by Joe Weber
"Comrade director," Obukhov said breathlessly, "Raul Castro called. He wants an engine run-up on the Stealth, and then have it towed to the flight line."
Levchenko looked at his assistant through tired, bloodshot eyes. "What are you waiting for? It's his airplane now . . . we're out of the picture."
"Da, comrade director," Obukhov replied respectfully, turning to leave. "I will take care of everything."
Levchenko finished drying his face and flung the towel into a corner hamper. He was about to lie down when the sergeant from the communications center appeared at the door.
"Comrade director, you have an urgent call from Moscow!"
Steve Wickham, hearing the loud sound of jet engines being started, inched next to the opening in the foundation. The base was completely blacked out except for a group of men working with flashlights.
He studied the soldiers, unsure of what they were trying to accomplish. The men worked rapidly, moving rocks and fence posts. Wickham continued to observe the group until they had passed his position. Three minutes later the jet engines reached a howling crescendo, then throttled down and shut off. Wickham, having forgotten his hunger pangs, waited impatiently for an opportunity to escape from his hiding place.
Finally, after the soldiers had completed their task, Wickham grabbed the assault rifle and ventured out of the small hole. He remained on his stomach and looked cautiously around the immediate area. The bright, luminous moon would spotlight any dark object and make his escape more dangerous.
Wickham listened intently for any sign of soldiers, then crawled to the corner of the building. He edged around the side and froze when he saw the B-2. Realizing what the soldiers had been doing, he watched the bomber as it was towed down the cleared path. Then he crawled back to the opening in the foundation and returned to his place of concealment. If they were going to fly the B-2 out of Cuba, Wickham reasoned, the roar during takeoff would help cover his escape.
Gennadi Levchenko replaced the phone receiver and sat quietly at the communications console. He shook his head and turned to the watch officer. "Get Talavokine up," Levchenko ordered, "and have General Brotskharnov report to me immediately."
"Da, comrade director," the comm chief replied, motioning to the sergeant. "Wake Leytenant Talavokine." The stocky young man hurried out the door as the officer called base operations.
"Have them report to my office," Levchenko said, then stood and walked out the door. Feeling mixed emotions, he entered his office and called his deputy.
"Natanoly Vitelevich," Levchenko said in an even voice, "come to my office."
Starshiy Leytenant Talavokine, groggy and disheveled, walked into the office as Levchenko completed his call.
"Sit down, Talavokine."
"Da, comrade director," the security chief responded, then rubbed his swollen eyes and tucked his shirttail into his trousers.
Levchenko pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and propped his feet on the compartment as he noticed Obukhov at the door. He motioned him in. "Headquarters," Levchenko said as Obukhov sat down, "has decreed a change in plans in regard to the bomber."
Talavokine and Obukhov glanced at each other with apprehension, but remained silent.
"General Brotskharnov is on his way over," Levchenko continued, "so I'll wait until he gets here to brief you." Levchenko stood, then walked into his cramped quarters and placed a fresh pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
General Petr V. Brotskharnov, irritation written on his face, walked through the door as Levchenko reentered his office.
"Have a seat, general," Levchenko said as he returned to his desk. He lighted a cigarette and propped his feet on the drawer again. "We have received new orders, general."
Brotskharnov looked puzzled. "And?. . ."
"We--more to the point--you, general, are going to be responsible for flying the bomber out of Cuba."
The three men looked at Levchenko with equal amazement. Brotskharnov leaned forward. "What am I--"
"We have much to accomplish," Levchenko interrupted, "in a short span of time. I'm going to explain the situation, then we'll discuss particulars.
"First," Levchenko continued, "this change of plans originated at the highest level of KGB and word is being sent to Fidel Castro as we speak. Castro is screaming about getting the bomber off his island immediately. He and Raul are convinced that the Americans are going to invade Cuba to get the Stealth bomber back, so Moscow has decided to fly it to the Soviet Union."
Levchenko looked directly at Talavokine. "Also, our director is outraged over the breach of security here--the pictures that were relayed to the Americans."
Talavokine nodded his head.
