his armrest.
"Okay," the astonished copilot radioed. "Any idea of the general location?"
"Negative," the 747 captain answered. "The military has a full-scale search under way. They believe the B-2 is airborne somewhere between the North Atlantic and the western Pacific, and the commercial crews are being asked to be on the alert."
"Ah . . . Six Seven," the copilot said, then paused and keyed his radio again. "Any news on Cuba?"
"All we know," the captain answered in his gravel voice, "is that Jarrett kicked 'em in the dirt this morning."
"Copy, Northwest Six Seven. Have a good flight."
"Three Two Nine."
Matthews, concealing his emotions, began to hope. If he could only enhance the possibility of being intercepted. He needed to induce an engine failure in order to descend to an altitude where most of the traffic flew.
USS CARL VINSON (CVN-70)
The supercarrier, 420 miles southeast of King Cove, Alaska, turned into the wind in preparation to launch aircraft. Every available airplane assigned to Carrier Air Wing 15 had been prepared for the extensive search mission. Locating the B-2, as the air wing commander had said, was a White House priority.
The navy carrier-based aerial tankers would be augmented by Air Force KC-135s operating from Elmendorf Air Force Base. The F-14s from the VF-51 Screaming Eagles blasted down the bow catapults, followed by Tomcats from the VF-111 Sundowners.
The remainder of the carrier air wing launched in rapid succession and raced for their respective patrol sectors. Carl Vinson had been assigned a surveillance area that extended from 200 miles southeast of the carrier to 600 miles west-so
uthwest.
HICKAM AIR FORCE BASE, Oahu, Hawaii
Four Hawaiian Air National Guard F-15 Eagles, afterburners blazing in the predawn, scrambled into the early morning air and turned northeast. The fighters, from the 199th Tactical Fighter Squadron, thundered over Halawa Heights as they headed for the shoreline of Oahu.
Their mission was to split into two sections and patrol the outer boundaries of the Hawaiian air defense area. They would be refueled twice by a KC-10 tanker. The pilots had been briefed to shoot down the B-2, in the event they located the bomber, if the Stealth crew did not comply with orders to turn toward Hawaii.
Ten miles to the east, four F/A-18s from Kaneohe Bay Marine Corps Air Station lifted off the runway. The VMFA-232 Red Devils, backed by a KC-130 tanker, would provide search coverage in a separate patrol zone. Two Boeing E-3C airborne warning and control aircraft were en route to central and northern Pacific stations. The AWACS would provide sector coordination for the fighters.
THE B-2
The first rays of sunlight began to illuminate the cockpit as Matthews prepared to execute his daring plan. He waited until Brotskharnov was occupied scanning the horizon, then eased his left hand down to the circuit breaker panel next to his seat.
Matthews felt along the rows of buttons, pinched the number three engine oil pressure breaker, and popped it out. He moved his hand back to his thigh as the engine instrument and crew alerting system annunciator lights flashed on, lighting the dim cockpit with a reddish amber glow. The synoptic display projected a diagram of the number three engine oil system, indicating a failure.
"Goddamnit," Matthews exclaimed as convincingly as possible, "we've lost oil pressure on number three." He retarded the number three throttle as he programmed the flight director to descend to a lower altitude.
Matthews turned to Brotskharnov, who sat transfixed, staring at the color-coded electronic displays. "General, watch our rate of descent while I go through the shutdown checklist."
Brotskharnov nodded, watching the altitude readout as Matthews followed the engine shutdown list on the bright display screen.
Simmons, leaning forward in his straps, was tense and jumpy. He suspected that Matthews had caused the malfunction deliberately, but he was confused by the sudden failure.
"I think--" Matthews started, then caught Simmons leaning to his left. The pilot snapped his left hand down, shoved the oil pressure breaker in, and yanked his hand back to the controls. "We should . . . , I think we can maintain forty thousand."
Brotskharnov, who did not suspect any chicanery, answered with a strained voice. "Whatever you have to do."
The Stealth bomber descended slowly toward 40,000 feet as sunlight filled the cockpit.
The new jumbo jet on Cathay Pacific Flight 12 flying eastbound at 41,000 feet, left four distinctive white contrails in the morning sky. The captain and first officer, enjoying fresh coffee and breakfast pastries, had pulled down their glare shields to block out the bright sunlight.
Both pilots, relaxed and monitoring their navigation plot, discussed the air strike to Cuba and the political unrest in Singapore. The veteran pilots were unprepared for what they were about to witness.
Chuck Matthews looked out to the horizon, studying the growing cloud cover in front of the bomber. He could tell that a major winter storm was developing over the northern Pacific.
Matthews selected cross-feed to balance the fuel load, then looked out of the windshield again. He was caught unprepared when he saw contrails approaching the B-2 from eleven o'clock high. The white trails, closing rapidly, appeared to be five to six miles away.
Matthews shot a glance at Brotskharnov, who seemed to be deep in thought. Simmons had his head lowered and was staring at the flight deck.
The B-2 pilot, knowing that the bomber did not generate contrails, had to do something to make the aircraft visible. He manipulated the fuel controls again, deliberately taking extra steps to conceal his next move. He raised his hand an inch, then activated the fuel dump switch. The caution light illuminated, but no one noticed. Hundreds of pounds of fuel streamed out of the bomber in two frothy white trails.
