Shadow Catcher (19 page)

CHAPTER 39

W
here was she?

McBride checked his watch. Almost 6:00
A.M
. The sun was just peeking over the airfield's eastern runway, causing the tarmac to ripple like a glassy lake.

The archive crate had produced no other leads beyond the doctored photograph. Exhausted by the predawn launch, the group had split for some much-needed rest. Tarpin would have to stay in DC and check in at Langley, but Amanda had agreed to drive out to Lake Anna with McBride to find the Blackbird pilot. They were supposed to meet in the parking lot at a quarter to six.

“Just like a woman,” he muttered, “never ready on ti—”

A spellbinding sight interrupted McBride's disparaging words. Amanda strode around the corner of the hangar like a model on a catwalk, her athletic form flattered by the morning play of light and shadow. McBride suddenly felt ill prepared, even dirty. He had merely showered and re-dressed in the same red polo and khakis. She wore a fresh skirt and blouse, with a matching blazer casually slung over her shoulder. He found it difficult to recall, but he could swear she'd even managed a change of shoes.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Amanda brightly.

“How did you . . . Did I miss something?” stuttered McBride, looking from his wrinkled khakis to Amanda's pressed suit.

She looked at him quizzically and then suddenly caught his meaning. “Oh, you mean this?” she asked cavalierly, waving a hand from her shoulders to her hips with a flourish. “I keep a spare outfit in the car. Fortune favors the prepared, you know.”

McBride opened the passenger's-side door of his car. “I take back everything I said in defense of Drake last night,” he said, taking Amanda's hand to help her in. “He shouldn't have left you behind for this mission. He's a bum.”

A little over two hours later, McBride parked the car in the gravel driveway of a chocolate brown two-story lake home. As he opened the car door for Amanda, a gray-haired man waved from the screened-in porch.

“Hello there,” said the man in a rich bass voice. “You two must be McBride and Navistrova.” He opened the screen door and beckoned them onto the porch. “Thanks for calling before you came over. Margaret hates surprise visitors.”

“Colonel Edward Masters, I presume?” asked McBride, flashing his Department of Defense ID.

“Retired colonel,” corrected Masters. He waved off the ID and shook McBride's outstretched hand with an iron grip. “And you can call me Ned.”

“Yes, sir,” replied McBride. He never knew how to respond to informalities from officers, retired or not.

“On the phone you said this was a matter of national security,” said Masters, smoothing the front of his flannel shirt. He motioned for them to sit at a glass table and then took his own seat. McBride expected the older man to lower himself slowly into the chair. Instead, he moved with the ease and strength of a man twenty years younger.

“Yes, sir,” McBride began. “We wanted to ask you about some photos you took back in your Blackbird days.”

Masters narrowed his eyes. “You can't be serious. I got all those photographs declassified through the proper channels. Did you folks really drive all the way down here to complain about the reunion website?”

McBride pulled the photos and old file from the CIA out of his briefcase. “No, sir, we're not here about photos you took
of
the plane. We're here to ask you about some photos you took
from
the plane.”

A tall woman with neatly bobbed hair and denim capris interrupted the conversation. She gracefully weaved around the porch furniture and placed a tray of juices and pastries on the glass table. McBride instinctively retrieved the file to hide the classified photos.

Masters smiled. “Oh, don't worry about her. The Blackbird wives got scrutinized by the security folks as much as their husbands.” He looked up at her and smiled, giving her hand a tender squeeze. “And it's a good thing they did. Too many secrets can play havoc on a marriage.”

McBride abashedly replaced the file on the table. He stood up and offered his hand to the old pilot's wife. “Sergeant Will McBride,” he said. “It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. You didn't have to go to any trouble.”

The woman gently shook McBride's hand and then waved hers dismissively. “Oh, it's no trouble at all,” she said. “It's not every day we get to entertain visitors.” She patted Masters on the head. “Mostly it's just me and Ole Blue here.”

Masters rolled his eyes. “Thank you, dear.”

A telephone rang inside the house. “Oops, that's my cue,” said Margaret. “Y'all holler if you need anything else.” She retreated back into the house as gracefully as she had come out.

“We understand you worked in concert with Operation Distant Sage,” prompted McBride, getting back to business.

“Haven't heard that name in a while,” said Masters, leaning forward and resting his arms on the tabletop, “particularly not outside of a secure room.” He nodded. “Yes, our squadron cooperated with the spooks to share intel.”

“I've been wondering,” said Amanda. “Why the overlap? If the CIA was running low-level photo flights over China, why send out the Blackbirds as well?”

Masters gave her a sly grin. “It's better if I show you. We'll do a little demonstration with your partner here.” He leaned back and picked up a postcard from an end table behind him. “Just got a stack of these from the Smithsonian,” he said, placing the card on the table with its photo side down. Then he pulled a document from the CIA file and rolled it into a tight cylinder. “Close one eye and look through this.” He held the cylinder just above the table in front of McBride.