"You, Leytenant Talavokine," Levchenko said in his menacing voice, "are going to sequester every single person involved in this project until I give you further orders."
Talavokine swallowed, brushing back his hair. "Da, comrade director."
"You will gather everyone in the middle of the hangar--everyone--including my deputy, until I give you the word."
Obukhov turned pale.
"Now," Levchenko continued, "I will explain our orders. General Brotskharnov, along with the American pilot and the defectorSimmons--are going to fly the bomber to Russia."
Talavokine and Obukhov shot a glance at Brotskharnov. The self-styled commanding officer of what remained of Soviet air forces in Cuba appeared to be dazed.
"General," Levchenko said slowly and clearly, "your orders are to fly straight west over Mexico and the Pacific Ocean to a point twelve hundred miles east of Hawaii. From there," Levchenko said, exhaling, "you will turn northwest and land at Yelizovo on Kamchatka Peninsula."
Levchenko leaned back and looked at Talavokine. "Get Simmons in here, then take four guards and bring the pilot to my office."
"Da, comrade director."
As Talavokine hurried out the door, Levchenko turned to Brotskharnov. "You will take off as soon as the bomber is fueled."
The air force commander, trying to assimilate the drastic change in plans, appeared perplexed. "I do not have any idea how many miles it is to our destination. We will be running a very high risk that--"
"General," Levchenko interrupted tersely, "the logistics have been worked out in Moscow. These orders were communicated to me by the director of the KGB. You will have approximately one hour of fuel left when you reach the Yelizovo airfield."
Brotskharnov started to speak but fell silent when Talavokine and the Cuban guards rushed by the door.
"Moscow," Levchenko continued, "wants you airborne as quickly as possible to take advantage of the dark. You will not be exposed to daylight until you are northeast of the Hawaiian Islands. They are confident that you will not be detected."
Brotskharnov inhaled deeply, then let the air out. "What are they thinking about in Moscow? This is crazy--if we get caught, it will jeopardize all the gains we have made."
"Goddamnit!" Levchenko exploded. "I'm not going to argue with you. The orders originated from the director of the KGB. You either comply, or contact Golodnikov."
Brotskharnov sat mute.
The KGB officer turned to Larry Simmons when he appeared at the door. "Come in and have a seat, Comrade Simmons." Brotskharnov shook his head. "We're digging ourselves a deeper hole, comrade director."
"We," Levchenko shot back, "do not question our orders."
Chapter Twenty-four
SAN JULIAN
Steve Wickham peeked out from the opening in the foundation of the administration building. The agent had been surprised by the escalating activity around the perimeter of the air base. The Cubans were amassing a tremendous amount of antiaircraft weapons.
Wickham leaned back and closed his eyes. The longer he had to wait, the more fatigued he would become. His best chance for escape was now. Besides, he reasoned, if an air strike was scheduled, San Julian would be pulverized.
The sound of approaching vehicles snapped Wickham back to the present. He watched a GAZ field
car, followed by two motorized antiaircraft guns, approach the building from the path the B-2 had traveled. He suddenly realized that he would have to do something very unorthodox if he were to have any chance for survival. He would also have to hurry if he was going to make the rendezvous with the OV-10.
Wickham slid the assault rifle behind him and quietly eased out from under his hiding place. The agent stood, quickly brushed himself off, and walked boldly toward the GAZ.
Chuck Matthews, accompanied by Talavokine and the Cuban guards, walked unsteadily into Levchenko's office. He had been drifting in and out of sleep before Talavokine marched into the cell. The pilot's hands, bound securely behind him, had become painfully swollen.
"Sit down," the KGB director ordered brusquely. "You are going to fly your bomber again . . . to the Soviet Union."
Matthews, glancing at Simmons and the Soviet general, was stupefied. He noted the look of surprise on Simmons's face. Matthews was speechless, confronted by this unexpected turn of events.
"Take him to the van," Levchenko ordered as he turned his attention to Brotskharnov. "We'll be there in a minute."
