by Joe Weber
"I'm dialing now," the wide-eyed assistant responded, mesmerized by the picture on the screens. The resolution was only fair, but the B-2 was clearly visible.
"Jesus," the officer said, "we've got to get a tape to the White House, on the double."
SAN JULIAN
The bored Cuban guard standing near third base buttoned his fly, hitched up his assault rifle, and turned to resume his monotonous patrol duty. He walked toward the pitching mound, noticing his two companions sitting in the stands behind home plate. They outranked him, so he was obligated to walk around the ball field and report in every half hour.
The potbellied guard ambled across the slightly raised mound and continued toward first base. He was about to step on the bag when his eye caught something move. He stopped and scanned the bleachers. Sure enough, there was a small, thin strip of metal protruding through the stadium seats.
The Cuban soldier approached the end of the bleachers cautiously. Had the Soviet technicians added something new to their array of gadgets? He walked between the dugout and the end of the stands, stepped under the stadium, and flipped on his flashlight.
Directly in front of him, not two meters away, was a sliver of metal sticking out of the ventilation duct. Odd, he thought as he stepped closer to peer through the iron grate.
Steve Wickham, concentrating intently on slowly moving the camera from the front of the B-2 to the back, sensed danger, then caught the flicker of light. He placed the camera down and turned around in the cramped space. He could feel his heartbeat surge when he saw the soldier step over the grate, lean down, and point the flashlight into the duct.
NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE
"Uh, oh," the watch officer said, feeling uneasy. "We've got a problem. I've lost the feed."
His assistant, holding the phone to his ear, rolled his chair over to the monitors. "What happened?"
"I don't know," the officer answered, staring at the blank screens. "He was giving us a long sweep when the picture angled down and went blank."
"Maybe he thought that would be enough to-" The assistant stopped when his call was answered in the communications center. "Sir, Wozniak at recon ops. We've received a visual on the B-2."
"We have tape," the excited watch officer prompted.
His assistant acknowledged with a nod of his head, then spoke again. "Yes, sir. We have it on tape."
SAN JULIAN
Wickham braced himself, felt a fleeting moment of near panic, then exploded upward, slamming the heavy iron grate into the Cuban's face.
The adrenaline-fueled effort smashed the soldier's nose, broke three of his teeth, and rendered him semiconscious. The guard stumbled backward, holding his face and moaning in agony, then fell between the photocell security system. A high-pitched siren immediately blasted the quiet night with a pulsating shriek. The guard, in shock and pain, never saw his attacker.
Wickham leaped out of the duct, yanked up the television camera, grabbed the squirming guard's rifle, and raced toward the palm tree--studded field. He glanced back and saw the other two sentries running across the ball field. They were headed toward the spot where their companion had disappeared.
The agent stopped suddenly when bright searchlights winked on around the perimeter of the air base. He dropped to the ground and searched frantically for a way out. Seconds passed before he realized he was trapped. The entire base was coming to life.
In desperation, Wickham jumped to his feet and ran toward the nearest cluster of administration buildings. He stopped halfway to the nearest structure, dropping to the ground as he saw a dozen Cuban soldiers pile out of the adjacent barracks. Then he belly-crawled as fast as he could toward the first building in the row.
Chapter Seventeen
THE WHITE HOUSE
Alton Jarrett walked into the Oval Office wearing a navy blue robe over his gray pajamas. The groggy president accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Brian Gaines, then sat down on one of the two facing sofas. The national security adviser, looking rumpled and tired, returned to his seat next to Bernard Kerchner.
The secretary of defense rubbed his bloodshot eyes before speaking to the president. "Is Sam joining us?"
Jarrett nodded, tasting his coffee. "Sam is on his way over. Should be here any minute."
"Good," Kerchner replied, sipping his hot tea.
The president settled into the sofa. "First I want to address Aksenhov personally. When will we have a copy of the B-2 tape?"
