Shadow Flight

Wickham held the flashlight and read the instructions, then studied the enlarged maps and aerial photographs. His orders stated that he must become familiar with the western tip of Cuba. He studied the detailed picture of Mariel Naval Air Station, then perused photographs of the San Julian military airfield.

What in the hell is going on, Wickham thought to himself. He studied the maps and photographs a few minutes longer, then turned off the flashlight and leaned back to contemplate the situation.

"You might as well get some shut-eye," the pilot said, noticing that the rear cockpit had become dark again. "I've got to keep us subsonic over Mexico — no supersonic footprint over land — so we'll be awhile."

"Okay," Wickham responded. "I understand we have to tank again before Key West."

"Yeah, that's right," McDonald responded, tweaking the nose down. "We'll grab a drink over Brownsville, Texas, and dash into Key West."

"Sounds good," Wickham replied, closing the manila envelope. "Did the slot man bore you with his A-K stories?" McDonald asked as he leveled the Tomcat at 49,000 feet.

Wickham looked up. "I'm not sure I understand your question."

"Did Commander Sandoline — he flew the slot position with the Blues — bore you with his almost-killed stories?"

"Not really," Wickham laughed, "but the sonuvabitch flies like a maniac."

"Yeah," McDonald replied. "Slots is one of a kind." Wickham stifled a yawn, then keyed his intercom again. "I'm going to catch a few winks."

"Good idea," the pilot responded. "The in-flight movie is dull anyway."

HOTEL METROPOL

Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev sat quietly in the serene surroundings of the hotel's opulent restaurant. He had elected to bypass his usual luncheon spot, the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, to avoid the crowded conditions. He needed a relaxed, subdued environment to calm his nerves. The facade of being loyal to both the Soviet Union and the KGB had been eating away at his conscience.

The general had begun doubting the moral rectitude of his acts and motives. He was torn between his view of himself and the moribund system in which he was entangled. His immediate desires as well as his future aspirations had become more distorted with each passing year.

Voronoteev, dining alone, looked around the large room and noticed two staff officers having lunch with three civilians. Voronoteev shifted his chair in an effort to avoid being noticed. He needed time for quiet contemplation.

A well-dressed waiter approached his table and hesitated before speaking. "Comrade general, would you care for more vodka?"

"Yes, thank you," Voronoteev answered, then took a small bite of the jellied sturgeon. He chewed slowly, swallowed, then sipped a spoonful of borscht. Voronoteev had lost his appetite and decided against ordering the lyulya-kebab. The appetizer and soup would be more than sufficient.

Voronoteev raised his glass and tossed down the last of the chilled vodka. Looking at his watch, he mentally debated making his call to Vienna earlier than scheduled.

"Your vodka, comrade general," the jacketed waiter said as he placed the small glass on the table.

"Spasiho," Voronoteev replied, thanking the pleasant young man.

The waiter raised his writing pad. "Would you care to order, comrade general?"

"Nyet," Voronoteev replied, folding his napkin next to his plate. "I'll take another vodka and my bill."

The waiter nodded and hurried to fulfill the request. A Soviet general, the young man had been taught, was not to be kept waiting. Voronoteev quickly finished the last Stolichnaya, paid his bill, and walked to the cloakroom to retrieve his hat and greatcoat. Natanoly Akhlomov, deputy chief of investigations, KGB, watched Voronoteev from an alcove off the main dining room. Akhlomov placed his small transmitter to his mouth and alerted the special agents observing Voronoteev's car and driver.

SAN JULIAN

"You have performed in a very distinguished manner," Gennadi Levchenko said in an insincerely smooth voice. "The Soviet Union is proud of your accomplishment."

"Thank you, ah…," Larry Simmons stammered.

"Comrade director," Levchenko prompted the American tech-rep. "You are one of us now, Comrade Simmons."

The technician beamed, feeling more confident with his new countrymen. "Thank you," Simmons paused, "comrade director. I am… I feel very privileged to be associated with the Soviet Union. Irina has told me a great deal about your country."

"We feel the same sentiments," Levchenko professed in an unctuous manner. "Now comrade," he smiled, then deftly punched the record button on the tape cassette, "tell me about the weaknesses of the Stealth bomber."

"Well…," Simmons said uneasily, "may I ask you a question first?"

"Of course," Levchenko replied with another reassuring smile. "What would you like to know?"

Simmons coughed nervously. "When will Irina… be joining me?"

"Soon, very soon," Levchenko answered, then leaned back in his desk chair. "You are not to worry, my friend. Everything will be fine."