Shadow Flight (1990) (13 page)

Matthews was working the controls in an effort to constantly change their path of flight. He guided the Yak-18 through a series of skidded turns, slips, and porpoise maneuvers while maintaining the general heading to Key West. He looked over his left shoulder again, then sideslipped the Yak close to the water. "Keep an eye on him!"

The Foxbat pilot wrapped the fighter around in a tight turn, continuing to slow, then eased the nose toward the fleeing trainer. The MiG pilot was in a perfect guns position.

"Hang on!" Matthews cautioned as he rolled the low-flying Yak-18 into a seventy-degree right turn and chopped the power to idle. The deceleration was instantaneous.

Straining under the g loading, Matthews looked over his right shoulder as the MiG-25 snapped into a tight right turn, stalled, then slammed into the water a split second after the afterburners were lighted. The Foxbat exploded in a blinding flash as cold water rammed through the air intakes into the red-hot turbojets.

"You suckered him in!" Evans shouted, pounding the cockpit glare shield. "You did it!"

Matthews added power and leveled the wings, then looked up and scanned the dark sky. "Where's the other MiG? I've lost him!"

"Ahh . . . okay, I've got him," Evans responded, tightening his seat belt. "Four o'clock and coming down fast."

Anatoly Sokolviy, adrenaline pumping through his veins, was in a frenzy. The pilot knew that Director Levchenko, the omnipotent mastermind of the B-2 operation, would have to answer for the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Zanyathov. Sokolviy's mission had changed. He was driven to stop the wily Americans-any way possible-and avenge the death of his flight leader.

The MiG-25, Sokolviy knew only too well, had not been designed to fight slow-moving light aircraft flying on the deck.

Many fine pilots had lost their lives the same way as Zanyathov. He had let his aircraft get behind the power curve, then attempted an abrupt maneuver low and slow.

Sokolviy adjusted his armament panel, selecting his single AA-7 Apex missile. If he missed, he had two more AA-8 Aphids to fire at the fleeing aircraft. He checked the missile arming control, then heard the rescue helicopter.

"Sudak Chetirnatsat [perch fourteen] is on station," the excited Soviet helicopter pilot blurted. "Did the runner go in the tank?"

"Nyet," Sokolviy growled over the frequency. "Stay off the radio."

The Yak-18 was only three kilometers ahead of Sokolviy when the fighter pilot lowered the MiG's nose. "Kiss your asses goodbye, you clever bastards," Sokolviy said under his breath when the ready-to-fire light glowed. "Come on . . . track . . ."

Sokolviy raised the MiG's nose a couple of degrees, then rolled into a gentle right turn to line up with the tail of the Yak-18. "Got it!" Sokolviy said triumphantly as he squeezed off the air-to-air missile.

"Break right! Break right," Evans screamed. "Missile!"

Matthews tightened his stomach muscles, then groaned under the snap g load he forced on the trainer. The Yak-18, in knife-edged flight, changed course ninety degrees in three seconds. "Coming back!" Matthews said in a strained voice. "We gotta stay down--"

The pilot's statement was cut off by a flash and a deafening explosion forty yards in front of the aircraft. The AA-7 Apex had missed the trainer and impacted the water, detonating with a thunderous roar.

"Oh, shit!" Matthews swore as he leveled the wings and yanked back the stick.

The Yak-18 flew through the geyser of water and debris, staggered, shuddered, then dropped off on the right wing.

"Hang on!" Matthews shouted, chopping the throttle. "We're goin' in!"

Both pilots grabbed their glare shields and braced themselves for the impact. The Yak-18's right wingtip sliced into the water, sending the trainer into a cartwheeling, end-over-end crash landing. The crumpled fuselage, missing the right wing and three feet of the left wing, came to rest inverted.

Matthews yanked repeatedly at his seat belt, thrashing from side to side. Finally, when his lungs felt as though they had been set on fire, the pilot freed himself and struggled out of the sinking aircraft. Orienting himself with the rising bubbles from the sinking wreckage, he kicked off from the side of the cockpit and clawed his way upward.

