Shadow Flight

Chapter Thirteen

Steve Wickham sat in the passenger cabin of the C-20 VIP aircraft, listening to Hampton Milligan, director of CIA Clandestine Operations. The former Green Beret officer was pointing out various topographical features on a large relief map of Cuba.

The glistening transport's auxiliary power unit, providing a steady flow of air-conditioning, was barely audible in the quiet cabin. Wickham sat back, eating his breakfast slowly. The air station enlisted mess had been kind enough to send the meal over to the flight line in the duty pickup truck.

"Okay," Wickham said, swallowing the last bite. He placed the dented tray on a fold-out table. "What gives, Hamp? You usually start an ops brief from the beginning."

"Steve," Milligan began slowly, "this comes from the White House — right from the top. The president has ordered us to recon two specific areas in Cuba, and the general has commissioned you to do it… alone."

Wickham leaned back and closed his eyes. After a moment he looked out of the window, then turned to Milligan. "Two questions. Why me, when we have a number of clandestine agents who are Hispanic? And, what am I looking for?"

Milligan frowned. "Steve, when the general gives an order, we pick up our packs and move out. You speak fluent Spanish, along with Russian, and you are the man."

"Fine," Wickham replied, "but what gives?"

"Your mission," Milligan said, enunciating each word carefully, "is to locate a missing B-2 Stealth bomber."

"What!" Wickham exclaimed, sitting upright. "The Cubans have a Stealth?"

"We have every indication that the aircraft is in Cuba," Milligan said as he opened a brown sealed packet.

"How in the name of God did a B-2 end up in Cuba?"

"Read this thoroughly," Milligan responded, "then we'll go over the details."

Wickham sat back again and studied the agency operations brief. His eyes grew wide at each new paragraph. Milligan sat patiently looking out of the window at the dull gray F-14 parked next to them.

Wickham rested the papers on his thigh and shook his head slowly. "This is incredible… absolutely incredible. I'm expected to snoop a military airfield?"

"You're going in tonight, Steve." Milligan had an unusually serious look on his ruddy face. "The president has made this his number one priority. The ramifications, in regard to relations with the Russians and the Cubans, are incalculable."

"But, Hamp," Wickham said, scratching the coarse stubble on his chin, "I can't just go waltzing around Cuba — hell, I'll stick out like a sore thumb."

Milligan, pausing to readjust his glasses, did not respond. "Hamp, I'm a green-eyed Caucasian."

The director of Clandestine Operations gave Wickham a blank stare. "A Caucasian who speaks Spanish and is very innovative under pressure."

The former marine officer was resigned to the inevitable, but the selection of an Anglo-Saxon to infiltrate Cuba and reconnoiter a military airfield did not track.

Milligan remained silent. The director continued to look Wickham in the face with an impassive gaze. Wickham knew the look — Milligan always did this when an issue was no longer open for discussion.

"Hamp, this is really stepping over the threshold." Wickham paused, looking at the expressionless face. "Shit… how are you proposing to insert me?"

"You will stage out of Cancun tonight." Milligan opened another envelope and handed it to the man considered to be the best clandestine operative in the CIA. "We have a Marine OV-10 en route to Cancun at this time. A young captain, who is regarded as one hell of a pilot, will fly you across the Yucatan Channel and drop you a mile off Bahia de Guadiana."

Wickham shook his head slowly as he looked at the drop location. "We're going to use an active duty pilot?"

"He's a volunteer," Milligan continued, "and he won't have any identification on him. He understands that if anything happens to him, we don't know him. The aircraft will be unmarked. You'll go in," Milligan stopped to point out the exact spot on the large Cuban map, "right here."

"What kind of surf conditions do they have?" Wickham asked, studying the map closely.

"Mild. That's the leeward side. of the island." Milligan pointed to San Julian military airfield. "This air base, as you saw in the brief, is the most likely hiding place for the B-2-if it's in Cuba."

"If it isn't there," Wickham said, tapping the map, "or I can't locate it, then what?"

"Wait," Milligan said patiently, holding up both hands. "I'll get to that."

