Shadow Flight

Dawson nodded in response, then talked briefly with a controller in the Winnipeg sector. The young air traffic specialist listened to his associate, signed off, and turned to his supervisor. "They don't have a clue, Bruce," Dawson said, checking his pad. "That squawk popped up from an area that's temporarily restricted… some kind of military operation."

Cochrane shrugged his shoulders, exhaling loudly. "How long was it on the scope?"

"I'm not sure," Dawson responded, searching his mind for the answer to Cochrane's question. "Four, maybe five seconds. Long enough to trigger the alarm."

"Lad," Cochrane placed his left hand on Dawson's shoulder, "better whistle up the military boys and signal the rescue people. I think someone is shy one airplane."

SHADOW 37

Major Paul Evans, frozen in terror, stared at the business end of a bright orange flare gun. The muzzle was only four inches from his face.

Evans glanced down at the object in Simmons's lap. The technician had opened the valve of his temporary oxygen bottle. He was filling the cockpit with pure oxygen. One spark and Shadow 37 would explode in a thundering conflagration.

"What the hell are you doing?" Evans shouted as he reached over to tap Matthews on the sleeve.

The aircraft commander glanced quickly over his right shoulder. "Goddamn, Larry, wh—"

"Shut up, both of you," Simmons said in a shaky, strained voice. He was having a difficult time remembering the speech he had been taught. The hours of rehearsing had been wasted as the spiel evaporated slowly from his frightened mind.

Both pilots, remaining silent, gave each other a fearful look. Matthews raised the B-2's nose slightly, reaching for the safety of altitude. The mission had now become a matter of personal survival.

Matthews and Evans were surprised when the AWACS radioed on the emergency Guard, 243.0, frequency. The airborne controllers had also seen the emergency code flash on their radarscopes.

"Ghost Two Five and Shadow Three Seven, this is Mystic," the AWACS officer said. "Acknowledge."

Matthews attempted to speak to Simmons as Evans keyed his radio.

"Larry, you can't get—"

"Don't use the radio!" Simmons commanded, holding the quivering flare gun next to Evans's neck. "Unplug your radio cords — both of you. NOW! We're shutting down all systems emissions — everything."

Matthews and Evans again exchanged concerned looks as they complied with the order. Matthews scanned the primary flight instruments, checked the engine readouts, then spoke to his copilot. "Paul, take the controls, stay on course, and level at twelve thousand."

Simmons hesitated a second, then spoke to the aircraft commander in a steady voice. "Major… Colonel Matthews, I am in control of the flight."

Simmons waved the 12-gauge signal gun nervously between the pilots. "I give the orders. Turn to a course of one hundred eighty-seven, and go up to fifty-one thousand feet."

Evans paused, questioning Matthews.

"Go ahead, Paul," the pilot replied, then turned slightly to the right in order to face Simmons more fully. "Larry," Matthews said in a soothing voice, "we're going to comply — no problem — whatever you want, okay? Just relax, and listen."

"No," Simmons replied in a normal tone. "You are not going to talk me out of this. Just follow my directions, and you and Major Evans will be okay."

Matthews started to speak, then decided to let Simmons have his say.

"I am defecting to a Communist state and taking this airplane with me."

The two pilots looked at each other with blank stares. They were incredulous.

"Larry," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly, "this is insane… the biggest mistake you could ever make. We still have time to salvage this… error in judgment, if you'll give us a chance."

"Colonel," Simmons replied, pointing the flare gun in the pilot's face. "I will not hesitate to blow this airplane out of the sky if you attempt to resist."

The gun wavered slightly, prompting Simmons to use both hands to steady the weapon.

"All right, Larry," Matthews responded with a resigned look. "No problem… Just don't do anything irrational, okay?" Simmons nodded, then leaned back and wiped the perspiration from his cheeks. His chest pounded as he realized that he, Lawrence Maynard Simmons, had done it. Crossed the line. No one would ever take advantage of him again. Not his company. Not his boss, Ronald, who persistently called him "May-nerd." Not his former wife, Colleen, the bitch who had taken his home, his car, and, most importantly, his beautiful daughter.

All the miserable years of debt, humiliation, divorce proceedings, and broken promises were over. He would be a hero in his new country. A man admired by the leaders of the most efficient intelligence agency in the world. A man admired by his lover, Irina Rykhov.

Matthews pondered their options as Evans checked their rate of climb, added more power, then turned his head to glance at Simmons.