Shadow Flight

Simmons gripped the flare gun before replying. "Colonel Matthews, I am not going to discuss anything, except getting this aircraft to Cuba."

"Okay, Larry," the pilot continued in a conversational but persistent tone. "Just one important personal question. What happened — what caused you to even contemplate hijacking a B-2?"

Simmons remained quiet, trying to decide whether to respond. He did not need any doubts creeping into his thinking. "I don't want to discuss anything. Just do as I tell you," Simmons answered, wiping his left hand nervously on his flight suit.

"Larry," Matthews said slowly, "I can't imagine anything so bad that it would cause you to… to do something that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Simmons remained quiet, clenching his teeth. His mind cried out for understanding, but no one had ever really cared. No one until Irina, his lover and future wife.

Paul Evans, monitoring the Jacksonville Center air traffic controllers, turned his head to the left, then spoke to Simmons in a friendly manner. "Larry, what Chuck is trying to say is that we'll help you no matter what the problem is. You just can't destroy your whole future. We still have time to correct this situation and help you out of whatever you're facing."

"You," Simmons said with bitterness in his voice. "You two don't know what it's like to be a… to be treated like I have. You live in the glory world of hotshot pilots. You live in the officercountry-club world with your perfect little families. You've never been kicked around."

The pilots looked at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. Matthews decided to try his previous approach. "Larry, listen to me for God's sake. The Communists aren't going to have any use for you after they've gleaned all the information you can provide. You'll be a liability who might defect back to the United States. They don't trust anyone, especially someone who has been disloyal to his own country."

Matthews glanced at Evans, then continued in an even tone of voice. "They'll kill you, Larry. You're the one weak link who could expose their hijacking. You're signing our death warrants, along with yours, if we don't turn back now."

Simmons glared at Matthews, then replied emotionally but evenly. "I allowed you to express your thoughts, and you are wrong — completely wrong. The Russians I work for are my friends, and I am going to be in charge of Stealth technical evaluations. Besides, I am marrying a Russian citizen."

Both pilots again looked at each other in amazement. Matthews shook his head slowly. "Larry, you've been deceived, and it's going to cost the lives of all three of us if you can't see the picture."

Simmons clenched his jaw before responding defensively. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Irina and I fell in love after she told me who she was… and about the B-2 project."

Evans turned his head slightly. "Right."

OFFICIAL RESIDENCE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT

The vice president of the United States, holding a phone to his ear, motioned for Bernard Kerchner and Air Force Gen. Frank Parkinson to join him in his study. They had been summoned hurriedly from the Pentagon.

The tall, lean, impeccably groomed air force deputy chief of staff for plans and operations followed Kerchner into the richly paneled room. The two men sat down in the wingback chairs on each side of the small fireplace.

Kirklin W. Truesdell had a reputation for being a meticulous and highly efficient administrator. The top of his rich cherry wood desk was immaculate, reflecting the organizational skills he had developed as a naval officer and public servant.

The vice president had recently assumed responsibilities as acting chief of staff. The president's closest aide and adviser, the chief of staff had been gravely injured in a boating accident and remained in critical but stable condition in Bethesda Naval Medical Center.

"Yes, sir," Truesdell replied into the phone, writing rapidly on his desk pad. "We'll keep you informed."

The vice president listened a moment longer, then hung up. "That was the president," Truesdell said, swiveling around in his chair. "He wants us to keep him informed of any developments in the B-2 search. Also," he continued, scratching through a message on his pad, "he wants us to be at Camp David at seven in the morning."

The vice president leaned across his desk, frowning, and addressed the defense secretary. "Bernie, how the hell did we manage to lose a B-2? They've been searching for almost four hours and haven't found a shred of evidence to indicate that the Stealth crashed."