by Joe Weber
Wickham pointed the machine gun at the first helicopter. He squeezed the trigger, holding it tightly, until the red-hot gun jammed. "Come on!" the agent yelled as the lead gunship, trailing fire, nosed over and exploded in the trees seventy meters from the GAZ.
Wickham leaped to the ground and ran through the thick jungle for 150 meters, then stopped and changed direction. He knew he had to hurry to reach the beach where he had come ashore. The OV-10 extraction was his only hope of avoiding a firing squad.
The agent, hearing the second gunship rake the GAZ with cannon fire, sprinted toward the beach as the vehicle's fuel tank exploded. Rushing breathlessly through the dense foliage, Wickham had no idea he was headed straight for an advancing company of Cuban infantrymen.
Matthews rubbed his sore wrists as he stepped quickly to the crew entrance hatch of the Stealth bomber. He stopped abruptly when Larry Simmons appeared, backing down the steps.
"Get back in the plane!" Levchenko barked.
The frightened tech-rep raced up the steps and into the cockpit. "Move it," Levchenko shouted as Matthews climbed into the dark cockpit to join Simmons.
The pilot of Shadow 37 paused for a second, working rapidly to untangle his shoulder restraints, then eased into the left seat.
Major General Petr Brotskharnov, after his quick walk around the B-2, climbed into the bomber and sat down in the copilot's seat. He busied himself strapping in as Simmons locked the crew entrance hatch, twisted around, then sat down in the third seat.
"You have checklist?" Brotskharnov asked, glancing at his side panel.
"The checklist," Matthews replied as he slipped on his helmet, "will come up on the screen over the center console when we have power."
The general looked at the dark screen, then replied in competent English. "I do not read English so good."
"I'll take care of it," Matthews responded as he adjusted his seat. Brotskharnov suddenly turned to the pilot. "We do not have maps--charts prepared for flight."
Matthews glanced at the Soviet officer. "We won't need them. Our navigation system will take care of everything."
The American pilot, desperate to foil the mission, looked over his right shoulder. Larry Simmons, holding a flashlight, had Levchenko's revolver drawn.
"Larry," Matthews said quietly, "how about helping me with the prestart."
Simmons, with a tight grip on the pistol, wordlessly went through the motions he had completed dozens of times, rechecking his avionics systems before Matthews, using the ground power unit, brought the B-2's dark cockpit to life.
Steve Wickham, short of breath, dropped to the ground. He rested on his stomach as he looked around cautiously. The agent had heard the voices of soldiers walking down the road.
Wickham, wringing wet and exhausted, was fifteen yards from the edge of a clearing. He crawled forward to get a better view of the activity on the road. The long line of men stretched around a curve on the same dirt road the agent had traversed going to San Julian. He had to cross the narrow route to get to his escape point.
Another sound caught the agent's attention. He could hear the subdued conversation of a group of soldiers making their way along the path the American had just traveled. Wickham swore to himself, knowing that the trail he had savagely forced through the jungle would not be hard to follow, even in the dark. The agent was caught between the column of troops on the road and the search party advancing on his position.
Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews taxied the sinister-looking bomber toward the runway. He studied the eight multipurpose optical displays as he punched in four navigational waypoints. After the information was stored in memory, Matthews placed the master mode switch in the takeoff position.
He watched the display units switch from mission data readouts to performance information. The radios were checked automatically as the flight controls switched to the takeoff mode.
Matthews turned the bomber onto the runway, pointed the nose into the easterly wind toward Ensenada de Cortes, checked the engine instruments a third time, then glanced at Brotskharnov and Simmons. "Ready?" Matthews asked as he held the brakes and walked the throttles forward.
Simmons, fastening his helmet tighter, nodded yes.
Brotskharnov, unsure what his flying responsibilities would entail, looked at the American pilot. "You will tell me what I need to do?"
Matthews simultaneously released the brakes and shoved the four throttles forward. "Just sit tight and don't touch anything until I tell you."
Simmons, listening to the pilots over the intercom, held his revolver on his thigh.