Gasping and sucking air, he broke the surface and looked around frantically for Paul Evans. The slightly injured pilot could see bits of floating debris surrounding him, but nothing that resembled his friend.

"Paul!" Matthews shouted, treading water and turning constantly. He could taste the foul, greasy aviation fuel. "Paul!"

Matthews, who had been on the swimming team at the Air Force Academy, gulped more air and dove below the surface. He fought his way downward in the pitch-black water, felt the stub of a propeller blade, then crawled along the side of the mangled fuselage. He passed the front cockpit, cutting his right hand on the fractured canopy, and reached into the rear seat. His left hand touched Evans's arm, then moved up to his face. Matthews yanked back his hand, recoiling in horror.

Paul Evans had not suffered long, if at all. His face had slammed into the instrument panel, breaking his neck. Matthews was sickened by the unnatural twist and angle of his friend's head.

Feeling the water pressure build as the Yak-18's fuselage sank below twenty feet, Matthews tugged at Evans's seat belt. The locking device opened easily and Matthews pulled on Evans's torso.

He yanked repeatedly on his copilot, then realized the problem. Evans was trapped in the twisted cockpit, crushed between the seat pan and the glare shield.

Matthews, in agony and frustration, and feeling the onslaught of oxygen starvation, let go of his close friend and shot for the surface.

His oxygen-starved mind was slipping into unconsciousness, a kaleidoscope of colored lights dancing in front of his eyes, when his face popped out of the water.

The pilot treaded water instinctively while his lungs heaved in an effort to suck in life-sustaining air. He felt his head clear rapidly and his strength return. His mind shifted from concentrating on survival, to rage.

Four seconds later, Matthews heard the combined sounds. They had been there all along--the MiG-25 overhead and the approaching Soviet helicopter--but he had blocked them out in his mental trauma.

"You SONS OF BITCHES," Matthews bellowed, watching the approaching searchlight from the rescue helicopter.

THE P-3

Pete Vecchio stared at the APS-138 radar screen as he recorded the time and exact location. "Ah . .
. W
illie, I can't believe this."

"Believe it, Pete," Overholser replied quietly, energizing the LINK-11 secure data communications system. "The MiG flight leader went in the drink, and his wingman, as I see it, splashed the slow mover."

Vecchio turned to the air control officer (ACO). "We better get on the horn."

"Yeah," Overholser responded, keying the communications button. "Stay with 'em." The ACO adjusted his lip microphone, rechecked the radio frequency, then spoke to their operations center. "Corpus Operations, Tar Baby One Five."

"Corpus Ops, One Five," the Texas-based coordinator replied, "go ahead."

"One Five has a priority," Overholser radioed in an even voice. "We just witnessed two aircraft crash in the water seventy nautical miles west of Havana. One of the aircraft, we believe, was a Cuban MiG."

Vecchio and Overholser listened to the surprised operation
s o
fficer as they watched the three MiGs return to their respective air bases.

Gennadi Levchenko anxiously waited at the control tower for the rescue helicopter to return. The tower chief, Starshiy Praporshchik (Senior Warrant Officer) Yevgeny Pogostyan, had just sent word that the helicopter was nine minutes out.

Levchenko had already spoken with Maj. Anatoly Sokolviy, who had been extremely hostile and defiant. The confrontation had ended abruptly when the MiG fighter pilot, encouraged by his fellow aviators, walked away from the contentious KGB director.

Pogostyan ran down the steep stairs of the control tower, then hurried across the tarmac toward Levchenko. "Comrade director, the helicopter pilot reports only one American survivor."

in?" "We only need one," Levchenko snorted. "What condition is he
..."

"He is reported," Pogostyan said cautiously, "to have suffered only cuts and bruises."

"Excellent!" Levchenko spat, turning to the ranking KGB officer now in charge of security. "Talavokine," he shouted at the short, beefy agent. "Come here!"

