Shadow Flight (1990) (27 page)

The end of the runway was less than 300 yards from the fence. Wickham could see MiG fighters lined up on the ramp in front of the control tower. They were bathed in bright light from fixtures on top of the tower and adjacent hangars.

He studied the ramp and the two hangars. He was shocked to see the enclosures open and lighted. Inside each hangar a crew of maintenance personnel was busy working on the MiGs. The agent also saw what he had been looking for initially. Four sentries patrolled the two hangars and another two guards walked the line of MiGs.

Wickham also examined the tall building containing two fire trucks. Three fuel trucks sat next to the base of the control tower.

Two MiGs and their support carts were positioned at the far end of the runway. Wickham could not tell whether the pilots were in the two aircraft, but he could faintly see activity around the fighters.

Christ, Wickham thought, looking at the wooden barracks and other buildings, there's no place to conceal a Stealth bomber. His thoughts turned to retracing his route and aborting the reconnaissance mission when he noticed the baseball park. It sat on a rise off to the south of the main section of the base. Something seemed strange about the park, but Wickham did not grasp the oddity at first.

Then it struck him. Why, at this hour of the early morning, would the bright field lights be on? He could not distinguish any movement on the field or in the spectator bleachers. A second later, Wickham remembered a part of Milligan's briefing. The director had told him that San Julian appeared to be a carbon copy of every other base, including a ball diamond lighted all night. Satellite photographs had revealed games in progress at 3:30 A
. M
.

The agent decided to investigate. He approached the perimeter fence slowly and examined the barbed wire closely, noting a small strand of wire wrapped around the top line. He reasoned that it had to be electrified.

He folded his straw hat and shoved it into his back pocket, backed fifteen feet from the fence, inhaled deeply, then raced toward the barrier and high-jumped over the top strand. He landed on his back and rolled to a sitting position, then stood and brushed himself off.

Wickham jogged along the edge of the fence until it made a right turn. At that point he paused, listening and looking for any signs of activity, before heading toward the open field leading to the ballpark.

Halfway across the grassy expanse, Wickham saw movement by the bleachers. He stopped and knelt down, partially hidden by the palm trees that dotted the area. He counted three guards in and around the tiered seats. Two were sitting on the fourth row, smoking cigarettes and talking. The third was walking around the perimeter of the stands. All three were Cubans carrying AK-47s.

Why, Wickham asked himself, would armed guards be patrolling a fully lighted ballpark in the wee hours of the morning? H
e s
curried across the field, darting between palm trees, until he was sixty feet from the west end of the bleachers. The two guards sitting and talking were on the opposite side, engrossed in their conversation. The patrolling sentry had stopped to relieve himself, standing stationary near third base.

Wickham dropped to a prone position, then crawled under the bleachers and rested a moment. As his breathing slowed, he heard a peculiar sound--one that he could not associate with a ballpark. The noise reminded him of an attic fan or a commercial heat ventilator.

He crawled toward the sound. It appeared to come from the end of the stands, close to the dugout. Wickham inched forward, then stopped abruptly as he saw the telltale signs of a photocell security system. He grabbed a pinch of loose dirt, ground it between his thumb and forefinger, then tossed the fine dust between the sensors. The powdery particles were illuminated in the beam of light.

He stood, moving to the edge of the right photocell, paused a moment, then gingerly stepped over the beam of light. He straddled the invisible light a moment before bringing his other foot over.

"Jesus," Wickham said under his breath. He could see a metal grate under the bleachers at the very edge of the steel supports. Hot, humid air was being forced up through the iron bars.

It took a second for the enormity of the message to register on the agent. The Stealth was under the baseball field.

The next thought Wickham had was the lesson he remembered from Clandestine Operations training. He could still picture the burly instructor pounding home the same point: Covert operations never go according to schedule or plan. You must learn to improvise if you plan to survive.

Wickham eased forward to the iron bars, checked the positions of the sentries, then lifted the heavy grate cautiously. The metal cover, which he judged to weigh thirty pounds, was about three feet long by two and a half feet wide. The air that rushed from the opening blasted Wickham in the face, causing his eyes to burn.

He swung his legs carefully over the edge of the opening, holding up the grate at a forty-five-degree angle. He judged the underground compartment to be close to three feet deep. He dropped into the shaft and lowered the cover.

He leaned down, then froze like a statue. "I'll be damned," Wickham swore under his breath. There in front of him, not thirty feet away, was the missing B-2 Stealth bomber.

A large fan, enclosed in protective metal screening, sucked air out of the underground hangar. Wickham could see three other ventilation fans at the back of the enclosure and two on the opposite wall. Since he could see easily through the spinning blades of the fan that separated him from the bomber, he knew that the camera would send a reasonable picture.

Wickham extracted the compact Sony television camera as he surveyed the interior of the hangar. Four guards surrounded the bomber while two other sentries walked around the perimeter of the enclosure. Six technicians, dressed in powder blue smocks, worked in teams of two at different places on the Stealth aircraft.

The agent was surprised that components and panels from the bomber were strewn all over the hangar. Tubular scaffolding encompassed the cockpit, and padding had been placed across the wings. The aircraft, though partially dismantled, still looked sinister.

He checked the small camera and took the thin antenna out of its padded container. The twelve-foot-long antenna was folded like a carpenter's rule. Wickham extended the antenna up through the grate, then maneuvered it between the bleacher seats.

He dropped to his knees, steadied himself, aimed the camera, then pressed the button. He knew that the bright ceiling lights would enhance the picture quality. He also knew that his life would be in greater jeopardy the moment the Soviets found out about the pictures.