The first officer on Cathay Pacific Flight 12 handed his breakfast tray to the smiling flight attendant, then turned in his seat. He was peering out of the windshield as the B-2 commenced dumping fuel. The two white trails showcased the Stealth bombe'r directly in front of the 747.
"Look!" the copilot pointed. "That's a . . . it's a B-2!"
The captain focused outside. "Good god . . . you're right. Looks like they're at three-nine-oh."
Both pilots remained silent, staring at the sinister-looking bomber as it passed to the left and disappeared under the wing.
"They're higher than thirty-nine . . . gotta be," the first officer said as he turned to the captain. "Think we should notify someone?"
The pilot thought a second, then nodded his head. "Yeah, I think so. Kinda strange dumping fuel over the middle of the pond . . . and being at the wrong altitude."
Matthews discreetly deselected fuel dump and tuned the VHF radio to 121.5 and the UHF sets to 243.0, the international distress frequencies. He knew that if anyone attempted to contact Shadow 37, they would most likely try the Guard emergency frequency.
Matthews sat back, staring at the murky clouds and contemplating what action he should take if they were contacted or intercepted.
THE AWACS
"We have a sighting," the airborne controller said over the intercom, then keyed his radio and talked to the Air Guard F-15 flight leader.
"Rainbow leader, we have a confirmation on the B-2. You're three-five-two, angels three-nine-zero to four-zero-zero at two hundred ten miles. Heading approximately three-four-zero."
The radar operator waited a moment, receiving further information through his headset. "You are cleared to intercept. Repeat, you are cleared to intercept."
"Copy," the Air Guard flight leader radioed, shoving his throttles into afterburner. "Rainbows, let's move it out."
A minute passed before the controller contacted the Marine F/A18s. "Devil flight, take up a heading of three-three-zero. We'll hold you fifty south of Rainbow flight."
"Devil copy."
THE WHITE HOUSE
Marine One, transporting Jarrett back from the Kneecap E-4, was touching down as the secretary of state hurried out of the White House. Kerchner waited until the president stepped off the helicopter and saluted the marine sergeant.
"Mister President," Kerchner said as he fell in step with Jarrett, "the B-2 has been spotted over the northern Pacific, north of the Hawaiian Islands."
Jarrett, smiling and waving at the throng of media representatives, did not change his expression. "Who spotted it?"
"An airliner . . . a Cathay Pacific flight," Kerchner answered as they approached the entrance to the White House. "We're vectoring air force fighters for an intercept."
"Excellent," Jarrett responded with a final wave to the shouting press corps. "Let's get everyone in the situation room as soon as possible."
"They're standing by, sir," Kerchner replied as he slowed to let the president step through the open door. "And the SovietsIgnatyev--just offered to assist us in locating the B-2."
Jarrett looked surprised. "Interesting."
As if in confirmation of that fact, at that point the 65,000metric-ton Soviet aircraft carrier, Tiblisi, operating 370 miles south of Amchitka Island, was plowing through heavy seas. The large-deck carrier was on a direct line between the American Stealth bomber and Yelizovo airfield on Kamchatka Peninsula.
Sukhoi Su-27 Flankers and MiG-29 Fulcrums, using the ski-jump bow, were being launched to search for the elusive Stealth bomber. The pilots had been briefed, in the event they spotted the bomber, to keep it in sight until an American aircraft could be vectored for an intercept.
The Soviet fighters would spread out from 220 to 310 miles ahead of the Tiblisi, refuel from one of five tankers, then orbit at staggered intervals.
SHADOW 37
The sun was high in the sky when Matthews felt the first bumps of rough air. The looming storm had grown darker in the past forty minutes.
Matthews, who was feeling the effects of dehydration, turned to General Brotskharnov. "We're going to need the weather radar, or we're in for a rough ride."
The Russian pilot looked at the display units, then back at Simmons.
The technician shook his head. "We have to keep the airplane cold--no emissions."
Brotskharnov shrugged and turned to Matthews. "I am not the expert."
Matthews, tired and irritated, cinched his straps tighter as the B-2 bounced through the lower layers of the cloud bank.
THE AWACS
"Rainbow leader," the controller radioed, staring at his radar console, "continue present course and spread your flight another ten miles. We believe you should be overtaking the B-2 soon."
"Ah . roger," the Air Guard flight leader responded, checking his wingman's position. "You'll have to space us--we're starting to encounter some weather."
"Copy," the AWACS officer replied. "Come left ten degrees and I'll call your separation."
"Roger, comin' left ten."
The F-15 pilot eased his stick to the left and glanced out at the horizon. He froze when he saw the Stealth bomber whisk through a layer of stringy dark clouds.
"Sonuvabitch," the fighter pilot said in his oxygen mask, then keyed his radio. "Pelican, Rainbow lead has a tally on the B-2!"
"Roger, roger," the excited AWACS officer replied. "Rainbow Two, turn left twenty degrees--lead is seven miles at your nine o'clock."
"Two comin' left twenty. Call me at three miles."
"Wilco," the controller radioed. "Rainbow lead, close on the B-2 and contact on Guard."
"Roger," the startled pilot said. "Confirm the call sign." "Ah . . . Shadow Three Seven."
"Copy."