Shadow Flight

"We're going to have to… "Kerchner trailed off when the vice president placed the phone receiver down and swiveled to face the group.

"Well, gentlemen," Truesdell began, then folded his arms. "I believe I can tell you where our Stealth bomber is located — at the moment."

No one said a word.

"Somewhere in Cuba."

"Cuba?" Parkinson and Kerchner responded simultaneously.

"Yes," the vice president answered, noting that Jarrett had closed his eyes and lowered his head. "Mel Collins," Truesdell continued uneasily, "said that a senior air traffic controller in the Cleveland Center reported a strange occurrence last night. A corporate jet pilot radioed a report of a near midair collision seventy nautical miles south of Detroit, and — this is important — the controller's radar didn't show any other aircraft near the civilian jet."

"Would that be so unusual?" the president asked, raising his head. "I haven't piloted a plane for a long time, but it seems as if there have been a lot of close calls lately."

"Yes, it is unusual — very unusual," the vice president answered. "As you know, sir, any aircraft flying at the altitude of a civilian jet — they were cruising at fifty-one thousand feet — has to file an instrument flight plan, and be in radar and radio contact."

"Could the crew have been mistaken?" Jarrett asked. "Did they actually see the object?"

Truesdell met the president's eyes. "The FAA contacted the captain of the corporate jet this afternoon, and he was adamant about what happened. He couldn't distinguish what kind of aircraft it was, but he swore that something flew directly under them south of Detroit. It was too dark for him to see the type of airplane, but he reported seeing a dim glow — like cockpit lights — flash under his jet."

"That still leaves a lot of questions unanswered," Parkinson replied.

"Just a moment, general," Truesdell said, turning toward the air force officer. "The civilian jet was traveling east to west, and the object passed under them from right to left — north to south."

"I understand that, sir," Parkinson responded, "but that certainly isn't conclusive evidence that it was the B-2."

"Perhaps not, general," Truesdell said, "but let me ask you a question."

"Yes, sir."

The vice president leaned toward the officer. "How fast does the B-2 cruise?"

"The Stealth, as you know," Parkinson said, caution creeping into his voice, "is a subsonic aircraft. It cruises in the same range — higher at times — as the majority of commercial airliners. Of course, it does have a substantial dash speed, if needed."

"I understand, general," Truesdell replied. "What is the normal cruise speed, in nautical miles per hour?"

Parkinson thought for a second. "Normal cruise for the B-2 is approximately four hundred fifty to four hundred sixty knots."

The president raised his hand slightly, indicating a question. "I'm not following you, Kirk. What does speed have to do with establishing the whereabouts of the B-2?"

"My point," Truesdell responded, looking directly at Jarrett, "is that the near midair collision happened a little over a thousand statute miles — approximately nine hundred nautical miles — directly south of the last known position of the B-2. Actually, the location of the emergency signal. If you draw a line from that point to the middle of Cuba, the near midair is almost directly on it."

Jarrett glanced at Parkinson, then back to the vice president. Truesdell absently completed an arithmetic equation while he defended his theory. "General Parkinson states that the Stealth cruises at four hundred fifty — let's say four hundred sixty knots at altitude. So, we can assume that it would take two hours to reach the point of the near collision."

"Okay," Jarrett said, "we can assume that the B-2 would traverse the nine hundred nautical miles in approximately two hours. What's the bottom line?"

"A little more than two hours," Parkinson corrected, "counting the time to climb. The B-2, like any aircraft, climbs at a slower speed than its cruise speed."

"All right," Jarrett responded, "a little more than two hours. Do we know the time of the close call — the near midair?"

"Yes," Truesdell replied, then paused to look at his quickly written notes. "Cleveland Center has the occurrence on tape, with time hacks. That's normal procedure, and a copy of the tape is being sent to us.".

"What time was it?" Kerchner asked.

"Nine-fifty-seven, local time," Truesdell replied, then looked over to Parkinson. "Two hours, six minutes after the emergency code flashed on Canadian radar."

THE ROAD TO MANTUA

The last few minutes of daylight were fading away rapidly as the rusted, dented Chevrolet van bounced down the partially paved highway. The torrential rains of the previous evening had washed thick mud and debris across the narrow, winding road.