"Look!" the copilot pointed. "That's a… it's a B-2!"
The captain focused outside. "Good god… you're right. Looks like they're at three-nine-oh."
Both pilots remained silent, staring at the sinister-looking bomber as it passed to the left and disappeared under the wing.
"They're higher than thirty-nine… gotta be," the first officer said as he turned to the captain. "Think we should notify someone?"
The pilot thought a second, then nodded his head. "Yeah, I think so. Kinda strange dumping fuel over the middle of the pond… and being at the wrong altitude."
Matthews discreetly deselected fuel dump and tuned the VHF radio to 121.5 and the UHF sets to 243.0, the international distress frequencies. He knew that if anyone attempted to contact Shadow 37, they would most likely try the Guard emergency frequency.
Matthews sat back, staring at the murky clouds and contemplating what action he should take if they were contacted or intercepted.
"We have a sighting," the airborne controller said over the intercom, then keyed his radio and talked to the Air Guard F-15 flight leader.
"Rainbow leader, we have a confirmation on the B-2. You're three-five-two, angels three-nine-zero to four-zero-zero at two hundred ten miles. Heading approximately three-four-zero."
The radar operator waited a moment, receiving further information through his headset. "You are cleared to intercept. Repeat, you are cleared to intercept."
"Copy," the Air Guard flight leader radioed, shoving his throttles into afterburner. "Rainbows, let's move it out."
A minute passed before the controller contacted the Marine F/A18s. "Devil flight, take up a heading of three-three-zero. We'll hold you fifty south of Rainbow flight."
"Devil copy."
Marine One, transporting Jarrett back from the Kneecap E-4, was touching down as the secretary of state hurried out of the White House. Kerchner waited until the president stepped off the helicopter and saluted the marine sergeant.
"Mister President," Kerchner said as he fell in step with Jarrett, "the B-2 has been spotted over the northern Pacific, north of the Hawaiian Islands."
Jarrett, smiling and waving at the throng of media representatives, did not change his expression. "Who spotted it?"
"An airliner… a Cathay Pacific flight," Kerchner answered as they approached the entrance to the White House. "We're vectoring air force fighters for an intercept."
"Excellent," Jarrett responded with a final wave to the shouting press corps. "Let's get everyone in the situation room as soon as possible."
"They're standing by, sir," Kerchner replied as he slowed to let the president step through the open door. "And the SovietsIgnatyev — just offered to assist us in locating the B-2."
Jarrett looked surprised. "Interesting."
As if in confirmation of that fact, at that point the 65,000 metric-ton Soviet aircraft carrier, Tiblisi, operating 370 miles south of Amchitka Island, was plowing through heavy seas. The large-deck carrier was on a direct line between the American Stealth bomber and Yelizovo airfield on Kamchatka Peninsula.
Sukhoi Su-27 Flankers and MiG-29 Fulcrums, using the ski-jump bow, were being launched to search for the elusive Stealth bomber. The pilots had been briefed, in the event they spotted the bomber, to keep it in sight until an American aircraft could be vectored for an intercept.
The Soviet fighters would spread out from 220 to 310 miles ahead of the Tiblisi, refuel from one of five tankers, then orbit at staggered intervals.
The sun was high in the sky when Matthews felt the first bumps of rough air. The looming storm had grown darker in the past forty minutes.
Matthews, who was feeling the effects of dehydration, turned to General Brotskharnov. "We're going to need the weather radar, or we're in for a rough ride."
The Russian pilot looked at the display units, then back at Simmons.
The technician shook his head. "We have to keep the airplane cold — no emissions."
Brotskharnov shrugged and turned to Matthews. "I am not the expert."
Matthews, tired and irritated, cinched his straps tighter as the B-2 bounced through the lower layers of the cloud bank.
"Rainbow leader," the controller radioed, staring at his radar console, "continue present course and spread your flight another ten miles. We believe you should be overtaking the B-2 soon."
"Ah. roger," the Air Guard flight leader responded, checking his wingman's position. "You'll have to space us — we're starting to encounter some weather."
"Copy," the AWACS officer replied. "Come left ten degrees and I'll call your separation."
"Roger, comin' left ten."
The F-15 pilot eased his stick to the left and glanced out at the horizon. He froze when he saw the Stealth bomber whisk through a layer of stringy dark clouds.
"Sonuvabitch," the fighter pilot said in his oxygen mask, then keyed his radio. "Pelican, Rainbow lead has a tally on the B-2!"
"Roger, roger," the excited AWACS officer replied. "Rainbow Two, turn left twenty degrees — lead is seven miles at your nine o'clock."
"Two comin' left twenty. Call me at three miles."
"Wilco," the controller radioed. "Rainbow lead, close on the B-2 and contact on Guard."
"Roger," the startled pilot said. "Confirm the call sign."
"Ah… Shadow Three Seven."
"Copy."
Matthews twisted his head back and forth, exercising his stiff neck muscles. He was thinking about taking off his helmet when something out of the side window caught his eye.
He snapped his head to the left and stared at the cockpit of an F15 Eagle. Matthews saw the Hawaiian Air National Guard lettering on the aircraft at the same instant the fighter pilot transmitted over the radio.
"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow leader on Guard. Do you copy?"
Simmons bolted upright as Brotskharnov leaned over the console and stared at the American fighter in wide-eyed astonishment.
"We better talk to him," Matthews cautioned, turning to Simmons. "The game is over."
Simmons looked at Brotskharnov, who was in shock.
"Shadow Three Seven, Shadow Three Seven, Rainbow lead on Guard," the F-15 pilot radioed, easing closer to the nose of the B-2. "We have orders to shoot you down if you do not comply. Do you copy?"
Matthews shot a glance at the Eagle pilot and turned to Brotskharnov. "They've got us, goddamnit!"
The Russian blanched, snapped off the autopilot, grabbed his set of controls, and shoved the three throttles forward. "The hell they do!" the Russian pilot barked, yanking the bomber into a tight, climbing turn to the right.
Matthews reached for his controls at the same instant that Simmons pressed the revolver against the pilot's ribs.
The stunned fighter pilot, unprepared for the B-2's abrupt maneuver, tried to close on the bomber. When the two aircraft entered the dense clouds, the F-15 pilot, concerned about a midair collision, pulled his throttles back and shoved the nose over.
"Pelican, Rainbow lead. I've lost the target — he pulled into the clouds."
"Stand by," the controller radioed in a frustrated voice. "Are you in a position to try another intercept?"
"Negative — I'm not painting anything on the scope. They just disappeared in the soup."
The radio remained quiet for a moment before another voice spoke. "Rainbow leader, say fuel state."
"Three point nine," the pilot replied as his wingman rendezvoused on the right side. "We're gonna have to drop back and tank."