"Get the nose down!" Matthews ordered, watching the airspeed decrease rapidly. "We're going to stall!"
Brotskharnov, having changed course forty degrees and climbed 2,300 feet, shoved the nose down and turned back to the original heading. The Russian pilot's hands were shaking as he leveled the bomber at 42,300 feet.
Shadow 37, bouncing lightly in the dense clouds, accelerated to cruise speed again.
"They're going to shoot us down!" Matthews said, feeling the revolver in his side. "It's only a matter of time!"
Simmons shoved harder on the barrel of the gun. "Shut up, colonel!"
Matthews, ignoring the technician, leaned closer to Brotskharnov. "There's no way out… they've got us surrounded."
The wily Russian slowly turned his head. "Engage the autopilot. We will be okay if we can remain in the clouds."
Chapter Thirty
The airborne command and control officer called Shadow 37 on Guard a dozen times, then radioed the E-2C Hawkeye controlling the navy aircraft from Carl Vinson.
The Hawkeye radar controller plotted the coordinates of the B-2 sighting and vectored two sections of F-14s toward a rendezvous with the bomber. "Sundowners, come port fifteen degrees and climb to angels four-five-zero. We've got a B-2 coming down the pike."
"Roger," the operations officer of VF-111 radioed. "Any idea when we'll intercept?"
"Stand by," the controller answered as he conferred with another radar operator. "We're projecting that you'll overfly the B-2 in twenty… say twenty-one minutes."
The Tomcat pilot, easing his throttles forward in the climb, looked over his glare shield. "We've got a thick cloud cover out here."
"Copy," the Hawkeye officer replied. "Don't show a thing.. not a trace of the B-2. We're just extrapolating at this point."
"Roger."
The radios remained quiet for a few seconds before the controller spoke again. "Sundowners, we show MiG activity at your four o'clock, climbing out of two-seven-zero. Looks like three aircraft at twenty-eight miles."
The F-14 flight leader checked his armament panel. "Keep us informed."
"Roger that," the controller said as he adjusted his scope. "They're off the Tihlisi — supposed to be helping us — but we haven't received permission to work them."
"Copy."
The Hawkeye officer changed to a frequency used by the Soviet fighter pilots, adjusted his lip microphone, and flipped the frequency switch. "This is navy airborne controller, call sign Eight Ball. All Soviet aircraft are warned to stand clear of U. S. operations. Repeat, all Soviet aircraft remain clear of U. S. operations."
The four F-14s, breaking out of the dark clouds at 43,000 feet, continued toward the projected position of the Stealth bomber. The fighter pilots listened to the radar controller alternately warn the Soviet aircraft, then change to Guard and call the B-2. The orders to the pilot of the bomber went unanswered.
Chuck Matthews had resigned himself to the only choice he had left. He needed to create a major distraction in order for his desperate plan to work.
General Brotskharnov, staring intently through the curved windshield, saw flecks of blue sky overhead. "We must descend to stay in the clouds."
Matthews, contemplating the odds of his survival, wordlessly programmed the flight director to descend back to 40,000 feet.
The F-14 passed over Shadow 37 a half mile off the bomber's left wing. The B-2 was visible as it descended through the wisps of clouds.
"0… kay," the pilot said to himself as he called the Hawkeye and started a left 180-degree turn. "Eight Ball, Sundowner One has a tally on the B-2."
"Roger. Stand by."
"Two," the pilot radioed, "come port with me and let's start a descent."
"Two."
The fighter pilot eased the Tomcat's nose down and talked to his flight again. "Hal, you and Rich fly high cover."
"Three."
"Four."
"Sundowner lead," the Hawkeye controller said in a slow, even voice. "Make visual contact with the crew and attempt comm on Guard-call sign Shadow Three Seven. Have the aircraft turn toward Hawaii."
"Roger," the Tomcat pilot radioed. "Sundowners, come up Guard."
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
Sundowner One looked over his shoulder. "Two, stay high behind me."
"Copy."
The lead F-14 closed rapidly on the B-2, then deployed his speed brakes and radioed the bomber on 243.0. "Shadow Three Seven, Sundowner lead on Guard. Come port one-five-zero… acknowledge."
Matthews, startled by the unexpected radio call, looked out of his side window as the Tomcat slid into view. The pilot raised his visor and waved. Brotskharnov swore loudly and grabbed the flight controls, shoving the nose down.
"Jesus Christ," Matthews said, feeling the negative g load as loose objects floated up in the cockpit.
Simmons, almost dropping his revolver, gripped his seat tightly.
"Shadow Three Seven," the F-14 pilot said as he countered the violent maneuver. "We have been ordered to shoot you down. Do you copy?"
Matthews decided to make his move. "Let me have the controls!"
Brotskharnov appeared suspicious, then released the stick.
"I know the aircraft better," Matthews shouted, clutching the control stick. "I can evade them!"
The B-2 was between cloud layers when Matthews snapped the bomber into a tight left turn. "Check out the right," Matthews ordered. "See anyone?"
Brotskharnov and Simmons leaned closer to the right side window, gazing out over the wing. Matthews, seizing the opportunity, reached up and pulled his red-flagged ejection seat pin. The rocket-powered seat was now armed to fire.
Matthews quickly stuffed the bright cloth and metal pin under his left thigh as Brotskharnov turned to him. "I do not see fighters."
"Keep checking," Matthews replied, then trimmed the B-2's nose full up, fighting the stick to keep the bomber from climbing.
"Shadow Three Seven," the F-14 pilot radioed in a strained voice. "I am going to fire a missile in thirty seconds. Turn to onefive-zero… your last warning."
The Tomcat dropped back 200 yards as the pilot selected master arm on and heard the lock-on tone. "Ten seconds," the pilot radioed, watching the bomber turn again. "Five seconds."
Matthews quickly moved his hand toward the alternate ejection handle. The bomber was nearing a thick wall of clouds when the F14 pilot fired a Sidewinder at Shadow 37.
"Fox Two!"
Matthews jinked the bomber up. Brotskharnov and Simmons braced themselves as the B-2 plunged into the cloud bank. The missile, fired too close to track properly, flashed under the bomber's left wing.
The Hawkeye controller watched the Sidewinder continue toward the horizon, then noticed something alarming. "The MiGs fired!" the radar controller shouted over Guard. "They detected your shot! Two missiles… the MiGs have two missiles away."
"Sundowners," the flight leader ordered, "unload — let's go for the deck! Take it down!"
"Oh, Jesus!" a voice shouted as Matthews grasped his ejection handle. "Lead is on fire! Lead is hit!"
"All aircraft," the Hawkeye controller shouted, "go Weapons Hold… Weapons Hold."
Matthews gripped the handle firmly, focusing on the next three seconds. His mind raced as he fought to hold the nose in level flight. Adrenaline pumping, Matthews paused a fraction of a second, then yanked on the ejection handle.
The explosive blast hurled the American pilot more than 150 feet above the B-2. Matthews tumbled through the sky, separated from his seat, then went into free-fall to a lower altitude, where his parachute would automatically open.
The Stealth, trimmed full nose up, pitched violently upward into the clouds. Brotskharnov, blinded and burned by the rocket blast, slumped semiconscious in his seat. The Russian pilot groaned in agony as Simmons unstrapped, then staggered to grab Matthews's control stick. The entire front and left side of the technician's body was blackened by the explosive ejection.