"Four thousand feet to level-off," Evans reminded the command pilot.
"Okay," Matthews replied, easing the B-2's nose up three degrees. "I'm starting the level-off. Watch our altitude."
"Roger," Evans replied, scanning the various instrument displays.
Larry Simmons watched the altimeter unwind through 3,900 feet, then removed his flying gloves and wiped his perspiring palms on his thighs. He reached over to the panel at his shoulder and pushed in the circuit breaker to the temporary transponder. He left it activated for seven seconds, then pulled it out. The tech-rep then placed a retainer around the circuit breaker, as he had the other transponder breakers, to prevent it from being shoved in accidentally.
"Thousand to go, Chuck," Evans said, following the routine descent checklist. The copilot monitored closely all phases of the flight.
"Check," Matthews replied quietly, slowly raising the nose of the B-2 as he moved the throttles forward gently. "Four hundred feet… we're level."
The acceleration produced from 76,000 pounds of thrust pressed the crew into their seats as the bomber accelerated to 460 knots.
"Terrain avoidance verified," Evans reported, referring to the highly sophisticated terrain anticollision radar system.
The radar screen cast a dim glow on the faces of the pilots. Evans switched the scale to three nautical miles, scanning the instrument intently, looking for any obstacle in their path of flight. Shadow 37 was now traveling over the bay at almost eight nautical miles a minute.
The strategic bomber had been designed to be subsonic to avoid detection from the supersonic "footprint." The mission of the B-2, whether flying a high-altitude profile or hugging the deck, was to penetrate the target area unnoticed.
Matthews darted a look at the electro-optical display, then concentrated intently on the terrain-avoidance system flying the speeding bomber. He did not trust the terrain-hugging system this close to the surface, especially at night.
Matthews had already experienced two failures in Shadow 37's quadruple-redundant fly-by-wire digital flight control system. One failure, at 220 feet above the Tehachapi Mountains, had almost cost him his life. His uncanny reflexes had saved three lives in less than a second.
"Paul," Matthews said, again scanning his flight instruments, "how about dimming the panel lights just a tweak?"
"Yessir," Evans responded, reaching for the interior light control switches. He gave the instrument panel knob a slight turn. The cockpit darkened as the pilots' vision adjusted to the black, overcast night.
Matthews, fighting the insidious feeling of vertigo, keyed his intercom system. "How you doin', Larry?"
Five seconds passed without a response from the weapons systems technician. Evans cocked his head to the left to look at Simmons. What he saw horrified him.
Chapter Two
Peter Dawson, journeyman traffic controller, stared at his radarscope, mesmerized. The emergency transponder squawk-7700was real. The code, which set off the control center alarm, had appeared instantaneously without even a primary radar return.
Dawson's supervisor, Bruce Cochrane, was already standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder. "Where the blazes did that come from?"
"You've got me," Dawson replied, looking confused. He had not been tracking any traffic twenty-five nautical miles west of the southern tip of Belcher Islands.
"Get on the land-line, Peter," the supervisor ordered, looking closer at the radarscope, "and find out what's going on out there."
Dawson nodded in response, then talked briefly with a controller in the Winnipeg sector. The young air traffic specialist listened to his associate, signed off, and turned to his supervisor. "They don't have a clue, Bruce," Dawson said, checking his pad. "That squawk popped up from an area that's temporarily restricted… some kind of military operation."
Cochrane shrugged his shoulders, exhaling loudly. "How long was it on the scope?"
"I'm not sure," Dawson responded, searching his mind for the answer to Cochrane's question. "Four, maybe five seconds. Long enough to trigger the alarm."
"Lad," Cochrane placed his left hand on Dawson's shoulder, "better whistle up the military boys and signal the rescue people. I think someone is shy one airplane."
Major Paul Evans, frozen in terror, stared at the business end of a bright orange flare gun. The muzzle was only four inches from his face.
Evans glanced down at the object in Simmons's lap. The technician had opened the valve of his temporary oxygen bottle. He was filling the cockpit with pure oxygen. One spark and Shadow 37 would explode in a thundering conflagration.
"What the hell are you doing?" Evans shouted as he reached over to tap Matthews on the sleeve.
The aircraft commander glanced quickly over his right shoulder. "Goddamn, Larry, wh—"
"Shut up, both of you," Simmons said in a shaky, strained voice. He was having a difficult time remembering the speech he had been taught. The hours of rehearsing had been wasted as the spiel evaporated slowly from his frightened mind.
Both pilots, remaining silent, gave each other a fearful look. Matthews raised the B-2's nose slightly, reaching for the safety of altitude. The mission had now become a matter of personal survival.
Matthews and Evans were surprised when the AWACS radioed on the emergency Guard, 243.0, frequency. The airborne controllers had also seen the emergency code flash on their radarscopes.
"Ghost Two Five and Shadow Three Seven, this is Mystic," the AWACS officer said. "Acknowledge."
Matthews attempted to speak to Simmons as Evans keyed his radio.
"Larry, you can't get—"
"Don't use the radio!" Simmons commanded, holding the quivering flare gun next to Evans's neck. "Unplug your radio cords — both of you. NOW! We're shutting down all systems emissions — everything."
Matthews and Evans again exchanged concerned looks as they complied with the order. Matthews scanned the primary flight instruments, checked the engine readouts, then spoke to his copilot. "Paul, take the controls, stay on course, and level at twelve thousand."
Simmons hesitated a second, then spoke to the aircraft commander in a steady voice. "Major… Colonel Matthews, I am in control of the flight."
Simmons waved the 12-gauge signal gun nervously between the pilots. "I give the orders. Turn to a course of one hundred eighty-seven, and go up to fifty-one thousand feet."
Evans paused, questioning Matthews.
"Go ahead, Paul," the pilot replied, then turned slightly to the right in order to face Simmons more fully. "Larry," Matthews said in a soothing voice, "we're going to comply — no problem — whatever you want, okay? Just relax, and listen."
"No," Simmons replied in a normal tone. "You are not going to talk me out of this. Just follow my directions, and you and Major Evans will be okay."
Matthews started to speak, then decided to let Simmons have his say.
"I am defecting to a Communist state and taking this airplane with me."
The two pilots looked at each other with blank stares. They were incredulous.
"Larry," Matthews said, shaking his head slowly, "this is insane… the biggest mistake you could ever make. We still have time to salvage this… error in judgment, if you'll give us a chance."
"Colonel," Simmons replied, pointing the flare gun in the pilot's face. "I will not hesitate to blow this airplane out of the sky if you attempt to resist."