by Joe Weber
The donkey brayed again, causing the agent to freeze in his hiding place. He could see the animal moving around next to the lean-to. Wickham stood, hot and sweaty, and started walking slowly toward the road. He had taken only nine steps when a naked light bulb flashed on in the shanty.
"Shit," Wickham. said as he crouched down and ran for the sanctuary of the jungle on the far side of the road. Without warning, his right ankle snagged a trip wire designed to foil thieves.
"Goddamnit," Wickham swore when he heard the tin cans topple off the front porch of the shack. He broke into a sprint for the jungle as the donkey brayed loudly and a dog barked excitedly.
He had barely crossed the narrow road when a man stepped out of the front entrance to the house. The figure tucked in his shirttail and looked around. A moment later, he spoke to someone inside and a small boy appeared. The youngster carried a rifle and a flashlight.
Wickham bent down into the thick foliage and watched the man disappear around the back of his house. The Cuban reappeared with the barking dog on a leash, then took the rifle and flashlight from the boy.
Wickham's mind raced, seeking an avenue of escape. He reached behind his back, lifted the baggy shirt bottom, and eased his Excam out of the holster.
The youngster remained close to the house while the man and his dog started around the property. Wickham followed the search, then froze when the Cuban reached the point where the agent had entered the field. The man and his yelping dog hesitated a few seconds, then started across the tobacco field on the same course Wickham had taken. The agent knew that the Cuban could see his boot prints in the moist soil.
"Oh, Christ," Wickham whispered as he watched the Cuban and his dog approach his hiding place. The man carefully splayed the flashlight beam twenty feet in front of him. It would be only a matter of seconds before Wickham would be discovered.
WILLARD INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, Washington, D. C.
The quaint hotel, located one and a half blocks from the White House, had become a meeting place for heads of state and foreign diplomats.
A group of the late night crowd, many attired in their native dress, gathered around the television set in the cocktail lounge. A Special Report sign had just been flashed on the screen by ABC news. The lively, noisy chatter hushed when the commentator appeared.
"Good evening," the anchor said, unsmiling. "Sources inside the government, who are familiar with the growing tension in Cuba, have told ABC news that Cuban fighter planes attacked three Navy A-4 Skyhawk jets over their base at Guantanamo Bay. The exact time of the aerial attack is unknown. Pentagon officials have confirmed that a confrontation between U. S. and Cuban jet fighters did take place. The number of aircraft involved, according to officials, is not available for release at this time. The cause of the attack is still unknown.
"A White House staff member, who insisted on anonymity, stated that a downed Cuban fighter, which crashed near Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, contained the remains of a Russian pilot."
The anchor continued in a somber manner, glancing to someone off camera. "Elsewhere in Washington, the United Nations Security Council has been summoned for an emergency session regarding the attack."
The cocktail lounge began to buzz with speculation as to what might have caused the aerial attack. The crowd continued drinking while the commentator paused to receive new material.
"I have just been handed a release from the Cuban news agency Prensa Latina," the well-groomed man said, scanning the page quickly before he continued. "A Cuban Air Force MiG-23 fighter jet crashed into a suburb of Holguin this evening, killing seventeen people on the ground. Witnesses in the neighborhood where the jet came down reported that the airplane was trailing fire before it plowed through five houses. Residents of the Loma de la Cruz section of Holguin said that the pilot ejected moments before the crash."
The anchor stared at the copy a moment, then looked back into the eye of the camera. "Cuban government officials have accused the U. S. of precipitating the attack."
Murmurs filled the room as the commentator switched to a White House correspondent for a series of questions.
Chapter Sixteen
THE OVAL OFFICE
President Jarrett, looking haggard and irritable, sat behind his desk. Samuel Gardner was seated at one end of two oversized sofas that faced each other in the middle of the room. Bernard Kerchner, reading a readiness report, sat at the other end.
"The son of a bitch is consistent," Jarrett spat. "Late as usual."
Gardner, frowning, nodded in agreement. "It's a game, sir. He has to convince you that his time is more important than yours."
Sergey Aksenhov was a typical career diplomat, having served his entire adult life in the Russian Foreign Department. This was his seventh tour in Washington, his first as foreign minister. He prided himself on being unflappable and emotionless. His cold, stony eyes never revealed what his devious mind was thinking.
"I apologize, gentlemen," the tall, heavyset foreign minister said in an orchestrated display of rushing to remove his overcoat. "This evening has been difficult for me."
The three Americans remained silent. The Russian seemed surprised at their lack of cordiality. The usual handshakes and polite banter had been replaced by an icy silence.
"Minister Aksenhov," Jarrett began as the diplomat sat down facing Gardner and Kerchner, "I have received some very distressing news in regard to American-Soviet relations."
Aksenhov feigned surprise. "If you are referring to this evening's unfortunate events, Mister President, I must inform you that we have no other choice than to file an official complaint with the--"
"Minister Aksenhov," the president interrupted tersely. "I suggest you cut the formality and listen for a change."
Aksenhov, genuinely surprised, showed only a flicker of emotion. Years of training and practice had almost eliminated any external signs of stress. Undaunted by the hostility in the president's tone, Aksenhov spoke slowly and evenly. "As you wish, Mister President."
