Shadow Flight

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."