Shadow Flight

"Larry," Matthews said, "thirty nautical miles is a lot of space to make up between here and Cuba, especially if the weather is rotten for our approach and landing. The weather report I saw this morning showed a tropical disturbance in the Caribbean, but I didn't pay any attention to the exact location."

Simmons struggled to extract three pieces of tightly folded paper from his left thigh pocket. "This will help guide us in, colonel," Simmons said, handing the Cuban Revolutionary Air Force and Antiaircraft Defense airport diagrams to the pilot.

Matthews looked at the DAAFAR instrument approach plates with the hand-drawn lines. One prominent line began at the airfield and continued due north to the edge of the page. Matthews then looked at the Cuban aeronautical chart. The same line extended north approximately ninety nautical miles to a point just inside the Cuban air defense identification zone.

"I assume, Larry," Matthews paused to hand the diagrams and charts to Evans, "that we're going to have an escort down that line to San Julian."

"That's correct," Simmons responded evenly, feeling more confident. "When we reach that point, still at our cruising altitude, we'll energize our transponder and radars so the MiGs can join up with us.

"Great," Evans replied, handing the wrinkled papers back to Matthews. "We're going to have a damned steep descent into the field."

The cockpit remained quiet as Shadow 37, climbing rapidly through the overcast, passed 27,000 feet. The bomber was lighter than it would be after becoming operational. The Boeing-built advanced rotary weapons launchers did not contain the normal complement of sixteen nuclear cruise missiles.

Matthews checked his instrument panel, then spoke to the civilian. "Well, Larry, you've thought of everything except one item — if we don't run out of fuel, that is."

Simmons waited a few seconds before responding. His mind whirled, trying to comprehend what the aircraft commander was talking about. "Yeah, colonel?" Simmons asked, trying not to show any of the fear growing inside him. "What's the one item?"

Matthews turned to face the Stealth's hijacker. "That the commies are going to dispose of you — kill you — after they get their hands on this airplane."

WASHINGTON, D. C.

Secretary of Defense Bernard D. Kerchner, sitting at his secluded table at Twenty One Federal, lifted his aperitif glass. "Here's to you, darling. The quintessence of the perfect wife."

Kerchner touched the outstretched glass lightly, then looked into the dancing green eyes. "Happy thirty-first anniversary, Liddy."

The radiant, petite woman brushed back her chestnut hair, then squeezed her husband's left hand. "Bernie, I have always loved the irrepressible romantic in you."

Kerchner started to respond, then stopped. He had noticed the maitre d' hurrying toward their table. Renoir Dutilleux, always the gentleman, apologized for intruding, then handed Kerchner a slip of paper.

"Thank you, Renoir," Kerchner said, slipping his reading glasses from the holder inside his coat.

"Again, my apologies, Mister Secretary. The general said it was most urgent."

"It always is," Kerchner replied, smiling. He waited while the maitre d' bowed slightly and walked away.

"Oh, Bernie, not bad news," Liddy said softly, watching her husband's brow furrow.

"I'm afraid so," Kerchner replied, sliding back his chair. "I have to call General Parkinson at home."

The short, balding, round-faced defense secretary motioned for their waiter, then patted his wife's hand. The white-jacketed waiter crossed the elegant marble and wood floor and approached the table.

"Nicky, I have to make a phone call, so we'll order in a few minutes," Kerchner said, opening the wine list. "In the meantime, we'll sample a bottle of Cotes du Rhone Beaucastel."

"Excellent choice, Secretary Kerchner."

Elizabeth "Liddy" Kerchner, feeling cheated by the government once again, watched her husband walk to the phone near the entrance. She and Bernie seemed to have so little private time together since the shake-up at "crisis management" — Bernie's nickname for the National Security Council. The gracious, attractive woman accepted the glass of red wine the waiter had poured, then watched her husband place the phone receiver down and remove his glasses. She could see the anguish in his eyes.

Kerchner walked to the table, pulled back his chair, slid into his seat, and took both of his wife's hands in his. "Sorry, honey," Kerchner said, massaging the top of Liddy's hands gently with his thumbs. "I've got to rush over to the Pentagon. Why don't you order, then take a cab home… and don't wait up. I promise we're going to do this again — until we get it right."

Liddy laughed in her warm, soft manner. "I know, Bernie… I know. Can you tell me what has happened?"

"Yes," Kerchner replied, lowering his voice slightly. "We've lost one of our B-2s."

Liddy Kerchner was visibly shocked. "One of the new Stealth bombers crashed?"