Shadow Flight

Kerchner, looking fatigued, sounded unusually glum. "Only that our morning search is getting under way. We have had a lot of help from the Canadians throughout the night., They provided four search vessels, but not a trace of debris has been located."

"Nothing?" the vice president asked, sipping his coffee.

"No, sir, not a single thing," Kerchner responded, then turned slightly to face Parkinson. "General, how long will it take to thoroughly cover the area where we think the Stealth went down?"

Parkinson set down his juice. "Three to four hours, depending on the weather. We're using seven helicopters and four fixed-wing aircraft, augmented by a couple of helos and three aircraft supplied by the Canadians. Of course, we will continue the search much longer, but we should have some idea of what happened inside of four hours."

Parkinson hesitated a moment, then turned to face the vice president. "As I stated last evening, sir, if the B-2 went into the bay, which seems most likely, there will be evidence floating on the surface."

Truesdell remained quiet, ignoring his breakfast. After a silent minute, the vice president looked at Parkinson. "Tell me about the pilots — their credentials, service records, and backgrounds."

"Sir, I don't have all the information at the moment." Parkinson looked uncomfortable. "General Donovan assured me that he would have their biographies, officer evaluation reports, and flight records available by the time we leave for Camp David. They'll be waiting for us at the helicopter pad."

"Very well," Truesdell responded, looking at his watch. "Time to go. The president is waiting for a full report."

SAN JULIAN AIRFIELD

The Revolutionary Air Force and Antiaircraft Defense Base, guarded heavily by a combination of Soviet and Cuban soldiers, lay adjacent to the sleepy village of Mendoza. The air base, on the western tip of Cuba, near the Gulf of Mexico and Peninsula de Guanahacabibes, was 170 kilometers west-southwest of Havana.

Soviet Stealth experts, technicians, and combination soldier/construction specialists had been preparing San Julian for the B-2 hijacking for more than seven months. An underground hangar had been built below the guise of a baseball field. The camouflaged facility, wide and deep enough to conceal the bomber with four feet to spare at each wing tip, had been constructed with cement blocks.

A row of offices, work spaces, sleeping quarters, a kitchen, a restroom, a sophisticated communications center, and a reinforced cell stretched the length of the back of the hangar. After three sides of the hangar had been completed, Soviet and Cuban construction workers placed steel beams across the top to support a section of playing field in front of the bleachers.

Virtually all construction had taken place at night, with the bright playing lights diffusing the work lights under the well-used ballpark. The excavation process had consumed five months because of the difficulty in disbursing the soil around the air base. Satellite reconnaissance had not detected any changes at San Julian over the course of construction.

Shadow 37 had been towed back onto the runway, then down a specially prepared road to the hangar. The half-mile path to the secret hangar, after the rocks, foliage, fences, and posts had been replaced, disappeared prior to dawn. Steel mats had been used to transport the Stealth to its hiding place, eliminating any telltale ruts in the soft, rain-soaked ground.

The secret bomber now sat in the brightly lighted underground shelter. The sloping ramp into the hangar had been covered and now supported a section of bleachers. Two Cuban workers, wielding high-pressure water hoses, were washing mud off the B-2's modified Boeing 757 landing gear. The right gear door had been damaged slightly during the slide through the muddy field.

Chuck Matthews placed his spoon on the food tray and looked at his watch. "Six-twenty-five. No sleep. Reasonable breakfast. Must be about time for a friendly session with the interrogator."

"I've been thinking about that, Chuck," Evans responded, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. "No harm, boys, as long as you cooperate."

Matthews snorted. "As long as you sing like magpies, we won't kill you… yet." The fatigued bomber pilot ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Do you figure the Pentagon believes we're at the bottom of Hudson Bay?"

Evans thought about it. "Even if they don't believe that we crashed, where in the hell would they start looking for us?"

Matthews placed his tray on the floor, then met his copilot's eyes. "Paul, do you think the Soviet government is really behind this?"

Evans paused, analyzing the question. "I can't see it… not with the Communist empire falling apart."

"But there might still be some hard-liners, some factions holding on. Obviously there are, and our fate is in their hands."

Evans exhaled in frustration. "Who knows what the hell is going on.

"Christ," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly. "I really blew this one."