Shadow Flight

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.