Shadow 37, heavily laden with fuel, gathered speed slowly as the four General Electric turbofans split the air with a deafening roar. At sixty knots, tracking the runway centerline, the B-2 rumbled when the left main gear ran over a depression.
Matthews, mentally calculating the runway distance needed for takeoff, watched the airspeed increase. It would be close at their heavy weight. The speeding bomber passed 130 knots, then 140 . . . 145 . . . 150 . . . 155 . . . . Matthews pulled back on the stick, feeling the aircraft vibrate when it ran over another rough spot on the runway.
"Come on . ," Matthews coaxed as the last 500 feet of runway flashed under the hurtling bomber. The main gear skipped across the runway overrun as the heavy B-2 lumbered into the air, then shuddered as the left wing dropped. The wing tip scraped the ground before Matthews could level the staggering aircraft.
"Gear up!" Matthews ordered, pointing to the landing gear handle.
Brotskhamov raised the handle, then felt the wheels thump into the gear wells. He could hear himself breathing heavily over the open intercom.
Matthews, busy with the transition to flight, flew straight ahead. The bomber accelerated in ground effect through 230 knots before the pilot started a gentle climb.
Wickham glanced around quickly, then crawled three meters to an area of dense foliage. His ability to hear the approaching soldiers was nullified temporarily during the B-2's takeoff. There was no mistaking the earthshaking roar of the four jet engines. Now, as the thundering bomber climbed away, Wickham could clearly hear the approaching search party.
The agent worked at camouflaging himself in the foliage, pulling leaves over his body. His spot was precarious, but it afforded the only chance he had. His position was totally surrounded by Cuban and Russian soldiers.
Wickham lay perfectly still, his heart racing wildly, as the soldiers advanced on the clump of vegetation. Wickham, eyes locked in one position, looked out from a small opening. He could see three Cubans, wielding machetes, moving steadily toward his concealment. Six additional soldiers followed close behind, their assault rifles at the ready.
The seconds turned into minutes for the agent as the search patrol reached his chancy hiding place. Two soldiers, with flashlights, walked within two meters of Wickham's head, paused, looked left and right, then continued toward the road.
Four minutes passed before Wickham ventured a move. He raised his head slightly and peered through the camouflage. The soldiers had moved out of view of his position. He sat up cautiously, then quietly rolled over onto his stomach.
An Mi-24 Hind D gunship flew slowly overhead, masking any noise on the ground. The helicopter's powerful Isotov turboshafts, turning the five-blade main rotor, whipped the tops of the trees with gale force winds while a spotlight probed the jungle canopy.
Wickham decided to retrace his trail and conceal himself until the search patrol moved down the road. Remaining on his stomach, he began backing away.
He felt a searing pain when the back of his head collided with a sharp, solid object. The agent stopped, feeling a flash of panic, then turned his head slowly. He froze in stark terror as he stared at the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE B-2
Matthews watched the shoreline pass under the B-2's nose, checked his airspeed and rate of climb, then rolled into a gentle left turn. After reversing course, he engaged the
autopilot and reprogrammed the first navigational waypoint. The screen lighted with the time and distance to the checkpoint.
Major General Brotskharnov watched Matthews closely but remained silent as the aircraft climbed through 7,000 feet.
"We'll level," Matthews announced over the intercom, "at thirty-six thousand . . . until we've burned off some fuel. We'll stay between cardinal altitudes to avoid traffic."
Brotskharnov nodded, feeling anxiety beginning to creep into his mind. He was no longer in the relative safety and anonymity of San Julian. He was in an American Stealth aircraft--a stolen B-2 bomber--on his way to Russia.
Matthews, thinking about the arduous flight ahead, looked at the instrument panel. The clock read 4:02 A. M. He made a slight adjustment to the autopilot, then settled back in his seat. He tried to think if there was any way to extract himself from his perilous situation.
WICKHAM
The lone Cuban soldier, holding his cap in the helicopter downwash, stepped back and motioned with his rifle for Wickham to stand. The fat, sweat-soaked man had been a straggler who had fallen behind his patrol. Now, the gap-toothed soldier would be a hero to those who ridiculed him constantly about his size.