Wickham, showing his disgust, shook his head again. "Hamp, this is goddamned insane."

"Steve," Milligan responded, finally showing some emotion, "you went through Quantico. We don't make the rules, we follow orders."

"Shit!" Wickham exclaimed. "Did the general come up with this plan?"

"Most of it…," Milligan trailed off, then added, "with some input from the National Security Agency."

"Unbelievable," Wickham responded. "Go on."

"San Julian is approximately eight miles inland." Milligan pointed to the map. "We figure you can make the base by sunrise, dig in for the day, then recon the field the following night."

"Wait a second," Wickham said. "Back to the drop. We're going to need some diversionary tactics."

"We're going to cram the channel with a plethora of aircraft." Milligan reached over and picked up the top secret message. "Sixteen, as a matter of fact. It will appear to be heavy drug traffic, and you'll be lost in the shuffle."

"Jesus," Wickham said softly.

"The captain-your pilot-is considered by his CO as the best." Milligan placed the message down. "He's going to be skimming the water all the way in. No way can they pick you up on radar."

Milligan paused when his SecTel 1500 secure phone rang. The director inserted his key that had the identity of the person using it, and pushed the secure button. The key code went to a National Security Agency computer for validation, then selected an encoding algorithm for this particular conversation. The process took fourteen seconds before the call was completed. Milligan heard Norm Lasharr's voice on the line.

"Yes, general," Milligan reported, "he's with me as we speak."

Wickham watched Milligan as he talked to the director of Central Intelligence. A vision of Becky in her bikini crossed his mind, but then his thoughts returned to the recon mission. I hope the general has another wonderful scheme to extract me, he told himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Milligan said sadly, "but we now have the answer… at least part of it." Milligan listened a moment longer and bid the director a good day. He severed the secure connection and turned to Wickham. "The Stealth is in Cuba, but the location is unknown."

"How did we confirm it was in Cuba?" Wickham asked, becoming more intrigued with the recon mission.

"I'm not sure of the exact connection," Milligan responded, "but we have… had an informant in Moscow fairly high up. The general didn't give me the particulars, but suffice it to say we lost our contact. The KGB had been watching him for quite a while."

Wickham remained silent, mindful of the implications.

"We've got a lot to do," Milligan continued, "so let's get under way. We're going to fly you to Cancun in a chartered cargo jet, then prepare you for the drop. By the way, don't shave… we're going to transform you into a gnarled farm worker."

The president walked briskly into the Oval Office, motioning for everyone to remain seated. "Please don't get up," Jarrett said as he crossed the room and sat down at his desk.

Kirk Truesdell and Bernie Kerchner noticed that the president's face was pale. They had become accustomed to this physical sign of trouble.

"Norm Lasharr just received confirmation," Jarrett said, grim faced. "Our B-2 is indeed in Cuba."

Truesdell and Kerchner exchanged stunned looks, then glanced at Brian Gaines, the president's national security adviser. Gaines was speechless for one of the rare moments in his life.

"God… damn," Truesdell said emotionally. "We're sitting on a powder keg."

Gaines studied the president before speaking. "Where in Cuba is it located, sir?"

Jarrett sighed, then looked directly at the tall, red-haired security expert. "The exact location is unknown."

"Unknown?" Kerchner asked. "If Lasharr knows—"

"Wait," the president interrupted, seeing Truesdell and Gaines forming words on their lips. "Wait a second, Bernie. We lost our priority contact — the air force general — before he could relay the entire message." Observing the shocked looks, the president poured a glass of water and waited for the gravity of the news to sink in before continuing.

"The CIA's intermediary cutout called an agency crisis line from Vienna. Seems that the general was in midsentence when the conversation was terminated. Our Vienna connection believes that the KGB has the general in custody. And we have no knowledge as to how he confirmed this information."

"Damn," Truesdell said, "we knew that the KGB had been suspicious. Voronoteev had relayed that concern when he gave us the MiG-29 data."

"Well," Jarrett replied, "it's water under the bridge. Norm Lasharr believed we needed to use the general and I agreed. Now, we have an explosive situation on our hands, and I want your suggestions."

