Both pilots again looked at each other in amazement. Matthews shook his head slowly. "Larry, you've been deceived, and it's going to cost the lives of all three of us if you can't see the picture."
Simmons clenched his jaw before responding defensively. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Irina and I fell in love after she told me who she was… and about the B-2 project."
Evans turned his head slightly. "Right."
The vice president of the United States, holding a phone to his ear, motioned for Bernard Kerchner and Air Force Gen. Frank Parkinson to join him in his study. They had been summoned hurriedly from the Pentagon.
The tall, lean, impeccably groomed air force deputy chief of staff for plans and operations followed Kerchner into the richly paneled room. The two men sat down in the wingback chairs on each side of the small fireplace.
Kirklin W. Truesdell had a reputation for being a meticulous and highly efficient administrator. The top of his rich cherry wood desk was immaculate, reflecting the organizational skills he had developed as a naval officer and public servant.
The vice president had recently assumed responsibilities as acting chief of staff. The president's closest aide and adviser, the chief of staff had been gravely injured in a boating accident and remained in critical but stable condition in Bethesda Naval Medical Center.
"Yes, sir," Truesdell replied into the phone, writing rapidly on his desk pad. "We'll keep you informed."
The vice president listened a moment longer, then hung up. "That was the president," Truesdell said, swiveling around in his chair. "He wants us to keep him informed of any developments in the B-2 search. Also," he continued, scratching through a message on his pad, "he wants us to be at Camp David at seven in the morning."
The vice president leaned across his desk, frowning, and addressed the defense secretary. "Bernie, how the hell did we manage to lose a B-2? They've been searching for almost four hours and haven't found a shred of evidence to indicate that the Stealth crashed."
Kerchner lowered his gaze a moment, then looked at the intense former Central Intelligence Agency Director. "Sir, the aircraft was scheduled to land at Ellsworth approximately fifteen minutes ago. It hasn't arrived, no one has communicated with the crew, the Canadians confirm that there was an emergency code displayed briefly where the aircraft was supposed to be, and…, " Kerchner paused, forming his thoughts, "the B-1 crew hasn't shed any light on the disappearance. That's all we know."
Parkinson, resplendent in his ribbon-bedecked blue uniform, spoke to Truesdell. "Mister Vice President, all the information indicates that the aircraft crashed into Hudson Bay where the emergency code flashed briefly. The flight was following a very precise, pre-planned course. We'll know for certain where the aircraft crashed when we search in the morning. The crews will fly the same course, spread out horizontally at half-mile intervals. If the Stealth went into the bay, sir, there will be floating debris, I can assure you."
"Have you grounded the other B-2s?" Truesdell asked, studying a Northrop flight test synopsis.
"Yes, sir, we have," Parkinson answered, then added, "until we find out what happened to Shadow Three Seven. We intend to keep the operational B-2s standing alert, but they won't fly unless we encounter a global threat of some nature."
"Sir," Kerchner said to the frowning vice president, "whatever happened, we believe, was catastrophic. The crew never had a chance to get off a message."
"Okay, let's get some sleep," Truesdell said, looking at the mantel clock over the fireplace. "Plan for a five-forty-five brief here, then we'll go to the helicopter pad."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, standing with Parkinson.
Truesdell escorted the two men out, shut the door, and returned to his study. He poured a small amount of Remy Martin into a brandy glass, then sat down on the handsome leather couch. Swirling the amber cognac under his nose, he stared into the glowing embers of the dying fire. He replayed the B-2 events over and over in his mind. Something did not fit.
Evans looked at the high-altitude en route chart, then switched the VHF radio from Jacksonville Center to Miami Center. The pilots listened to the busy air traffic controllers and commercial pilots discuss the rapidly deteriorating weather. The tropical depression southeast of Jamaica had advanced to a tropical storm, then to hurricane status as it tracked northwest. Hurricane Bennett was growing in intensity.
"Larry…, " Matthews paused, catching a pilot report from a Delta Airlines flight, "you picked a great time of year to go to Cuba. The eye of the hurricane is passing forty miles south of San Julian."
Simmons remained quiet. He had no plan for such an eventuality. Levchenko had not discussed any bad weather alternatives during the planning sessions. Would the MiG pilots be able to rendezvous with the Stealth?
Matthews cupped his hands around his eyes and looked out of his side window. "I can't see Saint Petersburg," the pilot said quietly. "We've got a solid cloud deck below us."
Evans rubbed his eyes, then looked at the navigation plot for the thousandth time. "Cuba — San Julian has to be totally clobbered. Bennett has already engulfed the southern half of Florida."
"Larry," Matthews said, turning slightly to see Simmons. "We're flying into a hurricane without enough fuel to reach our destination. You must listen to reason."
"Colonel," Simmons responded unsteadily, "we are committed to San Julian."
"Goddamnit!" Evans spat, twisting his head to the left. "Listen to reason! This is our last chance to land while we have fuel in our tanks. We aren't bullshitting you. Look at the nav plot, for Christ's sake, and add it up."
Simmons squirmed, then looked between the two pilots. He stared straight ahead into the turbulent black night, averting the pilot's questioning eyes. "We are committed to San Julian."
"Shit!" Matthews exclaimed as he pulled the number one and four throttles to idle, then cutoff.
"What are you doing?" Simmons asked in shock.
"Shut up!" Matthews barked as the EICAS annunciator warning and emergency lights flashed on, illuminating the cockpit with a reddish amber glow. "We don't have any choice," he explained as he and Evans went through the engine shutdown checklist. "It's very simple, Larry. I have to conserve fuel, so we'll fly on two engines. It's still going to be a crapshoot."
Simmons, beginning to have doubts about the outcome of the hijacking, felt his pulse pounding. He stared at the bright warning lights, then at the flight parameters displayed on the EICAS screen. The digital airspeed indicator was decreasing rapidly through 0.71 Mach as the autopilot fought to maintain the preset altitude.
"Here we go," Matthews warned Evans as he squeezed the autopilot disengage button on his control stick, then checked the continuity of the fly-by-wire flight controls. "Descent checklist."
Simmons clutched the flare gun in both hands. "Why are we descending?"
"Because," Matthews replied, easing the B-2's nose down, "we can't maintain fifty thousand feet on two engines. We'll have to drift down to an altitude we can hold with the power we have."
Simmons remained quiet while the two pilots completed their checklist. He could feel the turbulence and rain increasing as the bomber plunged into the thick, boiling storm clouds. "Stop!" he suddenly blurted. "The MiGs are supposed to join us at fifty-one thousand."
"Screw the MiGs!" Evans shot back. "We're trying to survive, you stupid bastard."
Simmons yanked up the flare gun, then shoved the barrel into the back of Evans's neck. His hand shook. He was not as certain as he pretended to be in the face of this unplanned turn of events. "Don't screw with me, major."