Kerchner glanced at the small clock sitting on the president's desk. He had forgotten his wristwatch during the mad dash to the White House. "I expected it here a few minutes ago, sir."
The three men heard an exchange of voices outside the main entrance to the Oval Office. "Thank you," the secretary of state said to the military courier as he grasped the tape container. Samuel Gardner closed the door and turned to the president. "Sir, Aksenhov is on his way."
"He better be," the president replied as Gaines accepted the tape from Gardner.
The national security adviser walked to the VCR, inserted the tape, and punched the play button. Gaines backed away a few steps and remained standing as Gardner took a seat next to the president.
The small screen remained blank a few seconds, then the Stealth bomber appeared in a well-lighted hangar. The black and white picture focused on the aircraft, then moved to the right and swept the entire enclosure. Soldiers and technicians surrounded the secret bomber. A few seconds later the picture returned to the stolen B-2, moving slowly from one section to another.
The nose of the Stealth came into view. Then there was a pause before the picture moved down the length of the bomber. A split second before the aircraft's trailing edge would have come into view, the picture stopped a moment, then tilted down and went blank.
"I'll be damned," the president said, placing his cup and saucer on the coffee table. "Brian, run that back."
"Yes, sir."
Jarrett turned to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, I'm going with the captain's recommendation, from the Strike Center. I believe we should assault San Julian with marine expeditionary units." The president leaned back. "We've got to have concentrated close air support and solid air cover. The Marines have to hit quickly, secure the airfield, destroy the bomber, and rescue the pilots--if they can locate them."
Jarrett paused, mentally reviewing the operation. "This is a different situation from what we had in Panama. I think we have to soften up San Julian before the Marines go in. Let's use a combination of carrier attack aircraft and air force bombers." The president removed his glasses. "Do you have any qualms about that?"
"No, sir, none whatsoever," Kerchner answered truthfully. "I fully endorse that course of action, as does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. We have already discussed the option."
The president thought for a second. "How soon will our carrier battle groups be on station?"
"Approximately fifteen to twenty hours, sir," Kerchner answered. "America and her group departed Norfolk this--yesterday afternoon, and Kitty Hawk is preparing to get under way from Pensacola. We have an emergency recall out for her crew.
"The marine expeditionary units are en route to the Wasp and the Essex. I anticipate both assault carriers will be in the Gulf by early this evening. The commandant insisted we incorporate a third amphibious assault ship, Nassau, with an additional battalion landing team. It left Puerto Rico a little more than two hours ago. The general is also adding additional Harrier jets and helicopters to each carrier."
"Very well," the president replied, facing his secretary of state. "Sam, you know Aksenhov better than any of us. Any suggestions?"
Gardner paused, chewing on his pipe. "Mister President, we're well past the gamesmanship stage. We simply have to throw it on the table and take a stand."
The president nodded in agreement. "Almost the exact words Kirk used."
"Is the vice president coming over?" Kerchner asked as the Soviet foreign minister was announced.
; "No," Jarrett answered. "I spoke with him before I came down-told him to get a good night's rest. We'll need a fresh, clear mind later this morning."
Gaines pulled a large stuffed chair to the opening between the two sofas. Aksenhov, visibly irritated and looking disheveled, walked to the chair and sat down heavily. "May I ask what this is about? We agreed on nine o'clock this morning, did we not, Mister President?"
"I have something special to show you," the president replied, stone faced.
The Soviet foreign minister, feeling the cold looks, steeled himself cautiously to contest any accusations. His face, concealing his trepidation, was deadpan.
"Brian," the president said calmly, "please run the tape again."
"Yes, sir," Gaines replied as he punched the VCR play button.
Aksenhov attempted to remain impassive as the commandeered Stealth bomber appeared on the screen. His expression gave way to a sudden uneasiness when he realized that the Americans had a spy in San Julian. He was caught completely off guard and unprepared.
He had not been informed about any operation involving the American bomber. Was the KGB involved, or had Castro acted alone?
