Shadow Flight

"We're going to have to use the Vienna loop," Lasharr instructed. "The East German operative has been under surveillance since the wall crumbled, and we can't take the risk of exposing her. We'll have to retrieve her soon, but now isn't the time."

Ridgefield nodded in agreement.

"Also," the director continued, "locate our man with nine lives."

"Will do, general," Ridgefield replied, checking his government-issue watch. "So, you're going to place Wickham back in the saddle?"

Lasharr stopped and looked Ridgefield in the eye. "No one is better qualified, in my opinion, for this kind of operation."

MANTUA AIRFIELD

"Turn into the airfield!" Matthews ordered. "They know something's wrong."

"Chuck," Evans responded, swerving onto the muddy road leading to the small civilian airstrip. "Let's stop here and nail them when they come around the corner."

Matthews glanced down the road at the barely distinguishable hangar, then made a snap decision. "Okay, but we've both got to open up on them."

"Hang on," Evans shouted as he viciously jammed on the brakes, sending the careening van into a four-wheel sideways drift. As the Chevrolet ground to a halt, both pilots jumped out and crouched down in the muddy roadway.

"Go for the windshield!" Matthews ordered, raising the barrel of his rifle. "We have to make this count."

Fourteen seconds elapsed before the Soviet field car lurched through the corner, slid toward the edge of the road, then straightened.

"Now!" Matthews barked, squeezing the trigger on his Kalashnikov.

The GAZ swerved to the right in a spray of glass, spun around to the left, then slid to a stop. The driver, badly wounded, fell out of the vehicle and crawled a dozen feet before collapsing.

"Let's check it," Matthews said in a cautious voice. "Back me up, Paul."

"I'm right beside you," Evans responded as he stood erect in the mud. "We better see if — SHIT!"

Both men fired simultaneously when the other Cuban in the GAZ lunged for the mounted machine gun.

"Goddamn," Matthews shouted, watching the soldier slide down into the field car. "Let's move it!"

The pilots threw their weapons into the Chevrolet. Evans jumped into the driver's seat while Matthews pulled the four guards out of the van. He left the bruised men lying in the spongy mud and crawled into the passenger seat. Evans stomped on the accelerator as Matthews swung his door shut. The oversized tires threw up a shower of mud, then found traction.

"Head for that — whatever it is," Matthews ordered, bracing himself when the Chevrolet bounced across the bridge over the narrow stream. The van slewed sideways, then plowed onto the slippery road. Evans kept his foot firmly planted on the accelerator, whipping the steering wheel left and right to straighten the careening van.

"See any activity?" Evans asked as they neared the rusting hangar.

"No," Matthews answered, pointing at the dark-colored single-engine aircraft. "Take it straight across the ramp. Turn off the lights."

Evans pushed in the light switch and turned sharply to the right. "Hold on."

The van hit the edge of the slightly raised tarmac, bounced a foot into the air, landed with a jolt, and shuddered to a stop. Evans and Matthews, carrying the guards' AK-47s, leaped out of the Chevrolet and raced toward the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-18. The Soviet State Industries — manufactured trainer, circa 1957, squatted on its tricycle landing gear. A large white star, bordered in red with a blue stripe on each side, adorned the tail of the tandem seat aircraft.

"What is it?" Evans asked as they slowed to a walk beside the dull black, low-wing airplane.

"Beats me," Matthews responded, looking into the radial engine. "Let's hope we can get it started."

"Right," Evans replied, checking the landing gear and wheels. "It must be flyable — there's grease drippings on the struts and oil residue under the cowling."

"Okay, Paul, let's give it a try."

Matthews ducked under the left wing and raised his right foot up to the step leading to the back of the wing. He pulled himself up, tossed his rifle into the back seat, and turned toward Evans. "I'll fly

"You'll get no argument from me," Evans replied as he followed Matthews onto the wing. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Both pilots slid back their respective canopies, jumped in, and fastened their webbed seat belts.

"What a bucket of bolts," Matthews remarked as he surveyed the antiquated, well-worn cockpit. "There must be some kind of master switch in here."

"Come on, Chuck," Evans urged, sliding shut his grazed canopy. "I don't like sitting here."

"I'm trying," Matthews replied, feeling hastily around the cockpit. "I need a goddamn flashlight."

Suddenly the silence was shattered when machine-gun fire ripped into the Chevrolet van.

"Oh, shit!" Evans shouted, ducking down into the dark cockpit. "That's coming from the field car. The sonuvabitch is still alive!"

Matthews frantically flipped two more switches, then another. Nothing happened.