McBride smiled awkwardly and complied, bending forward to look through the paper.

“No peeking,” said Masters, waving a hand in front of McBride's closed eye. Then he turned over the postcard and carefully slid it under the homemade scope. “What do you see?” he asked.

“I see an American flag blowing in the wind, with gray sky in the background.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Masters. “Now put away the paper and open your eyes.”

McBride sat back and looked at the card. It was a color photo of a lunar landing. An astronaut stood between the American flag and a Moon rover.

“That flag isn't blowing in the wind,” said Masters, his sly grin returning. “It's standing straight out because NASA put a telescoping rod behind it to give it a rippling look. And that gray background isn't a cloud. It's a lunar mountain.

“We call that the microscope effect. You need a close-up view to see important details, but if that's the only view you have, you miss the bigger picture. The Blackbirds provided that big picture, and then the CIA Vipers went in with the microscope.”

McBride nodded. “Speaking of pictures, we need you to tell us what you can remember about some photos you took back in '88.”

“I don't know if I can help you much there. You might want to talk to my backseater; he ran the cameras and the radar. Shoot, we didn't even see most of the pictures we took.”

“I think you might remember these.” McBride handed the photos to Masters. “It was New Year's Day.”

Masters pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket and seated them on his nose before scrutinizing the pictures. After almost a minute, he sat back and let out a low whistle. “I do remember this day,” he said, looking hard at McBride. “This was the last flight operation for Distant Sage, the day that one of the Vipers got shot down.”

“That's right,” said McBride. “We're conducting an investigation to find out what really happened. We're not sure that we have all of the details right.”

Masters bent over the photos and studied them again. When he looked up, his face had changed, the levity of an aging gentleman replaced by the gravity of a military commander. “I was the supervising officer who packaged the photos and sent them over to Distant Sage after the incident,” he said, “and I can already tell you one detail that you've got wrong.”

“What's that?” asked Amanda.

Masters removed his reading glasses and set them on the table. He shifted his gaze from McBride to Amanda with a deadly serious expression. “These aren't the original photos. The pictures that I sent over showed
two
F-16s.”

CHAPTER 40

N
ick woke up to find Drake shaking his shoulder.

“You're doing the zombie thing again. Quit it. You're freaking me out.”

Nick blinked hard, trying to regain his orientation. He felt the aircraft bank roughly to one side and then level out again. “Whoa. Who's flying the plane?”

“I'm giving Quinn a flying lesson,” Drake replied. “Come on up front. Lighthouse wants you on the radio.”

Nick cranked his stiff neck to one side, making an audible pop. “I don't want you to teach the new kid to fly the plane,” he said. “For the same reason a father doesn't let his son teach a stray dog new tricks.”

“Because we're not going to keep him?”

“Exactly. Don't get too attached.”

Nick followed Drake to the front of the aircraft and sat down at the copilot station. Next to him, Quinn held the side-stick control with a white-knuckle grip, staring at the horizon on the main screen with wide eyes. Nick snorted at the pararescueman's nervous flying and then keyed the radio microphone. “Lighthouse, go ahead for Wraith.”

“This is Will McBride,” the voice in the radio replied. “I've got some new information for you.” He explained the doctored photographs and the missing F-16.

“Did you find out who was flying the other aircraft?”

“There's no record,” replied McBride. “It could have been any one of the Taiwan nationals or the other American pilot.”

“The second aircraft confirms there was a mole. Novak suspected as much. He was getting close to smoking out the traitor.”

“I guess that means you're the thief who stole the journal from the crate.”

At McBride's mention of the journal, Nick glanced over at Quinn, but the kid was too focused on flying the aircraft to listen to the radio conversation. He lowered his voice. “Why is everyone hounding me about that. My mission, my resource.”

“Hey, it's no skin off my back. Tarpin made a fuss though.”

“Tarpin will live,” said Nick. He recounted what he had learned from the journal entries. “Only a few people knew about Novak's plan: the supervisor in charge, the director of photo analysis, maybe Novak's wife, and a pilot named Starek. One of those four people is our bad guy.”

“It's not the photo analyst,” said McBride confidently.

“How do you know that?”

“He's dead. It's right here in the digital file you got from Tarpin. He was our first suspect because the Blackbirds sent the incident photos directly to him. If anyone had the opportunity and the know-how to doctor up the evidence, it would be the head photography guy. Unfortunately, he died in an accident on the airfield while the operation was packing up to move out.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He was crushed by a pallet loaded with heavy machinery.”

Nick winced. “Ow. That's the kind of accident that leaves nothing to chance. Okay, keep on it. Also, keep digging into that photo of Wulóng from 2003. We need to know who that other guy is. Maybe we'll find a connection to the salvage op or to the Triple Seven Chase. Wraith out.”