The duty watch officer was sitting in front of the row of blank television screens, penning a letter to his daughter in boarding school
,
when the transmission announcer beeped three times, indicating that an imminent television signal would appear on the screens.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked himself, placing his pen down. He was not expecting any visual transmissions until the following evening, at the earliest. A moment later a slightly blurred image of the Stealth bomber appeared on all three television monitors.

"Good god!" he said to his assistant. "He's in there. Look at this!"

His friend hurried to the bank of monitors and let out a whistle. "Hit the tape."

"Got it," the officer replied. "Call the comm chief."

"I'm dialing now," the wide-eyed assistant responded, mesmerized by the picture on the screens. The resolution was only fair, but the B-2 was clearly visible.

"Jesus," the officer said, "we've got to get a tape to the White House, on the double."

The bored Cuban guard standing near third base buttoned his fly, hitched up his assault rifle, and turned to resume his monotonous patrol duty. He walked toward the pitching mound, noticing his two companions sitting in the stands behind home plate. They outranked him, so he was obligated to walk around the ball field and report in every half hour.

The potbellied guard ambled across the slightly raised mound and continued toward first base. He was about to step on the bag when his eye caught something move. He stopped and scanned the bleachers. Sure enough, there was a small, thin strip of metal protruding through the stadium seats.

The Cuban soldier approached the end of the bleachers cautiously. Had the Soviet technicians added something new to their array of gadgets? He walked between the dugout and the end of the stands, stepped under the stadium, and flipped on his flashlight.

Directly in front of him, not two meters away, was a sliver of metal sticking out of the ventilation duct. Odd, he thought as he stepped closer to peer through the iron grate.

Steve Wickham, concentrating intently on slowly moving the camera from the front of the B-2 to the back, sensed danger, then caught the flicker of light. He placed the camera down and turned around in the cramped space. He could feel his heartbeat surge when he saw the soldier step over the grate, lean down, and point the flashlight into the duct.

"Uh, oh," the watch officer said, feeling uneasy. "We've got a problem. I've lost the feed."

His assistant, holding the phone to his ear, rolled his chair over to the monitors. "What happened?"

"I don't know," the officer answered, staring at the blank screens. "He was giving us a long sweep when the picture angled down and went blank."

"Maybe he thought that would be enough to-" The assistant stopped when his call was answered in the communications center. "Sir, Wozniak at recon ops. We've received a visual on the B-2."

"We have tape," the excited watch officer prompted.

His assistant acknowledged with a nod of his head, then spoke again. "Yes, sir. We have it on tape."

Wickham braced himself, felt a fleeting moment of near panic, then exploded upward, slamming the heavy iron grate into the Cuban's face.

The adrenaline-fueled effort smashed the soldier's nose, broke three of his teeth, and rendered him semiconscious. The guard stumbled backward, holding his face and moaning in agony, then fel
l b
etween the photocell security system. A high-pitched siren immediately blasted the quiet night with a pulsating shriek. The guard, in shock and pain, never saw his attacker.

Wickham leaped out of the duct, yanked up the television camera, grabbed the squirming guard's rifle, and raced toward the palm tree--studded field. He glanced back and saw the other two sentries running across the ball field. They were headed toward the spot where their companion had disappeared.

The agent stopped suddenly when bright searchlights winked on around the perimeter of the air base. He dropped to the ground and searched frantically for a way out. Seconds passed before he realized he was trapped. The entire base was coming to life.

In desperation, Wickham jumped to his feet and ran toward the nearest cluster of administration buildings. He stopped halfway to the nearest structure, dropping to the ground as he saw a dozen Cuban soldiers pile out of the adjacent barracks. Then he belly-crawled as fast as he could toward the first building in the row.

Chapter
Seventeen

Alton Jarrett walked into the Oval Office wearing a navy blue robe over his gray pajamas. The groggy president accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Brian Gaines, then sat down on one of the two facing sofas. The national security adviser, looking rumpled and tired, returned to his seat next to Bernard Kerchner.

The secretary of defense rubbed his bloodshot eyes before speaking to the president. "Is Sam joining us?"

Jarrett nodded, tasting his coffee. "Sam is on his way over. Should be here any minute."

"Good," Kerchner replied, sipping his hot tea.

The president settled into the sofa. "First I want to address Aksenhov personally. When will we have a copy of the B-2 tape?"

Kerchner glanced at the small clock sitting on the president's desk. He had forgotten his wristwatch during the mad dash to the White House. "I expected it here a few minutes ago, sir."

The three men heard an exchange of voices outside the main entrance to the Oval Office. "Thank you," the secretary of state said to the military courier as he grasped the tape container. Samuel Gardner closed the door and turned to the president. "Sir, Aksenhov is on his way."

"He better be," the president replied as Gaines accepted the tape from Gardner.

The national security adviser walked to the VCR, inserted th
e t
ape, and punched the play button. Gaines backed away a few step
s a
nd remained standing as Gardner took a seat next to the president.

The small screen remained blank a few seconds, then the Stealth bomber appeared in a well-lighted hangar. The black and white picture focused on the aircraft, then moved to the right and swept the entire enclosure. Soldiers and technicians surrounded the secret bomber. A few seconds later the picture returned to the stolen B-2, moving slowly from one section to another.

The nose of the Stealth came into view. Then there was a pause before the picture moved down the length of the bomber. A split second before the aircraft's trailing edge would have come into view, the picture stopped a moment, then tilted down and went blank.