"I'm sorry, general," Kerchner said in a pleasant voice, "but I can't subscribe to that theory. The crew was highly qualified, as we discussed, and they had the most precise navigation system available." He saw Truesdell nod his head in agreement. "Besides," Kerchner continued, "General Donovan says that the emergency code flashed on the Canadian radar screen directly over the route the Stealth was flying, at the exact time the aircraft should have been there."
Kerchner looked at Parkinson, then Jarrett. "Too coincidentaclass="underline" * "You're right, Bernie," Truesdell replied. "I believe that the Stealth was commandeered — hijacked."
"What?" Kerchner said, stunned. "You believe the B-2 was stolen?"
Truesdell waited to respond, seeing the surprised look on everyone's face. "Yes, I do. Our Stealth bomber is one of the most highly classified weapons systems we have. We know the Soviets have been trying, without much success, to develop a Stealth aircraft for the past six years. There are undoubtedly some in the military who aren't willing to accept the loss of power. It would be a real coup to snatch a Stealth aircraft."
Parkinson tensed. "Are you suggesting that our pilots would defect?"
"I'm not accusing anyone, at this point, general," Truesdell said, then turned to Jarrett. "I have a couple of suggestions, with the president's permission."
"Of course, Kirk," Jarrett replied, taken aback by Truesdell's speculation.
"First, we need to run a thorough background check on all three men aboard the B-2. At the same time, we need to query every air traffic control center and sector in the Stealth's range," Truesdell said calmly, fixing his gaze on General Parkinson. "The aircraft didn't vanish into thin air."
"I concur," Jarrett replied, turning to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, call Fred Adcock at FBI. Make it top priority. We have to have answers in a matter of hours, not days. I want them to concentrate their efforts on the civilian technician."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner responded, shaken by the thought of a B-2 being captured by renegade Russians.
The president turned to Truesdell. "Kirk, have Mel Collins get the FAA moving. We need to know if any FAA facility had anything unusual occur last night. Have him go directly into the system — no passing it down the ranks."
"Yes, sir," the vice president responded, sliding back his chair. "General, check with SAC and see what they've found."
"Yes, sir," Parkinson replied, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "They should be into their third sweep."
Chapter Five
Matthews and Evans could hear muted sounds coming from the hangar, but no particular sound was distinguishable. Both men had remained quiet since lunch, resting uncomfortably on the well-worn army cots. Their food trays remained on the small wooden table. The leftovers, hardened in the past four hours, were beginning to emit an offensive odor.
Without warning, the heavy cell door opened with a bang, startling the two pilots. "On your feet — now!" the Cuban soldier ordered. "Follow me."
Matthews and Evans looked at each other, shrugged, then walked through the door into the brightly lighted hangar. Two more guards, carrying AK-47 assault rifles, fell in behind the Americans.
Both pilots stole quick looks at the frenzied activity around the Stealth bomber. A power cart had been plugged into the B-2, bringing the aircraft's systems to life. Teams of technicians swarmed over the warplane, taking notes and photographing the interior and exterior. A dozen panels had been removed from the fuselage and wings, exposing the intricacies of the bomber.
Matthews noted that the guards behind them remained at least ten yards away. Well trained, he thought as they reached the entrance to the KGB director's office.
Gennadi Levchenko, sitting behind an olive-drab metal desk, motioned for the pilots to enter. "Have a seat," Levchenko said pleasantly, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. His English, after years in the United States, was excellent.
Matthews and Evans sat down on the long bench across from the Soviet agent. The three guards remained standing, blocking the only exit from the room.
"You will have a cigarette?" Levchenko asked, placing a pack of Pall Malls on the front edge of his desk.
"No, thank you," Matthews replied, placing his hands on his knees and arching his stiff back muscles. Evans, remaining quiet, shook his head in a negative response.
"Well," Levchenko continued, then paused while he glanced at Evans, then back to Matthews. "We can make this easy, or we can make this difficult for you. Very difficult. The choice is yours."
Matthews inhaled deeply, measuring his response, then exhaled. "You know our position. We are being held captive — prisoners. You, whomever you represent, have committed a gross violation of international law."
Levchenko smiled slightly, clasped his hands together, then leaned across the desk. "So, major, you elect to make my job more difficult?"
"My rank is lieutenant colonel, and you get nothing but name, rank, and serial number."
"That will soon change, believe me," Levchenko said without emotion. "You will see."
"Cut the crap," Evans said, openly bristling.
Levchenko's watery, pale blue eyes hardened. "You are right, major. We will cut the crap, as you say."
The room remained quiet while Levchenko stood up, walked menacingly around the side of his desk, then sat on the metal top. The KGB director was only two feet away from the Americans. Both pilots could smell his tobacco-tainted breath.
"You will cooperate with me," Levchenko said in a pleasant, even voice, "or I will place you in a very undesirable environment until you change your mind."
"A gulag?" Matthews responded, staring into Levchenko's cold, cloudy eyes.
"Correct, colonel," the Russian replied, unsmiling. "A reconditioning course until you are ready to cooperate. You will cooperate, I assure you. It is only a matter of time."
"You're wrong," Matthews said vehemently. "We are prisoners of the Soviet Union, or Cuba, and — understand clearly — we will not cooperate with you."
Levchenko smiled broadly, then lashed out, backhanding Matthews into the side of his copilot.
"You goddamn coward!" Evans shot back, helping Matthews regain his balance.
"Take them to Mantua!" Levchenko shouted to the surprised guards, then yanked both pilots up by the front of their flight suits. "You bastards are going to beg me to let you die before I am finished with you."
The late afternoon sun peeked through the trees as twilight settled over the vast presidential retreat. Two marine corps Sikorsky helicopters, a VH-3D and a VH-60, waited to fly the president and vice president back to Washington.
Alton Jarrett and Kirk Truesdell had agreed the first week of the new administration not to fly together on the same helicopter or aircraft. The risk of losing both the president and vice president in an accident was too great.
Secretary of defense Kerchner talked on a secure telephone as he perused a classified message. He looked up when the vice president walked into the communications room.
"The president is waiting, Bernie," Truesdell said, loosening his tie.
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, folding the slip of paper, "be there in a second."
Truesdell gave Kerchner a thumbs-up gesture, then returned to the conference table. "Bernie's on his way," the vice president reported, then sat down in his seat.
"Thank you," Jarrett responded, turning to Parkinson. "General, what is the current status of our search effort?"
"Not a trace, Mister President," Parkinson answered, pausing while Kerchner entered the room and seated himself. Parkinson sipped a glass of water. "They haven't found a single piece of evidence to indicate that the B-2 crashed into the bay."