"Mister President," Gaines said, shifting uneasily in his chair, "I'm not sure we should continue with the CIA probe into San Julian."

"Why not?" Jarrett inquired before he swallowed a sip of water.

"We already have confirmation that the aircraft is on Cuban soil," Gaines replied uncomfortably. "I believe we are asking for trouble if something goes wrong."

"If our agent is caught?" Kerchner questioned.

"Precisely," the lawyer-turned-security specialist replied in a firm tone. "The Soviets can use that to set up a hell of a smoke screen. My recommendation is that we confront the Kremlin, and Castro, diplomatically, and provide a face-saving solution for the return of our bomber, and the crew."

"I don't agree," Truesdell responded before the president could speak. "If we don't have positive proof of the exact location of the Stealth, the Kremlin will deny the accusations and buy a lot of time to scrutinize the bomber. Sure, they realize that we know the B-2 is in Cuba, but what the hell are we going to do about it? We can't prove a damned thing."

"Bernie?" the president asked.

"Sir, I have to agree with Kirk. We have to verify the location of the B-2, then confront the Kremlin and Castro. We've got to work both ends of this problem and force Castro to break the logjam."

The defense secretary sat up in his chair and cleared his throat before continuing. "We've spent years developing the Stealth technology, not to mention billions of dollars. We can't afford to lose our technological edge to the Soviets. Castro is providing a shelter for the hijacked airplane, and we must inform him of our intent to recover or destroy the B-2."

Truesdell glanced at Gaines, then turned to Jarrett. "Bernie is right, sir," the vice president said. "We must do our homework, then demand the safe return of the Stealth and her crew — immediatelyor Soviet President Ignatyev and Castro will face the consequences."

Jarrett sat quietly for a moment, analyzing the suggestions. "What sort of consequences did you have in mind, Kirk?"

"First, sir," Truesdell began tentatively, "we need to address the Castro issue. We have to know what his position is in relation to the hijacked bomber now hidden somewhere on his island. Castro's relations with the Kremlin turned sour long before Ignatyev surfaced, and they have continued to decline since."

"That's true," Gaines broke in, "but we need to consider an approach to a diplomatic solution."

"Mister Gaines," Truesdell replied sharply, visibly irritated. "Wait a minute. I am proposing that we place two carrier groups close to Cuba, have a battleship stand by to move in as soon as the B-2 is located, then explain our position to Castro and to the Kremlin."

"Kirk," the president said, "I'm not sure we want to take a stance like that, unless we have no alternative."

"Mister President," Truesdell replied, choosing his words carefully, "all I am suggesting is that we put some heat on Castro. He was forced into this — he had to have been. If we find the B-2 in his backyard, and explain our intentions, he damned sure isn't going to sit idle and take a pounding for the Soviet Union, if the Soviets are behind this."

"Sir," Kerchner began slowly, seeing the concern on the president's face. "Again, I have to agree with Kirk. If Castro believes that we're going to flatten his island if the bomber and her crew aren't released, he may quickly convince Ignatyev to change course, or produce the bomber."

The president pushed back his chair, swung around to his right, and stood. "Bernie, that could place us in a very difficult position. We aren't talking about Panama or Noriega. If we're wrong, and Castro can still get Soviet protection, there might be a disastrous about-face in the disarmament talks."

"Mister President," Truesdell interjected, "the Soviets would be responsible. They committed an act of international lawlessness. The Kremlin almost pulled off the hijacking, but they got caught, and we couldn't be in a better position to confront them and their henchman. Castro is going to be sitting on an extremely hot burner."

"If we have the proof," Kerchner said. "We have to have documented evidence-pictures of the B-2 in Cuba-to place in front of the world."

The room remained quiet as Alton Jarrett turned his back to the group and stared out of the window behind his desk. He considered the various solutions for recovering the Stealth bomber, and wondered what it would mean for Soviet-American relations if the Kremlin had initiated the theft. Was President Ignatyev, bent on restoring the glory of the Motherland, returning to the pre-perestroika ideology?

Jarrett turned toward his secretary of defense. "Bernie, what steps have to be taken before we know where the B-2 is located?"