On the main screen, Nick could see the sprawling Chinese coast stretching away to the southwest. He tapped Quinn on the shoulder. “Your flying lesson is over, kid. It's time to suit up.”

* * *

The rushing sound of wind and engines filled the flight deck as Nick popped open the crew hatch. He and Quinn wore their tactical harnesses, along with gray flight helmets and portable oxygen systems.

Drake also wore a helmet and mask. From the pilot station, he manipulated a display that read
SHADOW CATCHER DIAGNOSTICS
. He looked back and gave Nick a thumbs-up.

Despite the mask covering his friend's face, Nick could see that he was concerned. Drake's eyes said it all. Nick and Quinn were about to take an untested aircraft into the heavily defended airspace of a sovereign country, a country that the United States at least pretended to be friends with. They were not supposed to be there. There would be no rescue if the mission suddenly went pear-shaped. Nick pulled down his mask long enough to give Drake a thin smile. Then he dropped down the ladder.

Shadow Catcher's top-mounted engine and intake system left no room for an upper entry hatch. Instead of climbing straight into the little aircraft's cockpit, Nick and Quinn had to descend all the way to the bomb-bay doors and then squeeze underneath Shadow Catcher's belly.

As he climbed down the ladder, Nick cast a glance at the two thermite bombs hanging above Shadow Catcher. If they could not get her airborne again after landing in China, Drake would use the five-thousand-pound weapons to wipe her from the face of the earth. Then Nick and Quinn would have to get Novak out on foot.

Nick could feel the pulsing slipstream through the thin composite sheeting as he moved across the bomb-bay door, crawling on all fours to distribute his weight. In his mind, he could see the cross section; mere inches of lightweight material separated him from an endless fall into cold darkness.

“You look nervous,” shouted Quinn as Nick opened the entry hatch.

He turned and looked at his young partner. Despite the bravado, the kid's face was pale, his eyes wide. “So do you,” he shouted back.

Once Shadow Catcher's hatch clamped shut, the rushing noise dimmed to a dull hum. Nick and Quinn lay prone in their crew stations, concave shelves on either side of the small cockpit. Green block letters on a wide screen in front of them proclaimed Shadow Catcher's status.

SIGNAL ESTABLISHED

SYSTEM READY

“Go ahead and activate the Bluetooth in your helmet,” ordered Nick. He found a small slide switch near the ear guard of his helmet and moved it to the On position. Instantly, he heard the distinct static of an open line. “Drake, this is Nick. How do you hear?”

“Loud and clear. You guys are online through Shadow Catcher's transmitters. Let's spin this baby up.”

Nick, Drake, and Quinn ran the small aircraft through a series of checks. When they had finished, Shadow Catcher's main screen showed an infrared display of the bomb-bay wall in front of the aircraft. A heads-up display was overlaid on the screen in front of Nick, similar to the Wraith's display. All of his engine indications read zero, but his airspeed, altitude, and attitude displays were active, fed by Shadow Catcher's GPS systems.

“Whoa, the Chinese radar net is hyperactive tonight,” interjected Drake, his voice registering concern. “It's almost like they're looking for us.”

“Relax,” said Nick. “For all we know, they run the net hot every night at this hour. We can't start second-guessing everything we see.”

Quinn looked over from his station and lowered his mask. “Aren't you worried about opening the doors when we deploy? Doesn't that hurt our stealth?”

“Not in the Wraith.” Nick changed Shadow Catcher's screen to the belly cameras. The infrared picture displayed the closed bomb-bay doors below them. “One of Scott's engineers got an idea from a TV show about the Bermuda triangle,” he said. “According to the show, aircraft and ships get lost in clouds of electric fog, put out by aliens.” A gray mist began to roll over the doors, masking them from the cameras. Nick dropped his own mask and smiled. “Welcome to the mothership.”

“What is that stuff?”

“Nanoparticle mist. Basically it's atomized radar-absorbent material. It will create a stealth barrier to cover the gap when the doors open. Then we simply drop through. Since the engine won't start until after we fall away, the fog won't damage the aircraft.”

“We're approaching the drop zone,” said Drake.

“Can't we call it a launch zone?” asked Quinn. “‘Drop zone' makes me feel like this thing is going to fall into the ocean.”

“Call it whatever you want, we're there. Initiate deployment on my mark in three, two, one . . . mark.”

The words
AUTO DEPLOY
appeared on Shadow Catcher's screen. Nick heard the hydraulic pistons pulling back the telescoping doors. There was an exponential increase in wind noise. With a resounding
thunk
, the catch released, and Shadow Catcher dropped into open air.

Nick anticipated the freefall and braced his body against the sides of his station, but he heard a painful “Oomph!” in his headset. He looked over and saw Quinn shaking his head as if he'd just been punched by a prizefighter. The pararescueman had smacked his head against the roof of the cockpit. “It's a good thing we gave you a helmet, kid.”

