Shadow Flight

"Oh, mother of Jesus," Matthews said, gritting his teeth as another burst of gunfire tore into the van.

"Come on!" Evans shouted, peeking over the edge of the canopy rail. "The bastard is coming up the road!"

"I'm trying!" Matthews yelled, toggling another switch. The cockpit came to life as gyros spun up, pumps surged, and a low hum settled over the interior.

"Go!" Evans shouted. "Let's go!"

Matthews found the well-worn starter engagement, shoved forward the fuel mixture lever, pumped the throttle, then toggled the starter.

"Come on, baby," Matthews said under his breath. "Do it for us."

The big, nine-cylinder, air-cooled, 260-horsepower Ivchenko AI-14R radial cranked over slowly. The fat, two-bladed propeller turned over four times before the engine coughed, then fired momentarily, and quit.

"Shit!" Evans swore, yanking his canopy backward to the open position. He raised his AK-47 and fired his last seven rounds at the approaching field car, then tossed the rifle over the side.

Matthews had the propeller turning again, and was pumping the throttle slightly, when the machine gun rounds ripped into the left wing.

"Oh, God," Matthews groaned a split second before the laboring engine coughed twice, belched a cloud of white smoke from the exhaust stack, then settled into an uneven idle.

"Go!" Evans shouted, firing the remaining rounds of the other Kalashnikov at the GAZ.

The Yak-18 surged forward as Matthews shoved the throttle halfway open, then stomped on the right rudder pedal. He had to make the takeoff from the middle of the short runway.

Evans tossed out the second rifle and slammed his canopy closed as the lumbering aircraft slid sideways onto the dark runway. Matthews shoved the throttle all the way forward. The cold engine hesitated, backfired twice, then surged to full power. The paddle-bladed prop slashed the air as the nine cylinders created a deep-throated roar.

The pilot watched the airspeed indicator register slowly, then move steadily faster. "Come on… come on…, " Matthews urged, watching the airspeed needle move upward. "We don't have much runway left. Go…, go… "

The Yak-18 was beginning to feel light — ready to fly — when several machine gun rounds tore into the right wing and fuselage. Two more shells sliced through the right main gear, exploding the tire. Shredded rubber slammed into the underside of the wing as the aircraft yawed violently to the right.

"Sonuvabitch!" Matthews shouted as he kicked left rudder, pulled back on the stick, and banked the struggling trainer to the left. The aircraft staggered, then straightened as he fought the controls.

"Hang in there!" Evans encouraged, willing the Yak-18 to fly. "Get the nose down!"

Matthews had already started easing the stick forward. The aircraft settled into ground effect, then accelerated to normal climb airspeed.

"You did it!" Evans screamed over the roaring engine. "Goddamn, you did it!"

Matthews did not reply as he smoothly banked the straining aircraft, then rolled out on a northeasterly heading. Key West, Florida, home of a naval air station, Matthews reasoned, would be the closest sanctuary.

The Cuban soldier, bleeding profusely from hip and shoulder wounds, cursed the fleeing aircraft. He fired a three-second burst in frustration, then collapsed across the blood-soaked passenger seat. The small man, in shock and pain, grabbed the radio microphone and screamed into it. "Necesito ayuda, pronto!" I need help, quick.

The radio crackled. "Repita, por favor."

The soldier shouted "escape" three times, then calmed enough to tell how the Americans had gotten away and what direction they had taken.

Matthews eased back the throttle and lowered the Yak's nose as they skirted along the coastline a hundred feet off the water. The bright moonlight provided good visibility for low flying. The fatigued pilot glanced up at the sparkling stars, thankful that the storm had moved rapidly to the west. He reached up, closed his canopy, and looked around the cockpit.

Evans cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted forward. "We have to stay on the deck!"

Matthews turned his head and shoulders as far as he could to the left. He could see Evans's taut face clearly. "We will." He turned back around and studied the worn cockpit. No radios or navigation gear, he noted, then checked the engine instruments. Uh, oh, he said to himself, then turned back to his copilot. "We don't have any oil pressure."

THE WHITE HOUSE

"Norm Lasharr understands the urgency," Kerchner reported to the president, "and the sensitivity of the situation. The agency expects to make contact with RAINDANCE in a matter of hours."

The Oval Office, at this time of the evening, was as quiet as a tomb. An eerie silence had settled over the White House, replacing the usual hustle and bustle of the staff.

"We have to have confirmation," Jarrett said, "and location, or our hands are tied. I intend to find the B-2 and retrieve it, or destroy it. Those are the only two options I will consider."