Matthews had a premonition of impending disaster as he walked out of the office and started across the hangar. Talavokine walked next to him as they climbed the stairs and went out the entrance. Matthews stepped into the dark brown van, still absolutely silent. His mind searched for a clue to his fate. Listening to the guards converse in their native language, he contemplated his possible options.
Two minutes later, Levchenko, accompanied by Brotskharnov and Simmons, hurried out of the hangar and rushed to the van. Three soldiers boarded the vehicle as the fourth Cuban slid behind the steering wheel.
Steve Wickham stepped in front of the GAZ field car and raised his right arm. The Cuban driver mashed the brake pedal as Wickham hurried to the vehicle.
The GAZ shuddered to a halt at the same instant that Wickham recognized a Soviet officer in the passenger seat. The agent, thinking rapidly, approached the door and spoke to the officer in fluent Russian.
"Kapitan, I am Yuri Kuyev, KGB special operations."
The Soviet officer, taken unaware, looked at Wickham with suspicion.
Wickham continued quickly, seeing the doubt on the officer's face. "We have had another serious breach in base security. Take me to the director of the KGB--we do not have a second to waste."
"Yes, comrade," the captain replied as a brown van raced past the field car.
The Russian knew that the KGB had infiltrated most units at San Julian. The officer reasoned that the scruffy-looking agent was assigned to perimeter security. He would blend easily into the civilian atmosphere on the outskirts of the air base.
Wickham, speaking in Spanish, motioned to the Cuban soldier behind the wheel. "Out-get out."
The soldier stared at Wickham, uncomprehending, until the Soviet officer reinforced the order. "KGB-I will drive." The Cuban acknowledged the command and jumped out of the field car as the officer quickly switched seats.
"Hurry!" Wickham ordered, leaping into the vacated passenger seat. "The American bomber is in jeopardy."
The Soviet officer, now convinced that Wickham was indeed a senior KGB operative, floored the vehicle.
Wickham, who wanted to be near the edge of the base when he made his move, leaned close to the driver. "Stop at the hangar first, comrade kapitan. The B-2 hangar."
The Russian glanced at Wickham suspiciously. "The director's office is in the B-2 hangar."
Wickham saw the officer's hand flash toward his leather holster.
The van weaved between the control tower and a fuel truck, stopping twenty meters from the Stealth bomber. A second fuel truck was pumping jet fuel into Shadow 37.
Matthews scrutinized the B-2, observing that it was squatting heavily on the main landing gears. The pilot could tell they were filling the fuel tanks to capacity. He also noticed the increased activity around the airfield, along with the vast number of antiaircraft batteries that had been installed. It was clear to Matthews why Levchenko was frantic to get the B-2 airborne. The U. S. had apparently located the. Stealth bomber and planned to level San Julian.
The van came to a stop near the entrance to an underground bomb shelter. Levchenko opened his door as the guards slid open the side door.
"General Brotskharnov," Levchenko said, slamming the door, "check the aircraft carefully."
Brotskharnov hesitated, accepting a flashlight from one of the guards. "I don't even have a flight suit."
"There isn't time," Levchenko shot back. "Moscow wants you in the air immediately."
The general swore to himself, then flicked on the flashlight and walked to the aircraft.
If only, Matthews thought, he could find a way to thwart the plan. He felt frustrated and defeated.
Levchenko, as if reading the pilot's mind, stepped in front of Matthews. His eyes reflected pure animal hostility. "If you try one thing-anything-to hinder us, I will have you shot on the spot."
Matthews remained motionless, staring past the perspiring Russian. He was anxious to get airborne. Then he might have a chance to alter the outcome of the flight.
Levchenko turned to Simmons, startling the technician.
"If he tries anything in the air," Levchenko hissed, handing his revolver to Simmons, "you are ordered to shoot him. General Brotskharnov can fly the plane once it is airborne."
Simmons nodded quietly, accepted the weapon, then walked to the bomber and released the crew entrance hatch.
"Keep the pilot here," Levchenko said to the guards, "until I get back."
Matthews watched Levchenko enter the underground shelter, then looked around cautiously. The fuel truck had stopped pumping and two men were unplugging the hose.
