Shadow Flight

"It does seem mighty unusual," Lasharr answered, then thought a moment. "The Cubans wouldn't send four MiGs after a drug smuggler. Only two reasonable answers come to mind. Either an important person was trying to get away, or our B-2 pilots were attempting to escape-if we follow the theory that the bomber is in Cuba."

Ridgefield sat down. "Well, we're going to have to depend on Wickham to supply the answer."

"General," Milligan said, "back to RAINDANCE, if you don't mind, sir."

"Sure, Hamp," Lasharr responded pleasantly.

Milligan shifted slightly. "Dave gave me a composite brief on RAINDANCE when I accepted this assignment, but frankly, sir, I'm not clear about the operation. We actually have a source in the Soviet bureaucracy?"

"Two sources," Lasharr answered, nodding slightly to Ridgefield. "Dave, fill Hamp in on RAINDANCE."

"Yes, sir," Ridgefield replied, then faced the surprised Clandestine Operations director. "Hamp, there are a few things that have been buried very deep in the past couple of years. Only a few people in the White House, along with General Lasharr and myself, know about them."

"But," Milligan paused, "I'm the director of Clandestine Operations."

"You've been in this game long enough," Lasharr interjected, "to know some things aren't brought to the surface unless it's absolutely necessary."

Milligan remained silent, agreeing with a nod of his head. He knew the director's penchant for security.

"As the general said," Ridgefield continued, "we have two intelligence sources within the Kremlin military and civilian bureaucracies. One is a rather low-echelon member of the administrative staff to the first deputy chairman of the Council of Ministers."

The deputy director waited a moment, allowing Milligan time to absorb the information. "The other source is a lieutenant general, code name RAINDANCE, on the staff of Troops of Air Defense. He's a recent graduate of the Voroshilov General Staff Academy."

Lasharr rose from his chair, stacked his papers neatly, then turned to his deputy and the director of Clandestine Operations. "Let's take a real detailed look at the Cuba enlargement, then see if we can answer some what-ifs."

CAIRNS, QUEENSLAND

Steve Wickham, feeling uncomfortable in the tight-fitting torso harness, looked out of the right side of the F-14D's rear canopy. He could see Becky standing in the shade next to the Qantas jumbo jet. She was shielding her eyes with one hand and waving with the other.

"Ready back there?" asked Lt. Comdr. Reed Sandoline, swinging the big Grumman Tomcat around to line up with the runway.

"Yeah," Wickham responded absently as he waved back to the beautiful young woman dressed in baggy tropical tans. "I'm ready."

Sandoline held the brakes and advanced the power tc 60 percent. He ran through one final check, confident that the Fox 14 was ready to fly.

"Navy Leadfoot One Zero Seven, Cairns tower, cleared for takeoff. After lift-off, cleared on course, unrestricted climb."

"Roger," the experienced fighter pilot radioed, "we'll do all that."

Wickham was still craning his neck for a last glimpse of Becky when Sandoline shoved the twin throttles all the way forward. "Navy Leadfoot rolling."

The powerful General Electric F110 turbofans, collectively producing more than 58,000 pounds of thrust, slammed Wickham back into his seat as the F-14D accelerated rapidly. The Mach 2 plus-1,600 miles per hour — twin-engine air superiority fighter thundered down the runway. The four AIM-9 Sidewinders had been hastily removed, along with the 675 rounds of 20mm cannon shells, leaving the aircraft "clean" except for the external fuel cells.

Sandoline raised the nose slightly, felt the Tomcat break ground, snapped up the landing gear handle, then trimmed the nose down slightly to remain in ground effect. The F-14D hugged the terrain and vibrated the airport structures as it blasted down the runway.

The pilot watched the airspeed increase-190… 210 knots, flaps and slats up… 250… 280, variable geometry wings swept back… 300, steaming, tweak the nose down.

"Hang on," Sandoline warned two seconds before he eased back on the control stick. The g force crushed Wickham into his ejection seat. His head sagged from the weight of the crash helmet.

The Tomcat's nose kept rising, higher and higher, until the fighter was in the pure vertical. Suddenly the sky rotated counter-clockwise as the pilot rolled the F-14 around its longitudinal axis.

"Nice flyin', Navy," the Australian tower controller radioed. "Contact departure. G'day."

"Roger, going departure," Sandoline responded, watching the altimeter wind through 4,000 feet. He rolled out on heading upside down, hesitated a moment to let the nose fall through the horizon, then continued the roll to an upright attitude.

Wickham heard the fighter jock converse with the air traffic controller as he watched the warm, translucent waters of the Great Barrier Reef slip under the Tomcat's wing. His mind wandered.

"You still with me?" Sandoline asked.