Shadow Catcher (12 page)

CHAPTER 24

“L
ighthouse, Wraith is leaving flight level two five zero, starting the descent for the Skyhook test.” Nick sat in the mission commander's seat on the right side of the M-2's cockpit, with Drake in the copilot's seat to his left. A panoramic view of the Maryland coast spread out before them, displayed on a continuous 180-degree wrapping screen. The aircraft had no windshield, no windows at all. Instead, sensors embedded in the aircraft's skin fed the enhanced infrared display, showing them the world outside in crisp black and white. They could see every detail of the coast, every wisp of cloud in the sky despite the darkness of the night.

Nick programmed the autopilot for a long, spiraling descent through the restricted airspace. It would take more than twenty minutes for the Wraith to descend from twenty-five thousand feet to its new altitude, just five hundred feet above the Atlantic waves. He took the opportunity for a rest, removing his flight helmet and running his fingers through his sweaty hair. After a long pull from his water bottle, Nick turned in his ejection seat to face his copilot, his forehead creased with concern. “Are you ready for this one?”

Drake set his own helmet down on his knee. “Of course I am. Why? Are you worried?”

So far, the test flight had gone smoothly, just like the previous four test flights, all flown during the month before the Persian Gulf mission. The Wraith had arrived at Romeo Seven's hangar facility in late January. A casual observer, or even an aircraft buff, might have mistaken her for a B-2 stealth bomber, but she was something entirely new. The M-2 was bigger, with more deeply swept wings for supersonic flight. She also had new engines, stolen from the F-22 program and modified by Amanda's propulsion team.

This single M-2 was the only bird spawned from a doomed program called the LRS, the Long Range Striker. Originally the B-2's replacement, the LRS fell victim to budget cuts and a shifting political climate. Scott and Amanda were both lead design consultants on the project. When it lost funding midstream, Walker saw a tremendous opportunity. Black money finished the job, custom built to Triple Seven specs.

Tonight's test flight had gone like clockwork, with the Wraith's array of tactical systems functioning perfectly. But Nick had a bad feeling about using a live target for the Skyhook test, especially a live target that he didn't trust.

“Relax, boss,” said Drake, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a grin, “just because the last guy to get yanked off the ground by a Skyhook cable was . . .”

Nick held up his hand. “Don't say it. I've already got a bad vibe about this test. You don't need to jinx it more.”

Both pilots put their helmets back on and clipped their oxygen masks into place. Nick turned and pressed a series of squares on a large touch-screen monitor that angled up out of the console to his right. “Lighthouse, this descent is going to take a while,” he said into the radio. “I'm going to send you our flight data so that you can get something useful out of it. I'm starting the telemetry feed now.”

“Lighthouse copies, we are receiving your feed,” replied Scott from Romeo Seven. “If you don't mind, give us some basic maneuvers on your way down for better data.”

“I've got this one,” said Drake, taking the controls. “This spiral descent is taking too long anyway. I think I'll take the express elevator instead.” The Wraith lurched to the right as Drake rolled her up on a knife's edge, slicing through the horizon into a deep dive. The digital altitude readout became a green blur as the huge jet accelerated toward the water.

Nick leaned back in his ejection seat and stretched. “Do you really have to do stuff like this?” He watched the altitude readout blaze past ten thousand feet on its way to zero. “You're such a child.”

“I'm showing massive spikes in the auto-stabilizer inputs,” said Scott. He sounded terrified. “It looks like you're plummeting toward the ocean.”

“I think you've made your point, Drake,” said Nick.

Drake righted the aircraft and pulled back hard on the side-stick control. The engines' vectored thrust system tilted the exhaust nozzles upward to help him power out of the dive. The surface of the Atlantic flashed by the screen, every peak and valley of the small waves standing out in sharp detail.

