Shadow Flight

Chapter Twenty-three

The air base had been placed under total blackout conditions, as had all of Cuba. President Castro had issued a warning over national radio. Simply stated, any light showing after dark would be shot out by the army.

The perimeter of San Julian was bustling with activity as additional weapons were placed in strategic locations. Four squads of Cuban soldiers rushed from site to site, camouflaging the armament.

Portable surface-to-air (SAM) missiles ringed the air base, along with radar-controlled 57mm and 85mm antiaircraft guns. By late evening, twenty-three motorized ZSU-X antiaircraft weapons had joined the original twelve ZSU-Xs that had been sent to San Julian earlier. The assembled firepower represented a major obstacle to the American pilots.

Seven MiG-23s, eight MiG-25 Foxbats, and twelve MiG-29 Fulcrums had been fueled and loaded with ordnance in preparation for the expected American assault. The fighters were lined up on the runway and taxiway, ready to be airborne in five minutes.

The first eight aircraft on the runway, six Fulcrums and two MiG-25s, were manned.. The rest of the pilots, including three Russian instructors, waited in the ready tent erected hastily next to their fighters.

Gennadi Levchenko sat on the small bunk in the cramped guarters behind his office. The wait for instructions from Moscow was taking its toll on the KGB director.

Levchenko leaned over his footlocker, grabbed the neck of a rum bottle, and poured a liberal amount of the amber fluid into his coffee mug. He tossed down the room-temperature libation, grimaced, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. His hand froze when the chief communications officer rapped on the edge of his open door.

"Comrade director," the man said cautiously, "I have an urgent message for you."

"Moscow called?" Levchenko asked impatiently. "What is it?" The communications officer swallowed. "Raul Castro is en route to our base, comrade dir—"

"Goddamnit!" Levchenko bellowed, leaping up. "Get Moscow on the line! I want answers!"

The flustered officer, exhausted from lack of sleep and the mounting tension, hurried out of the small office and ran toward the communications center.

Levchenko hastily slipped on his boots and marched into the hangar. He surveyed the B-2, noting it was in the final stages of reassembly. The fuselage was still open, exposing the complex array of electronic equipment, but the few remaining access panels were being replaced.

Levchenko, kicking a loose hose out of his way, walked over to the senior airframe technician. The scowl on the director's face reflected his foul mood. "When will the Stealth be ready to fly?"

The aircraft engineer, matching Levchenko's serious look, calculated quickly how much longer it would take to restore the bomber to flying condition. "Two and a half — possibly three hours at the most, comrade director."

Levchenko looked at his watch, thoroughly disgruntled with the change of events. "It damned sure better be," Levchenko growled, then spun around and headed for the communications center.

The Soviet airframe technician, upset by Levchenko's rebuke, turned around and barked orders to his crew. Intimidated and uneasy, the men went back to work at an increased pace.

Levchenko was about to enter the communications room when the harried comm officer rushed out. "Comrade director, Moscow is on the line," he gushed, "and Castro's helicopter just landed at base operations."

"Sonuvabitch!" Levchenko yelped, brushing the officer out of his way. He stormed into the room and glanced at the sergeant manning the main console.

The portly young man, showing his anxiety, looked toward Levchenko. "Castro is on his way over, comrade director."

Levchenko ignored him and yanked up the receiver next to the blinking yellow light. "Levchenko!"

The KGB director was paralyzed momentarily when he heard the voice on the discreet phone. He sat down, fumbled for a cigarette, snapped open his lighter, and listened to the chief of the KGB. Not a subordinate, division chief, or operations director. THE director of Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti.

Levchenko forgot about the cigarette. "Da, comrade director." He listened intently to Vladimir Golodnikov, motioning for the communications officer to close the door, then scribbled a note to the surprised man.

"Da, I understand, comrade director," Levchenko said as the comm officer read the scrawl and rushed out to find Obukhov.

"Da, comrade director," Levchenko continued, surprised by the order he had been given. "I will keep you informed, comrade director." Levchenko listened to the final statement, then said good-bye. "Do svidanya, comrade director."

Commander Doug Karns taxied his "borrowed" F-14D onto the runway and swung into position for takeoff. He had been cleared to hold in position until the A-6F Intruder that had landed cleared the runway.

The commanding officer of the Diamondbacks, along with his radar intercept officer, had received a thorough physical after their narrow escape. They were in excellent condition, except for strained muscles and contusions, and had been pronounced fit for flight duty.

Karns had made arrangements to have his wingman and RIO flown to the Kitty Hawk. He checked with the carrier air boss for an overhead time, then crawled into Diamond 107 and taxied to the duty runway.

"You ready, Scurve?"

Ricketts thought of an appropriate answer but decided not to utter the obscene expression to his CO. Instead, he voiced what he really felt. "A triple martini would help."

