Shadow Flight

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.

Chapter Twenty-five

THE B-2

Matthews watched the shoreline pass under the B-2's nose, checked his airspeed and rate of climb, then rolled into a gentle left turn. After reversing course, he engaged the autopilot and reprogrammed the first navigational waypoint. The screen lighted with the time and distance to the checkpoint.

Major General Brotskharnov watched Matthews closely but remained silent as the aircraft climbed through 7,000 feet.

"We'll level," Matthews announced over the intercom, "at thirty-six thousand… until we've burned off some fuel. We'll stay between cardinal altitudes to avoid traffic."

Brotskharnov nodded, feeling anxiety beginning to creep into his mind. He was no longer in the relative safety and anonymity of San Julian. He was in an American Stealth aircraft — a stolen B-2 bomber — on his way to Russia.

Matthews, thinking about the arduous flight ahead, looked at the instrument panel. The clock read 4:02 A. M. He made a slight adjustment to the autopilot, then settled back in his seat. He tried to think if there was any way to extract himself from his perilous situation.

WICKHAM

The lone Cuban soldier, holding his cap in the helicopter downwash, stepped back and motioned with his rifle for Wickham to stand. The fat, sweat-soaked man had been a straggler who had fallen behind his patrol. Now, the gap-toothed soldier would be a hero to those who ridiculed him constantly about his size.

Wickham raised to one knee, caught the Cuban looking ahead for his unit, then leaped at the soldier like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. The agent hit the obese man square in the chest at the same time the soldier pulled the trigger.

A resounding crack filled the air as the round blasted through the trees, sounding an alarm. The Cuban, gasping for breath, dropped his rifle and fell to the ground with a thud. Wickham scooped up the rifle and slammed the butt into the soldier's head, knocking him unconscious.

Wickham turned and raced through the heavy foliage, using the assault rifle to bash his way through the dense growth. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing. He could see that Cuban troops had him surrounded. There was no way out except across the open field. He cursed the bright Caribbean moonlight.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Wickham exclaimed in desperation, then dropped the rifle and fell to his knees. He watched the column of troops, then analyzed his choices. If I can reach the bend, he thought, I'll have a chance.

The sound of voices, closer than before, made the decision easier. Wickham leaped to his feet and crashed through the thick growth, then sprinted across the field. Shots rang out, kicking up sprays of dirt, as the American zigzagged in a low crouch.

Wickham reached the far side of the clearing at the same instant a high-velocity round slammed into his right boot. The impact knocked Wickham's leg out from under him, sending the agent sprawling to the ground.

Over the Yucatan Channel, Marine Capt. Greg Spidel checked the time as he prepared to select his main gas tanks. The auxiliary fuel cell was almost depleted, but the pilot waited three more minutes before he toggled the fuel switch.

Aware that Wickham had transmitted pictures of the B-2, Spidel was prepared to extract the agent at any point prior to 5 A. M. He flew the OV-10 Bronco in a lazy circle with the Garrett turboprops throttled back to conserve fuel.

Spidel, talking occasionally with his winch operator, waited impatiently for the signal from the CIA agent. The extraction call would have to come soon if he was going to complete the mission this morning.

Wickham rolled over and sat up. He pulled up his tingling leg and looked at his right boot. The thick heel had been partially blown off, but the round had not hit his foot.

He jumped to his feet, raced into the jungle, then turned toward the road, determined to get across and head for the beach. Rapidly outflanking the soldiers, he came to the roadside.

"Shit," Wickham said under his breath as he watched a large patrol, rifles at the ready, walking cautiously down the road.