Flight of the Skyhawk: John Stone Thrillers, #1

Nathan Goodman

Flight of the Skyhawk

First published by THOUGHT REACH PRESS, a publishing division of Thought Reach, LLC. United States of America 2024

Copyright © 2024 by Nathan Goodman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Foreword

FLIGHT OF THE SKYHAWK

1965

A STRANGE CALL

INTENSIVE CARE

WEAPON REVEALED

A TRAVEL MISMATCH

THE NEEDLE

UNDERGROUND

TALIA’S DISCOVERY

THE INSPECTOR

RECORDS ROOM

SHOTS FIRED

THE POUNDING OF FEET

THE PARKING DECK

THE MOLE

AGENTS ON THE APPROACH

JOHN STONE

EGYPTIAN EXCURSION

INTO CAIRO

OUTBOUND

CUSTOMS

ONTO THE GRID

INTERROGATION

HIMMELREICH

NSA HQ

MICROFILM

PLAN A

LIVING WITH THE ANGER

A STRANGE DROP POINT

STONE CALLS

MOLE OF THE MOSSAD

PROTECTEE WITH A DEATH WISH

DRIVE TO STONE’S APARTMENT

DEBRIEF

NIGHTMARE

NEW INTEL

CEMETERY

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS

SEARCH FOR A GRAVE

HEZBOLLAH ROCKETS

A CHILDHOOD UNKNOWN

AN ORDER TO KILL

COFFINS

CONFRONTATION

THE BREAKIN

DEPARTING NSA

GUNPLAY

THE WAR ROOM

TAKE FLIGHT

WETBOY

JERICHO VARIANT

LOOKING FOR THIS?

RENEWED DETERMINATION

PHASE 1

BRING YOUR GAME

THE ELITE

CODE NAME: ABSOLUTION

THE DOSIMETER

TWO AND TWO

THE CONTENTS

STIEL, GOLAN DAVID

HAZMAT PROCEDURE

TONKIN GOLF CLUB

DETECTION!

ON THE MOVE

ATTACK OF AGENTS

AWOKEN

THE DRONE

WE’VE GOT A SITUATION

TASKING

THE DETAILS

MOSHE’S HOUSE

ATTACK!

PUNCTURE

AWAKEN

RECALLED

BUILDUP ON THE BORDER

THRILLER NOVELS BY NATHAN GOODMAN

Foreword

To all of those that work to keep us safe. Our military, federal agents, police, firefighters and other first responders. And to my kids. May your world be safer than the one in my imagination.

FLIGHT OF THE SKYHAWK

The Special Agent Jana Baker Spy-Thriller Series

Nathan Goodman

Other novels by Nathan Goodman

Protocol One

The Fourteenth Protocol

Protocol 15

Breach of Protocol

Rendition Protocol

Flight of the Skyhawk

Phoenix Fatale

To stay informed of new releases by Author Nathan Goodman, visit NathanGoodman.art

1965

Aboard the USS Ticonderoga. The Philippine Sea. Eighty nautical miles from Kikai Island, the Kagoshima Prefecture. 5 December, 1965.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Golan Stiel lay in his bunk and braced against the rail as the aircraft carrier pitched in the rough waters. He had just returned from the flight deck where the temperature was below freezing, and ocean swells were beginning to top forty feet. An alarm blared over his head and pierced the tightly confined quarters. God loves the Navy, he said as he hopped off the bunk.

What was that, Pickle? Lieutenant Carlton Waters said through the open doorway. To Naval aviators, the term pickle referred to the releasing of bombs. But during an early training flight, Stiel had come back one fuel tank short. He had inadvertently released the tank instead of the weapon. The nickname stuck.

"I said, ‘God loves the Navy.’ That means me. You? Not so much." Stiel smiled at his wingman. He hurriedly grabbed his flight suit, a one-piece made from fireproof Nomex fabric, and stepped into it, then zipped it up. He picked up his anti-G suit and jammed in one leg followed by the other. The suits were designed to apply pressure to a pilot’s lower extremities to prevent loss of consciousness when under heavy acceleration.

Hurry up. Flight line in two. The Cold War isn’t going to wait for you, Waters said as he darted from the stateroom.

Stiel threw on a torso harness and chased it with a survival vest. Once both were properly affixed, he stuffed a .38-caliber pistol into a chest pocket and zipped it tight.

The alarm continued to pulse. A booming voice came over the speakers, reverberating through every compartment on the ship. General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands, man your battle stations.

