Shadow Flight

Simmons clutched the flare gun in both hands. "Why are we descending?"

"Because," Matthews replied, easing the B-2's nose down, "we can't maintain fifty thousand feet on two engines. We'll have to drift down to an altitude we can hold with the power we have."

Simmons remained quiet while the two pilots completed their checklist. He could feel the turbulence and rain increasing as the bomber plunged into the thick, boiling storm clouds. "Stop!" he suddenly blurted. "The MiGs are supposed to join us at fifty-one thousand."

"Screw the MiGs!" Evans shot back. "We're trying to survive, you stupid bastard."

Simmons yanked up the flare gun, then shoved the barrel into the back of Evans's neck. His hand shook. He was not as certain as he pretended to be in the face of this unplanned turn of events. "Don't screw with me, major."

Matthews turned his head and glared at the tech-rep. "Put the gun down and hang on. This is going to be a rough ride into San Julian."

Simmons lowered the flare pistol slowly, then leaned back in his seat. He felt exhausted from the strain he had been under for the past three weeks.

"Yeah," Evans said, catching Matthews's eye before turning toward Simmons. "If we don't crater someone during the descent."

The darkened cockpit remained quiet as the bouncing, yawing bomber descended through 39,000 feet. The rough ride, punctuated with violent updrafts and downdrafts, was agonizing for Simmons.

Evans punched in a radio frequency for the Miami oceanic control area, listened to three airline pilots request deviations around intense rain cells, then checked the fuel exhaustion and time to destination readout.

"Chuck, we're behind the curve."

"I know," Matthews responded without taking his eyes off the instrument displays. "All I can do is keep it high, clean, and fast. We've only got one shot."

Simmons, bracing against the severe turbulence, had been watching the distance to destination wind down. Irina Rykhov and Gennadi Levchenko had instructed him to turn on all the Stealth's radars, along with energizing the primary transponder, at a point 135 nautical miles north of San Julian. That would be the edge of the Cuban air defense identification zone (ADIZ). The MiGs would be circling at 130 miles to rendezvous with the B-2 at 51,000 feet.

Simmons watched the mileage-137… 136… 135. "I'm turning on our radar and transponder," he announced, holding the flare gun chest high. "The MiGs have to find us to lead us to the airfield."

Matthews glanced out of his side window. His gaze met total darkness as the intense rain pounded the bomber. "Larry, we only have one try at this, so I have to improvise."

Simmons's neck tightened as he leaned forward between the pilots. "I have to follow the orders specifically, or they will not attempt to join us."

"Simmons," Evans exclaimed loudly, "you just don't get the picture, do you? We don't have the luxury of following your goddamned orders."

Matthews spoke before Simmons could answer. "Paul, I'm going to pass directly over the field at four thousand, then start a two-seventy to the right. That should give us good terrain clearance and put us into the wind on the east-west runway."

"Okay," Evans replied, tuning the San Julian radio beacon. "Standard altitude calls?"

"Sure," Matthews responded as he looked closely at the world aeronautical chart. "They've only got an eighty-five-hundred-foot runway, so I'll have to be right on the numbers."

Evans nodded in agreement, then half-turned to face the semiairsick tech-rep. "Hope your comrades have the lights turned up for us."

Simmons raised the shaking flare pistol, pointing it in the copilot's face. "Keep your mouth shut, major."

"Back off, Simmons!" Matthews snarled. "We can't go anywhere, so put down the gun!"

Simmons lowered the flare pistol and leaned back, frightened about the consequences of botching the hijacking. He rechecked the covert and phased-array radar units. If the MiGs could not locate the bomber, which was likely now, Simmons would have to rely on Matthews to get them down safely.

No one said a word as the Stealth descended through the torrential rain and jarring turbulence.

Evans peered out of his side window, then flinched. "We've got company. Looks like a Foxbat."

Matthews looked out to the left. He could barely make out the Cuban MiG-25 on his side. The three planes were bouncing all over the sky, making it impossible to hold any reasonable formation. Matthews quickly flipped on his navigation and formation lights.

"Yeah," Matthews replied. "I have one on this side. He has a flashlight… looks like he's signaling something."

"Same here," Evans responded, pressing his face closer to the window. "Looks like he's signaling to go down. Yeah, he wants us to descend."

"It's too early," Matthews said in exasperation. "We can't afford to waste the fuel." He turned slightly to see Simmons. "Is there any provision to talk to the MiGs or the San Julian tower?"