Shadow Flight

The pilot repeated the instructions. "One Oh Seven down to three K, two-niner-niner-eight." McDonald could see the naval air station rapidly filling his windshield. The F-14, rocketing toward the island at 960 miles per hour (1.25 Mach) descended through 11,000 feet.

Wickham watched, fascinated, while Marquesas Keys and Boca Grande Key flashed under the right wing.

"Navy One Zero Seven," the clipped voice said, "contact Key West tower, three-four-zero point two."

McDonald keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven, switchin' three-forty point two. So long." The pilot reset the UHF frequency, then called the control tower. "Key West tower, Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta eight thousand."

"Roger, One Zero Seven," the laconic tower chief replied calmly. "Cleared for a left break, runway seven, wind one-two-zero at fourteen, gusting to twenty-two. No reported traffic."

"Copy, Key tower," McDonald acknowledged, then pressed the intercom switch. "Better brace yourself. I'm gonna slam on the binders."

"I'm ready," Wickham replied as he watched the shoreline rush toward them.

McDonald yanked the twin throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes open. Both men were thrown forward, hanging by their shoulder restraints. Wickham tightened his neck and leg muscles, then gulped a lungful of cool oxygen. He felt as though they had run into a brick wall.

"Hold tight," McDonald warned as the F-14 roared across the beach.

Wickham grasped the canopy rails tightly as the end of the runway flashed under the fighter. His nerves tensed in preparation for the overhead break.

McDonald had the Tomcat slowed to 490 knots by midfield. He tightened his stomach muscles and slapped the stick hard to the left. The F-14 snapped into knife-edged flight, splitting the air in a deafening howl.

Wickham's helmet ricocheted off the right side of the canopy, then slumped onto his chest as McDonald pulled 4 1/2 g's through the turn. The g forces rendered each man unable to move their heads.

The pilot waited until the aircraft had completed a 180-degree course reversal before he eased off the g loading. The sensation was that of weightlessness. "Still breathing?" McDonald asked as he leveled the wings and waited for them to sweep forward.

"Well," Wickham paused, taking stock. "If you discount the concussion, I'm fine."

"Navy One Zero Seven," the tower controller said, "check wheels down, cleared to land."

"Cleared to land," McDonald repeated.

The former TOPGUN instructor lowered the flaps, dropped the landing gear, and rolled onto the final approach. Wickham could see the big number 7 painted on the end of the 10,000-foot runway.

"Navy One Zero Seven," the controller radioed. "After rollout, follow the cart at the end of the ramp. They'll park you by the Gulfstream jet-the air force VIP bird sitting by itself."

"Copy," McDonald replied as the hurtling Tomcat thundered onto the concrete, briefly leaving two white puffs of tire smoke.

"Well," McDonald said over the intercom, "I wish you every success in whatever it is you are about to do."

"Thanks," Wickham replied as the F-14 came to a rapid halt. "Just getting here has been a hell of an experience."

Chapter Twelve

MOSCOW

Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev gazed out of the Moskvich 412's window with a vacant stare. Have I gone too far? he asked himself. Would the preening Lugayev say anything to General Borol 'kov?

"To the post office, comrade general?" the sergeant asked as he pulled away from the Hotel Metropol.

"I have some time to spare," Voronoteev replied. "Let's take a slow drive through Sokolniki Park before we stop at the post office."

"As you wish, comrade general."

Voronoteev thought about the privacy of the telephone booths in the international post office. He had known about the secure phone lines for the past three years. The government department store and the post office were two of the three dozen unmonitored trunk lines in Moscow.

The general had resisted the CIA's supposedly more sophisticated means of transmitting classified information. Their method of transfer required a five-step process-three more than he believed necessary. Voronoteev had explained his position to the CIA and they had agreed reluctantly to follow his procedure.

"Did you have lunch?" Voronoteev asked his recently promoted chauffeur.

"No, comrade general," the clean-cut sergeant answered, glancing at the approaching traffic. "The cafeteria was closed for the employees' lunch break."

"We will stop in the park, sergeant," Voronoteev said, shaking his head in exasperation, "and find some proper food for you."

"Thank you, comrade general," the young man responded gratefully, "but I am fine for the time being."

"Nonsense," Voronoteev said, watching the Mayakovsky Museum glide past. "We will stop."

"Da, comrade general."

"Where is he going?" Akhlomov's driver asked as they passed the Kazan railway station.

"How would I know?" Akhlomov said icily. "Concentrate on your job."