Voronoteev quickly yanked open the bottom slide-out drawer and began flipping back each SECRET file folder, scanning the content heading. Opening the ninth file, titled ATB, he discovered the B-2 advanced technology bomber scheme.
He was overwhelmed by the complexity of the secret endeavor. The KGB had apparently engineered the operation on its own, and had pulled it off. The supersecret Stealth bomber was in Cuba, secure in the hands of the KGB.
"San Julian," Voronoteev said to himself as he closed the file. He straightened up, opened a larger upper file drawer, then closed it loudly and walked to the door. He opened it and shook his head. "You were right after all. The Armaments and Aviation Engineering data will be included in the annual efficiency report."
"Yes, sir," Lugayev responded as he hurried through the door to close the vault.
Voronoteev tucked his file under his arm and walked out of the small office. He took a few steps, checked his watch, then started down the stairs. He would stop by his office, remember a forgotten meeting in the afternoon, go to the Hotel Metropol for a leisurely lunch, then make his way to the international post office.
Lugayev had paused at the vault and watched Voronoteev leave. Each working day the warrant officer was responsible for checking the security of the secret files in Borol'kov's vault. He kneeled down, opened the bottom drawer, and slid out the secret files. Lugayev checked each folder rapidly. When he looked at the file labeled ATB, he knew that Voronoteev had opened it. Lugayev had no idea what ATB represented — he only placed the folders in the vault for his commander — but he had checked only hours before and the hair-thin, almost invisible thread had been across the seal. The thread now rested on the bottom of the drawer, severed.
Lugayev shut the vault, then rushed out and closed the door between his small office and the hallway. He had been ordered by General Borol'kov to contact the chief of investigations at the KGB — the Committee for State Security — if the vault was compromised or if anything suspicious happened in the general's absence.
Senior Warrant Officer Lugayev had wondered, on more than one occasion, why the general did not want the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye (GRU) to investigate any questionable act. It seemed only logical to Lugayev that military matters should be investigated by Soviet Military Intelligence.
The conscientious administrative officer was not aware that most of Borol'kov's secret files involved KGB clandestine operations outside the Soviet Union. The GRU operations were confined, for the most part, within the boundaries of the Rodina.
Lugayev had been to the KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square only once, and he did not look forward to a repeat visit. Orders were orders, however, and the general had been explicit. Lugayev could not contact the KGB via phone. He had to present himself in person, along with the proper credentials. He dialed the master sergeant of administration and had a clerk sent to the commanding general's office to answer the phone. Lugayev gave the airman first class clear instructions, grabbed his cap, and raced down the stairs.
"Are we starting down?" Wickham asked the Tomcat pilot when he felt the F-14D nose down slightly.
Lieutenant Commander Reed Sandoline, quiet for the past fifty minutes, chuckled softly. "Yeah, Steve, you're about to get initiated into the Tailhook Association."
"I can't wait," Wickham laughed, mentally envisioning a fireball tumbling down the flight deck of the carrier. "Can't they just send up another tanker from the carrier?"
"Steve, you're going to have to readjust your thinking," the fighter jock replied. "You're trying to make this mission too simple."
"What do you mean?" Wickham asked as he tightened his shoulder straps.
"We have to land to switch pilots," Sandoline answered, then kidded his VIP passenger. "The Navy doesn't like paying overtime."
"You have some kind of limit to how long you can fly?" Wickham asked, massaging his tingling calves.
"That's it," Sandoline replied as he slowly reduced power and lowered the F-14's nose further. "We've had new guidelines issued in regard to daily flying and duty times. I'm already illegal."
Wickham returned to his thoughts as he listened to Sandoline communicate with the carrier. Logic told Wickham that Key West could only mean some covert assignment in Central America or the Caribbean. What puzzled him most was the urgency of the operation.
Sandoline lowered the Tomcat's nose even further, eased the twin throttles to idle, and popped the wide speed brakes partially open. The F-14 shuddered slightly and plummeted toward the USS Ranger, steaming parallel to the coast of Baja California Norte 600 miles southwest of San Diego.
Wickham's mind returned to the present when he heard his name mentioned on the aircraft radio.
"Leadfoot One Zero Seven," the carrier air traffic controller radioed, "we have a top secret message waiting for Mister Wickham."
"Copy, One Oh Seven," Sandoline replied, then clicked the intercom. "You hear that?"
"Yes," Wickham answered as he snugged his shoulder straps even tighter. "How long until we're down?"
" 'Bout four and a half minutes."
"You gotta be kidding," Wickham responded. "I can't even see anything down there."
"Leadfoot One Zero Seven, come port to zero-four-zero and descend to one-one thousand."
Sandoline checked his altitude, then toggled his throttle-mounted radio switch. "Roger, zero-four-zero, down to one-one thousand, Leadfoot One Oh Seven."
"Leadfoot," a different controller radioed. "We have a change in plans."
"Go," Sandoline replied as he rolled out on heading and prepared to level at 11,000 feet.
The air traffic specialist spoke slowly. "We've got a turkey on the cat ready to launch. Mister Wickham will be escorted to the island, then to the Tomcat."
"One Oh Seven, copy," Sandoline replied as he closed the speed brakes and added a small amount of power.
"Come port three-five-zero," the original controller ordered. "Descend to three thousand and call the ball."
"One Oh Seven," Sandoline responded as he reduced power and lowered the nose again, "outta one-one thou for three, three-fifty on the heading."
Wickham quietly surveyed the dimly lighted cockpit, then watched the twinkling stars change position as Sandoline turned to the new heading.
"Steve," the pilot offered, "watch over my left shoulder and tell me when you see the orange ball of light."
"I can't see a thing," Wickham responded, straining to locate the carrier. "It's pitch-black out there."
Sandoline swept the wings forward, lowered the flaps, extended the landing gear, set his power, and dropped the tailhook. "When you enter the island," he instructed, "use the head, drink as much water as you're comfortable with — it'll help stave off altitude dehydration — and run in place to get the blood circulating."
"Will do," Wickham responded at the same time he saw the "meatball" — the primary optical landing aid. "I can see the ball, but I don't have the carrier."
"You won't see the boat until we're on deck," Sandoline replied, then keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven Tomcat. Ball. Four point nine."
"Roger, ball," the landing signal officer acknowledged in a studied, nonchalant manner.
"A bit more advice, Steve," Sandoline offered as he extended the speed brakes to stabilize the approach. "Don't ever call a ship a boat around the blue water sailors. The black shoe Navy would have you keelhauled on the spot."
"Yeah," Wickham replied, "they told me that when I joined the Marines."
"Oh, shit," Sandoline said in mock disgust, "how am I going to live this down?"
"You'll make it," Wickham laughed, knowing what the navy fighter pilot was going to say.
"I've been chauffeuring a jarhead around," Sandoline laughed, then concentrated on flying the meatball.