Nick grunted under the strain of seven Gs. He couldn't help feeling a little pride. No other aircraft this big could handle that kind of maneuvering, not even a B-1. He let out a long breath as Drake settled at five hundred feet. “Don't worry, Lighthouse,” he transmitted. “Your numbers were correct. That was just Drake's version of basic maneuvering.”

“And he wonders why I don't like him,” replied Scott.

“All right, gentlemen, it's time to get serious,” said Nick. “Let's not forget the gravity of what we are about to accomplish.” He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. The whole team agreed that the Wraith needed a Skyhook capability for covert exfiltration, and that meant conducting a human test, but consensus didn't make it any less dangerous.

This test would mark the first human trial of a Fulton Skyhook Surface-to-Air Recovery system in more than thirty years. The Department of Defense had officially banned live recoveries for good reason. The last man to get yanked off the ground by a fixed-wing aircraft had been thrown a quarter mile through the air and slammed into the ground at over a hundred miles an hour. It took the coroner's team a week to recover all the pieces. Only the CIA had maintained the option after that, and even they dropped it ten years later for lack of use. No one wanted to try it.

“Wraith, this is Dagger, radio check,” came Quinn's voice through the radio.

“Dagger, Wraith has you loud and clear. Are you on coords?”

“Affirmative, I'm at the location you gave me,” said Quinn.

Nick selected a waypoint labeled
DAGGER
from the touch screen on his console. Immediately, a green square appeared on the forward screen, fixed over Quinn's coordinates between the Wraith and the coastline. Another, larger square appeared at the base of the display, showing magnified video of Quinn's position, captured by one of the forward cameras. In the lower-right corner of the square, a small boat gently rocked back and forth in the black waves.

“There's our boy,” said Drake.

Nick tapped the boat with his finger, and the video began tracking it, keeping it at the center of the square. “Dagger, pop a thermal marker for confirmation,” he said.

A bright white spot flared in the video, nearly blotting out the boat before the computer auto-tuned the image. Nick put his thumb and forefinger inside the box and spread them apart, zooming in until he could see Quinn slowly waving the signal marker back and forth.

The pararescueman stood at the back of a runabout. While everyone else had taken the early evening off, Quinn had navigated the boat around Cape Charles, out into the open water beneath the maneuvering area.

“He looks cold,” said Drake. “I guess it was kind of harsh for us to send him out there on his first day.”

Nick pointed to the front of the boat where a young woman sat behind the wheel, huddled up under a blanket. “Nah, Molly went with him to drive the boat home.”

“Molly the new tech with the big brown eyes?”

“That's the one,” said Nick.

Drake grinned. “I guess he's okay then.” He steered the aircraft to point directly at Quinn's position and then leveled the wings. “I'm stable and on target,” he said. “We're ready to deploy Skyhook.”

Nick entered the commands, and two more video squares appeared at the bottom of the main screen. One showed a V-shaped cable-catcher extending forward from a well beneath the nose. The other showed the claw, a long cylinder split down the middle, extending from the forward edge of the bomb bay.

Airborne personnel recovery systems had always been simple in concept but dangerously complicated in execution. Getting the target off the ground was easy: fly an airplane into a cable held aloft by a balloon, capture that cable in a V-shaped catch, and voilà, your target is airborne. Thanks to the vector physics involved, the target would experience little more than a mild jerk and slowly rise to a trailing position.

The deadlier problems arose while trying to reel the target into the aircraft. There were just too many variables. Sometimes the cable got caught in the wing vortices and spun wildly in circles. Other times it tracked low and off center, trapping the target in the aircraft's engine wash. During the last human trial, it just snapped. C-130 crews solved these problems by hanging off the end of the cargo ramp and chasing the cable around with long J-hooks. Predictably, that didn't always work.

Scott had come up with a more technologically elegant solution to the cable problem. His claw had sensors that could detect the difference in motion between the cable and the surface background; in effect, it could “see” the line. Then its short robotic arm would adjust to the cable's motion and snatch it out of the air. A winch inside the claw would reel the target into the bomb bay and then retract, placing him directly in front of the ladder to the flight deck.

