Shadow Flight (1990) (10 page)

"A little more than two hours," Parkinson corrected, "counting the time to climb. The B-2, like any aircraft, climbs at a slower speed than its cruise speed."

"All right," Jarrett responded, "a little more than two hours. Do we know the time of the close call--the near midair?"

"Yes," Truesdell replied, then paused to look at his quickly written notes. "Cleveland Center has the occurrence on tape, with time hacks. That's normal procedure, and a copy of the tape is being sent to us.".

"What time was it?" Kerchner asked.

"Nine-fifty-seven, local time," Truesdell replied, then looked over to Parkinson. "Two hours, six minutes after the emergency code flashed on Canadian radar."

The last few minutes of daylight were fading away rapidly as th
e r
usted, dented Chevrolet van bounced down the partially paved highway. The torrential rains of the previous evening had washed thick mud and debris across the narrow, winding road.

Lieutenant Colonel Charles Matthews and Maj. Paul Evans sat on a bench in the back of the DAAFAR vehicle. Both men remained quiet, sitting angled away from each other. Their hands had been tied together behind their backs, then tied to each other.

The van lurched to the right to avoid a pothole, then rounded a tree-lined corner into an open expanse of roadway surrounded by grass and stubble. Across an open field, on the far side of a narrow stream, was a small civilian airport.

"Paul," Matthews said under his breath, "look out to your left."

Evans glanced quickly at the four men in the forward portion of the van. One Cuban guard, sitting behind the steering wheel, was accompanied in the front seat by the chief of KGB security at San Julian. Another Cuban guard and a KGB security officer sat on opposing benches behind the front seats.

Evans studied the guards for a moment, then darted a look at the small private airstrip. He studied the layout of the short runway, then turned to Matthews, smiling.

Both pilots had seen the two ancient, dilapidated DC-3s rotting behind the single hangar. They had also seen an old, radial-engined trainer sporting a huge paddle-bladed propeller. Neither was sure of the country of manufacture, but the aircraft appeared to be of Soviet design.

"The gooney birds," Matthews said, barely moving his lips, "aren't airworthy, but the small plane looks like it's flyable."

Matthews stopped talking when the closest KGB agent looked back at the two pilots. The short, wiry Cuban also glanced at the Americans, then resumed his animated, noisy discussion with the driver. The senior KGB agent carried a 9mm Beretta. The two men in back held their AK-47s across their laps, seemingly unconcerned with the two disheveled Americans.

"Chuck," Evans whispered, straining against the rough ropes binding his wrists. "I think I'm almost out of this lash-up. Can you move your hands farther behind me?"

Matthews darted a quick glance at the guards, then moved his bound hands as far as he could stretch them.

"Just a couple more seconds," Evans said, struggling with the final binding that was cutting into his bruised wrists. "You ready to go for them?"

"Damned right," Matthews replied without moving his bruised lips. "Can you get me loose?"

"Yeah, I think so--just a second."

"Okay," Matthews said, sizing up their four adversaries. "You take scarface, and I'll get the one on the right."

Evans nodded. "Can you pull your left hand loose?"

"Yes," Matthews responded, feeling the cord go slack around his left wrist. "Jesus, Paul, you're amazing."

"You still have the end around your other wrist," Evans whispered, "but you're free."

Matthews, watching the guards, turned slightly to see Evans in his periphery. "When I say 'now,' let's go for their weapons and shove the bastards forward."

"It's our only shot, Chuck."

"You're right, and a damned good one," Matthews replied, feeling the adrenaline surge through his body. "Ready--one, two, three, now!"

Both officers catapulted across the van, smashing into the two guards with brutal force. Matthews yanked the AK-47 away from the smaller man, kicking him off his bench into the back of the front passenger seat. Evans had punched the KGB agent straight in the nose and ripped his rifle loose.

"Don't move!" Evans yelled, pointing the barrel into the Russian's face.

The Cuban driver panicked, then slammed on the brakes, sending Evans crashing over the Soviet officer into the back of the driver. Matthews fell on top of the other Cuban as the van slid to a stop.

"Don't move, goddamnit!" Matthews shouted, pointing the assault rifle at the soldier. "You okay, Paul?"

"Yeah," Evans replied, shoving his rifle barrel into the mouth of the KGB guard. "I'm fine."

"Get in the back," Matthews ordered, motioning for the four guards to move to the rear. "Move it, now!"

The Cuban, along with the two Russians, scampered to the back of the battered Chevrolet while Evans yanked the driver between the front seats.

"You heard the man!" Evans barked, gouging the driver in the ribs. "Move it, asshole!"