The security officer turned to the Cuban army lieutenant, said a few quick words, then walked over to Levchenko. "Da, comrade director," the security expert said, standing uneasily.

Levchenko glared at Talavokine. "You will be personally responsible for the confinement of the American. I don't care if you have to guard him yourself
-
twenty-four hours a day. Do you understand me, Talavokine?"

"Yes, clearly, comrade director."

"Good."

The surprised KGB officer avoided Levchenko's eyes by staring over his right shoulder.

"If there is one screwup," Levchenko said, shaking his righ
t i
ndex finger in the officer's face, "I will see that you spend the res
t o
f your miserable career as a clerk on Taymyr Peninsula in Siberia."

The agent swallowed, then nodded his understanding.

"If you allow him to escape again," Levchenko warned, "plan your own escape. You will both be dead men."

"Da, comrade director," the officer stammered. "I will not allow anything to happen."

"Meet the helicopter," Levchenko ordered, seeing the approaching Mil Mi-17's landing light illuminate, "and escort the prisoner to the hangar."

The KGB agent backed away without responding, then turned and walked toward the squad of Cuban soldiers.

Levchenko, shielding his eyes from the rotor wash, watched the Mi-17 descend to a hover in front of the tower. The big Isotov turbines caused the ground to vibrate as the pilot lowered the helicopter gently onto its wheels. Levchenko turned and walked to his field car, then ordered the driver to take him to his office.

NEUNKIRCHEN, AUSTRIA

Fritz Kranz was startled awake when the phone rang. The sixtyeight-year-old, white-haired, heavyset, retired thoracic surgeon struggled with the bed cover, then freed his feet. "One moment, please," Kranz mumbled, fumbling for his robe. He patted his wife. "Sorry, my Katy."

"Who could it be at this hour?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear."

The phone rang again and again, loud and obtrusive in the quiet cottage. Kranz searched for his slippers, then gave up and crossed the bedroom cautiously, opened the door fully, and stepped into the hallway. He turned on the single light and picked up the ringing phone.

"Kranz."

"Herr Doktor," the cheery male voice said, "I am Johann at the cable office."

"Yes."

"I apologize for the untimely intrusion, but we have a cable for you, marked most urgent."

Kranz's mind raced. He had received only four urgent cables during the nine years he had worked with the Central Intelligence Agency. "Oh, yes," Kranz replied, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes. "We have been expecting an urgent message. I must be in the city early this morning, so I will stop by your office."

"Very well, Herr Doktor," the pleasant voice said. "Again, my apologies."

"You are very kind," Kranz responded, straining to see the grandfather clock in the living room. The antique timepiece indicated 4:54 A
. M
. "Good morning."

Kranz replaced the phone receiver, then started for the small bathroom. He replayed the procedures in his mind. Was RAINDANCE still secure?

"Who was it, Fritz?"

"One of my patients, dear. They don't seem to understand that I am retired."

Kranz dressed hurriedly, grabbed his medical bag, kissed his dozing wife good-bye, and drove the sixty kilometers into the heart of Vienna.

Entering the city, Kranz slowed near the Hofburg. He glanced at the Lippizaner stallions across the avenue. The beautiful horses turned the cold morning air to steam with their breath.

As he passed the historic imperial palace, Kranz mentally reviewed the CIA code and procedures used to contact RAINDANCE. This type of connection was referred to in the agency as a threearms'-length transaction. Trust and obscurity held the loop together.

Nearing the cable office, Kranz allowed his mind to drift back a few years. He could clearly see his dear friend and mentor, Doctor William G. Keating, former Dean of Medicine at Harvard University. What wonderful years we had, Kranz thought to himself, remembering how Keating had arranged for Kranz to enter the prestigious medical school.

Fritz Hoffmann Kranz had been one of three highly gifted foreign medical students whom Keating had sponsored in 1948.

Keating had respected the young Austrian for his study habits and diligence in pursuing the highest standards of the medical profession. The two men had developed a close relationship--some said like father and son--and Fritz became part of the Keating family.