"Navy Leadfoot One Zero Seven, Cairns tower, cleared for takeoff. After lift-off, cleared on course, unrestricted climb."
"Roger," the experienced fighter pilot radioed, "we'll do all that."
Wickham was still craning his neck for a last glimpse of Becky when Sandoline shoved the twin throttles all the way forward. "Navy Leadfoot rolling."
The powerful General Electric F110 turbofans, collectively producing more than 58,000 pounds of thrust, slammed Wickham back into his seat as the F-14D accelerated rapidly. The Mach 2 plus-1,600 miles per hour — twin-engine air superiority fighter thundered down the runway. The four AIM-9 Sidewinders had been hastily removed, along with the 675 rounds of 20mm cannon shells, leaving the aircraft "clean" except for the external fuel cells.
Sandoline raised the nose slightly, felt the Tomcat break ground, snapped up the landing gear handle, then trimmed the nose down slightly to remain in ground effect. The F-14D hugged the terrain and vibrated the airport structures as it blasted down the runway.
The pilot watched the airspeed increase-190… 210 knots, flaps and slats up… 250… 280, variable geometry wings swept back… 300, steaming, tweak the nose down.
"Hang on," Sandoline warned two seconds before he eased back on the control stick. The g force crushed Wickham into his ejection seat. His head sagged from the weight of the crash helmet.
The Tomcat's nose kept rising, higher and higher, until the fighter was in the pure vertical. Suddenly the sky rotated counter-clockwise as the pilot rolled the F-14 around its longitudinal axis.
"Nice flyin', Navy," the Australian tower controller radioed. "Contact departure. G'day."
"Roger, going departure," Sandoline responded, watching the altimeter wind through 4,000 feet. He rolled out on heading upside down, hesitated a moment to let the nose fall through the horizon, then continued the roll to an upright attitude.
Wickham heard the fighter jock converse with the air traffic controller as he watched the warm, translucent waters of the Great Barrier Reef slip under the Tomcat's wing. His mind wandered.
"You still with me?" Sandoline asked.
Wickham, who had been thinking about Becky, snapped back to the moment. "Ah. yeah," Wickham answered over the intercom. "Do you guys always take off like that?"
The pilot chuckled over the hot mike. "No, only when the Navy and the FAA aren't looking."
"I can just imagine," Wickham replied, enjoying the cool oxygen.
The F-14 trembled slightly as it accelerated through the speed of sound. Sandoline retrimmed the fighter continuously. "I flew with the flight demonstration team — the Blue Angels — for two years, and it's not easy readjusting to the fleet."
Wickham, smiling, watched the airspeed indicator pass 1. 2 Mach. "Probably why you got this duty."
"You're right," Sandoline laughed. "What's the scoop? I understand you're with the CIA."
Wickham keyed his ICS. "You know as much as I do at this point."
Sandoline lowered the nose slightly. "I only know that you're going to Key West as fast as we can get you there."
Wickham did not respond, prompting another question from the Tomcat pilot. "Are you at liberty to tell me what the hell you do for the spooks?"
Wickham had become accustomed to answering the question whenever an acquaintance found out he was with the CIA. "Not actually. I do investigative work in specialized areas."
"Well, you must be damned good," Sandoline laughed. "All the staff weenies at Cubi, along with my CO, were jumping through their asses to get me launched."
Wickham checked his watch. "How many times do we have to refuel, commander?"
"Sorry," the pilot replied. "We were in such a hurry, I didn't give you a full brief."
"No problem," Wickham responded.
"It's Steve, isn't it?"
"That's right," the agent answered, adjusting his torso harness.
"Okay, here's the gouge," Sandoline said, then answered a radio call. "We're going high — close to sixty thousand feet — and fast. We'll be leaving a sonic boom the entire trip, except when we slow down to gas."
"What kind of range does this thing have?" Wickham interjected.
"Normally, Steve, approximately three thousand miles with the external tanks. At the speed we'll be averaging — more than a thousand miles an hour — we'll tank twice before we hit the boat."
Wickham looked around the back of the pilot's ejection seat. Sandoline had his helmet visor up and Wickham could see his eyes in one of the rearview mirrors. "Boat? What boat?"
"The aircraft carrier," Sandoline chuckled. "You'll love it, believe me."
Wickham met Sandoline's clear, hazel eyes in the pilot's mirror. "I'm sure."
"We'll rendezvous with a navy tanker out of Guam, then hit a Marine KC-130 six hundred miles south of Hawaii."
"Then the boat?" Wickham asked, taking in the cockpit instruments.
"Yeah, then the boat," Sandoline answered, grinning under his oxygen mask. "We'll deviate slightly north of course and hit the Ranger about seven hundred miles off the southern Baja coast."
"If my math is correct," Wickham paused, "that means we'll be landing at night."
"Hey, relax," Sandoline said, sensing Wickham's apprehension. "I've got more than four hundred traps without a scratch. Well, I did slip off the side of a wet cockpit once — twisted my ankle."
Wickham was not convinced. "Didn't I see where insurance actuaries rate being a carrier pilot as the most dangerous profession in the world?"
"Yeah," the aviator replied. "That and being a Tijuana cabdriver."
Sandoline talked with the controller again, signed off, then lowered the Tomcat's nose and leveled at 57,000 feet. The flight would be a quiet ride high above the weather and other air traffic.
The pilot keyed his intercom. "They'll hot-refuel on the Ranger and stuff in a fresh pilot. You'll gas again over the Gulf of Mexico, then dash into Key West. Piece of cake."
Wickham waited a few seconds before he responded. "How many night landings have you made?"
"Relax, Steve," Sandoline replied soothingly. "At night you can't see all the things that tend to scare you in the daytime." Wickham glanced in the mirror again. "Thanks."
Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews had lost track of time. His watch had been smashed during the crash landing and he had discarded it in the Soviet helicopter.
The bruised and battered air force pilot, full of anguish over the loss of his copilot and best friend, looked around the hangar cell. Forcing himself to relax, he walked over to the rumpled bunk and sat down, thinking about his wife and the twins. He was deep in thought, envisioning the pain that Roxanne and the girls, Meredith and Michelle, were experiencing, when the cell door opened abruptly to admit the Stealth project director, accompanied by the KGB security officer and three Cuban soldiers.
Matthews met Gennadi Levchenko's eyes with a cold, unblinking stare. The B-2 pilot's swollen face expressed an intense, unbridled hatred.
"On your feet," the director bellowed.
Matthews remained sitting.
"You will obey me," Levchenko snapped, "or you will pay the consequences."
Matthews stood slowly, not taking his eyes off Levchenko's face. His hair was matted and he had dried blood on his left temple and ear and under his cheek.
Levchenko raised his unfiltered American cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and turned toward Talavokine. "Hand me the list.
The KGB officer stepped forward and gave Levchenko three pieces of paper stapled together. "Now, Lieutenant Colonel Matthews," Levchenko said, exhaling the smoke, "you will answer these questions. If we discover that you have lied about any of them.. well, let us say that it will not be in your best interest."