Shadow Flight (1990) (45 page)

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.

"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."

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 mile
s a
head 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.

"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."

Matthews twisted his head back and forth, exercising his stiff neck muscles. He was thinking about taking off his helmet when something out of the side window caught his eye.

He snapped his head to the left and stared at the cockpit of an F15 Eagle. Matthews saw the Hawaiian Air National Guard lettering on the aircraft at the same instant the fighter pilot transmitted over the radio.

"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow leader on Guard. Do you copy?"

Simmons bolted upright as Brotskharnov leaned over the console and stared at the American fighter in wide-eyed astonishment.

"We better talk to him," Matthews cautioned, turning to Simmons. "The game is over."

Simmons looked at Brotskharnov, who was in shock.

"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow lead on Guard," the F-15 pilot radioed, easing closer to the nose of the B-2. "We have orders to shoot you down if you do not comply. Do you copy?"

Matthews shot a glance at the Eagle pilot and turned to Brotskharnov. "They've got us, goddamnit!"

The Russian blanched, snapped off the autopilot, grabbed his set of controls, and shoved the three throttles forward. "The hell they do!" the Russian pilot barked, yanking the bomber into a tight, climbing turn to the right.

Matthews reached for his controls at the same instant that Simmons pressed the revolver against the pilot's ribs.

The stunned fighter pilot, unprepared for the B-2's abrupt maneuver, tried to close on the bomber. When the two aircraft entered the dense clouds, the F-15 pilot, concerned about a midair collision, pulled his throttles back and shoved the nose over.

"Pelican, Rainbow lead. I've lost the target--he pulled into the clouds."

"Stand by," the controller radioed in a frustrated voice. "Are you in a position to try another intercept?"

"Negative--I'm not painting anything on the scope. They just disappeared in the soup."

The radio remained quiet for a moment before another voice spoke. "Rainbow leader, say fuel state."

"Three point nine," the pilot replied as his wingman rendezvoused on the right side. "We're gonna have to drop back and tank."

"Get the nose down!" Matthews ordered, watching the airspeed decrease rapidly. "We're going to stall!"

Brotskharnov, having changed course forty degrees and climbed 2,300 feet, shoved the nose down and turned back to the original heading. The Russian pilot's hands were shaking as he leveled the bomber at 42,300 feet.

Shadow 37, bouncing lightly in the dense clouds, accelerated to cruise speed again.

"They're going to shoot us down!" Matthews said, feeling the revolver in his side. "It's only a matter of time!"

Simmons shoved harder on the barrel of the gun. "Shut up, colonel!"

Matthews, ignoring the technician, leaned closer to Brotskharnov. "There's no way out . . . they've got us surrounded."

The wily Russian slowly turned his head. "Engage the autopilot. We will be okay if we can remain in the clouds."

Chapter
Thirty

The airborne command and control officer called Shadow 37 on Guard a dozen times, then radioed the E-2C Hawkeye controlling the navy aircraft from Carl Vinson.

The Hawkeye radar controller plotted the coordinates of the B-2 sighting and vectored two sections of F-14s toward a rendezvous with the bomber. "Sundowners, come port fifteen degrees and climb to angels four-five-zero. We've got a B-2 coming down the pike."

"Roger," the operations officer of VF-111 radioed. "Any idea when we'll intercept?"

"Stand by," the controller answered as he conferred with another radar operator. "We're projecting that you'll overfly the B-2 in twenty . . . say twenty-one minutes."

The Tomcat pilot, easing his throttles forward in the climb, looked over his glare shield. "We've got a thick cloud cover out here."

"Copy," the Hawkeye officer replied. "Don't show a thing .. . not a trace of the B-2. We're just extrapolating at this point." "Roger."

The radios remained quiet for a few seconds before the controller spoke again. "Sundowners, we show MiG activity at your four o'clock, climbing out of two-seven-zero. Looks like three aircraft at twenty-eight miles."

The F-14 flight leader checked his armament panel. "Keep us informed."

"Roger that," the controller said as he adjusted his scope. "They're off the Tihlisi--supposed to be helping us--but we haven't received permission to work them."

"Copy."

The Hawkeye officer changed to a frequency used by the Soviet fighter pilots, adjusted his lip microphone, and flipped the frequency switch. "This is navy airborne controller, call sign Eight Ball. All Soviet aircraft are warned to stand clear of U
. S
. operations. Repeat, all Soviet aircraft remain clear of U
. S
. operations."

The four F-14s, breaking out of the dark clouds at 43,000 feet, continued toward the projected position of the Stealth bomber. The fighter pilots listened to the radar controller alternately warn the Soviet aircraft, then change to Guard and call the B-2. The orders to the pilot of the bomber went unanswered.