I hope this is a drill, Stiel said to himself. But part of him hoped it wasn’t.

The carrier’s primary Cold War mission was to defend against the ultimate doomsday scenario, one in which the Russians would launch a nuclear attack. But with the Vietnam war now in full swing, the carrier had double duties. Stiel had already made fifteen combat runs, expertly placing explosive ordnance onto military targets in North Vietnam. The adrenaline spikes had become almost addictive.

The first several attack missions had been targeted at supply depots, but the last was a munitions dump. Stiel’s Zuni missiles had been right on target that day. He could still picture the secondary explosions in his mind.

But right now, time was not on his side. He stuffed a water-filled baby bottle into a pouch on the leg of the anti-G suit, grabbed his helmet bag and broke into a run. His destination was the hangar deck. Situated one level below the flight deck, the hangar deck served as the primary location where aircraft were stored, repaired, and armed for combat.

With so much gear and supplies strapped to his body, extra ammo, pencil flares, cigarettes, a knit cap, heavy gloves, signaling cloth, hat, and a long jungle knife strapped to his leg, his dash to the hangar deck felt more like a weighed-down slog.

The ship pitched from one side to another in the heavy seas. Under General Quarters conditions, sailors ran in various directions in what looked like disorganized chaos. Yet the response was textbook.

Stiel blew past the ready room and descended a narrow staircase, known onboard Naval vessels as a ladder well. With so many sailors running for their duty stations he called ahead, Make a hole! Down ladder! He shuffled past a dozen sailors coming up. He was on the hangar deck and running for his plane seconds later.

When he got to the craft, however, he hesitated. A B43 nuclear bomb was strapped to the underbelly. Oh shit, Stiel thought.

Get your ass in gear, JG, Waters yelled from the cockpit of his A-4 Skyhawk attack aircraft.

Stiel slung his helmet bag into the hands of an airman already standing on the wing, waiting for him. He climbed the exterior ladder and jumped into the cockpit of his Skyhawk. The airman, known as the plane captain, handed him his helmet. Stiel snugged it over his head and began adjusting the oxygen mask. The the airman leaned in and affixed Stiel’s shoulder and leg straps, then pulled a pair of safety pins from the ejector seat.

Adrenaline pulsed into Stiel’s veins the way it always did in the harried moments before being flung from the deck of the carrier.

The airman said, Good to go, sir?

Stiel nodded then his fingers instinctively found several switches. The process of preparing the plane for flight was on.

The airman gave him a thumbs up and shimmied down the ladder.

With so much noise emanating from the flight deck above them, Stiel held his oxygen mask over his mouth and keyed his radio. Hey, LT, this isn’t a drill, is it?

What makes you think this isn’t a drill? Waters replied. The carrier’s cruising for Yokosuka, Japan for a little R and R.

Stiel looked to the side of the hangar and saw them, three sailors known as ordnance men, red-shirts charged with moving, mounting, and arming weapons. But these were no ordinary officers. Known as the W, the elite Special Weapons Division was comprised of those trusted to handle nuclear weapons. They were flanked by a detachment of Marine guards who stood in close watch.

Stiel smiled. What makes me think this isn’t a drill? Well, let’s see. There’s a Mark 43 on my wing for starters.

Oh, you noticed that, did you? You got a problem with a tactical nuclear weapon strapped to your balls?

And we’re not doing an exterior pre-flight?

That’s a negative, Pickle. The island says this is priority. You just better hope that bucket of bolts you’re flying is in good shape. Kick the tires then light the fire. Run your interior pre-check, and do it fast. Ejection seat safety pins out?

Affirmative.

Fuel level?

Stiel checked his gauge. Since a fully fueled tank would make the plane too heavy to launch, Skyhawks launched with half-capacity and were refueled in mid-air. His gauge read 2,734 pounds, almost perfect.

He flashed a thumbs-up to Waters.

The tanker just launched from CAT A, Waters said. An enormous roaring sound came from overhead as another aircraft launched from the catapult. That would be a Crusader. There’s another F-8 to launch, but you’re number two on CAT B, right behind it.

A vehicle called a tug detached itself from the front landing gear. Tugs had the singular responsibility of moving aircraft into various positions on the ship, but once a plane was ready to be backed onto the elevator, planes were moved the old fashioned way.

A dozen sailors ran into position and began to push. Stiel’s plane rolled backward toward the carrier’s single deck-edge elevator where it would be raised to the level of the flight deck.

