Shadow Flight (1990) (26 page)

The president stopped when the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs stepped into the room. His face was flushed and he was carrying a message hard copy. "Mister President," the four-star general said, "three navy jets based at Guantanamo Bay have engaged in a dogfight with five Cuban MiGs."

"Jesus . . . Christ," Jarrett replied, trying to stifle his irritation and surprise. "When?"

"Only minutes ago, sir. We just received the flash message."

The president broke the shocked silence that had settled over the room. "What's the present situation, general?" Jarrett asked, casting a glance at his secretary of defense.

"The on-site commander's report states that our pilots were forced to defend themselves. The navy flight leader was apparently shot down."

"Are the other two pilots okay?"

"As far as I know, sir."

Jarrett turned to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, I want a thorough brief as soon as you can glean the details."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, nodding soberly. "I suggest we have the on-site commander, along with the pilots involved, flown here immediately to get a clear picture of exactly what happened before we react."

"I agree," Jarrett responded, then added, "and expedite getting them here." The president was angry--and not in the best frame of mind to confront the Soviet foreign minister.

Steve Wickham slowed his pace, then stopped at the edge of a tobacco field. He had heard a vehicle approaching and now saw the glaring headlights. He squatted down and checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes after eleven and he was already more than halfway to San Julian. Just three more miles to the MiG base.

Wickham watched the dilapidated automobile go past his hiding place and disappear down the winding dirt road. He waited another minute, silently cursing his wet feet. He had been forced to wade across a wide, stagnant marsh a half hour earlier.

A donkey suddenly brayed, startling Wickham. His senses tensed as he scanned his concealment. The bright moonlight made blending into the surroundings extremely difficult.

He could see a thatched roof lean-to sixty yards away. Directly behind it, next to the encroaching jungle, stood a small ramshackle house. The rickety-looking structure had rusted sheets of tin nailed to the exterior.

The donkey brayed again, causing the agent to freeze in his hiding place. He could see the animal moving around next to the lean-to. Wickham stood, hot and sweaty, and started walking slowly toward the road. He had taken only nine steps when a naked light bulb flashed on in the shanty.

"Shit," Wickham. said as he crouched down and ran for the sanctuary of the jungle on the far side of the road. Without warning, his right ankle snagged a trip wire designed to foil thieves.

"Goddamnit," Wickham swore when he heard the tin cans topple off the front porch of the shack. He broke into a sprint for the jungle as the donkey brayed loudly and a dog barked excitedly.

He had barely crossed the narrow road when a man stepped out of the front entrance to the house. The figure tucked in his shirttail and looked around. A moment later, he spoke to someone inside and a small boy appeared. The youngster carried a rifle and a flashlight.

Wickham bent down into the thick foliage and watched the man disappear around the back of his house. The Cuban reappeared with the barking dog on a leash, then took the rifle and flashlight from the boy.

Wickham's mind raced, seeking an avenue of escape. He reached behind his back, lifted the baggy shirt bottom, and eased his Excam out of the holster.

The youngster remained close to the house while the man and his dog started around the property. Wickham followed the search, then froze when the Cuban reached the point where the agent had entered the field. The man and his yelping dog hesitated a few seconds, then started across the tobacco field on the same course Wickham had taken. The agent knew that the Cuban could see his boot prints in the moist soil.

"Oh, Christ," Wickham whispered as he watched the Cuban and his dog approach his hiding place. The man carefully splayed the flashlight beam twenty feet in front of him. It would be only a matter of seconds before Wickham would be discovered.

WILLARD INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, Washington, D
. C
.

The quaint hotel, located one and a half blocks from the White House, had become a meeting place for heads of state and foreign diplomats.

A group of the late night crowd, many attired in their native dress, gathered around the television set in the cocktail lounge. A Special Report sign had just been flashed on the screen by ABC
news. The lively, noisy chatter hushed when the commentator appeared.

"Good evening," the anchor said, unsmiling. "Sources inside the government, who are familiar with the growing tension in Cuba, have told ABC news that Cuban fighter planes attacked three Navy A-4 Skyhawk jets over their base at Guantanamo Bay. The exact time of the aerial attack is unknown. Pentagon officials have confirmed that a confrontation between U
. S
. and Cuban jet fighters did take place. The number of aircraft involved, according to officials, is not available for release at this time. The cause of the attack is still unknown.

"A White House staff member, who insisted on anonymity, stated that a downed Cuban fighter, which crashed near Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, contained the remains of a Russian pilot."

The anchor continued in a somber manner, glancing to someone off camera. "Elsewhere in Washington, the United Nations Security Council has been summoned for an emergency session regarding the attack."

The cocktail lounge began to buzz with speculation as to what might have caused the aerial attack. The crowd continued drinking while the commentator paused to receive new material.

"I have just been handed a release from the Cuban news agency Prensa Latina," the well-groomed man said, scanning the page quickly before he continued. "A Cuban Air Force MiG-23 fighter jet crashed into a suburb of Holguin this evening, killing seventeen people on the ground. Witnesses in the neighborhood where the jet came down reported that the airplane was trailing fire before it plowed through five houses. Residents of the Loma de la Cruz section of Holguin said that the pilot ejected moments before the crash."

The anchor stared at the copy a moment, then looked back into the eye of the camera. "Cuban government officials have accused the U
. S
. of precipitating the attack."

Murmurs filled the room as the commentator switched to a White House correspondent for a series of questions.

Chapter
Sixteen

President Jarrett, looking haggard and irritable, sat behind his desk. Samuel Gardner was seated at one end of two oversized sofas that faced each other in the middle of the room. Bernard Kerchner, reading a readiness report, sat at the other end.

