Matthews and Evans exchanged anxious looks before the aircraft commander turned toward Simmons. The tech-rep's face was contorted in fear as he watched Evans level the Stealth at 50,000 feet.

"Fifty thousand," Matthews explained to Simmons, "is a non-used altitude. We'll be in a safer position here, unless someone is climbing or descending through our altitude."

Simmons, grim faced, nodded in return.

Matthews concentrated on his flight instruments while his brain sought a way to disarm the hijacker. In spite of the imminent danger of his position — or maybe because of it — he found his thoughts interrupted by the faces of his wife, Roxanne, and their twins, Meredith and Michelle.

He had met Roxanne Paquette during his senior year at the Air Force Academy. Six months later, the day after his graduation, the happy couple had exchanged marriage vows in the academy chapel.

As a newly minted second lieutenant, who had earned his private pilot license during high school, he had taken his wife on a flying honeymoon. He had leased a Cessna 182 and they had toured the Bahamian Islands from end to end.

After returning from the islands, he and his bride had driven from Colorado Springs to Boston. His first assignment as an air force officer required that he obtain an advanced degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Fifteen months later, with a master's degree in aeronautical engineering, he and Roxy had departed Boston for undergraduate pilot training at Vance Air Force Base, Enid, Oklahoma.

A popular couple, they had rented an apartment off base. Their Friday evening steak cookout and beer bust had become a weekly ritual for friends and classmates during the long, hot Oklahoma summer.

Once a month, during a weekend, they had driven to Wellington, Kansas, to visit his parents and grandmother. Roxy had spent many Sundays helping his mother and grandmother prepare the large dinner.

Three days after he received his shining silver wings—

Matthews was jolted from his thoughts when Simmons coughed. He stole a glance at his copilot, who was glaring with open hostility at the tech-rep.

Chapter Three

OFFUTT AIR FORCE BASE

General Carl Donovan, leaning against his polished mahogany desk, listened to the aircraft commander of Ghost 25. The B-1B had landed only minutes before and was met by Donovan's staff car.

Major Bud Teague, looking understandably nervous, sat in one of the two plush chairs facing the general's desk. The other wood and leather chair was occupied by General Bothwell.

"General," the saddened pilot paused, "that's all I can tell you. After we broke off from Shadow Three Seven, well… everything was normal until we had the call on Guard. The weather was fine… we encountered no unusual conditions, sir."

"Okay, major," Donovan said, turning to walk behind his desk "Tell me about Chuck Matthews. I understand you went through pilot training with him."

"Yessir, I did," Teague replied, watching Donovan sit down. "We went through flight training at Vance. He graduated first in the class — a real natural and a heck of a leader. I consider him one of the best pilots in the Air Force, sir."

Donovan sat quietly, trying to sort out the mystery, then turned to Bothwell. "General, do you have any questions for Major Teague?"

"No," the Canadian replied, turning to face the B-1B command pilot. "Major, we appreciate your input. I know it's difficult for you."

"Yes, it is, sir. I've known Chuck a long time."

Donovan stood, followed by Bothwell and Teague. "Major, we have rooms ready for you and your crew in the VIP quarters. Get some rest, and take off at your leisure tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," Teague replied. "Have you heard any word yet about the search?"

"No, they haven't spotted a single thing," Donovan answered, checking his watch, "and it's been more than three hours."

"Get some rest, son," Bothwell said, patting Teague on the shoulder. "We'll let you know if we hear anything."

"Thank you, sir. " Teague saluted the two senior officers, then quietly walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

"Walt," the SAC commander asked, "how could a B-2 simply vanish?"

"General, if he was spot on course, they'll find something."

SHADOW 37

The Stealth bomber, still cruising at 50,000 feet, was eighty-five nautical miles north-northeast of Tallahassee, Florida. Matthews had elected to reduce power in order to conserve the rapidly dwindling fuel supply.

Both pilots continuously monitored the global navigation readouts showing distance to destination and time to fuel exhaustion. According to the navigation equation, Shadow 37 would flame out six minutes before they reached San Julian.

Simmons sat quietly in his cramped space and mentally reviewed his instructions. He kept his right hand on the butt of the flare gun, resting it on his lap.

"Larry," Matthews said pleasantly, turning slightly to see Simmons. "I want to ask you a question."