Matthews placed his tray on the floor, then met his copilot's eyes. "Paul, do you think the Soviet government is really behind this?"
Evans paused, analyzing the question. "I can't see it… not with the Communist empire falling apart."
"But there might still be some hard-liners, some factions holding on. Obviously there are, and our fate is in their hands."
Evans exhaled in frustration. "Who knows what the hell is going on.
"Christ," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly. "I really blew this one."
"Chuck," Evans responded in a comforting tone, "easy on yourself. You did the only thing you could do, short of killing all of us. You're not a suicidal moron."
Matthews looked at his friend. "Well, Paul, we're on our own. We better think about a way—"
Evans placed his right index finger to his lips, then cupped his hand, fingers down, and walked it across the table like a spider, mouthing, Let's be quiet, this place is bugged.
Matthews nodded in agreement as he plucked a pen from the left shoulder pocket of his still-sodden flight suit. He hesitated a moment, then shook his head no and replaced the pen. The Russians would anticipate that move. The pilots had to sign and mouth the words to each other.
Evans nodded yes, then looked for any possible opening for a hidden camera. Matthews tapped his copilot on the shoulder, then used hand signals and exaggerated mouth movements to set their first priority. Reconnoiter in preparation to escape.
The gleaming Sikorsky VH-60 Black Hawk lifted off the helicopter pad, turned away from the White House, then accelerated toward the presidential retreat.
Kirk Truesdell picked up the blue leather-bound folder next to his seat, then settled back for the seventy-mile, half-hour trip. Kerchner and Parkinson, along with a military aide and three Secret Service agents, sat quietly while the vice president read the information concerning Shadow 37's crew. The defense secretary and General Parkinson had their own copies.
Truesdell read slowly, writing notes on the scratch pad attached to the inside of the folder. After ten minutes, the vice president closed the folder, then stared out the cabin window.
Turning back to Kerchner and Parkinson, Truesdell reopened the folder. "Lieutenant Colonel Matthews has a very distinguished background."
"Yes, sir," Parkinson replied, looking closely at Matthews's record. He shifted his gaze to the page with Evans's background. "Major Evans is impressive, too."
"Yes, he is," Truesdell responded, turning a page. The vice president studied the flight record section before speaking again. "They certainly have amassed a great deal of flying experience," he remarked, then looked at his comments. "Both are qualified aircraft commanders, and Colonel Matthews is a B-2 instructor pilot."
The vice president glanced at his folder again, turning a page. "I see that Major Evans had a reprimand for buzzing Falcon Stadium in a B-1."
Parkinson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes, sir, but it was an authorized flyover before the air force — navy football game. He just made the pass a little low."
Truesdell smiled. "Professional enthusiasm?"
"Yes, sir," Parkinson grinned slightly. "The crews train hard to fly on the deck, and Major Evans wanted to show the taxpayers what kind of capability they were getting for their dollars."
"Apparently the academy brass didn't buy that," Truesdell replied, turning to the background sheet. "Colonel Matthews graduated fourth overall in his class at the academy, then finished first in flight training. Earned a master's in aeronautical engineering at MIT."
"Yes, sir," Parkinson responded. "Evans has a graduate degree, too. Physics."
Kerchner looked up, adjusting his reading glasses. "Both married, have children, and live on base."
"Yes," the vice president replied. "Outstanding flying records and solid credentials. They appear to be excellent pilots and officers."
"They are, sir," Parkinson responded. "General Donovan told me, in confidence, that both families are happy and well adjusted."
"We don't have much information about the civilian yet," Kerchner added, "but we expect the contractor to provide what they have in the next couple of hours."
Truesdell acknowledged Kerchner's comment, then looked out the window again, not focusing on anything in particular. He remained quiet, watching the colorful fall foliage pass under the helicopter. His mind shifted back to the present when he saw the presidential retreat come into view. Camp David, nestled in Maryland's Catoctin Mountain Park, was covered with bright gold and red leaves.
As the marine helicopter slowed, then descended toward the landing pad, Truesdell could see the compound clearly. He studied the dining lodge and ten cabins, then gazed at the two swimming pools, horse stables, tennis courts, one-hole golf course, and the stream noted for its trout fishing. The vice president rechecked his seat belt as Marine Two came to a stop in midair, then gently, almost imperceptibly, descended to the ground.
When the main rotor blades began winding down, a marine sergeant in dress blues opened the sliding door, then locked it into position. Truesdell, followed by Kerchner and Parkinson, stepped out of the helicopter and walked past the saluting sergeant. The president of the United States, Alton Glenn "AG" Jarrett, walked forward to greet his three guests.
President Jarrett was a personable, compassionate, family-oriented man who divided his free weekends between Camp David and his home on the New England coast. "We have had word from General Donovan," Jarrett said, as they made their way to the presidential retreat. "The airborne search is under way — has been for more than an hour — and they haven't spotted anything thus far."
"I don't expect they will find anything," the vice president responded, "if my hunch is correct."
Kerchner and Parkinson looked at each other in surprise, then glanced at Truesdell. The president was already forming his words. "What do you mean, Kirk?" Jarrett asked, frowning.
"Let's wait until we have some privacy," Truesdell responded, "if you don't mind, sir."
"I agree, Kirk," the president replied, arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question. "I've had a strange feeling about this since our conversation early this morning."
The group walked the last few yards to the main lodge in quiet contemplation. Each had questions to resolve in the strange mystery of the missing Stealth bomber.
After the four men had settled into the president's office, Jarrett opened the conversation. "Kirk, tell us what's on your mind."
Truesdell reached for the writing pad on the small conference table. "I'm not as well versed about airplanes as General Parkinson," the vice president said, "but I've been a licensed pilot for more than twenty-two years, and this disappearance defies everything I've ever heard of — short of being swallowed by a UFO."
Kerchner and Parkinson glanced at each other, clearly puzzled.
Truesdell paused a moment, contemplating the bizarre situation. "An airplane the size of the B-2 doesn't disappear without any trace. Especially on a designated and precise route segment."
The president turned to Parkinson, waited a moment, then asked a question. "General, what is your professional judgment — what do you think happened to the B-2?"
Parkinson calmly folded his hands together on the conference table. "I'll be very candid, Mister President. I don't know what happened."
Jarrett pressed harder. "You must have a personal feeling, or some intuition, general."
"Yes, sir," Parkinson responded guardedly, "I do. First, and most logical, is that the aircraft strayed off course and crashed in some remote area. It could be anywhere — it's invisible to radar, especially low to the water, or ground."
Kerchner raised his hand slightly, indicating he had a question. "Bernie," the president acknowledged quietly.