Shadow Flight

"The nose gear held," Evans sighed, letting out his breath slowly. "You did a hell of a job, Chuck."

"We were all passengers the last twenty seconds," Matthews replied, placing his hands on his shaking knees.

Simmons rubbed his bruised left leg, then slowly unstrapped his seat belt and shoulder harness. The color was rapidly returning to his face.

"Well, Simmons," Matthews said, removing his camouflage helmet and flight gloves, "you better step out and greet your associates."

Matthews and Evans unstrapped as Simmons wordlessly lowered the crew entrance hatch and stepped out of the B-2's belly.

Three Soviet GAZ field cars, each equipped with a mounted machine gun, surrounded the front of the Stealth bomber. Three rain-soaked Cubans, clothed in camouflage khaki ponchos, manned the Russian guns.

A dark brown van roared down the wet taxiway, slowed quickly, then turned onto the muddy ground and plowed toward the B-2. The pilots watched the van slide to a stop between the field car on the left of the B-2 and the GAZ at the front of the aircraft.

"Ten to one the guy in the passenger seat is Russian," Matthews remarked as the two pilots watched a Cuban soldier jump out of the van. "Ivan must be the honcho."

The Cuban, carrying a submachine gun, gestured wildly for Simmons to get into the vehicle. The hijacker ran through the rain, splashing ankle-deep mud on his flight suit, and stepped through the van's sliding door.

"Well, Chuck," Evans said slowly, noticing the Russian motioning for them to get out, "it must be our turn."

"I'm afraid so," Matthews replied as he shut off the B-2's electrical system, ignoring the checklist. "We better keep our hands above our heads, Paul. Let's not give them an excuse to shoot us."

"Right," Evans replied, climbing out of his seat. He leaned back to allow Matthews to exit the hatch, then followed his aircraft commander out of the darkened cockpit.

Matthews waited under the B-2 until Evans joined him, then the pilots placed their hands on top of their heads and walked toward the van. The wind-driven rain drenched them as a half-dozen Cuban troops surrounded them. The leader, brandishing a revolver, gestured toward the van's open side door.

"In the car!"

Matthews nodded yes, not saying a word. In his peripheral vision he could see the beefy Russian staring at him. Both pilots stepped up into the van, hands on top of their heads, then sat down across from Simmons.

"Just do what they say," Simmons cautioned under his breath, "and you'll be okay."

Matthews and Evans did not respond, each surveying the inside of the spartan Chevrolet conversion van. Two Cuban troops climbed into the vehicle, slid the door closed, then sat down on each side of Simmons, facing the American captives.

No one said a word as the landing light of the Russian flight leader appeared suddenly in the dense rain. The MiG-25 touched down hard in the violent wind shear, then rolled out of sight toward the end of the runway.

The number two MiG, following his leader by thirty seconds, slammed into the concrete, bounced into the air, dropped back, then hydroplaned out of sight down the runway.

"Put your hands down," the Russian ordered in moderately accented English, then turned halfway around in his seat. "We mean no harm to you, if you cooperate."

The two pilots lowered their hands to their thighs and stole a quick look at each other.

"To the hangar," the Russian commanded. He turned around, folded his burly arms, and stared straight ahead as the van bounced over the sodden ground to the taxiway. The three Americans and their guards remained quiet during the short ride to the local KGB director's office.

OFFICIAL RESIDENCE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT

The early morning sun, barely lighting the horizon, crept slowly into the haze over the nation's capital. A few cars, many with their headlights still on, were beginning to fill the arterials surrounding Washington.

Standing outside the front door of the vice president's home, PO2C Miguel Santos watched Defense Secretary Bernard Kerchner and Air Force Gen. Frank Parkinson step out of a limousine. The navy steward waited until the two men were fifteen paces away, then opened the door and saluted smartly.

Parkinson returned the salute and removed his cap as he followed Kerchner into the entranceway. Santos took the general's cap, then ushered the men into the vice president's dining room.

"Good morning, sir," Parkinson said as Truesdell rose from his chair.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the vice president responded, pointing toward the two place settings on the table. "Please have a seat."

Kerchner and Parkinson took their seats as Truesdell sat down and replaced his napkin. The three men remained quiet while another steward placed a hot urn of decaffeinated coffee on the table, then poured freshly squeezed orange juice for the two visitors.

When the stewards returned to the kitchen, the vice president addressed both men. "Any news?"