"First, sir," Kerchner darted a look at Truesdell, who showed no emotion, "we need to be cautious… business as usual. We can't afford to alarm the Cubans, or the Russians, before our CIA agent is inserted to find the Stealth."

The president nodded his agreement.

"Actually," Kerchner said, placing his pen down, "I recommend we have the carrier groups on normal maneuvers, standing off the East Coast primed to strike. We don't want to do anything until we have the necessary documentation."

Kerchner watched the president's face. Jarrett seemed more relaxed, and the color had returned to his cheeks.

"Also," the secretary continued, "I strongly recommend that we prepare to remove all dependents, civilians, and nonessential personnel from Guantanamo Bay. At the same time, as unobtrusively as possible, we need to reinforce the marine contingent on the base. We'll do that in a routine manner, using C-130s out of Cherry Point."

Jarrett walked to his chair, sat down, and folded his hands together. "Anything else?"

Kerchner looked at the vice president for a moment, then back to Jarrett. "I would like to have the CO of the Naval Strike Warfare Center brief you on the current carrier air wing tactics."

The president agreed with a nod. "Fine, Bernie. Set it up when you have an opportunity."

"I've taken the liberty, sir," Kerchner responded with humility in his voice. "He's on his way now."

The vice president, who remained agitated by the guileless solution that Brian Gaines had put forth, stood and approached the president. "Sir, look at the history of our foreign policy. Every time we've pursued soft formulas, we've lost ground." Truesdell glanced at the chagrined security adviser. "Every time."

"Mister Vice President," Gaines countered, clearly irritated, "I take great umbrage at the insinuation that we are being soft."

"Brian, goddamnit," Truesdell said curtly, "we've just spent billions developing our Stealth technology, and the Soviets are soaking it up. We don't have a second to waste. The Soviets aren't going to respond unless we use a big stick, as we've always had to do.

Gaines, whose face now matched the color of his hair, appeared totally perplexed. He had known of the vice president's disdain for tiptoeing around tough problems. Now he felt the sting of professional embarrassment, and he decided to remain silent.

"Time is of the essence," Kerchner said in an attempt to calm feelings. "But we must have patience for the moment. We have to locate the B-2."

"Step one," Jarrett said calmly. "Then we'll look at our options. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir," Truesdell and Kerchner replied simultaneously. Brian Gaines, avoiding the vice president's eyes, nodded affirmatively.

Jarrett leaned back and turned his chair slightly sideways again. "Sam Gardner is scheduled to return this afternoon, so we'll plan to meet with him on his arrival. I want an opinion from our secretary of state before we go any further. In the meantime, Bernie, go ahead and implement your suggestions."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied.

"I'm going jogging," Jarrett said with determination. "Have some lunch and take a break. We'll get together with Norm Lasharr and Sam at three o'clock."

Steve Wickham sat on the DC-9's cockpit jump seat and watched the airport pass off to his left. The two young pilots, busy preparing the aging aircraft for landing, were in constant motion.

Wickham's mind drifted back to his conversation with the director of Clandestine Operations. More to the point, to the final topic of the covert operation brief-the method to be used to extract Wickham from Cuba.

The cargo jet turned from downwind of the airport to left base as Milligan's voice sounded in Wickham's mind. "We're going to use the skyhook to pick you up offshore the third night, if all goes according to plan."

Wickham, who was basically familiar with the challenging procedure, had listened carefully as Milligan explained the details. Approximately thirty minutes before Wickham was to reach the beach, which was estimated to be 0400 to 0430, the agent would send the signal for extraction. If the time was later than 0500, the pullout would have to be postponed until the following night.

The jet banked gently, turning on final approach for runway 12, as Wickham replayed the skyhook procedure. After sending the extraction signal, which would be transmitted via satellite to the OV-10 pilot orbiting off the Yucatan Peninsula, Wickham would slip back into his wet suit. Next he would don a special parachute harness connected to a 200-foot-long `bungy' cord. The tough, elastic cord was attached to a 140-foot-long thin nylon line with a modified weather balloon on the end.

