The KGB officer made a quick notation before he continued his questioning. "Okay, tell me about any problems or weaknesses in your field of expertise."
"Ah… as you know," Simmons responded, taking in the partially dismantled bomber, "the aircraft has very complex electronic and avionic systems."
Levchenko exhaled impatiently. "The electronic systems have been a problem?"
"Yes… and still are," Simmons answered hurriedly. "The extreme environment that the B-2 operates in has caused continual reliability problems."
Levchenko's face hardened. "You have to be more specific, Comrade Simmons. Define the nature of the electronic problems you have encountered thus far."
Simmons hesitated, then spoke rapidly. "The weapons systems have been adversely affected by a number of things, including shock, vibration, impact, salt fog, and heat."
Levchenko turned off the recorder and eased back his chair. "Comrade Simmons, your knowledge is invaluable to your new country. I have some business to take care of, so I want you to sit here and list every B-2 strength and weakness you can think of.. every one."
Steve Wickham dozed uneasily, dreaming sporadic scenes of Becky and Cuba. Interspersed were flashbacks to his harrowing escape from Russia. The mission to extract the Kremlin mole had almost cost Wickham his life, along with that of the Moscow operative.
"You awake back there?" Commander McDonald asked.
Wickham's eyelids fluttered, then squeezed shut when the early morning sun struck them.
"Reveille," McDonald said over the intercom. "Next stop is Key West."
Wickham groaned as he fumbled for the tinted visor on his helmet. "Key West?" he asked as he attempted to move his cold, stiffened limbs. "Aren't we going to take on fuel first?"
"You must've been out of it," McDonald laughed, "or my flying skills have improved. We tanked about an hour and fifteen minutes ago.
Wickham looked at his watch to confirm the time lapse. "You need to talk to management about these seats."
"Yeah," McDonald replied, "they have to have a solid bottom so your spine won't break if you have to pull the 'loud handle.' Can't allow any compression before the seat slams into your ass."
"How far out are we?" Wickham asked, yawning.
"A hundred and ten nautical miles," McDonald answered between conversations with the air traffic controllers. "We'll be overhead the air station in… nine minutes and fifty seconds."
Wickham was amazed. "Nine minutes?"
"And forty-five seconds," McDonald replied. "We're in projectile mode now, but I'll be throwing out the anchor when we approach the beach."
Wickham rubbed his eyes, checked to see that the top secret packet was still in place, then looked down at the Gulf of Mexico. He watched two oil tankers disappear rapidly under the right side of the F-14's fuselage.
"We're starting down," McDonald said as he smoothly lowered the Tomcat's nose. "This will be a steep descent, followed by a rapid decel in close."
"After landing on the carrier," Wickham responded, looking at the water, "I think I can handle about anything."
"You should ride through an ACM gaggle," McDonald replied, lowering the nose further.
Wickham looked in the rearview mirror again, catching the pilot's eyes. "A what?"
"Air combat maneuvering," McDonald explained. "A dogfighting hop."
"I'll pass," Wickham said, then returned to his sight-seeing while the pilot conversed with the controllers.
"Rog, Miami," McDonald radioed, "Key West approach on two-sixty-three point six, switchin'." McDonald programmed the frequency into his primary UHF radio. "Key Approach, Navy Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta one-seven thousand."
"Navy One Zero Seven, Key West Approach." The veteran controller spoke in short, clipped bursts. "Continue descent to three thousand, runway seven currently in use, wind one-two-zero at twelve, gusting to twenty. Altimeter two-niner-niner-eight."
The pilot repeated the instructions. "One Oh Seven down to three K, two-niner-niner-eight." McDonald could see the naval air station rapidly filling his windshield. The F-14, rocketing toward the island at 960 miles per hour (1.25 Mach) descended through 11,000 feet.
Wickham watched, fascinated, while Marquesas Keys and Boca Grande Key flashed under the right wing.
"Navy One Zero Seven," the clipped voice said, "contact Key West tower, three-four-zero point two."
McDonald keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven, switchin' three-forty point two. So long." The pilot reset the UHF frequency, then called the control tower. "Key West tower, Leadfoot One Oh Seven with you outta eight thousand."
"Roger, One Zero Seven," the laconic tower chief replied calmly. "Cleared for a left break, runway seven, wind one-two-zero at fourteen, gusting to twenty-two. No reported traffic."
"Copy, Key tower," McDonald acknowledged, then pressed the intercom switch. "Better brace yourself. I'm gonna slam on the binders."
"I'm ready," Wickham replied as he watched the shoreline rush toward them.
McDonald yanked the twin throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes open. Both men were thrown forward, hanging by their shoulder restraints. Wickham tightened his neck and leg muscles, then gulped a lungful of cool oxygen. He felt as though they had run into a brick wall.
"Hold tight," McDonald warned as the F-14 roared across the beach.
Wickham grasped the canopy rails tightly as the end of the runway flashed under the fighter. His nerves tensed in preparation for the overhead break.
McDonald had the Tomcat slowed to 490 knots by midfield. He tightened his stomach muscles and slapped the stick hard to the left. The F-14 snapped into knife-edged flight, splitting the air in a deafening howl.
Wickham's helmet ricocheted off the right side of the canopy, then slumped onto his chest as McDonald pulled 4 1/2 g's through the turn. The g forces rendered each man unable to move their heads.
The pilot waited until the aircraft had completed a 180-degree course reversal before he eased off the g loading. The sensation was that of weightlessness. "Still breathing?" McDonald asked as he leveled the wings and waited for them to sweep forward.
"Well," Wickham paused, taking stock. "If you discount the concussion, I'm fine."
"Navy One Zero Seven," the tower controller said, "check wheels down, cleared to land."
"Cleared to land," McDonald repeated.
The former TOPGUN instructor lowered the flaps, dropped the landing gear, and rolled onto the final approach. Wickham could see the big number 7 painted on the end of the 10,000-foot runway.
"Navy One Zero Seven," the controller radioed. "After rollout, follow the cart at the end of the ramp. They'll park you by the Gulfstream jet-the air force VIP bird sitting by itself."
"Copy," McDonald replied as the hurtling Tomcat thundered onto the concrete, briefly leaving two white puffs of tire smoke.
"Well," McDonald said over the intercom, "I wish you every success in whatever it is you are about to do."
"Thanks," Wickham replied as the F-14 came to a rapid halt. "Just getting here has been a hell of an experience."
Chapter Twelve
Lieutenant General Yuliy Voronoteev gazed out of the Moskvich 412's window with a vacant stare. Have I gone too far? he asked himself. Would the preening Lugayev say anything to General Borol 'kov?
"To the post office, comrade general?" the sergeant asked as he pulled away from the Hotel Metropol.
"I have some time to spare," Voronoteev replied. "Let's take a slow drive through Sokolniki Park before we stop at the post office."
"As you wish, comrade general."