The system had worked perfectly on the last two tests with dummies. As Walker noted during the premission briefing, there was no reason it shouldn't work just as well with Quinn.

“Dagger, deploy your balloon,” said Nick, praying that Walker was right. On the screen, he watched Quinn unravel a line onto the floor of the boat and then pull a rip cord out of a small square packet. A miniature blimp rapidly inflated and shot skyward. The thermal panel on the balloon shined brightly on the infrared display, making it an easy target.

“Slow to one hundred and forty knots. Hit the line fifty feet below the balloon,” said Nick.

“Roj,” Drake replied, “just like last time.”

The line came up fast despite their slow speed, but Drake hit it exactly where he needed to. The catch snapped closed, severing the line above the vise and sending the balloon sailing away behind them.

Nick checked the video squares. Quinn had disappeared from the boat, and he could see Molly waving her thermal marker in a circle, the okay sign. But the other video feeds didn't look right. The system still hadn't captured Quinn's line. The claw wasn't moving.

A red light began flashing on Nick's control console. “The system is frozen. We're dragging him toward the coast. Start climbing now!”

“Should I turn back toward the boat?” asked Drake

“Negative. You'll put him into the engine wash.”

As the Wraith climbed through two thousand feet, Nick keyed the radio. “Dagger, cut away, cut away, cut away!” He waited for a response, but the radio remained silent. The kid might not even be able to hear him over the roar of the engines and the slipstream. “Dagger, this is Wraith. Cut away, cut away, cut away!”

Scott's Skyhook package came equipped with an emergency system—a lightweight parachute packed into a small pocket on the back of the vest. By Scott's design, Quinn could pull a single rip cord that would sever the line and deploy the chute. He wouldn't win any prizes at an air show, but the little chute would get him to the ground alive. Unfortunately, that emergency system had never been tested. Worse, if Nick released the cable before Quinn cut away, it could wrap around his neck or body during free fall, breaking his spine when he deployed the parachute or preventing him from deploying it at all.

They had a procedure in place. Quinn was supposed to count out thirty seconds. If the system hadn't started reeling him in by that time, he was to cut away on his own. It had easily been two minutes. By now, Quinn should have responded on the radio, confirming that he had separated and that his chute had deployed. He should be descending gently into the water. But the radio remained silent. Chances were that he was unconscious back there, getting bounced around by the jet wash or whirled in circles by the wing vortices.

The Maryland coast was approaching fast. If the kid was still attached, releasing the cable might kill him, even if he was conscious. But if Nick waited any longer, he would drop both Quinn and the cable into downtown Ocean City.

His finger hovered over the button.

Dear God, let the kid survive.

“I'm releasing the line in three, two, one . . . now.” He opened the catch, letting the cable fall free. “Turn back toward the boat,” he ordered Drake. “One way or the other, Quinn is well clear now.”

Nick and Drake waited in silence for another full minute, neither willing to accept the gruesome reality. Then the radio crackled to life.

“Woohoo! What a ride! Oh man, you guys have got to try that!”

Nick let out a relieved sigh. “Dagger, say your status.”

“I'm under canopy. My parachute deployed beautifully after you released me. I'm activating my GPS beacon. I should hit the water in about thirty seconds. Tell Molly to come pick me up.”

“Released me?” Nick repeated, raising an eyebrow at Drake. He keyed the radio again. “Dagger, did you hear my command to cut away?”

“Affirmative, Wraith,” Quinn replied, “but when am I gonna get another chance to bodysurf the air behind a stealth plane? I cut the cable after you dropped me and the fun was over. The line fell away clean.”

Nick dropped his oxygen mask and frowned at Drake. “I'm going to kill him.”

CHAPTER 25

N
ick waited until Drake lifted the large dark chocolate mocha to his lips. “I saw what you ordered,” he said. “I told you that New Year's resolution couldn't last.”