Stiel hurried through his interior pre-flight checklist, flipping switches and checking gauges. As the plane was backed onto the open-air elevator platform, the wheels bumped across the leading edge of the elevator.

Stiel glanced over his shoulder at the raging seas behind him. A wave slammed into the side of the massive ship, and freezing, salt-laden mist blasted across the elevator and into the hangar deck. The ship lurched in protest, and Stiel felt the roll tilt him forward. He pulled the canopy actuation handle and lowered the jet’s canopy to the closed position, forming an airtight seal.

Stiel’s wingman came over the radio again. Island says we’ve got two bogeys inbound. Probably Russian MiG-17 fighter aircraft. They’re moving at subsonic speeds, just below Mach 1. Position is one hundred nautical miles and closing. That’s what they’re launching the Crusaders for. But those MiGs launched from somewhere. If there’s a Russkie carrier group out there, it could get ugly. It’s time to earn your pay.

Bogeys? Stiel said. Christ, I expected it when we were in the Gulf of Tonkin, but out here? If you ask me, the Cold War ain’t so cold.

"Did you just say Christ? Waters said as he laughed into the comm. Aren’t you Jewish?"

Stiel extended the middle finger on his right hand and used it to salute Waters. He glanced at a small black and white photo affixed to the top of the instrument panel. His sweetheart, Evelyn, a trim brunette dressed only in a two-piece bathing suit, smiled back at him. See you in the air, LT.

Several sailors, plane handlers in blue shirts and a safety director in yellow, shielded their faces against the freezing mist. As the plane was pushed back, the safety director eyed the position of the front wheel relative to the painted yellow line on the floor of the elevator. But as the massive wave passed underneath, the ship began to lean in the other direction.

Stiel felt his plane roll backward, toward the edge. With nothing between him and the rolling seas but a thin metal safety bar, he jammed his foot onto the brake pedal. Instead of feeling pressure, however, his foot went straight to the floor.

Shit! No brakes! he yelled into the comm.

The plane’s front wheel rolled past the yellow line and the safety director blew his whistle. Men on the hangar deck erupted into motion. Two sailors, known as chock men, one positioned under each wing, threw large wooden chocks behind the landing gear, an attempt to thwart the roll.

Two other safety men blew whistles just as the plane’s wheels bumped over the chocks. Frantic blue-shirts ran onto the elevator and grabbed at the plane. But the elevator platform tilted further and they could not arrest the rearward motion.

Jamming his foot on the brake pedal in repeated succession had no effect. The platform tilted past the critical threshold.

Waters’ eyes flared wide. His best friend was about to fall over the edge. He sat bolt-upright against his shoulder harnesses and his voice boomed into the radio. Pickle, no!

Stiel felt a violent jarring accompanied by the sounds of metal on metal as the huge fuel tanks under his wings tore through the safety bar. Blue and yellow-shirts let go and leapt to the side to keep from being pulled overboard.

Stiel’s heart rate exploded as he felt his rear landing gear slide over the edge. It was too late to bail out. The bulk of the plane slid off the platform, hung momentarily by the nose gear, then toppled thirty-nine feet. It landed on its back, slamming canopy-first onto the thrashing water below. Stiel and the plane were upside down.

Inside the cockpit, the impact was jarring. The plane began to sink beneath the surface of the thrashing water. Stiel scrambled to get his bearings. The lights illuminating the instrument panel went black. Out of instinct, Stiel reached for the ejection handle, but being below the surface, realized instantly the canopy would not be able to jettison clear. With the canopy still in place, deploying the ejection seat’s rocket motor would cause flames to erupt inside the cockpit. He would either burn to death or be crushed against the closed canopy.

With lightning speed, he unbuckled his safety harness, pressed the canopy actuation handle forward, and jammed his hands into the canopy. The plane slipped into the dark, watery oblivion. He pushed as hard as he could, but the water pressure holding the canopy closed was too much. What little light he had vaporized into inky blackness.

The plane descended deeper, and Stiel pushed against the canopy. After a few moments, it began to pop and groan under the pressure. The canopy would not budge. Stiel’s mind frantically searched through every emergency training scenario he had gone through, but this was not a contingency anyone had planned for.

Stiel propped a boot against the canopy and pressed with everything he had. A small amount of water began to leak in around the seal. He could feel the plane descend deeper and deeper.

The canopy, however, remained like a rock. The plane rolled end over end into the depths below. Stiel no longer could tell which direction was up. Exhausted and out of options, there was nothing left to do, and Stiel knew it. He unbuckled his oxygen mask then fumbled in the pitch darkness for the photo of Evelyn.

