Shadow Flight

Akhlomov waited until the door was closed, then turned off the recorder and smiled at his friend. "Well, Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said quietly, turning serious, "the general finally surfaces for what he is — a treasonous scum."

"I… as we have suspected for a long time," the chief of training offered, than lowered his head slightly. "This is a sad day, comrade."

"I agree," Akhlomov replied in a disappointed tone. "We have to move fast — the traitorous bastard knows about the ATB project."

The academy training director looked confused. "The what project, comrade?"

Akhlomov moved quickly around his desk and clasped his friend's shoulders before speaking. The deputy chief of investigations knew that he had made a mistake by blurting out "ATB."

"Pyotr Igoryevich," Akhlomov said, convincing in his pretension, "I will explain the project to you when I have authorization."

"I understand, comrade," the training director replied uncomfortably.

Akhlomov walked his associate to the door, then continued down the corridor to the files section. He bypassed the superintendent and personally gathered the dossier of Lt. Gen. Yuliy Lavrent'yevich Voronoteev.

Akhlomov returned to his desk, phoned Voronoteev's office, under the guise of a fellow general, and gleaned the knowledge he needed to locate the traitor. Voronoteev was at lunch and would be out of the office for the afternoon. Voronoteev's aide also provided the names of the places the general normally frequented for lunch.

Akhlomov placed a second call to his subordinate, detailing the description of Voronoteev and his chauffeur-driven automobile. Akhlomov's orders were clear. Locate Voronoteev, using any means available, and report back immediately. Time was extremely critical, Akhlomov explained, then he hung up and rushed downstairs to the transportation section.

USS RANGER

Steve Wickham adjusted his oxygen mask and wedged the sealed manila envelope between his ejection seat and the right side of the F-14D's cockpit.

Up front, Comdr. Dalton McDonald eased the howling Tomcat over the catapult shuttle and stopped. The green-shirted catapult crews scurried under the fighter as the blast deflector was raised.

Wickham watched in fascination as a flight deck crewman held up a lighted display board to the pilot. McDonald acknowledged the deckhand with a thumbs-up, indicating that the number on the board corresponded to the F-14's weight.

"Brace your helmet against the headrest," McDonald instructed, simultaneously advancing both throttles to military power.

Wickham, without replying, leaned back his head and braced himself for the night catapult shot. When the nose of the Tomcat dropped, his mind ceased thinking about the top secret message he had read.

"You ready?" McDonald asked as he scanned his engine instruments quickly.

"All set," Wickham responded, breathing heavily.

McDonald moved the control stick and rudder pedals to their full extensions, then returned them to the neutral position. The procedure ensured that the primary flight controls were functioning correctly.

Wickham darted a quick look toward the catapult officer at the center of the flight deck. The yellow-shirted figure was twirling a lighted wand, which signaled the pilot to apply full power. McDonald flipped on his external light master switch, signaling that he was ready to be launched.

The cat officer dropped to one knee as he swung the lighted wand over his head to touch the deck. The big Tomcat, straining under the powerful turbofans, squatted on the main gear and thundered down the starboard bow catapult.

Wickham, unable to breathe during the catapult stroke, felt as though an elephant was sitting on his chest. He groaned, then grayed out as the g forces rendered him helpless. A microsecond later the F-14 roared over the deck edge as Commander McDonald popped up the landing gear handle and trimmed the nose.

Wickham, regaining his vision, felt as though the fighter had decelerated. He sucked in a deep breath of cool oxygen, then realized that the Tomcat was accelerating, but not at the rate it had during the catapult shot.

"Everything okay?" McDonald asked as he cleaned up the aircraft.

"God… damn," Wickham answered, releasing the vice grip he had on the side of the canopy. "That makes a roller coaster feel like a merry-go-round."

"Yeah," McDonald replied, then acknowledged a call from Ranger.

Wickham reached down and retrieved the large manila envelope, then fumbled for the flashlight he had stuffed into his torso harness. He opened the package as he thought about the cryptic message he had read on board the carrier. The agency had directed him to study the contents of the sealed packet in preparation for a reconnaissance mission in Cuba.