Aksenhov knew that he had to transmit the shocking news to the Kremlin as quickly as possible. He watched the rest of the short tape without concentrating on the picture, searching frantically for a carefully phrased lie to refute the visual evidence.
The room remained quiet when the VCR clicked off. Aksenhov turned slowly to the president. "What is the point of this film, Mister President? I have seen pictures of your Stealth bomber many times."
Jarrett looked Aksenhov in the eyes, shaking his head in amazement. "My point, Minister Aksenhov, is that our missing B-2 bomber is sitting in a hangar at San Julian Air Base in Cuba--a satellite of the Soviet Union."
Aksenhov, confused and knowing the futility of continuing the charade, let out a convincing sigh. "Mister President, I have no knowledge of any operation involving your B-2 aircraft."
"Well," Jarrett responded coldly, "I strongly suggest that you contact your superiors in Moscow and find out who is responsible for the hijacking. We know that the individual who commandeered the B-2 had ties to the KGB."
Jarrett could see the question on Aksenhov's face. All Russian diplomats were suspicious by nature, untrusting of everyone, including their own countrymen. "I believe you understand," Jarrett continued. "We are on a collision course, Minister Aksenhov, and I urge you to intervene before we face off militarily."
Aksenhov, feeling a growing alarm, stood and inhaled. "I will contact Moscow immediately, Mister President."
"I will expect to hear from the Kremlin, Minister Aksenhov, as soon as you do."
SAN JULIAN
Steve Wickham peeked out cautiously from an opening in the foundation of the administration building. The air base was crawling with Cuban soldiers, all looking for the intruder.
The dank, mildewed hiding place was a maze of spiderwebs and rotting wood supports. Wickham thought about his options, knowing that it would be daylight soon. He replayed the lessons from the CIA covert operations classes, especially the chameleon course. If you are surrounded, and have access to the resources, blend into the environment.
"Great," Wickham said to himself, easing away from the opening. "What I need is a Russian uniform." He reasoned that the search would intensify once the sun topped the horizon. He had to think of a way to escape from sure death.
Surveying the activity, he forced his mind to be calm. He watched a GAZ field car approach the building and stop next to a group of Cuban soldiers. A Soviet officer stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the cluster of men. Wickham listened intently, trying to catch what the Russian was saying. Suddenly, the soldiers formed two groups and approached the barracks and administration building.
Wickham swore to himself and scooted back three feet. He wedged the camera and the assault rifle between the cracked foundation and a support beam, then braced his toes on the concrete ledge. Placing his fingers through a rotted hole in the wooden beam, he yanked himself up between the supports.
He held his breath, listening to the men, as two of the soldiers looked under the building with flashlights. Seconds became an eternity as Wickham's arms began to quiver from the strain of holding his body horizontal.
THE WHITE HOUSE
Alton Jarrett, unable to sleep, had showered, shaved, and donned a fresh suit. He was nibbling his breakfast and reading an update brief when the vice president entered the Oval Office.
"Any word, Mister President?" Kirklin Truesdell asked, carrying two file folders.
"Nothing yet," Jarrett answered, motioning Truesdell to a chair. "Sam is talking with the Soviet ambassador, but I don't anticipate much progress from that avenue. . . . Take a look at this," the president continued, handing Truesdell a sheaf of confidential briefing notes.
The vice president sat down, read each section thoroughly, then looked at Jarrett. "They executed Voronoteev?"
"Afraid so," the president said, grim faced. "Norm Lasharr confirmed it fifteen minutes ago. He said that the execution was open to certain individuals-media representatives and dissidents-in order to send a message."
Jarrett slid aside his tray. "The United Nations Security Council has come out against our position, as usual."
"The UN is an open embarrassment," Truesdell replied in a disgusted voice. "They have voted against us eighty-three percent of the time in the past year. It really peeves me."
