Shadow Flight

Kerchner lowered his gaze a moment, then looked at the intense former Central Intelligence Agency Director. "Sir, the aircraft was scheduled to land at Ellsworth approximately fifteen minutes ago. It hasn't arrived, no one has communicated with the crew, the Canadians confirm that there was an emergency code displayed briefly where the aircraft was supposed to be, and…, " Kerchner paused, forming his thoughts, "the B-1 crew hasn't shed any light on the disappearance. That's all we know."

Parkinson, resplendent in his ribbon-bedecked blue uniform, spoke to Truesdell. "Mister Vice President, all the information indicates that the aircraft crashed into Hudson Bay where the emergency code flashed briefly. The flight was following a very precise, pre-planned course. We'll know for certain where the aircraft crashed when we search in the morning. The crews will fly the same course, spread out horizontally at half-mile intervals. If the Stealth went into the bay, sir, there will be floating debris, I can assure you."

"Have you grounded the other B-2s?" Truesdell asked, studying a Northrop flight test synopsis.

"Yes, sir, we have," Parkinson answered, then added, "until we find out what happened to Shadow Three Seven. We intend to keep the operational B-2s standing alert, but they won't fly unless we encounter a global threat of some nature."

"Sir," Kerchner said to the frowning vice president, "whatever happened, we believe, was catastrophic. The crew never had a chance to get off a message."

"Okay, let's get some sleep," Truesdell said, looking at the mantel clock over the fireplace. "Plan for a five-forty-five brief here, then we'll go to the helicopter pad."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, standing with Parkinson.

Truesdell escorted the two men out, shut the door, and returned to his study. He poured a small amount of Remy Martin into a brandy glass, then sat down on the handsome leather couch. Swirling the amber cognac under his nose, he stared into the glowing embers of the dying fire. He replayed the B-2 events over and over in his mind. Something did not fit.

THE STEALTH

Evans looked at the high-altitude en route chart, then switched the VHF radio from Jacksonville Center to Miami Center. The pilots listened to the busy air traffic controllers and commercial pilots discuss the rapidly deteriorating weather. The tropical depression southeast of Jamaica had advanced to a tropical storm, then to hurricane status as it tracked northwest. Hurricane Bennett was growing in intensity.

"Larry…, " Matthews paused, catching a pilot report from a Delta Airlines flight, "you picked a great time of year to go to Cuba. The eye of the hurricane is passing forty miles south of San Julian."

Simmons remained quiet. He had no plan for such an eventuality. Levchenko had not discussed any bad weather alternatives during the planning sessions. Would the MiG pilots be able to rendezvous with the Stealth?

Matthews cupped his hands around his eyes and looked out of his side window. "I can't see Saint Petersburg," the pilot said quietly. "We've got a solid cloud deck below us."

Evans rubbed his eyes, then looked at the navigation plot for the thousandth time. "Cuba — San Julian has to be totally clobbered. Bennett has already engulfed the southern half of Florida."

"Larry," Matthews said, turning slightly to see Simmons. "We're flying into a hurricane without enough fuel to reach our destination. You must listen to reason."

"Colonel," Simmons responded unsteadily, "we are committed to San Julian."

"Goddamnit!" Evans spat, twisting his head to the left. "Listen to reason! This is our last chance to land while we have fuel in our tanks. We aren't bullshitting you. Look at the nav plot, for Christ's sake, and add it up."

Simmons squirmed, then looked between the two pilots. He stared straight ahead into the turbulent black night, averting the pilot's questioning eyes. "We are committed to San Julian."

"Shit!" Matthews exclaimed as he pulled the number one and four throttles to idle, then cutoff.

"What are you doing?" Simmons asked in shock.

"Shut up!" Matthews barked as the EICAS annunciator warning and emergency lights flashed on, illuminating the cockpit with a reddish amber glow. "We don't have any choice," he explained as he and Evans went through the engine shutdown checklist. "It's very simple, Larry. I have to conserve fuel, so we'll fly on two engines. It's still going to be a crapshoot."

Simmons, beginning to have doubts about the outcome of the hijacking, felt his pulse pounding. He stared at the bright warning lights, then at the flight parameters displayed on the EICAS screen. The digital airspeed indicator was decreasing rapidly through 0.71 Mach as the autopilot fought to maintain the preset altitude.

"Here we go," Matthews warned Evans as he squeezed the autopilot disengage button on his control stick, then checked the continuity of the fly-by-wire flight controls. "Descent checklist."