Shadow Flight

"Ah… Larry," Evans said in a questioning tone. "Two minor details. We're headed for Cleveland, not to any foreign country, and we don't have the fuel to make it to any other part of the world. We're only carrying enough fuel to fly the strike profile."

Simmons awkwardly unfolded a large chart and handed it to Evans. "Yes, we do," Simmons replied, watching the surprised copilot glance at the map, then hand it to Matthews.

SAC HEADQUARTERS

General Donovan noticed the absence of radio chatter from the two AWACS aircraft. The large room had suddenly become quiet. Too quiet.

Donovan was startled when his radio speaker came to life. "Veil Control, Mystic. We have an emergency. Repeat, we have an emergency."

Donovan's eyes grew larger as he keyed his communication button. He normally did not talk directly to the participating aircraft. "Mystic, this is General Donovan. Explain the nature of your emergency."

The atmosphere in the control center had changed from being relaxed, almost casual, to surprised tension.

"We just received a confirmed seventy-seven hundred squawk, sir. The IFF code came from the area we suspect the B-2 was penetrating."

Donovan and Bothwell looked at each other in agony. They had had to confront the air force chief of staff, who had been concerned about the safety factor of the mission, to have the unusual operation approved.

"Abort the mission, Mystic," Donovan ordered in an anxious, but controlled voice. "Break radio silence and call both aircraft."

"General," the AWACS controller paused, "we've called both aircraft on Guard. Ghost Two Five checked in immediately. Shadow Three Seven hasn't responded, sir."

The SAC commander grimaced, then spoke slowly to the AWACS controller. "Activate air-sea rescue on the double. I want every available piece of equipment over the area where the distress signal originated."

"Wilco, Veil," the controller replied.

The control center remained silent a moment, everyone apparently digesting the awful thought. Had Shadow 37 crashed?

"Carl," Bothwell said in a hushed tone. "I think we should have the B-1 crew recover here. We need to debrief them personally while everything is fresh in their minds."

"You're right," Donovan replied, keying his microphone.

THE STEALTH

"Mother of God," Matthews said as the B-2 climbed through 7,000 feet. "Cuba?"

"Yes," Simmons answered nervously. "San Julian."

Matthews stared at the Jeppesen high-altitude flight planning chart. Attached to the bottom was a narrow portion of a world aeronautical chart depicting the western tip of Cuba. The aircraft commander quickly saw their destination. San Julian was a military airfield with an 8,500-foot runway.

Evans talked to,Simmons without taking his eyes off the flight instruments. "We're going to have a difficult time making fifty-one thousand."

Simmons did not answer, knowing that the B-2 could climb above the advertised service ceiling of 50,000 feet. Matthews punched in the coordinates for San Julian on his touch-sensitive miligraphics terminal.

USJ N22-06.1; W084-09.4

The global positioning navigation system flashed on the screen, showing the B-2's present position, course to destination, nautical miles to San Julian, time en route, and total fuel consumption.

"I'll tell you what our real problem is going to be," Matthews said, pointing to the screen. "Even Cuba is beyond our fuel range, including reserves."

Simmons's eyes hardened. "No tricks, colonel. I mean what I say. I'll blow us out of the air if you try to stop me."

Matthews sighed, then spoke with anger. "Goddamnit, Larry. It won't make any difference whether you destroy us now or we wait to crash in the Gulf of Mexico. Dead is dead. We aren't carrying a full load of fuel."

Simmons remained quiet a moment, contemplating the flight information that Irina had given him.

Evans looked at the navigation readout, then broke the silence as the powerful bomber climbed through 13,000 feet. "Larry, he isn't trying to trick you. Look at the figures. It isn't that difficult to understand."

Simmons stared at the screen-1,820 nautical miles to San Julian; range to fuel exhaustion, counting the built-in reserve, indicated 1,790 nautical miles.

The Stealth bomber, fully fueled and loaded to its maximum takeoff weight of 390,000 pounds, had a high-altitude range of more than 6,800 nautical miles —10,800 miles with one air refueling. The low-level range subtracted more than 2,000 nautical miles.

"Major Evans," Simmons said, placing the safety pins into the pilots' ejection seats to disarm them. "I know you can step-climb to fifty-one thousand as we burn off fuel, then make an idle descent into Cuba."

Evans spoke slowly. "That is correct, to a certain point. The higher we go, the less fuel we burn — true. But we don't know what the winds are going to be like at altitude, we don't have any current weather information, and we don't have any instrument approach plates for San Julian."

Simmons remained quiet as he secured the supplemental oxygen system.