"We have been advised," Jarrett began, staring into Aksenhov's eyes, "that Russia--actually a faction of the KGB--is responsible for commandeering . . . hijacking one of our B-2 bombers."
Aksenhov remained poker-faced, but the statement had had a profound impact on the diplomat.
"Furthermore," Jarrett continued harshly, "the bomber is in Cuba--a Soviet satellite--and I intend to recover the aircraft if it is not released immediately."
"Mister President, gentlemen," Aksenhov said sincerely, "your accusation is preposterous--outrageous."
Gardner sat straight up. "Goddamnit, Sergey, we're past the point of pretending that the Soviet Union isn't involved. I insist that you notify your superiors in Moscow--now. I have championed the cause for a diplomatic resolution to this unprecedented violation, but the president is adamant. We are going to recover the aircraft, or destroy it."
Aksenhov remained silent, but his mind was spinning. He knew nothing of the hijacking. He had recognized the MiG attacks as a planned diversion to focus attention on Guantanamo Bay, but he assumed it had been ordered by Castro for reasons he did not yet understand. If the American bomber had indeed been hijacked to Cuba, that might be reason enough--an attempt to scare them off, divert them. The Americans had mentioned the KGB. Did the Kremlin know? He would have to contact them immediately.
The president was speaking to him. "Minister Aksenhov, it is up to you. We want to know what the Soviet position is in this affair, and we want our bomber back."
Aksenhov placed a chunky hand on his topcoat and heaved himself up. "Mister President, gentlemen, I can only convey your message."
"I will expect an answer," the president said, "by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, Washington time."
WICKHAM
The CIA agent watched the advancing man and his dog. Wickham crawled forward to the edge of the dirt road and grabbed a fist-sized rock. After pushing himself back into the thick vines and leaves, he stood and heaved the rock in desperation.
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Wickham waited, his heart pounding, as the rock sailed toward the small house. The quiet, humid night was shattered when the projectile slammed into the tin siding with a resounding crack.
The Cuban spun around and yelled and the dog went wild, barking savagely. "Cuidado! Watch out!" the man shouted, running toward the house.
Wickham leaped out of the foliage and sprinted down the road toward San Julian. He distanced himself rapidly from the confusion he had created at the small tobacco farm. He slowed to a trot, then walked as the braying and barking dissipated behind him. His lungs heaved as he surveyed the sugarcane fields to his left. They would provide excellent camouflage if needed.
Wickham hurried along the barren road, passing a number of dilapidated, cheerless small shacks. He stopped occasionally, blending into the fields when a vehicle approached. An individual walking down an isolated stretch of road this late at night would draw attention. Not being recognized as a local resident would make matters worse.
One of his off-road excursions found Wickham lying next to a pen full of hogs. The agent's eyes had watered from the repugnant stench emanating from the hog trough. Another stop, only a mile and a quarter from San Julian, had placed Wickham in a precarious position close to a weathered house. A raucous late night party was in its final, drunken stages when the agent had seen an approaching vehicle and been forced to slide under a rusted '60 Pontiac.
Three men, standing under a dim yellow light on the front porch, were arguing loudly. A quartet of people inside the clapboard residence yelled at the three inebriated men on the porch. The Cubans ignored the foursome inside, swilling beer and arguing at the top of their lungs.
Wickham waited until the approaching pickup truck careened past before he crawled back out to the edge of the road. Another drunk driver, Wickham thought to himself as he jogged across another tobacco field and rejoined the dirt road a quarter of a mile from the ongoing party.
Wickham slowed to a cautious walk when he glimpsed the lights of the military airfield. He checked the time again and decided to reconnoiter the base in the darkness available to him. If he got lucky, he thought, he might spot the Stealth bomber, televise the evidence, and get out of the immediate area before daybreak.
He hurried toward the base, constantly checking the road behind him, then stopped at the edge of the tree line fifty yards from the perimeter fence. He looked up and down the barbed-wire barrier, which he judged to be about four feet high. The agent was surprised by the lack of guard towers, and he did not see any sign of perimeter sentries. The Soviets had done a good job of making the base appear not to have increased security.
The end of the runway was less than 300 yards from the fence. Wickham could see MiG fighters lined up on the ramp in front of the control tower. They were bathed in bright light from fixtures on top of the tower and adjacent hangars.
He studied the ramp and the two hangars. He was shocked to see the enclosures open and lighted. Inside each hangar a crew of maintenance personnel was busy working on the MiGs. The agent also saw what he had been looking for initially. Four sentries patrolled the two hangars and another two guards walked the line of MiGs.
Wickham also examined the tall building containing two fire trucks. Three fuel trucks sat next to the base of the control tower.
Two MiGs and their support carts were positioned at the far end of the runway. Wickham could not tell whether the pilots were in the two aircraft, but he could faintly see activity around the fighters.
Christ, Wickham thought, looking at the wooden barracks and other buildings, there's no place to conceal a Stealth bomber. His thoughts turned to retracing his route and aborting the reconnaissance mission when he noticed the baseball park. It sat on a rise off to the south of the main section of the base. Something seemed strange about the park, but Wickham did not grasp the oddity at first.
