Shadow Flight

Chapter Twenty-four

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 perimeter 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.

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.