Simmons waited a few seconds before responding. His mind whirled, trying to comprehend what the aircraft commander was talking about. "Yeah, colonel?" Simmons asked, trying not to show any of the fear growing inside him. "What's the one item?"
Matthews turned to face the Stealth's hijacker. "That the commies are going to dispose of you — kill you — after they get their hands on this airplane."
Secretary of Defense Bernard D. Kerchner, sitting at his secluded table at Twenty One Federal, lifted his aperitif glass. "Here's to you, darling. The quintessence of the perfect wife."
Kerchner touched the outstretched glass lightly, then looked into the dancing green eyes. "Happy thirty-first anniversary, Liddy."
The radiant, petite woman brushed back her chestnut hair, then squeezed her husband's left hand. "Bernie, I have always loved the irrepressible romantic in you."
Kerchner started to respond, then stopped. He had noticed the maitre d' hurrying toward their table. Renoir Dutilleux, always the gentleman, apologized for intruding, then handed Kerchner a slip of paper.
"Thank you, Renoir," Kerchner said, slipping his reading glasses from the holder inside his coat.
"Again, my apologies, Mister Secretary. The general said it was most urgent."
"It always is," Kerchner replied, smiling. He waited while the maitre d' bowed slightly and walked away.
"Oh, Bernie, not bad news," Liddy said softly, watching her husband's brow furrow.
"I'm afraid so," Kerchner replied, sliding back his chair. "I have to call General Parkinson at home."
The short, balding, round-faced defense secretary motioned for their waiter, then patted his wife's hand. The white-jacketed waiter crossed the elegant marble and wood floor and approached the table.
"Nicky, I have to make a phone call, so we'll order in a few minutes," Kerchner said, opening the wine list. "In the meantime, we'll sample a bottle of Cotes du Rhone Beaucastel."
"Excellent choice, Secretary Kerchner."
Elizabeth "Liddy" Kerchner, feeling cheated by the government once again, watched her husband walk to the phone near the entrance. She and Bernie seemed to have so little private time together since the shake-up at "crisis management" — Bernie's nickname for the National Security Council. The gracious, attractive woman accepted the glass of red wine the waiter had poured, then watched her husband place the phone receiver down and remove his glasses. She could see the anguish in his eyes.
Kerchner walked to the table, pulled back his chair, slid into his seat, and took both of his wife's hands in his. "Sorry, honey," Kerchner said, massaging the top of Liddy's hands gently with his thumbs. "I've got to rush over to the Pentagon. Why don't you order, then take a cab home… and don't wait up. I promise we're going to do this again — until we get it right."
Liddy laughed in her warm, soft manner. "I know, Bernie… I know. Can you tell me what has happened?"
"Yes," Kerchner replied, lowering his voice slightly. "We've lost one of our B-2s."
Liddy Kerchner was visibly shocked. "One of the new Stealth bombers crashed?"
Kerchner glanced around the room, then spoke quietly. "They don't know what happened. The damned thing disappeared over Hudson Bay — joint exercise with the Canadians — and the speculation is that it crashed in the bay."
"Oh, God," Liddy said in a hushed voice. "How awful."
"Yes," Kerchner responded somberly, signaling for their regular waiter. "I'll call you later, as soon as I know anything."
Liddy watched, unsmiling, as her husband signed the open check, retrieved his topcoat, then walked out the door.
Matthews and Evans had remained quiet as the bomber struggled to 51,000 feet. Shadow 37 was now passing directly over Detroit, invisible to radar screens in the Cleveland air route traffic control center.
"Larry," Matthews said in a conversational tone. "I recommend we turn on the radios, so we can at least monitor traffic and get some weather information."
Simmons thought about the suggestion, suspicion written on his face. "Why?"
Matthews looked at Evans out of the corner of his eye in time to catch the copilot roll his eyes upward. "Because we are currently traveling through one of the highest density air traffic areas in the country. There's a lot of congestion up here, Larry, and no one knows we're overhead."
Simmons remained quiet, mulling over the reasonableness of the request.
Evans half-turned, facing Simmons. "Goddamnit, we aren't going to transmit anything."
Simmons still did not trust the pilots but reluctantly acquiesced. "Okay, but don't try anything, I warn you. One word and I'll pull the trigger."
Neither officer answered as they quickly activated the VHF and UHF radios and plugged in their radio cords. The B-2 normally used UHF, or the classified MILSTAR system, but the crew also needed the VHF frequencies used by civilians.
Matthews reached down behind the console separating the pilots, and retrieved the U. S. government IFR en route high-altitude charts. The charts would allow the pilots to orient themselves and, most importantly, identify the radio frequencies they needed to monitor each air traffic control center.
"Looks like one-thirty-two point forty-five," Matthews said, tuning the VHF channels.
The padded earphones in each crew member's helmet immediately crackled to life. "United Two Seven Four, cleared present position direct to Indianapolis."
"Direct Indianapolis, United Two Seven Four," the pleasant female voice replied.
Both pilots listened to the radio chatter, waiting for ten minutes after the top of the hour. That would be a good time to eavesdrop on the civilian flight service frequencies for a picture of the weather in the southeastern United States.
"Cleveland Center, Citation Five-Fifty-Five Tango Charlie with ya at five-one-oh."
Matthews and Evans, startled, looked at each other, then listened intently to the conversation. The business jet was cruising at their altitude.
"Five Five Tango Charlie," the center controller radioed, "we have a change in routing. Ready to copy?"
"Tango Charlie, go ahead."
"Five Five Tango Charlie is cleared via Jay sixty-four Bradford, direct Des Moines."
The Citation copilot read back the clearance. "Sixty-four Bradford, direct Des Moines, triple nickel Tango Charlie."
Matthews tapped the high-altitude chart. "Look! We're about to cross Jet sixty-four."
Evans turned down the cockpit lights to the lowest setting, then looked at the chart. "It runs east and west; he has to be closing from the left, westbound, if he hasn't already crossed in front of us."
"You're right. Let's step down," Matthews ordered.
Evans gently eased the autopilot into a descent, then turned toward Simmons. "We're going to cruise at fifty thousand — it isn't a cardinal altitude."
Simmons nodded his agreement, watching the altimeter readout.
Both pilots saw the business jet's flashing strobe lights at the same instant. "JESUS!" Matthews yelled as the B-2 was rocked violently by wing-tip turbulence from the Citation III.
Evans let out his breath slowly. "We didn't miss him twenty feet vertically."
"Yeah," Matthews replied grimly. "His wing went right over our cockpit."
Evans continued the descent as the pilots listened to the frightened Citation copilot.
"Cleveland, Five Five Tango Charlie!"
"Cleveland Center," the controller answered, alert to the change in the pilot's voice.
"Ah… Cleveland, we almost had a midair. You have any traffic in the vicinity at our altitude?"
"Negative, Five Five Tango Charlie," the surprised controller replied in a questioning voice. "Closest traffic is eastbound, eight miles at your eleven o'clock — a Gulfstream at four-one-zero."