“Very funny. A warning would have been nice.”

Shadow Catcher's autopilot stabilized the aircraft in a shallow dive while the auto-deployment sequence counted off on Nick's heads-up display.

FLIGHT CONTROLS: OPERATIONAL

ENGINE START: INITIATE

ENGINE: STABILIZED

AWAITING COMMAND . . .

He used the touch-screen controls to direct the aircraft toward its first waypoint, and Shadow Catcher obediently turned toward Fujian. Nick called up the radio frequency display. The image on the main screen changed into a chaotic melee of undulating spots and lines. Multicolored streaks and flashes clashed against a black background.

“Psychedelic,” said Quinn.

“That's all of the electromagnetic energy coming from the Chinese coast,” Nick explained. “Hold on.” He refined the image to filter out all frequencies except for ground-to-air radars. Pulsating green and blue cones swept back and forth from numerous points along the Chinese shoreline. Some of them passed directly across the aircraft, tracking a bright vertical line across the screen. “Drake was right. It looks like they're running every radar on the Taiwan Strait tonight.”

“Should I be scared?” asked Quinn.

“No. We're already inside most of their sweeps, but none of them have focused on our sector. We're good.”

Quinn remained silent for a while and then rolled onto his side and stared at Nick. “How do you know if it's really working?” he asked.

“What?”

“You know, stealth, how do you know if it's working?”

Nick gave him a grim smile. “Faith.”

“That's it?”

“Yep.”

“That's not really the answer I was looking for.”

“Sorry, kid. That's the reality of combat. This is our foxhole, and in foxholes, sometimes faith is all you've got.”

Nick switched the display back to infrared. A small green square blinked over a patch of jungle several miles inland from the coast. He tapped it with his finger. “That's our landing zone. I'm going to start the approach.” He pushed forward on the side-stick control, disengaging the autopilot and diving toward the LZ. It looked just as it had in their satellite imagery: a thin gravel road cutting diagonally across a long ridge that rose out of the rain forest, an access road for power lines that had long been out of service. Unfortunately, the ridge lay nestled between two taller ridges. In order to land uphill, Nick would have to make his approach at a very steep angle, hugging the trees of the neighboring hillside.

“You're going to land there?” asked Quinn as Nick lined up the aircraft. On the infrared, the forgotten road looked like a hiking trail, and a short one at that.

Nick nodded toward the lights of Fuzhou, blazing white on the infrared horizon. “Would you rather I land at the airport?”

A thick blanket of trees whipped by the right wing as Nick banked into the valley between the ridges. He pushed Shadow Catcher down to the very treetops, where the dense foliage would trap the sound of his engine. The road slowly opened up before them, but the gap in the trees looked barely wide enough for Shadow Catcher to drop through. Then he spotted the huge fallen tree that marked the beginning of his improvised runway. He knew their landing area was supposed to be short, but now that he saw it, he wasn't sure they could make it, even with Shadow Catcher's short takeoff and landing capability.

Nick used a thumb switch on the throttle to open the lower exhaust panels, slowly transitioning the power from forward thrust to lift augmentation. He eased back on the side-stick control, lifting Shadow Catcher's nose into a flare. “One hundred feet,” he said, reading the radar altitude display. “Fifty, thirty, ten . . .”

Suddenly, an unexpected gap appeared in the makeshift runway. A recent rainstorm had cut a wide chasm across the gravel road, right where he intended to touch down. With part of the engine's thrust vectored down, Shadow Catcher was making more of a cushioned fall than a traditional landing, and Nick feared that hitting the edge of that cavity might rip his main gear off. He jerked back on the stick and reverted to forward thrust, hoping to propel the aircraft over the gap.

It worked. Shadow Catcher ballooned across the washed-out chasm but not without sacrifice. On the other side, the aircraft ran out of lift. She dropped like a stone.

Nick clenched his teeth as the gear slammed down onto the gravel. Then he realized that the worst was not over. His last-minute correction had made them land farther down the road than expected. The end of their landing zone was coming up fast.

Two T-handles, set into the panel in front of Nick, served as hydraulic brake controls. He pulled hard on both. The tires skidded on the gravel, and Shadow Catcher veered toward the trees on the right side.

“You're going to clip the wing!” shouted Quinn.

“No, I'm not.” Nick released some of the pressure on the right brake in order to straighten the aircraft, but that sacrificed some of his stopping power.

Up ahead, the improvised runway ended in a switchback as the access road continued its steep climb up the ridge. Nothing but a short dirt embankment, only a few inches high, guarded the impossible curve. Beyond that, the terrain dropped off into darkness.

“Watch the end of the road!”

“Shut
 . . .
up,”
Nick grunted, fighting with the brake controls.