Jarrett glanced at Parkinson, then back to the vice president. Truesdell absently completed an arithmetic equation while he defended his theory. "General Parkinson states that the Stealth cruises at four hundred fifty — let's say four hundred sixty knots at altitude. So, we can assume that it would take two hours to reach the point of the near collision."
"Okay," Jarrett said, "we can assume that the B-2 would traverse the nine hundred nautical miles in approximately two hours. What's the bottom line?"
"A little more than two hours," Parkinson corrected, "counting the time to climb. The B-2, like any aircraft, climbs at a slower speed than its cruise speed."
"All right," Jarrett responded, "a little more than two hours. Do we know the time of the close call — the near midair?"
"Yes," Truesdell replied, then paused to look at his quickly written notes. "Cleveland Center has the occurrence on tape, with time hacks. That's normal procedure, and a copy of the tape is being sent to us.".
"What time was it?" Kerchner asked.
"Nine-fifty-seven, local time," Truesdell replied, then looked over to Parkinson. "Two hours, six minutes after the emergency code flashed on Canadian radar."
The last few minutes of daylight were fading away rapidly as the rusted, dented Chevrolet van bounced down the partially paved highway. The torrential rains of the previous evening had washed thick mud and debris across the narrow, winding road.
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Matthews and Maj. Paul Evans sat on a bench in the back of the DAAFAR vehicle. Both men remained quiet, sitting angled away from each other. Their hands had been tied together behind their backs, then tied to each other.
The van lurched to the right to avoid a pothole, then rounded a tree-lined corner into an open expanse of roadway surrounded by grass and stubble. Across an open field, on the far side of a narrow stream, was a small civilian airport.
"Paul," Matthews said under his breath, "look out to your left."
Evans glanced quickly at the four men in the forward portion of the van. One Cuban guard, sitting behind the steering wheel, was accompanied in the front seat by the chief of KGB security at San Julian. Another Cuban guard and a KGB security officer sat on opposing benches behind the front seats.
Evans studied the guards for a moment, then darted a look at the small private airstrip. He studied the layout of the short runway, then turned to Matthews, smiling.
Both pilots had seen the two ancient, dilapidated DC-3s rotting behind the single hangar. They had also seen an old, radial-engined trainer sporting a huge paddle-bladed propeller. Neither was sure of the country of manufacture, but the aircraft appeared to be of Soviet design.
"The gooney birds," Matthews said, barely moving his lips, "aren't airworthy, but the small plane looks like it's flyable."
Matthews stopped talking when the closest KGB agent looked back at the two pilots. The short, wiry Cuban also glanced at the Americans, then resumed his animated, noisy discussion with the driver. The senior KGB agent carried a 9mm Beretta. The two men in back held their AK-47s across their laps, seemingly unconcerned with the two disheveled Americans.
"Chuck," Evans whispered, straining against the rough ropes binding his wrists. "I think I'm almost out of this lash-up. Can you move your hands farther behind me?"
Matthews darted a quick glance at the guards, then moved his bound hands as far as he could stretch them.
"Just a couple more seconds," Evans said, struggling with the final binding that was cutting into his bruised wrists. "You ready to go for them?"
"Damned right," Matthews replied without moving his bruised lips. "Can you get me loose?"
"Yeah, I think so — just a second."
"Okay," Matthews said, sizing up their four adversaries. "You take scarface, and I'll get the one on the right."
Evans nodded. "Can you pull your left hand loose?"
"Yes," Matthews responded, feeling the cord go slack around his left wrist. "Jesus, Paul, you're amazing."
"You still have the end around your other wrist," Evans whispered, "but you're free."
Matthews, watching the guards, turned slightly to see Evans in his periphery. "When I say 'now,' let's go for their weapons and shove the bastards forward."
"It's our only shot, Chuck."
"You're right, and a damned good one," Matthews replied, feeling the adrenaline surge through his body. "Ready — one, two, three, now!"
Both officers catapulted across the van, smashing into the two guards with brutal force. Matthews yanked the AK-47 away from the smaller man, kicking him off his bench into the back of the front passenger seat. Evans had punched the KGB agent straight in the nose and ripped his rifle loose.
"Don't move!" Evans yelled, pointing the barrel into the Russian's face.
The Cuban driver panicked, then slammed on the brakes, sending Evans crashing over the Soviet officer into the back of the driver. Matthews fell on top of the other Cuban as the van slid to a stop.
"Don't move, goddamnit!" Matthews shouted, pointing the assault rifle at the soldier. "You okay, Paul?"
"Yeah," Evans replied, shoving his rifle barrel into the mouth of the KGB guard. "I'm fine."
"Get in the back," Matthews ordered, motioning for the four guards to move to the rear. "Move it, now!"
The Cuban, along with the two Russians, scampered to the back of the battered Chevrolet while Evans yanked the driver between the front seats.
"You heard the man!" Evans barked, gouging the driver in the ribs. "Move it, asshole!"
"Stretch out, face down!" Matthews ordered, shoving the startled men down on their stomachs. "Side by side."
"You, too," Evans said, kicking the driver in the back of his knees. "On the floor."
Evans held his AK-47 on the soldiers while Matthews removed the long, dangling cord from his right wrist. He tied the quartet together quickly, then unzipped the front of his flight suit and tore off his turtleneck. He ripped the soiled pullover into four strips and gagged each man.
"Paul," Matthews said, picking up his assault rifle, "turn this wreck around and let's take that narrow road about three-quarters of a mile back — the one just before the airfield road."
"The one going east into the trees?" Evans asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.
"Yes. We've got to get rid of these bastards, then try the airfield."
Evans pulled over to the side of the road, cranked the wheel hard to the left, then gunned the engine. "Are you going to kill them?" The van spun around, slamming the prisoners against the right side, then straightened out and accelerated.
"No," Matthews answered, leaning against the back of the front passenger seat for balance. "I thought about running over their legs to immobilize them, but that—"
"Oh, shit!" Evans said as another DAAFAR vehicle rounded a curve a quarter mile in front of them. "Grab a couple of their caps."
Matthews scooped the two Cuban military hats off the floor, handing one to Evans. "Paul, if we get stopped for any reason," Matthews said, checking the safety on his Kalashnikov, "we've got to take our chances — we've got to shoot it out."
"I know," Evans replied as he shoved the khaki uniform cap on his head. "I'm with you."
The pilots watched the approaching vehicle. One headlight cast a beam straight toward the van, partially blinding the two Americans; the other headlight pointed slightly downward at the road.
"Uh, oh," Evans said, squinting into the bright beam of the single headlamp. "It's one of the Russian jeeps!"
"Keep going straight," Matthews ordered. "Don't turn off the road."
The Soviet GAZ field car passed the van, continued a hundred meters, then rapidly slowed.