Shadow Flight

"Go ahead, Doctor Kranz," the CIA agent said. "We had to bring you up on the computer."

Kranz inhaled sharply, then gushed forth with the story. "Our connection with RAINDANCE has been severed. He was apprehended in midsentence, after telling me the location of the missing B-2 bomber."

"Say again," the surprised voice said.

The agent was not familiar with RAINDANCE. He only monitored a battery of secret global telephone connections. Most of them never rang, and RAINDANCE was one of four that required top secret handling, Eyes Only, by the director or the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"The Stealth bomber — the B-2 bomber that disappeared," Kranz said hurriedly. "It's in Cuba, and the exact location is unknown."

"Got it," the astonished agent replied as he jotted down the message. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not," Kranz answered nervously. "I'm sure the KGB is tracing the call from our contact. I need to get out of Austria, quickly."

"You're in a hotel under an assumed name, aren't you?" the Connecticut-based agent asked. He was looking at Kranz's method of operation on the computer screen.

"Yes," Kranz responded uneasily, "but one of the hotel's assistant managers would be able to identify me. His father was a former patient of mine."

"That's not good," the agent replied gravely as he wrote a message for his assistant.

"I didn't know he worked here," Kranz continued, defending himself, "until after I had contacted RAINDANCE. I thought it would complicate matters too much for me to go to another location after the contact. Besides, I had no idea this would happen."

"We understand," the pleasant voice said with genuine feeling. "You're in a high threat situation. Go directly to the American Embassy."

Kranz's mind was reeling. His peaceful, tranquil life was coming unwound. "Damn."

"What?" the American asked.

"Nothing," Kranz said, then added. "Can you get us — my family — any protection?"

"My assistant is contacting our field office in Vienna right now. Our immediate concern is your safety," the agent paused, "and that of your family. Go directly to the embassy — it's located at Sixteen Boltzmanngasse — and our people will be there as quickly as possible."

"Thank you," Kranz replied, standing to look out of the window. "I must hurry."

"Be careful," Krantz heard the agent caution as he placed the receiver down and picked up his jacket. He scurried to gather his toilet articles, then stopped in midstride. To hell with it, he told himself, I've got to get to the embassy. He raced out of his room and down the hallway, then took the stairs two at a time. He walked briskly through the lobby and out into the parking area.

Kranz hurried to his BMW, got in, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. As he turned his head to back out of the parking space, he paused. I have to get Katy, he told himself. I must explain, God help me, what a mess I've gotten myself into. She must go with me to the embassy. She will not be safe at the cottage.

Kranz recalled vividly the CIA briefing about the ruthless means that the KGB utilized to extract information from subjects. His wife, Kranz remembered in agony, would be the primary target of the KGB if he was in the sanctuary of the American Embassy. Kranz backed out, reversed gears, and headed for his home in Neunkirchen.

That decision would prove fatal for Fritz and Katy Kranz. Their charred bodies were found in the remains of their retirement cottage late that evening. A mysterious fire had consumed the entire structure.

Chapter Thirteen

KEY WEST NAVAL AIR STATION

Steve Wickham sat in the passenger cabin of the C-20 VIP aircraft, listening to Hampton Milligan, director of CIA Clandestine Operations. The former Green Beret officer was pointing out various topographical features on a large relief map of Cuba.

The glistening transport's auxiliary power unit, providing a steady flow of air-conditioning, was barely audible in the quiet cabin. Wickham sat back, eating his breakfast slowly. The air station enlisted mess had been kind enough to send the meal over to the flight line in the duty pickup truck.

"Okay," Wickham said, swallowing the last bite. He placed the dented tray on a fold-out table. "What gives, Hamp? You usually start an ops brief from the beginning."

"Steve," Milligan began slowly, "this comes from the White House — right from the top. The president has ordered us to recon two specific areas in Cuba, and the general has commissioned you to do it… alone."

Wickham leaned back and closed his eyes. After a moment he looked out of the window, then turned to Milligan. "Two questions. Why me, when we have a number of clandestine agents who are Hispanic? And, what am I looking for?"

Milligan frowned. "Steve, when the general gives an order, we pick up our packs and move out. You speak fluent Spanish, along with Russian, and you are the man."

"Fine," Wickham replied, "but what gives?"