The metallic groaning of water pressure against the canopy intensified, and he held the photo to his lips.

Goodbye, my sweet Evelyn.

A STRANGE CALL

Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel, Nuclear Detection Lab. Present Day.

The phone rang for the fifth time in the past five minutes. Talia Stiel looked at it and shook her head. She knew the calls were for her but had been trying to ignore them. Her work to develop a technology to detect nuclear material was so close to being finished that she could no longer stand the repeated interruptions. But on the fourth ring, she stood and tightened the band holding her long black hair into a ponytail. She snatched the phone off the receiver.

Talia Stiel, she said.

Dr. Stiel? a female voice on the other end said. We’ve been trying to reach you. This is Ayala, in Human Resources? We’ve got an emergency call for you. It’s a family emergency, I’m afraid. You’ll need to call Sourasky Medical Center right away.

Talia’s posture straightened. Family emergency? Is it Moshe?

No, ma’am. We notified Director Himmelreich as well.

But I don’t have any other family.

Please, the woman said, it sounded urgent.

Talia shook her head. "I said I don’t have any other family. You’ve made a mistake."

No, ma’am. They said—

Your parents can only die once. Her slightly warped sense of levity went nowhere, and all she heard was silence. Fine, whatever, she said. You have a number?

The woman relayed the phone number and reiterated the urgency of the call. Talia stood from behind a wide research table and caught the reflection of herself in the glass wall lining the laboratory. Ever since her last birthday, the big three-oh, as she had called it, Talia found herself more conscious of her looks.

Like many Israeli women, she was trim and often found men looking at her. But today, in the final stages of her research project, she decided the long hours were beginning to take a toll. She stared into her reflection and smoothed a wrinkle in her form-fitting skirt. She dialed the number. I still don’t see how I can have a family emergency, she said to herself.

The phone rang twice, and on the other end, a female voice answered in a hurried, yet polite, tone. Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center, Intensive Care Unit.

Yes, my name is Talia Stiel. I think there’s been a mistake, I’ve been asked to call this number. Some kind of family emergency?

Yes, Miss Stiel. We’ve been trying to reach you. It’s about your grandfather. He’s here in the intensive care unit. I’m afraid it’s quite serious. You’ll want to get here as soon as possible.

My grandfather? Talia said as she pressed the phone harder to her ear. I don’t have a grandfather. Both my grandfathers died years ago.

Miss Stiel, please. He’s calling for you. It’s all we can do to keep him calm. The doctors say his condition is grave. You must come immediately.

I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got the wrong person. Like I said, I don’t have a grandfather. I don’t have a mother or father anymore, for that matter. I’m the only Stiel left. Across the phone line, Talia heard what sounded like the woman standing up from a swivel chair.

He said you wouldn’t believe it. The nurse’s voice sounded course, like one trying to choke down the day’s frustrations. Here, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. She sounded like she was reading from a piece of paper. You are Talia Stiel, are you not?

Yes, but—

And your mother’s maiden name was Mizrah?

Talia’s voice flattened. Yes.

Your father was Avraham Stiel?

Talia swallowed. Yes.

"The patient here is named Yosef Stiel. He says he’s your grandfather. He’s insistent about it. He’s the one who told us where to call you."

Her legs wobbled. But . . . Talia said as she sat. Yosef Stiel died when I was five years old. I distinctly remember it.

No, ma’am. He’s lying right here, and he’s asking for you. A moment of awkward silence played out. "He said if you still didn’t believe it was him to tell you he used to call you Peanut?"

Talia dropped the phone, then clutched her hands to her mouth.

The nurse on the other end of the line said, Hello? Miss Stiel? Miss Stiel?

INTENSIVE CARE

Thirty-five minutes later, Talia Stiel half-jogged down the sterile, white hospital corridor. She skidded to a halt in front of the nurse’s station, wobbling on her high heels before grabbing the counter top to stabilize herself. I’m looking for a patient, Yosef Stiel?

Yes, ma’am, a nurse in surgical scrubs said as she looked up from a computer monitor. Mr. Stiel is in pod seven, just that way.

Talia ran past pod five, then six. When she came to number seven, she stopped. She could see through a bay of large glass windows into the room where an old man lay. Tubes and wires were connected to his arms and chest. His face was obscured by an oxygen mask, and Talia squinted to get a better look.