Karns grinned, keying his radio when the Intruder cleared the duty runway. "Key tower, Diamond One Oh Seven, ready to roll."

"Diamond One Zero Seven, wind one-zero-zero at eight, cleared for takeoff."

Karns rechecked his flight controls, navigation and anticollision lights, and engine instruments. He released the brakes, shoved the throttles into afterburner, then felt the powerful g forces push his helmet back against the headrest. "Diamond One Oh Seven on the roll."

The Tomcat accelerated down the 10,000-foot runway, afterburners lighting the night, then rotated smoothly and headed for the Kitty Hawk.

Levchenko glanced at the Stealth bomber, then saw Obukhov rushing across the hangar. Both men arrived at Levchenko's office at the same time.

"We have more problems…, shit," Levchenko snarled, slamming the door. "Raul Castro is here."

"I was informed," Obukhov responded, sitting down on the hard metal bench.

Levchenko sat down at his desk and wearily removed his glasses. "I just had a conversation with our stubborn director — THE man."

Obukhov sensed trouble. The KGB chief's reputation for recalcitrance was known widely throughout the organization.

"He ordered us to cooperate with Castro," Levchenko sighed heavily. "They are backing off… washing their hands of the operation now that we have the goddamned airplane."

Obukhov, clearly uncomfortable, fidgeted for a moment. "I'm not sure I understand, comrade director."

"Damnit!" Levchenko snapped, showing his growing frustration. "The situation is out of control. Golodnikov knows the operation has collapsed. They can't contain or control Castro, and they have turned their backs on the operation… and us. I don't know what the hell is going on, but the Kremlin is not to be involved further. Golodnikov inferred that I am a man without a country-persona non grata in Moscow."

Levchenko yanked out a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled deeply. "We are out of the picture. The Stealth belongs to Castro, as of now."

Both men sat in dumbfounded silence. So many months of intense work, training, and planning had been erased in one split second.

Levchenko started to speak, then noticed a commotion in the hangar. He stood, then walked to the door and opened it. "He's here," Levchenko said in a resigned voice. "I will need your assistance, Natanoly Vitelevich."

"You have it, comrade director."

Levchenko and Obukhov silently observed Raul Castro and his small procession enter the hangar, stop for a moment to take in the secret bomber, then walk slowly toward the work spaces and office.

Levchenko, watching Raul Castro, wondered about Fidel Castro's motivation. The dictator had always harbored a grudge against the Soviet Union for excluding him during the 1961 missile crisis-the October crisis in Cuban history. Stifling his rage and looking pleasant, Levchenko walked toward the commander of the Cuban army and extended his hand.

Raul Castro gave Levchenko an obligatory handshake. He was imposing as he stared at Levchenko, eyes focused, riveting. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and sideburns. His olive green utility uniform was damp with perspiration. "You do not have the bomber ready to fly," Castro accused.

"Comrade general," Levchenko replied uncomfortably, "the bomber will be ready to fly in three hours. The men are working as fast as they can."

Raul Castro remained silent a moment before he leaned into Levchenko's face. "I will be back in three hours — have it ready!"

Levchenko flinched, feeling the warm spittle hit his cheek. "Yes, comrade general."

Sparks flew from the tailhook of Diamond 107 as Comdr. Doug Karns screeched to a halt in the number three arresting cable. The CO let the Tomcat roll back a few feet, dropped the wire, raised the tailhook, and followed the lighted wands held aloft by the flight deck petty officer. The pitch-black deck was alive with ordnance handlers and fueling crews.

Kitty Hawk began slowing as the plane guard helicopter, a Kaman SH-2F Seasprite, entered a hover over the angle deck, then settled to a gentle landing. Two F-14Ds sat on the forward catapults, manned and ready to launch at a moment's notice.

Seventy-five miles ahead of Kitty Hawk, off the port quarter, two Diamondback Tomcats flew barrier air combat patrol. They would refuel one more time from two KA-6D Intruders before being relieved by two F-14Ds from the Black Aces of VF-41.

On board Kitty Hawk, in flag plot, the carrier air wing commander had received the tactical air operations order. The battle plans had been approved by the Joint Chiefs of Staff before being forwarded to the three carrier groups. The operations order tasked the three air wings with attack and combat air patrol missions, along with a war-at-sea contingency.

Gennadi Levchenko, unshaven and feeling the effects of fatigue, supervised the final assembly of the Stealth bomber. He had Simmons, who had become even more withdrawn, in the cockpit checking the avionics and weapons systems.

Levchenko had watched the time closely, expecting the Cuban general to return at the end of three hours. He observed the tired technicians reconnect the last avionics system and replace the last access panel, then went into the lavatory and washed his face with cold water. He was drying his neck vigorously when Natanoly Obukhov rushed in.

"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."