Then it struck him. Why, at this hour of the early morning, would the bright field lights be on? He could not distinguish any movement on the field or in the spectator bleachers. A second later, Wickham remembered a part of Milligan's briefing. The director had told him that San Julian appeared to be a carbon copy of every other base, including a ball diamond lighted all night. Satellite photographs had revealed games in progress at 3:30 A. M.
The agent decided to investigate. He approached the perimeter fence slowly and examined the barbed wire closely, noting a small strand of wire wrapped around the top line. He reasoned that it had to be electrified.
He folded his straw hat and shoved it into his back pocket, backed fifteen feet from the fence, inhaled deeply, then raced toward the barrier and high-jumped over the top strand. He landed on his back and rolled to a sitting position, then stood and brushed himself off.
Wickham jogged along the edge of the fence until it made a right turn. At that point he paused, listening and looking for any signs of activity, before heading toward the open field leading to the ballpark.
Halfway across the grassy expanse, Wickham saw movement by the bleachers. He stopped and knelt down, partially hidden by the palm trees that dotted the area. He counted three guards in and around the tiered seats. Two were sitting on the fourth row, smoking cigarettes and talking. The third was walking around the perimeter of the stands. All three were Cubans carrying AK-47s.
Why, Wickham asked himself, would armed guards be patrolling a fully lighted ballpark in the wee hours of the morning? He scurried across the field, darting between palm trees, until he was sixty feet from the west end of the bleachers. The two guards sitting and talking were on the opposite side, engrossed in their conversation. The patrolling sentry had stopped to relieve himself, standing stationary near third base.
Wickham dropped to a prone position, then crawled under the bleachers and rested a moment. As his breathing slowed, he heard a peculiar sound--one that he could not associate with a ballpark. The noise reminded him of an attic fan or a commercial heat ventilator.
He crawled toward the sound. It appeared to come from the end of the stands, close to the dugout. Wickham inched forward, then stopped abruptly as he saw the telltale signs of a photocell security system. He grabbed a pinch of loose dirt, ground it between his thumb and forefinger, then tossed the fine dust between the sensors. The powdery particles were illuminated in the beam of light.
He stood, moving to the edge of the right photocell, paused a moment, then gingerly stepped over the beam of light. He straddled the invisible light a moment before bringing his other foot over.
"Jesus," Wickham said under his breath. He could see a metal grate under the bleachers at the very edge of the steel supports. Hot, humid air was being forced up through the iron bars.
It took a second for the enormity of the message to register on the agent. The Stealth was under the baseball field.
The next thought Wickham had was the lesson he remembered from Clandestine Operations training. He could still picture the burly instructor pounding home the same point: Covert operations never go according to schedule or plan. You must learn to improvise if you plan to survive.
Wickham eased forward to the iron bars, checked the positions of the sentries, then lifted the heavy grate cautiously. The metal cover, which he judged to weigh thirty pounds, was about three feet long by two and a half feet wide. The air that rushed from the opening blasted Wickham in the face, causing his eyes to burn.
He swung his legs carefully over the edge of the opening, holding up the grate at a forty-five-degree angle. He judged the underground compartment to be close to three feet deep. He dropped into the shaft and lowered the cover.
He leaned down, then froze like a statue. "I'll be damned," Wickham swore under his breath. There in front of him, not thirty feet away, was the missing B-2 Stealth bomber.
A large fan, enclosed in protective metal screening, sucked air out of the underground hangar. Wickham could see three other ventilation fans at the back of the enclosure and two on the opposite wall. Since he could see easily through the spinning b
lades of the fan that separated him from the bomber, he knew that the camera would send a reasonable picture.
Wickham extracted the compact Sony television camera as he surveyed the interior of the hangar. Four guards surrounded the bomber while two other sentries walked around the perimeter of the enclosure. Six technicians, dressed in powder blue smocks, worked in teams of two at different places on the Stealth aircraft.
The agent was surprised that components and panels from the bomber were strewn all over the hangar. Tubular scaffolding encompassed the cockpit, and padding had been placed across the wings. The aircraft, though partially dismantled, still looked sinister.
He checked the small camera and took the thin antenna out of its padded container. The twelve-foot-long antenna was folded like a carpenter's rule. Wickham extended the antenna up through the grate, then maneuvered it between the bleacher seats.
He dropped to his knees, steadied himself, aimed the camera, then pressed the button. He knew that the bright ceiling lights would enhance the picture quality. He also knew that his life would be in greater jeopardy the moment the Soviets found out about the pictures.
NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE
The duty watch officer was sitting in front of the row of blank television screens, penning a letter to his daughter in boarding school, when the transmission announcer beeped three times, indicating that an imminent television signal would appear on the screens.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked himself, placing his pen down. He was not expecting any visual transmissions until the following evening, at the earliest. A moment later a slightly blurred image of the Stealth bomber appeared on all three television monitors.
"Good god!" he said to his assistant. "He's in there. Look at this!"
His friend hurried to the bank of monitors and let out a whistle. "Hit the tape."
"Got it," the officer replied. "Call the comm chief."