The president tossed his napkin on the breakfast tray. "Kirk," he said as he leaned forward in his chair, "I have ordered a third carrier group to rendezvous in the Caribbean. The Abraham Lincoln and her escorts will stand off the western shore of Andros Island. They're southwest of Bermuda, moving at flank speed. We also have three attack submarines en route to the area, and the Air Force, Navy, and Marines are concentrating fighter aircraft along our southern bases.
"Also," Jarrett continued, glancing at his page of personal notes, "I have ordered the Wisconsin and her support ships to get under way as quickly as possible. Two destroyers have already left Ingleside and cleared Corpus Christi Bay. They'll loiter until the battleship is in open water."
Jarrett turned his paper over. "The Lexington is in the gulf conducting carrier qualifications, so Bernie decided to attach it to the Wisconsin, along with two reserve frigates and a combat support ship. He wants the flight deck available for emergencies."
The president massaged his chin. "Bernie and the Joint Chiefs are concerned because we won't have any element of surprise. The Cubans have more than seventy thousand troops on the island, plus several hundred leftover Soviet advisers."
Truesdell nodded. "I recommend strongly that we strengthen our southern flanks, too."
"Bernie is coordinating the effort as we speak." The president handed Truesdell another piece of paper. "He also debriefed the on-site commander and his three pilots from the Guantanamo skirmish."
"Oh?" Truesdell paused, keenly interested. "What happened?"
Jarrett shrugged. "The MiGs slashed right through the navy formation--on the outskirts of our base--and entered an attack posture."
"Did they fire at our pilots?"
"No," Jarrett replied, removing his glasses. "The first two aircraft that went down--an A-4 and a MiG-23--collided in a head-on pass. Our pilot ejected and the other pilot, a Soviet, as you know, never got out. The two aviators who shot down the other MiGs thought their leader had been fired upon. They engaged, with the on-site's permission, immediately after the collision."
The president stopped a few seconds to allow Truesdell to skim the brief. "The point is that the MiGs forced the issue . . . pushed us against the wall."
Truesdell shook his head in acknowledgment. "An open effort to divert attention."
"That's how I see it," Jarrett replied, glancing at his watch. "Have to run--the press conference is scheduled in nine minutes."
"What do you plan to say?" the vice president asked with a concerned
look on his face.
"The truth--as much as I can reveal," the president answered as he stood. "I'm not going to start deceiving people at this stage."
SAN JULIAN
Steve Wickham, breathing deeply, sagged to the ground and crawled next to the small opening in the foundation. He ventured a quick look outside, then retreated to a corner of the building. The soldiers had moved on to another structure and the Soviet officer was driving away.
Wickham considered his options as his pulse returned to normal. Five minutes later, after analyzing his limited choices, the agent resigned himself to the only viable possibility. He would have to wait until nightfall to attempt an escape.
USS KITTY HAWK (CV-63)
The 80,000-ton warship, carrying less than half of her air group, was increasing speed eight miles southeast of Pensacola beach. On board Kitty Hawk, the sailors and officers of Carrier Air Wing 3 prepared for the arrival of the rest of CVW-3's warplanes. The crew emergency recall had produced a 92 percent manning level when the giant ship put to sea.
The refurbished carrier sported new flush deck catapult launch equipment, MK-7 blast deflectors, arresting gear, and state-of-the-art AN/SPS-49(V) radar. The veteran ship had also been equipped with an advanced combat direction system (ACDS), formerly referred to as the combat information center (CIC), to improve the tactical decision process.
Kitty Hawk would join her escort ships thirty-four miles south of Fort Walton Beach, Florida. The support ships, consisting of four missile destroyers, two cruisers, and two frigates, were home-ported at Mobile, Alabama, and Pascagoula, Mississippi.
The carrier air wing commander embarked on Kitty Hawk had received his operations orders directing the wing to initially provide attack and fighter combat air patrols (CAP). When the carrier and escort ships arrived on station 150 miles northwest of San Julian, their mission would intensify. The air wing would be tasked with normal CAP duties, along with surface combat patrol (SUCAP) and war-at-sea contingencies.