She clutched her purse, then pushed the door open and stood staring at the man’s face. Its warm familiarity flooded over her. It was her grandfather, a man who, until now, only existed in faint, time-washed memories. It was Yosef Stiel.

Talia placed her hand on a handrail against the wall as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She steadied herself when a different nurse, a woman with wrinkled skin and gray hair pulled back into a tight bun said, Are you all right, Miss? The woman spoke softly, as one might in a public library.

Oh, yes, thank you. Vertigo. Comes and goes.

Would you like to sit down?

No. This will pass. The dizziness comes sometimes when I’m under stress. I’ll be fine.

The nurse smiled. The ICU can be overwhelming. For just a moment, the woman’s warmth reminded Talia of her own mother.

Talia looked back at the old man on the bed. His eyes were closed. Several digital monitors hung on the wall, each making its own, distinct bleeping sound. She walked closer and looked down at him.

A moment later, his eyes flickered open as he registered her presence. Talia, Talia! the old man said, his voice crackly and hoarse. My little Peanut. Look at you. He pulled the oxygen mask from his mouth.

Talia startled, but the voice, it rang true in her mind; it was really him. Grandpa? she said as she leaned closer.

His face softened, and he reached for her hand. My glasses, he said, his voice raspy and dry. I need my glasses. I want to see your face.

She reached to the side table and picked up the glasses, and that’s when she noticed her own hands were trembling. When he had donned the glasses, a warm smile spread across his wrinkled face. Come closer. It’s really you, isn’t it, Peanut?

I don’t, I don’t understand. You’re . . . dead.

I’m so sorry, sweet pea. It was your parents, you see? I had to lie to you. I had to lie to you all. I know what they told you. He began to cough violently. When the hacking abated, he drew in a deep breath. They told you I had died. But there was a lot at stake. I had to disappear. Otherwise, they would have found me.

Who? Who would have found you?

That’s not important right now. I’m just glad to see you. My little Peanut.

The face, the familiar voice, it was all starting to feel so real. And the reference to her childhood nickname brought a lump to her throat. Grandpa, I’m so lost. Ima and Aba told me you had died. You’re saying my own parents lied?

Do not place blame on them. They were simply trying to protect you.

Protect me? Protect me from what?

Her grandfather cocked his head to the side. To Talia, it appeared he had lost his train of thought.

None of this is important now.

Talia decided to try a different tack. What did you mean when you said they would have found you? Talia shook her head. Why don’t you start from the beginning.

No, no, he said as he began coughing. It was worse this time. There are other things I must tell you—

His coughing fit exploded, and a nurse walked in. She replaced the face mask over his mouth and nose and connected one of the tubes to a nebulizer pump.

She opened a small white box of medication labeled Salbutamol Teva 5mg Solution for Inhalation, then pulled out one of the vials of clear liquid. She poured a bolus of the liquid into the nebulizer and turned the machine on. A medicated mist began to blow into the face mask.

The nurse said, There, there, Mr. Stiel. Just breath in slowly. That’s it. You’ve got to stay calm now. She waited as the coughing subsided, then walked back out.

He pulled the mask down again. There’s not much time, he said as he gripped his rib cage and held it. The underlying pain’s intensity magnified across his face. But you have to know. You have to know everything. Otherwise, it will be too late. He stopped, apparently lost in thought.

Grandpa?

He took a few breaths through the face mask, then pulled it down again. There is something I must tell you, something that has pained me all these years. I can’t hold it inside any longer. It’s been eating me alive since I was a young man. And, he coughed, as it turns out, you, you are the only one left, the only one who can help me.

Wait. Are you-

Dying? Yes, my dear. That’s why I must tell you now before it is too late.

She pulled a chair closer to the bedside and sat, then placed her purse on the floor. Um, okay. Talia studied his face a moment and found herself entranced with its familiarity. Is this something I want to hear?

That is for you to decide. He drew the face mask closer and allowed the nebulized medication to waft into the air near his face. He covered his mouth and coughed again. It was 1965. I was young, and so was Israel. You’ve got to understand, things were much worse back then. We had enemies on all sides. None of our enemies had wanted the state of Israel to come into existence in the first place. There was very little time.

Time for what?

The Land was in great danger. We knew if Israel were to be invaded, we wouldn’t stand a chance. We had to have a means of defending ourselves.

But, Grandpa, we had an army. It was formed with the country’s inception in 1948.

"When your tiny country is surrounded on all sides by enemies, just having an army is not enough. Even