Shadow Flight

Vecchio turned to the air control officer (ACO). "We better get on the horn."

"Yeah," Overholser responded, keying the communications button. "Stay with 'em." The ACO adjusted his lip microphone, rechecked the radio frequency, then spoke to their operations center. "Corpus Operations, Tar Baby One Five."

"Corpus Ops, One Five," the Texas-based coordinator replied, "go ahead."

"One Five has a priority," Overholser radioed in an even voice. "We just witnessed two aircraft crash in the water seventy nautical miles west of Havana. One of the aircraft, we believe, was a Cuban MiG."

Vecchio and Overholser listened to the surprised operations officer as they watched the three MiGs return to their respective air bases.

SAN JULIAN

Gennadi Levchenko anxiously waited at the control tower for the rescue helicopter to return. The tower chief, Starshiy Praporshchik (Senior Warrant Officer) Yevgeny Pogostyan, had just sent word that the helicopter was nine minutes out.

Levchenko had already spoken with Maj. Anatoly Sokolviy, who had been extremely hostile and defiant. The confrontation had ended abruptly when the MiG fighter pilot, encouraged by his fellow aviators, walked away from the contentious KGB director.

Pogostyan ran down the steep stairs of the control tower, then hurried across the tarmac toward Levchenko. "Comrade director, the helicopter pilot reports only one American survivor."

"We only need one," Levchenko snorted. "What condition is he…"

"He is reported," Pogostyan said cautiously, "to have suffered only cuts and bruises."

"Excellent!" Levchenko spat, turning to the ranking KGB officer now in charge of security. "Talavokine," he shouted at the short, beefy agent. "Come here!"

The security officer turned to the Cuban army lieutenant, said a few quick words, then walked over to Levchenko. "Da, comrade director," the security expert said, standing uneasily.

Levchenko glared at Talavokine. "You will be personally responsible for the confinement of the American. I don't care if you have to guard him yourself-twenty-four hours a day. Do you understand me, Talavokine?"

"Yes, clearly, comrade director."

"Good."

The surprised KGB officer avoided Levchenko's eyes by staring over his right shoulder.

"If there is one screwup," Levchenko said, shaking his right index finger in the officer's face, "I will see that you spend the rest of your miserable career as a clerk on Taymyr Peninsula in Siberia."

The agent swallowed, then nodded his understanding.

"If you allow him to escape again," Levchenko warned, "plan your own escape. You will both be dead men."

"Da, comrade director," the officer stammered. "I will not allow anything to happen."

"Meet the helicopter," Levchenko ordered, seeing the approaching Mil Mi-17's landing light illuminate, "and escort the prisoner to the hangar."

The KGB agent backed away without responding, then turned and walked toward the squad of Cuban soldiers.

Levchenko, shielding his eyes from the rotor wash, watched the Mi-17 descend to a hover in front of the tower. The big Isotov turbines caused the ground to vibrate as the pilot lowered the helicopter gently onto its wheels. Levchenko turned and walked to his field car, then ordered the driver to take him to his office.

NEUNKIRCHEN, AUSTRIA

Fritz Kranz was startled awake when the phone rang. The sixtyeight-year-old, white-haired, heavyset, retired thoracic surgeon struggled with the bed cover, then freed his feet. "One moment, please," Kranz mumbled, fumbling for his robe. He patted his wife. "Sorry, my Katy."

"Who could it be at this hour?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear."

The phone rang again and again, loud and obtrusive in the quiet cottage. Kranz searched for his slippers, then gave up and crossed the bedroom cautiously, opened the door fully, and stepped into the hallway. He turned on the single light and picked up the ringing phone.

"Kranz."

"Herr Doktor," the cheery male voice said, "I am Johann at the cable office."

"Yes."

"I apologize for the untimely intrusion, but we have a cable for you, marked most urgent."

Kranz's mind raced. He had received only four urgent cables during the nine years he had worked with the Central Intelligence Agency. "Oh, yes," Kranz replied, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes. "We have been expecting an urgent message. I must be in the city early this morning, so I will stop by your office."

"Very well, Herr Doktor," the pleasant voice said. "Again, my apologies."

"You are very kind," Kranz responded, straining to see the grandfather clock in the living room. The antique timepiece indicated 4:54 A. M. "Good morning."

Kranz replaced the phone receiver, then started for the small bathroom. He replayed the procedures in his mind. Was RAINDANCE still secure?

"Who was it, Fritz?"

"One of my patients, dear. They don't seem to understand that I am retired."

Kranz dressed hurriedly, grabbed his medical bag, kissed his dozing wife good-bye, and drove the sixty kilometers into the heart of Vienna.