Shadow Flight (1990) (17 page)

Voronoteev opened the door to the small outer office and approached Starshiy Praporshchik Lugayev. The smiling senior warrant officer popped to attention and held out a large folder for Voronoteev. "The last combat efficiency report, comrade general."

Voronoteev accepted the bound folder wordlessly, leafed through it, then frowned. "This does not reflect our implementation of Armaments and Aviation Engineering. This report is ambiguous." Voronoteev could see that Lugayev, who blanched, had been taken by complete surprise. "Did you compile this report, Lugayev?"

The short, dapper warrant officer, still at attention, hesitated a moment. "Yes, comrade general."

"At ease," Voronoteev said in a pleasant tone. "Has General Borol'kov read this report?"

"I'm sure the commander has, comrade general," Lugayev answered, clearly uneasy. "I believe that he has endorsed the last page."

Voronoteev thumbed through to the final page. "So he has. It is unusual for the general to miss such a glaring oversight."

Lugayev remained quiet, studying his immaculately manicured fingernails.

"Well, Lugayev, we can let this be our secret. I'll correct your figures as I adjust my readiness report. Open the vault and I'll get the two previous efficiency reports."

"Comrade general," Lugayev said haltingly, "I am expressly forbidden to allow anyone access to the vault, sir."

"Open the vault, Warrant Officer Lugayev," Voronoteev ordered sternly. "I take full responsibility for the security of the contents."

"Yes, comrade general," Lugayev replied as he rounded his desk and entered the spacious office. Voronoteev followed Lugayev into the commander's suite and waited until the vault swung open.

"Comrade general, this is highly irregular, and I must ask you to certify that I was ord--"

"Lugayev," Voronoteev interrupted, "this is official business and I don't have time to waste. We will seal the vault as soon as I compile the figures."

Lugayev nodded his head, stealing a glance toward the outer office entrance, then backed through the open door and closed it behind him.

Voronoteev quickly yanked open the bottom slide-out drawer and began flipping back each SECRET file folder, scanning the content heading. Opening the ninth file, titled ATB, he discovered the B-2 advanced technology bomber scheme.

He was overwhelmed by the complexity of the secret endeavor. The KGB had apparently engineered the operation on its own, and had pulled it off. The supersecret Stealth bomber was in Cuba, secure in the hands of the KGB.

"San Julian," Voronoteev said to himself as he closed the file. He straightened up, opened a larger upper file drawer, then closed it loudly and walked to the door. He opened it and shook his head. "You were right after all. The Armaments and Aviation Engineering data will be included in the annual efficiency report."

"Yes, sir," Lugayev responded as he hurried through the door to close the vault.

Voronoteev tucked his file under his arm and walked out of the small office. He took a few steps, checked his watch, then started down the stairs. He would stop by his office, remember a forgotten meeting in the afternoon, go to the Hotel Metropol for a leisurely lunch, then make his way to the international post office.

Lugayev had paused at the vault and watched Voronoteev leave. Each working day the warrant officer was responsible for checking the security of the secret files in Borol'kov's vault. He kneele
d d
own, opened the bottom drawer, and slid out the secret files. Lugayev checked each folder rapidly. When he looked at the file labeled ATB, he knew that Voronoteev had opened it. Lugayev had no idea what ATB represented--he only placed the folders in the vault for his commander--but he had checked only hours before and the hair-thin, almost invisible thread had been across the seal. The thread now rested on the bottom of the drawer, severed.

Lugayev shut the vault, then rushed out and closed the door between his small office and the hallway. He had been ordered by General Borol'kov to contact the chief of investigations at the KGB--the Committee for State Security--if the vault was compromised or if anything suspicious happened in the general's absence.

Senior Warrant Officer Lugayev had wondered, on more than one occasion, why the general did not want the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU) to investigate any questionable act. It seemed only logical to Lugayev that military matters should be investigated by Soviet Military Intelligence.

The conscientious administrative officer was not aware that most of Borol'kov's secret files involved KGB clandestine operations outside the Soviet Union. The GRU operations were confined, for the most part, within the boundaries of the Rodina.

Lugayev had been to the KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square only once, and he did not look forward to a repeat visit. Orders were orders, however, and the general had been explicit. Lugayev could not contact the KGB via phone. He had to present himself in person, along with the proper credentials. He dialed the master sergeant of administration and had a clerk sent to the commanding general's office to answer the phone. Lugayev gave the airman first class clear instructions, grabbed his cap, and raced down the stairs.

LEADFOOT 107

"Are we starting down?" Wickham asked the Tomcat pilot when he felt the F-14D nose down slightly.

Lieutenant Commander Reed Sandoline, quiet for the past fifty minutes, chuckled softly. "Yeah, Steve, you're about to get initiated into the Tailhook Association."