Drake coughed and sputtered. “Don't tell Amanda,” he pleaded, wiping a drop of sugary coffee from his chin. “She'll never let me live it down.”

The two sat on tall stools at a small table in Charla's, the base coffee shop. Next to them, backlit by the midmorning sun, a window painting of a life-sized Spanish friar smiled, as if the steaming cup of coffee in his hand were a blessing from heaven. Nick squinted in the sunlight and yawned.

“Still not sleeping?” asked Drake.

A waitress appeared with Nick's order. “Here's your extra-tall Redeye,” she said, handing him the supersized mix of espresso and black coffee.

“I retract the question,” said Drake flatly. “How long has it been? Five weeks? Six?”

Nick took a long hit from his Redeye and firmly set it down on the table. “Don't worry about me. You forget. I went to the Air Force Academy. I didn't sleep for four straight years.”

“You should have gone to a real college.” Drake gave him a sly grin. “I didn't sleep at Notre Dame either, but for entirely different reasons.”

Nick stared out the window. In the distance, he saw a young man pounding up the pavement in a black jogging suit and stocking cap. “Uh-oh, speaking of irresponsible behavior.”

Drake turned in his seat to follow Nick's gaze. After a moment's pause, he said, “Hey, isn't that—”

“The new kid,” finished Nick. “It's Quinn.”

“You know,” said Drake reflectively, “he runs a lot like you.”

“You mean faster than you.”

“No, I mean with a look on his face that says he's trying to punish the road for something. Or maybe trying to punish himself.”

* * *

Quinn's breath came in easy, measured rhythm despite his quick pace. Two years in the Special Tactics pipeline had brought his cardio up to an Olympic level. He could have stepped up the pace even more, but he wasn't out here to set any records. He was out here to sweat, and think.

Last night's mission had revived him. He felt alive for the first time since his final test at Mission Qual. Of course, it didn't hurt that the colonel had sent that cute tech Molly with him, but mostly it was the thrill of being out there, doing something different, something dangerous.

Maybe that's why he ignored the order to cut away. Even when the Skyhook system failed, even knowing the history, he didn't feel the risk of death. He just felt alive, and he wanted that feeling to last as long as possible.

Then Walker and Baron had freaked out. The major acted like he had just crashed the Wraith or something. It took him hours to get back to the base, but when he walked into Romeo Seven, the colonel and Baron were still in Walker's office, surely discussing his fate. They didn't tell him what they'd decided. He didn't even know if he still had a job.

Quinn stepped up his pace, leaving the sidewalk to cross the short grass field next to the airman dorms. His room was on the fourth floor, but he wasn't planning on using the stairs. Not in the normal sense anyway.

He approached the external stairwell from the side, stutter-stepped across the gravel border, and then leapt up to grab the first landing. Using the strength of his arms alone, he launched himself upward, grabbed the powder-coated aluminum handrail, and pulled his feet up to the concrete edge of the landing. Then, without pausing to rest, he leapt up and grabbed the next landing and launched himself up to the next rail. He repeated the process with rhythmic cadence until he clambered over the final rail on the fourth level.

As Quinn pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and tossed it on his bed, he noticed the message light blinking on his phone. He turned on the speaker and then hit the lit button. Walker's stern voice filled the room. The message was short.

“Quinn, report to my office immediately.”

* * *

Renovations to the Romeo Seven bunker had included a new office for Walker. The contractors installed the glass-enclosed room twelve feet above the floor in the southwest corner of the command center, giving the colonel a bird's-eye view of the entire operation. The team called it the Ivory Tower.

Nick and Drake waited at the base of the wrought-iron stairs like kids waiting outside the principal's office. Nick had received a text that interrupted their coffee, demanding that they report to Romeo Seven at once.

“Is this about last night?” asked Drake.