After Wickham made his way out to sea, he would wait until he heard the OV-10, then pop the seal on the small cylinder of compressed helium attached to the balloon. The balloon would inflate to approximately 8 feet in diameter, carrying the strong elastic cord up 200 feet. At the end of the elastic cord, beneath a softball-sized rubber attachment, was a large cyalume chemical lightstick. Wickham would have to bend the end of the stick, prior to inflating the balloon, to activate the light.

The OV-10 pilot would be able to see the bright lightstick from a distance of five to eight miles. So would the Cubans. The risky extraction would have to be swift and flawless.

When the pilot spotted the eerie-looking light, he would head straight for it. He would place the glowing object in the center of a sight ring high on the front of his canopy, warn the winch operator in the back, then begin slowing to 100 knots.

The pilot would drop to 75 feet of altitude in order to be below the light and the rubber stop at the end of the tough elastic cord. The rubber flange would have to slide down from overhead the OV-10 to snag properly in the catch.

The wide, heavy-duty steel fork mounted through the nose of the aircraft would engage the elastic cord approximately 50 feet below the light. The hard rubber ball would snap into the V clutch as the nylon cord and balloon popped free.

Wickham, who would be facing the sound of the aircraft, would start accelerating through the water at a fairly rapid pace, then be snatched out quickly after the line stretched and recoiled. The pilot would add power and raise the Bronco's nose to assist the winch operator in snaring the elastic cord. The taut line, pressed to the belly of the OV-10, would be reeled into the small compartment below and behind the cockpit.

All well and good, Wickham thought as the DC-9 flared for landing, as long as the line did not touch either of the two spinning propellers. The pilot would have to fly perfectly straight until Wickham was safely inside the aircraft.

The jet slowed rapidly, turned off the runway, and taxied smoothly past the terminal building. As the pilots completed their after landing checklist, Wickham surveyed the various hangars. He looked down the shimmering ramp at the wide array of civilian aircraft. There was not a single airplane that looked even remotely like a Marine Corps OV-10 Bronco.

Wickham unbuckled his seat restraints after the cargo jet rolled to a smooth stop in front of a small, pale green hangar. The two sliding doors were open three feet, revealing the camouflaged nose of the OV-10 counterinsurgency (COIN) operations aircraft.

Wickham thanked the cargo crew for the smooth ride, waited for the copilot to open the door, then picked up his canvas bag and walked down the air-stair ladder. The scorching afternoon heat was a shock after the cool, dry atmosphere in the DC-9 cockpit.

Wickham could see a small group of people standing in the hangar. They were all staring at him. He hesitated, then started toward the open doors when a man in a sage green flight suit stepped out into the sun. He was of medium height, with dark brown hair and twinkling brown eyes. His standard issue flight suit was bereft of any insignia, patches, or name tag. There was no visual clue that the man was assigned to the VM0-1 squadron at the Marine Corps Air Station, New River, North Carolina.

"Welcome to our tropical paradise," the cheerful, smiling pilot said as he extended his hand. "I'm Greg Spidel, captain incognito, USMC."

Wickham shook Spidel's hand solidly as he introduced himself. "Steve Wickham. I understand you're the resident ace in OV-10s."

Spidel laughed. "Let's say that's one of a number of things I've been called."

"Know what you mean," Wickham smiled, immediately liking the friendly pilot.

"Hey," Spidel said, displaying his infectious grin, "all my friends call me Spider." *

"Spider it is," Wickham replied, noting two agency personnel step through the door.

"You hungry?" Spidel asked as the CIA agents stepped forward to greet Wickham.

"I could go for some chow," Wickham responded as he shook hands with his colleagues. "What's on the menu?"

"South-of-the-border cuisine," Spidel laughed, pointing to a box of greasy enchiladas. "Your friends just introduced me to them… and they're great. Besides, we've got a tub of ice-cold Coca-Cola to wash them down."

"Actually, Spider," Wickham said as the group started toward the hangar, "I could use a beer."

"Got some of that, too!" Spidel replied, stepping through the hangar doors. "We'll keep it cold until you're back."