"I can't wait," Wickham laughed, mentally envisioning a fireball tumbling down the flight deck of the carrier. "Can't they just send up another tanker from the carrier?"

"Steve, you're going to have to readjust your thinking," the fighter jock replied. "You're trying to make this mission too simple."

"What do you mean?" Wickham asked as he tightened his shoulder straps.

"We have to land to switch pilots," Sandoline answered, then kidded his VIP passenger. "The Navy doesn't like paying overtime."

"You have some kind of limit to how long you can fly?" Wickham asked, massaging his tingling calves.

"That's it," Sandoline replied as he slowly reduced power and lowered the F-14's nose further. "We've had new guidelines issued in regard to daily flying and duty times. I'm already illegal."

Wickham returned to his thoughts as he listened to Sandoline communicate with the carrier. Logic told Wickham that Key West could only mean some covert assignment in Central America or the Caribbean. What puzzled him most was the urgency of the operation.

Sandoline lowered the Tomcat's nose even further, eased the twin throttles to idle, and popped the wide speed brakes partially open. The F-14 shuddered slightly and plummeted toward the USS Ranger, steaming parallel to the coast of Baja California Norte 600 miles southwest of San Diego.

Wickham's mind returned to the present when he heard his name mentioned on the aircraft radio.

"Leadfoot One Zero Seven," the carrier air traffic controller radioed, "we have a top secret message waiting for Mister Wickham."

"Copy, One Oh Seven," Sandoline replied, then clicked the intercom. "You hear that?"

"Yes," Wickham answered as he snugged his shoulder straps even tighter. "How long until we're down?"

" 'Bout four and a half minutes."

"You gotta be kidding," Wickham responded. "I can't even see anything down there."

"Leadfoot One Zero Seven, come port to zero-four-zero and descend to one-one thousand."

Sandoline checked his altitude, then toggled his throttle-mounted radio switch. "Roger, zero-four-zero, down to one-one thousand, Leadfoot One Oh Seven."

"Leadfoot," a different controller radioed. "We have a change in plans."

"Go," Sandoline replied as he rolled out on heading and prepared to level at 11,000 feet.

The air traffic specialist spoke slowly. "We've got a turkey on the cat ready to launch. Mister Wickham will be escorted to the island, then to the Tomcat."

"One Oh Seven, copy," Sandoline replied as he closed the speed brakes and added a small amount of power.

"Come port three-five-zero," the original controller ordered. "Descend to three thousand and call the ball."

"One Oh Seven," Sandoline responded as he reduced power and lowered the nose again, "outta one-one thou for three, three-fifty on the heading."

Wickham quietly surveyed the dimly lighted cockpit, then watched the twinkling stars change position as Sandoline turned to the new heading.

"Steve," the pilot offered, "watch over my left shoulder and tell me when you see the orange ball of light."

"I can't see a thing," Wickham responded, straining to locate the carrier. "It's pitch-black out there."

Sandoline swept the wings forward, lowered the flaps, extended the landing gear, set his power, and dropped the tailhook. "When you enter the island," he instructed, "use the head, drink as much water as you're comfortable with--it'll help stave off altitude dehydration--and run in place to get the blood circulating."

"Will do," Wickham responded at the same time he saw the "meatball"--the primary optical landing aid. "I can see the ball, but I don't have the carrier."

"You won't see the boat until we're on deck," Sandoline replied, then keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven Tomcat. Ball. Four point nine."

"Roger, ball," the landing signal officer acknowledged in a studied, nonchalant manner.

"A bit more advice, Steve," Sandoline offered as he extended the speed brakes to stabilize the approach. "Don't ever call a ship a boat around the blue water sailors. The black shoe Navy would have you keelhauled on the spot."

"Yeah," Wickham replied, "they told me that when I joined the Marines."

"Oh, shit," Sandoline said in mock disgust, "how am I going to live this down?"

"You'll make it," Wickham laughed, knowing what the navy fighter pilot was going to say.

"I've been chauffeuring a jarhead around," Sandoline laughed, then concentrated on flying the meatball.

The pilot's labored breathing became erratic gasps as the Tomcat descended through 600 feet, three-quarters of a mile behind the Ranger.

"See the horizontal green lights?" Sandoline asked, working the stick and rudder pedals.

"Yes," Wickham answered as he braced himself, "the ball is even with them."

"We gotta . . . keep the ball . . . centered there," Sandoline said, fighting the oxygen mask. "Nailed . . . till we hit . . . the deck."

Wickham stared at the approaching lights but still could not see the carrier. He listened as the Ranger's landing signal officer (LSO) talked to Sandoline.

"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."

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 Stealt
h b
omber. 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.