Shadow Flight (1990) (20 page)

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

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 d
river 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," Voronoteev 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 aroun
d t
he 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.

"Room twenty-eight," Voronoteev said in passable English as he folded the slip of paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. The phone connection was unusually good. Voronoteev had almost finished buttoning his tunic when Fritz Kranz answered the long distance call.

"Peter Wipplinger," the nervous doctor said as evenly as he could.

"Hello, Peter," Voronoteev responded, cautiously surveying th
e p
eople in the dimly lighted post office. "The destination is Cuba, a
t a
n--"

"You bastard!" Akhlomov yelled as he rushed around the partition and slammed Voronoteev into the side of the dusty booth. "You miserable bastard!"

The other three agents roughly subdued the struggling general as Akhlomov grabbed the dangling phone receiver. The line was dead.

Akhlomov spun around and shoved Voronoteev into the dingy wall. "Who were you talking to?"

Voronoteev paused a moment, trying to regain his shattered composure. "I am Lieutenant General Voronoteev."

"Shut up, you traitorous bastard," Akhlomov shouted, consumed in rage. "Out with it! Who were you talking to?"

Voronoteev, blood dripping from his mouth, remained firmly pinned to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, the stunned general could see the throng of people rushing out the main entrance of the post office. Muscovites could smell trouble a block away, and they avoided it like the plague.

"You have made a grave mistake," Voronoteev said as evenly as possible, "and your superiors will--"

"You sucking dog!" Akhlomov hissed in Voronoteev's face, then bashed him into the wall again. "Tell me about the ATB. Tell me what you stole from the files this morning."

Voronoteev's eyes gave him away when he tried to recover from the sudden shock. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

* "The hell you don't!" Akhlomov said, positioning the point of his Antipov tactical knife against Voronoteev's throat. "Who were you talking to?"

"I demand--"

"Shut up," Akhlomov said as he pushed the blade against Voronoteev's neck a quarter inch, twisted it, and yanked it away. "You are under arrest, General Voronoteev, for committing treason."

Voronoteev started to speak, then realized that any effort to defend his actions would be in vain. His fate had been sealed when h
e h
ad forced the issue by checking the contents of General Borol'kov's safe.

The bloodied general held his head high, nodding to his shocked driver, as he was escorted to the KGB automobile.

Fritz Kranz sat staring at the beige telephone on the small desk. His right hand, trembling uncontrollably, still rested on the receiver.

"Oh, god . . . ," Kranz said to himself, then slowly removed his hand from the phone. "It's over."

Kranz sat quietly for a moment, contemplating his predicament, then bolted from his chair and walked to the window. He stared vacantly at the roof of the opera house while he tried to calm his nerves. I've been caught in the middle, he told himself. RAINDANCE had been apprehended. He had heard the commotion and the accusations. Would the KGB-no-how soon would the KGB trace him to Vienna?

He knew that his life was in jeopardy. He had to think clearly, and remember the procedures he had been taught by the CIA instructors at Langley. He paced back and forth between the door and the window, trying to sort out the enormity of what had happened in the past three minutes.

It had not been his fault, he told himself. He had been happily ensconced in his pleasant world, enjoying retirement, before this calamity. He knew now that he was swimming in a sea full of voracious sharks.

Now, Kranz kept telling himself, I must think rationally and clearly. The CIA gave me a telephone number to call in the event of such a disaster. "Use it," he heard himself say as he fumbled in his coat pocket for the matchbook. The cover displayed an advertisement for a seafood restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut.

Kranz walked over to the desk, sat down, and gingerly picked up the receiver. His hands were shaking and his temples throbbed. The emergency code words ran through his mind over and over again.

The frightened surgeon dialed the operator and thought about his wife. Christ, Katy had no idea of his involvement in this miserable business.

"Hotel operator," the innocent voice answered.

"I must . . . I need the international operator," Kranz replied, trying to sound calm and businesslike.

"One moment. I will connect you."

"Thank you," Kranz responded, taking deep, even breaths.

Kranz gave the overseas operator the phone number and waited for the call to go through. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the number began ringing. One ring. Two rings, then a pause before Kranz heard the recording.

"Thank you for calling. Please leave your name and telephone number at the sound of the tone."

"Good Christ," he blurted out, then heard the beep. "The ship is aground, the ship is aground," Kranz said impulsively, then continued in a hesitant voice, not sure if he should say anything else. "The tie has been--" Kranz stopped in midsentence when he heard an urgent voice speak to him.