Wickham raised to one knee, caught the Cuban looking ahead for his unit, then leaped at the soldier like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. The agent hit the obese man square in the chest at the same time the soldier pulled the trigger.
A resounding crack filled the air as the round blasted through the trees, sounding an alarm. The Cuban, gasping for breath, dropped his rifle and fell to the ground with a thud. Wickham scooped up the rifle and slammed the butt into the soldier's head, knocking him unconscious.
Wickham turned and raced through the heavy foliage, using the assault rifle to bash his way through the dense growth. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing. He could see that Cuban troops had him surrounded. There was no way out except across the open field. He cursed the bright Caribbean moonlight.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Wickham exclaimed in desperation, then dropped the rifle and fell to his knees. He watched the column of troops, then analyzed his choices. If I can reach the bend, he thought, I'll have a chance.
The sound of voices, closer than before, made the decision easier. Wickham leaped to his feet and crashed through the thick growth, then sprinted across the field. Shots rang out, kicking up sprays of dirt, as the American zigzagged in a low crouch.
Wickham reached the far side of the clearing at the same instant a high-velocity round slammed into his right boot. The impact knocked Wickham's leg out from under him, sending the agent sprawling to the ground.
Over the Yucatan Channel, Marine Capt. Greg Spidel checked the time as he prepared to select his main gas tanks. The auxiliary fuel cell was almost depleted, but the pilot waited three more minutes before he toggled the fuel switch.
Aware that Wickham had transmitted pictures of the B-2, Spidel was prepared to extract the agent at any point prior to 5 A. M. He flew the OV-10 Bronco in a lazy circle with the Garrett turboprops throttled back to conserve fuel.
Spidel, talking occasionally with his winch operator, waited impatiently for the signal from the CIA agent. The extraction call would have to come soon if he was going to complete the mission this morning.
Wickham rolled over and sat up. He pulled up his tingling leg and looked at his right boot. The thick heel had been partially blown off, but the round had not hit his foot.
He jumped to his feet, raced into the jungle, then turned toward the road, determined to get across and head for the beach. Rapidly outflanking the soldiers, he came to the roadside.
"Shit," Wickham said under his breath as he watched a large patrol, rifles at the ready, walking cautiously down the road.
The sound of the search party behind him forced a bold decision. Seeing a Russian staff sergeant at the head of the Cuban column, Wickham ran out in the road. "Mladshiy serzhant," Wickham said in Russian, "I am Kapitan Kuyev, KGB. Get your men back up the road," he ordered, pointing at the open field he had crossed, "and cover that field. We have a foreign agent trapped somewhere in the middle."
"Da, comrade kapitan," the sergeant replied, turning to his patrol. "Move out!"
Wickham hesitated, watching the soldiers hurry back along the road, then turned and sprinted for his life. The weary agent ran until his lungs felt as though they were on fire. He slowed momentarily, checked behind him, and ran into a tobacco field.
The agent yanked out his small watch, noting that he had less than forty-five minutes to make the extraction deadline. Walking rapidly, he replaced the timepiece and pulled out the satellite transmitter. It was time to. Send Spidel the extraction signal.
Greg Spidel cast a glance at his vertical tape engine instruments. The turboprops were humming quietly, producing only 65 percent of their rated power.
The pilot looked at the time again, checked the dwindling fuel supply, then spoke to his volunteer winch operator. "Gunny, you awake back there?"
"Yes, sir . . . barely."
Spidel was startled when the high-pitched beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep sounded in his earphones. "Here we go," Spidel announced, pushing the throttles and stick forward simultaneously. "We're gonna be tight on time and fuel."
The OV-10 Bronco, flying more than 300 miles per hour, descended to 150 feet over the peninsula and raced for the extraction coordinates. Ten minutes later, Spidel reduced power and eased down to 100 feet. He would be on station, off the Gulf of Guanahacabibes, in fifteen minutes.