"The son of a bitch is consistent," Jarrett spat. "Late as usual."

Gardner, frowning, nodded in agreement. "It's a game, sir. He has to convince you that his time is more important than yours."

Sergey Aksenhov was a typical career diplomat, having served his entire adult life in the Russian Foreign Department. This was his seventh tour in Washington, his first as foreign minister. He prided himself on being unflappable and emotionless. His cold, stony eyes never revealed what his devious mind was thinking.

"I apologize, gentlemen," the tall, heavyset foreign minister said in an orchestrated display of rushing to remove his overcoat. "This evening has been difficult for me."

The three Americans remained silent. The Russian seemed surprised at their lack of cordiality. The usual handshakes and polite banter had been replaced by an icy silence.

"Minister Aksenhov," Jarrett began as the diplomat sat down facing Gardner and Kerchner, "I have received some very distressing news in regard to American-Soviet relations."

Aksenhov feigned surprise. "If you are referring to this evening's unfortunate events, Mister President, I must inform yo
u t
hat we have no other choice than to file an official complaint with the--"

"Minister Aksenhov," the president interrupted tersely. "I suggest you cut the formality and listen for a change."

Aksenhov, genuinely surprised, showed only a flicker of emotion. Years of training and practice had almost eliminated any external signs of stress. Undaunted by the hostility in the president's tone, Aksenhov spoke slowly and evenly. "As you wish, Mister President."

"We have been advised," Jarrett began, staring into Aksenhov's eyes, "that Russia--actually a faction of the KGB--is responsible for commandeering . . . hijacking one of our B-2 bombers."

Aksenhov remained poker-faced, but the statement had had a profound impact on the diplomat.

"Furthermore," Jarrett continued harshly, "the bomber is in Cuba--a Soviet satellite--and I intend to recover the aircraft if it is not released immediately."

"Mister President, gentlemen," Aksenhov said sincerely, "your accusation is preposterous--outrageous."

Gardner sat straight up. "Goddamnit, Sergey, we're past the point of pretending that the Soviet Union isn't involved. I insist that you notify your superiors in Moscow--now. I have championed the cause for a diplomatic resolution to this unprecedented violation, but the president is adamant. We are going to recover the aircraft, or destroy it."

Aksenhov remained silent, but his mind was spinning. He knew nothing of the hijacking. He had recognized the MiG attacks as a planned diversion to focus attention on Guantanamo Bay, but he assumed it had been ordered by Castro for reasons he did not yet understand. If the American bomber had indeed been hijacked to Cuba, that might be reason enough--an attempt to scare them off, divert them. The Americans had mentioned the KGB. Did the Kremlin know? He would have to contact them immediately.

The president was speaking to him. "Minister Aksenhov, it is up to you. We want to know what the Soviet position is in this affair, and we want our bomber back."

Aksenhov placed a chunky hand on his topcoat and heaved himself up. "Mister President, gentlemen, I can only convey your message."

"I will expect an answer," the president said, "by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, Washington time."

The CIA agent watched the advancing man and his dog. Wickham crawled forward to the edge of the dirt road and grabbed a fist-sized rock. After pushing himself back into the thick vines and leaves, he stood and heaved the rock in desperation.

Wickham waited, his heart pounding, as the rock sailed toward the small house. The quiet, humid night was shattered when the projectile slammed into the tin siding with a resounding crack.

The Cuban spun around and yelled and the dog went wild, barking savagely. "Cuidado! Watch out!" the man shouted, running toward the house.

Wickham leaped out of the foliage and sprinted down the road toward San Julian. He distanced himself rapidly from the confusion he had created at the small tobacco farm. He slowed to a trot, then walked as the braying and barking dissipated behind him. His lungs heaved as he surveyed the sugarcane fields to his left. They would provide excellent camouflage if needed.

Wickham hurried along the barren road, passing a number of dilapidated, cheerless small shacks. He stopped occasionally, blending into the fields when a vehicle approached. An individual walking down an isolated stretch of road this late at night would draw attention. Not being recognized as a local resident would make matters worse.

One of his off-road excursions found Wickham lying next to a pen full of hogs. The agent's eyes had watered from the repugnant stench emanating from the hog trough. Another stop, only a mile and a quarter from San Julian, had placed Wickham in a precarious position close to a weathered house. A raucous late night party wa
s i
n its final, drunken stages when the agent had seen an approaching vehicle and been forced to slide under a rusted '60 Pontiac.

Three men, standing under a dim yellow light on the front porch, were arguing loudly. A quartet of people inside the clapboard residence yelled at the three inebriated men on the porch. The Cubans ignored the foursome inside, swilling beer and arguing at the top of their lungs.

Wickham waited until the approaching pickup truck careened past before he crawled back out to the edge of the road. Another drunk driver, Wickham thought to himself as he jogged across another tobacco field and rejoined the dirt road a quarter of a mile from the ongoing party.

Wickham slowed to a cautious walk when he glimpsed the lights of the military airfield. He checked the time again and decided to reconnoiter the base in the darkness available to him. If he got lucky, he thought, he might spot the Stealth bomber, televise the evidence, and get out of the immediate area before daybreak.

He hurried toward the base, constantly checking the road behind him, then stopped at the edge of the tree line fifty yards from the perimeter fence. He looked up and down the barbed-wire barrier, which he judged to be about four feet high. The agent was surprised by the lack of guard towers, and he did not see any sign of perimeter sentries. The Soviets had done a good job of making the base appear not to have increased security.