The pilot's labored breathing became erratic gasps as the Tomcat descended through 600 feet, three-quarters of a mile behind the Ranger.
"See the horizontal green lights?" Sandoline asked, working the stick and rudder pedals.
"Yes," Wickham answered as he braced himself, "the ball is even with them."
"We gotta… keep the ball… centered there," Sandoline said, fighting the oxygen mask. "Nailed… till we hit… the deck."
Wickham stared at the approaching lights but still could not see the carrier. He listened as the Ranger's landing signal officer (LSO) talked to Sandoline.
"Power… power," the LSO coached as the F-14 sank slightly below the optimum glide path, then leveled off until Sandoline intercepted the proper descent profile again. "Lookin' good, turkey."
"Hang on!" Sandoline warned three seconds before impact.
Wickham grabbed the sides of the canopy in a death grip and held his breath. The Tomcat, traveling at 145 miles per hour, flashed over the rounddown and slammed into the steel flight deck without flaring. The tailhook screeched down the deck, showering sparks, then snagged the number three wire and snatched the fighter to an abrupt halt.
Wickham, still holding his breath, shot forward violently as his head snapped downward. The shoulder straps dug deep into his shoulder blades. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed as the F-14 rolled backward to allow the arresting cable to fall out of the tailhook. "You people are crazy."
"Yeah," Sandoline responded with a laugh, "being certified crazy is the first qualification."
Wickham quickly unfastened his restraints, unsnapped his oxygen mask, then rubbed his neck. "I think my back is broken."
Sandoline raised the tailhook and flaps, retracted the speed brakes, and added power to follow the two lighted wands beckoning him forward and starboard. He was barely able to see the petty officer holding the soft, glowing lights.
"You got a little CAG to escort you," Sandoline said as he taxied close to the carrier's superstructure.
Wickham held his oxygen mask to his mouth. "What's a little CAG?"
"The deputy carrier air group commander," Sandoline answered as he opened the canopy and shut down the engines. "Good luck, Steve, in whatever it is you do."
"Thanks," Wickham responded as he prepared to remove his helmet. "Hell of a ride."
Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews sat back in the hard, rough chair and watched the Soviet medical technician prepare the syringes. He could see into the hangar through the KGB director's window.
Workers continued to remove components from the Stealth bomber. Larry Simmons stood in the middle of a group of Soviet officials, answering questions and pointing out various components on the B-2.
Matthews, bound to the heavy chair with wide leather wrist straps, flexed his fingers and glanced at the two Cuban guards. They remained impassive, showing no emotion.
Matthews watched as technicians, dressed in light blue smocks, placed thick mats over portions of the wing. They were being extremely careful not to step outside the walkways outlined in white paint. The mats provided protection for the bomber's composite wing.
The American pilot remained quiet when Gennadi Levchenko walked across the hangar, entered his cluttered office, then stepped into the small interrogation cubicle. The chain-smoking director ordered the two guards out, then turned to Matthews.
"Shall we proceed, colonel?" Levchenko asked as he motioned for the gaunt, droopy-eyed technician to inject Matthews with Versed.
"You cowardly bastard," Matthews retorted in a low, hostile voice.
"Do it," Levchenko ordered.
Matthews looked out the window while the skinny Russian pulled up the sleeve of his flight suit and placed a rubber tourniquet around his right bicep. The specialist picked up a freshly opened syringe and leaned over the pilot.
"Goddamnit," Matthews snapped, then winced again when the technician shoved the needle in further.
Levchenko looked at the B-2 aircraft commander, sat down in a chair, lighted a Pall Mall, then turned on a Panasonic cassette tape recorder. "Tell me about the materials that make up the leading edge of your bomber."
Matthews looked Levchenko in the eyes, darting a glance at the needle in his arm. The syringe was almost empty. "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Charles Edward Matthews, United States Air Force. I have been drugged and coerced to compromise my country."
Matthews continued to talk, appearing to be alert and cognizant.
His mind, however, failed to record the conversation. The drug-induced amnesia prevented the nerve cells and their fibers from processing and storing the brain's activities.
Levchenko interrogated Matthews for more than two hours, stopping only to allow the medical technician to inject more Versed. Matthews outlined the operating parameters of the B-2, including the dash speed, absolute altitude, range without aerial refueling, armament capability, and maximum load. He also explained the intricacies of the Hughes APQ-118 multimode radar, detailing the penetration, target search, navigation, detection, and tracking capabilities.
Levchenko pressed harder, wanting to know if the aircraft had an Achilles' heel. Matthews cited the Red Team counterstealth study, which indicated that the technology would not be vulnerable for the foreseeable future.
During the second hour, Levchenko had Matthews explain the tactical advantages of the supersecret bomber. "Tell me, Colonel Matthews," Levchenko said, noting the time, "precisely how the B-2 will be deployed in the event of a nuclear war."
Matthews spoke slowly and clearly, pausing at times. "Our primary mission… is to seek and destroy mobile Soviet SS-20, SS-24, and SS-25 missiles. We will approach from high altitude, after being refueled en route, and… use reconnaissance satellites to pinpoint our targets. We are prepared to do this…," Matthews said, hesitating again, "anywhere in the world… "
"What is the next step?" Levchenko asked, realizing that Matthews was beginning to shake off the effects of the drugs. "Tell me your priorities after you find the mobile weapons."
"We strike the known… relocatable targets," the pilot responded in a halting manner, "then continue to other designated areas and attack… hardened underground command centers and… control installations for space-based reconnaissance satellites." Matthews, attempting to regain consciousness, twisted his face and stuttered slightly.
Levchenko ordered the technician to inject a small amount of Versed, then checked off another line on his list of questions and rechecked the cassette recorder. The second ninety-minute tape was nearing the end of the first side.
The KGB agent leaned closer to Matthews. "What is your priority after you attack the command centers and satellite control centers?"
"We would search," Matthews answered, pausing when his head drooped, "on our own for missiles… and military targets of opportunity."
Levchenko looked at his watch. "What are the primary means of detecting Soviet missiles?"
Matthews's face contorted slightly, then relaxed again. "We use passive… infrared, and laser sensors."
The interrogation expert knew that Matthews needed time to recover from the extended questioning period. "What weapons would you use against the missiles?" Levchenko asked, then wrote a quick note.
"Nuclear bombs…," Matthews replied with a discernible slur, "and nuclear… armed SRAM Two missiles."
Levchenko waved the thin medical technician over to Matthews. "Stay with him until he has recovered. I will send in the guards."
"Da, comrade director," the technician replied, then checked the wide straps holding the American pilot to the chair. "Will you be conducting another session before—"
"I will let you know," Levchenko interrupted, "when the next session will be."