Steve Wickham backhanded the Soviet officer viciously in the larynx, then slammed his head into the steering wheel. The blow stunned the captain momentarily.
The agent shoved the inert officer against the car door and continued driving, steering from the passenger seat. He moved his foot over to the accelerator and stomped on the pedal. Two hundred yards away, he turned toward the palm-studded field at the west end of the runway.
Without warning, the Soviet captain pushed himself off the door and struck Wickham in the face with the back of his elbow. The force of the impact knocked Wickham's foot off the accelerator.
The agent, bleeding profusely from his cut lip, struggled with the Russian as the GAZ rolled to a stop.
The violent fight continued as both men fought for leverage. Wickham lost his balance and fell against his door, releasing the handle. He slid out of the field car, kneeing the Russian in the groin. The captain groaned as he landed on the American, knocking the wind out of the agent.
The Russian, taking advantage of his opportunity, repeatedly pounded Wickham's head into the hard ground. Wickham balled his fists tightly, then slammed them into the captain's temples. The bone-crushing blow sent the Russian headfirst into the ground.
Wickham, heaving for air, rolled the Soviet officer off him and scrambled into the idling GAZ. He floored the accelerator as the captain rolled on his side and drew his weapon.
Three rounds ricocheted off the GAZ as it raced through the trees. The agent flicked off the dim lights and pressed firmly on the gas pedal. Puffs of dirt flew up beside the speeding car as Wickham approached the perimeter fence.
Chuck Matthews, startled by the gunfire, felt a nudge in his lower back.
"Get down!" a Cuban guard ordered. "On your stomach."
Matthews dropped to his knees, then rolled on his right shoulder and spread out. He could hear more shots being fired from the far end of the airfield.
Gennadi Levchenko, followed by Raul Castro and two senior Cuban officers, ran up the stairs and out of the underground command post.
Total confusion reigned as Castro heard a report over his handheld radio. A field car, traveling at high speed, was being shot at by an unknown person. Castro turned to his officers. "Secure the perimete
r and get the gunships airborne!" Gesturing wildly, he turned to Levchenko. "Take off-get the bomber out of here!"
"Untie the pilot!" Levchenko shouted to the guards. "Get him in the plane!"
A split second later, the command radio crackled again. Someone had seized the field car and was about to crash through the fence. "Fire on the GAZ!" Raul Castro barked over the radio. "Stop the car!"
An automatic weapon opened fire, causing Steve Wickham to swerve to miss a falling palm shaft. He straightened the vehicle and braced himself for a collision with the barbed-wire fence.
Mashing the accelerator with all his strength, Wickham aimed the field car between two support posts and gripped the steering wheel. He ducked his head as the GAZ plowed through the wire fence, sending the barbed strands snapping over his head. Tasting the salty blood from his lip, Wickham fought to control the careening automobile.
The GAZ slid across the dirt road, bounced through a small ditch, went up on two wheels, then righted and skidded sideways through a sugarcane field.
"Go!" Wickham shouted to himself over the roar of the engine and gunfire. "Go!" On the brink of losing control of the car, the agent drove off the right side of the narrow road. He snapped the wheel to the left and slowed down in the darkness.
Wickham, now straddling the middle of the road, looked back toward the airfield. "Shit!" he said, spotting two Soviet helicopter gunships closing rapidly on him.
He concentrated on his driving, glancing back often. The fourth time Wickham looked, both helicopters appeared to twinkle. A millisecond later the ground in front of the GAZ erupted in a shower of flying dirt and debris.
Wickham wrenched the wheel hard to the left, straightened it momentarily, then rocketed into the deep jungle foliage. The field car smashed through the thick entanglement and ground to an abrupt halt.
The agent leaped out of his seat and grasped the overhead-mounted machine gun. One of the Mi-24 gunships pulled up for another firing pass as the second helicopter orbited to call the firing runs.
The gunship pilot, tracking the GAZ with his four-barrel 12.7mm gun, hurtled toward the field car. The Mi-24's turret gunner commenced firing, sending a stream of high-velocity shells into the ground twelve meters in front of the vehicle.