USS KITTY HAWK
Planning had intensified into the wee hours of the morning before the air strike to Cuba was in hard copy. Senior, highly experienced aircrews had been selected for the combat air patrol/escort, attack, and surface combat air patrol (SUCAP) missions.
The pilots and other aircrew members had begun to gather at 0315 to prepare for the launch thirty minutes before first light. At 0455 the war-at-sea strike would shift into their fifteen-minute alert status, ready to pounce on any invading surface ships.
The A-6F Intruders and F/A-18 Hornets had been armed with Walleyes, Harpoons, Rockeyes, Skippers, and assorted multipurpose bomb loads. The combat air patrol aircraft, F-14Ds, supplemented by four F/A-18s, carried upgraded AIM-9 Sidewinders and Sparrow AIM-7M air-to-air missiles. Both types of CAP fighters held maximum rounds in their 20mm M-61 cannons.
Aerial refueling would be minimal, due to the short flight distances involved in the air strike. Two KA-6Ds would be airborne, with two standing by on deck.
The Air Force would supply three KC-10 refueling aircraft--one per aircraft carrier--as standoff safety tankers. Each of the three-engine behemoths carried more than 350,000 pounds of total fuel. They could give away 270,000 pounds and still have the reserve fuel to fly to an inland U. S. base.
Two E-2C Hawkeye early warning aircraft, working as a team, would sweep the entire gulf area around Cuba. A third Hawkeye would orbit sixty miles closer to the U. S. coast, acting as a spare warning platform. The E-2Cs would be critical in providing the big picture for aircrews and the battle staff.
The amphibious assault carriers Essex and Nassau, carrying the two marine expeditionary units, would be held in reserve. After the initial air strike, including the Air Force B-1 Bs, the joint task force commander would evaluate the need for a second strike before landing the Marines.
Two of the four Los Angeles--class attack submarines operating in the Gulf had been tasked to launch BGM-109C Tomahawk cruise missiles at Cuban shore installations and inland targets. USS Jacksonville (SSN 699) would concentrate her missiles at military sites along the shore west of Havana. USS Albuquerque (SSN 706) would direct her ordnance at targets east of the capital city. All four of the nuclear-powered submarines had been cleared to attack unidentified submarines and fire MK-48 torpedoes at Cuban surface combatants.
The Kitty Hawk--based flight crews were in the final stages of preparing their aircraft for combat. The effort was being duplicated aboard the su
percarriers America and Abraham Lincoln.
BOSSIER CITY, LOUISIANA
At Barksdale Air Force Base, final preparations were in progress to launch the Rockwell' International B-1B strategic bombers. The eighteen aircraft had been loaded with a variety of conventional bombs and air-launched cruise missiles (ALCM).
The first sixteen bombers were taxiing for takeoff. Two of the supersonic B-1 Bs, serving as spares, would return to the base if all the strike aircraft were functioning properly at the midway point. The bomber crews would rendezvous with their fighter escorts over the Gulf of Mexico 105 miles south of Lafayette, Louisiana.
At 0445 the first B-1B began its takeoff roll, thundering down the runway in a pouring rainstorm. Operation Metal Scorpion was under way.
THE AGENT
Steve Wickham, breathing heavily, jogged at a steady pace past the weathered houses he had seen en route to San Julian. He noted that the area was in total blackout conditions, which made it easier for him to move rapidly. "God," Wickham said, panting, "let the OV-10 be there."
The agent left the dirt road, splashing noisily across the shallow marsh he had waded through going to the airfield. The warm, stagnant water splattered his face as he ran out of the swamp.
Wickham could hear gunships spreading out to the south and west of San Julian. He also saw the glowing afterburners of two MiG-29s as they climbed out of the airfield.
Checking the time on the run, the agent realized that he was not going to make the beach by the 0500 deadline. He had only eight minutes to traverse the final half mile to the rescue point. He slowed, yanked out the satellite transmitter, and punched in the extraction code again. He pointed the miniscule antenna over his head and squeezed the send button.
Greg Spidel had just entered his first orbit in the OV-10 when he heard Wickham's signal again. He scanned the sky frantically, looking for the bright cyalume lightstick.
