"Son of a bitch," Matthews swore under his breath. "Keep going." At that moment, the brake lights of the DAAFAR field car illuminated.
Chapter Six
The offices on the top floor of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), based at Langley, Virginia, were quiet. The deputy director of the CIA, David Ridgefield, sat staring out the window at the star-filled sky. The reed-thin, partially bald, fifty-three-year-old former attorney turned his gaze toward the twinkling lights of Washington. He waited patiently for his boss, Gen. Norman Lasharr, director of the intelligence agency, to conclude his phone call.
Lasharr, a ruddy-faced, no-nonsense leader, wrote two lines on his scratch pad, tore the page loose, and handed it to his second in command. Ridgefield reached over, grasped the piece of paper, then sat back. He could not believe his eyes.
Lasharr ended his conversation, placed the receiver on its cradle, and turned to his assistant. "I can't believe it either."
Ridgefield shook his head. "A renegade faction in Russia has one of our Stealth bombers?"
"I'm afraid so," the former marine corps commandant replied with a look of disgust. "Sorry to call you in at this time of the evening, but we have a major hill to take."
"No problem, general. I'm just astounded that anyone in the Soviet Union would even think of capturing a B-2, in light of their reforms."
Lasharr pushed himself back from his desk. "That makes two of us, but there are still hard-liners — many of them wearing stars — who are blatantly resisting the military restructuring."
"How did whoever…," Ridgefield paused, "how did this happen, sir?"
"It's a long story," Lasharr answered as he removed his military-framed reading glasses. Everyone at the intelligence agency called Lasharr either general or sir in his presence. When the director was out of earshot, his associates referred to him as Rambo. "I'll tell you about it later, Dave. Right now, we — the CIA — have a formidable task to accomplish."
"Find the B-2," Ridgefield stated.
Lasharr smiled slightly, then reverted to his normal, dour self. "That was Secretary Kerchner on the phone. The White House wants to use covert means to find out if the B-2 is in Cuba."
"Cuba?" Ridgefield responded, puzzled. "Are they — is the secretary positive it's in Cuba?"
"No, he isn't," the scrappy director answered. "However, all the evidence points to Cuba, and we have our marching orders."
"General," Ridgefield began, formulating a suggestion. "Should we use RAINDANCE?"
"Absolutely," Lasharr replied. "Secretary Kerchner made one thing very clear. The president wants that aircraft back in our hands as expeditiously as possible. The pressure is on the CIA, but we have carte blanche to find the B-2."
"We're not actually being charged with the responsibility to retrieve the aircraft," Ridgefield paused, "are we?"
"No," Lasharr answered, leaning back in his chair. "The White House doesn't want to make any accusations, or confront the Soviets or Cubans, until we know for certain where the Stealth is located. Our job is to find it, and find it fast."
Ridgefield looked concerned. "How far down in the agency are we going to reach, general?"
"You're looking at us, along with the director of covert operations," Lasharr answered, then gathered his messages into a pile. "Secretary Kerchner said to put a lid on it for the time being. Dave, I want you to initiate contact with RAINDANCE as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir."
"We're going to have to use the Vienna loop," Lasharr instructed. "The East German operative has been under surveillance since the wall crumbled, and we can't take the risk of exposing her. We'll have to retrieve her soon, but now isn't the time."
Ridgefield nodded in agreement.
"Also," the director continued, "locate our man with nine lives."
"Will do, general," Ridgefield replied, checking his government-issue watch. "So, you're going to place Wickham back in the saddle?"
Lasharr stopped and looked Ridgefield in the eye. "No one is better qualified, in my opinion, for this kind of operation."
"Turn into the airfield!" Matthews ordered. "They know something's wrong."
"Chuck," Evans responded, swerving onto the muddy road leading to the small civilian airstrip. "Let's stop here and nail them when they come around the corner."
Matthews glanced down the road at the barely distinguishable hangar, then made a snap decision. "Okay, but we've both got to open up on them."
"Hang on," Evans shouted as he viciously jammed on the brakes, sending the careening van into a four-wheel sideways drift. As the Chevrolet ground to a halt, both pilots jumped out and crouched down in the muddy roadway.
"Go for the windshield!" Matthews ordered, raising the barrel of his rifle. "We have to make this count."
Fourteen seconds elapsed before the Soviet field car lurched through the corner, slid toward the edge of the road, then straightened.
"Now!" Matthews barked, squeezing the trigger on his Kalashnikov.
The GAZ swerved to the right in a spray of glass, spun around to the left, then slid to a stop. The driver, badly wounded, fell out of the vehicle and crawled a dozen feet before collapsing.
"Let's check it," Matthews said in a cautious voice. "Back me up, Paul."
"I'm right beside you," Evans responded as he stood erect in the mud. "We better see if — SHIT!"
Both men fired simultaneously when the other Cuban in the GAZ lunged for the mounted machine gun.
"Goddamn," Matthews shouted, watching the soldier slide down into the field car. "Let's move it!"
The pilots threw their weapons into the Chevrolet. Evans jumped into the driver's seat while Matthews pulled the four guards out of the van. He left the bruised men lying in the spongy mud and crawled into the passenger seat. Evans stomped on the accelerator as Matthews swung his door shut. The oversized tires threw up a shower of mud, then found traction.
"Head for that — whatever it is," Matthews ordered, bracing himself when the Chevrolet bounced across the bridge over the narrow stream. The van slewed sideways, then plowed onto the slippery road. Evans kept his foot firmly planted on the accelerator, whipping the steering wheel left and right to straighten the careening van.
"See any activity?" Evans asked as they neared the rusting hangar.
"No," Matthews answered, pointing at the dark-colored single-engine aircraft. "Take it straight across the ramp. Turn off the lights."
Evans pushed in the light switch and turned sharply to the right. "Hold on."
The van hit the edge of the slightly raised tarmac, bounced a foot into the air, landed with a jolt, and shuddered to a stop. Evans and Matthews, carrying the guards' AK-47s, leaped out of the Chevrolet and raced toward the Soviet Yakovlev Yak-18. The Soviet State Industries — manufactured trainer, circa 1957, squatted on its tricycle landing gear. A large white star, bordered in red with a blue stripe on each side, adorned the tail of the tandem seat aircraft.
"What is it?" Evans asked as they slowed to a walk beside the dull black, low-wing airplane.
"Beats me," Matthews responded, looking into the radial engine. "Let's hope we can get it started."
"Right," Evans replied, checking the landing gear and wheels. "It must be flyable — there's grease drippings on the struts and oil residue under the cowling."
"Okay, Paul, let's give it a try."
Matthews ducked under the left wing and raised his right foot up to the step leading to the back of the wing. He pulled himself up, tossed his rifle into the back seat, and turned toward Evans. "I'll fly
"You'll get no argument from me," Evans replied as he followed Matthews onto the wing. "Let's get the hell out of here."