"Stretch out, face down!" Matthews ordered, shoving the startled men down on their stomachs. "Side by side."

"You, too," Evans said, kicking the driver in the back of his knees. "On the floor."

Evans held his AK-47 on the soldiers while Matthews removed the long, dangling cord from his right wrist. He tied the quartet together quickly, then unzipped the front of his flight suit and tore off his turtleneck. He ripped the soiled pullover into four strips and gagged each man.

"Paul," Matthews said, picking up his assault rifle, "turn this wreck around and let's take that narrow road about three-quarters of a mile back--the one just before the airfield road."

"The one going east into the trees?" Evans asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Yes. We've got to get rid of these bastards, then try the airfield."

Evans pulled over to the side of the road, cranked the wheel hard to the left, then gunned the engine. "Are you going to kill them?" The van spun around, slamming the prisoners against the right side, then straightened out and accelerated.

"No," Matthews answered, leaning against the back of the front passenger seat for balance. "I thought about running over their legs to immobilize them, but that--"

"Oh, shit!" Evans said as another DAAFAR vehicle rounded a curve a quarter mile in front of them. "Grab a couple of their caps."

Matthews scooped the two Cuban military hats off the floor, handing one to Evans. "Paul, if we get stopped for any reason," Matthews said, checking the safety on his Kalashnikov, "we've got to take our chances--we've got to shoot it out."

"I know," Evans replied as he shoved the khaki uniform cap on his head. "I'm with you."

The pilots watched the approaching vehicle. One headlight cast a beam straight toward the van, partially blinding the two Americans; the other headlight pointed slightly downward at the road.

"Uh, oh," Evans said, squinting into the bright beam of the single headlamp. "It's one of the Russian jeeps!"

"Keep going straight," Matthews ordered. "Don't turn off the road."

The Soviet GAZ field car passed the van, continued a hundred meters, then rapidly slowed.

"Son of a bitch," Matthews swore under his breath. "Keep going." At that moment, the brake lights of the DAAFAR field car illuminated.

Chapter
Six

The offices on the top floor of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), based at Langley, Virginia, were quiet. The deputy director of the CIA, David Ridgefield, sat staring out the window at the star-filled sky. The reed-thin, partially bald, fifty-three-year-old former attorney turned his gaze toward the twinkling lights of Washington. He waited patiently for his boss, Gen. Norman Lasharr, director of the intelligence agency, to conclude his phone call.

Lasharr, a ruddy-faced, no-nonsense leader, wrote two lines on his scratch pad, tore the page loose, and handed it to his second in command. Ridgefield reached over, grasped the piece of paper, then sat back. He could not believe his eyes.

Lasharr ended his conversation, placed the receiver on its cradle, and turned to his assistant. "I can't believe it either."

Ridgefield shook his head. "A renegade faction in Russia has one of our Stealth bombers?"

"I'm afraid so," the former marine corps commandant replied with a look of disgust. "Sorry to call you in at this time of the evening, but we have a major hill to take."

"No problem, general. I'm just astounded that anyone in the Soviet Union would even think of capturing a B-2, in light of their reforms."

Lasharr pushed himself back from his desk. "That makes two o
f u
s, but there are still hard-liners--many of them wearing stars--who are blatantly resisting the military restructuring."

"How did whoever . . . ," Ridgefield paused, "how did this happen, sir?"

"It's a long story," Lasharr answered as he removed his military-framed reading glasses. Everyone at the intelligence agency called Lasharr either general or sir in his presence. When the director was out of earshot, his associates referred to him as Rambo. "I'll tell you about it later, Dave. Right now, we--the CIA--have a formidable task to accomplish."

"Find the B-2," Ridgefield stated.

Lasharr smiled slightly, then reverted to his normal, dour self. "That was Secretary Kerchner on the phone. The White House wants to use covert means to find out if the B-2 is in Cuba."

"Cuba?" Ridgefield responded, puzzled. "Are they--is the secretary positive it's in Cuba?"

"No, he isn't," the scrappy director answered. "However, all the evidence points to Cuba, and we have our marching orders."

"General," Ridgefield began, formulating a suggestion. "Should we use RAINDANCE?"

"Absolutely," Lasharr replied. "Secretary Kerchner made one thing very clear. The president wants that aircraft back in our hands as expeditiously as possible. The pressure is on the CIA, but we have carte blanche to find the B-2."

"We're not actually being charged with the responsibility to retrieve the aircraft," Ridgefield paused, "are we?"

"No," Lasharr answered, leaning back in his chair. "The White House doesn't want to make any accusations, or confront the Soviets or Cubans, until we know for certain where the Stealth is located. Our job is to find it, and find it fast."

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."

"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!"