Shadow Flight

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."

WICKHAM

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 was in 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.