Nick shrugged. “What else could it be? Walker and I discussed the kid at length after his stunt with the Skyhook system. The colonel is still holding out hope that we can fix him.” He frowned. “I'm not so optimistic. The colonel is letting me put Quinn on desk probation: paper pushing only, no field ops until he proves that he can follow orders. He was going to let me administer the browbeating as well, but maybe he changed his mind. He does enjoy that sort of thing. It's the closest thing he has to a hobby.”

Walker emerged from his office just as Quinn stepped off the elevator. He walked a few steps down the stairs before pointing at Quinn and then the two majors. “You three, get in here.”

Nick and Drake waited for Quinn to join them before going up. “Just remember, kid,” said Drake, “this is going to hurt him more than it hurts you.” The corners of his mouth curled up into a smirk. “Oh, wait. Maybe not.”

A moment later, Walker poked his head out of his door again. “Hurry up. I don't have all day.”

Drake slapped Quinn on the back. “At least he's in a good mood.”

The three of them piled into Walker's office. “Shut the door,” he commanded. The colonel stood in front of his desk, his usual scowl burning a hole in the floor, a foam cup of coffee in his right hand.

Nick stepped forward. “Sir, about the Skyhook test—”

“That's not what this is about,” Walker interrupted. He looked up, and Nick could see that he wore his business scowl as opposed to his angry one. “We have a more pressing issue to deal with.”

Walker stepped to the side. For the first time, Nick saw that there was another person in the room. A young, red-haired sergeant sat at the colonel's desk, his nose buried in a laptop computer. Nick's eyes widened. “Will?”

Will McBride looked up from his work and waved. “Major Baron, Major Merigold,” he said simply.

“It's been more than a year since we've seen you,” said Drake. “What brings you to our secret underground lair this time?”

McBride wasted no time with pleasantries. “A mystery. One that we are already behind in solving because I very stupidly chose to ignore it until I got a tip from the CIA.”

“McBride works for a Global Hawk high-altitude reconnaissance unit now,” said Walker. “Go ahead and show them what you've got, Sergeant.” He nodded at Nick. “Baron, get the walls.”

Nick slapped a wide black button that was set into a steel panel just inside the door. The smart glass walls immediately became opaque, changing to a dull pearl. Then McBride punched a few keys on the laptop, and a media player appeared on the wall that ran along the command center side of the office. The video frame showed a black– and-white image of uniformed men in a fenced-in compound.

“This is Detention Center Twenty-six in Fujian Province, China,” said McBride. “These are successive stills taken by a Global Hawk's synthetic aperture radar.” He pressed Play and the images progressed, showing the men running in various directions about the compound. Some were moving into the woods and drawing weapons. Suddenly the pictures shifted into the trees and the progression froze. “That was everything I got before the Hawk continued its scan,” said McBride. “The crew refused to sacrifice their mission coverage to stay on this target. I didn't argue.”

“That's not much,” said Drake. “What are we supposed to make of it?”

McBride held up a finger. “Good point.” He turned back to the laptop and opened another folder. “The next day, I received an audio file from the CIA relating to our mission. That's not an uncommon occurrence. Langley processes radio frequency intercepts that they receive from the Global Hawk. It has to be done after the mission because the receiver captures so many frequencies simultaneously. It sounds like garbage until their computers filter through it.”

An audio file sprang open in the media player. Waveform lines jittered and danced to the sound of Chinese voices and twangy music drowning in a sea of static. Then another voice joined the confusion, a western voice. Nick strained to understand, but he couldn't make out the words.

McBride stopped the playback. “That's what it sounds like before the filtering,” he said. “But after you isolate the target waveform and filter out the rest, it sounds like this.” He opened another file and hit Play.

Without the noise, the western voice came through, rasping and weak, but clear and unmistakably American: “Red Dragon, this is Jade Zero One. I am alive. I repeat, this is Jade Zero One. I am alive and requesting immediate evac.”