Steve Wickham released the trigger on his water tow, slowing to a halt forty yards from the gently sloping beach. He had worked his way cautiously through a narrow gap in the coral reef. Now he let his legs sink, feeling for the sandy bottom of the small inlet.
His swim fins touched bottom in what Wickham figured to be about four feet of water. The agent purged the saltwater from his nostrils and mouth, then listened for any sign of activity. He studied the beach carefully in both directions and spotted the point where he wanted to slip out of the water. Pulling the trigger again, he aimed for a wide stretch of sand leading to a large guava thicket.
When he felt his knees drag bottom, Wickham stopped, slipped off his fins, and walked ashore. He hurried across the beach, carrying his fins and tow vehicle, then slowed at the edge of the sand dunes adjacent to the guava thicket. He flinched as he walked through an area of salt grass and prickly pears. Swatting away a couple of sand fleas, he trotted the last few yards to the thicket.
The agent caught a whiff of eucalyptus as he settled into the thick foliage. The scent reminded him of Grenada. After catching his breath, he stripped off the wet suit, opened his sealed equipment bag, and changed into the dry peasant clothing. After tying his boots, he concealed his gear carefully, strapped his tactical knife to the calf of his right leg, then placed the 9mm Excam into the holster at the small of his back.
Wickham looked at his watch, unstrapped it, and placed it in his shirt pocket. He checked his small compass and dropped it in the pocket, too. He felt confident that he could traverse the distance to San Julian by 3 A. M.
He placed the small, lightweight satellite transmitter in a pocket of his baggy khaki trousers and donned his tattered straw hat. He slid the compact television camera into the specially sewn pocket in his pants, checked his camouflaged tow vehicle and wet suit, then set off for the Cuban air base.
The president, vice president, secretary of defense, security adviser, CIA director, and Joint Chiefs of Staff listened to the seasoned, articulate commanding officer of the Naval Strike Warfare Center, referred to as Strike University.
The rugged-looking captain, who had been initially taken aback by the disclosure of the B-2's whereabouts, explained the intricacies of the various missions the carrier groups could support. He outlined the latest improvements implemented to standardize air wing training, then explained their basic strategy.
"In this type of situation," the confident pilot said, "we would use two carrier battle groups. One group, augmented by shore-based forces, would be assigned the task of defending our southern coastline. The second group would support the type of operation selected to neutralize or recover the B-2. We can fly air strikes, or supply close air support if you elect to shell the airfield… or invade the island."
The captain hesitated, waiting for an indication of the preferred course of action.
"Captain," the president said in a friendly tone, "Secretary Kerchner and the Joint Chiefs have expressed their opinions in this matter. You're the current expert. What do you recommend?"
The captain paused a moment, seeking to formulate a politically astute answer.
"I apologize for putting you on the spot," Jarrett said when he saw the officer tense. "We recognize your splendid record, including combat duty, and I would appreciate your thoughts on the situation."
"Mister President," the captain replied, measuring his words carefully, "our naval and marine forces can provide three basic capabilities in this particular situation. One, we can use a battleship to shell San Julian… take the least number of casualties. However, we cannot predict the outcome if we don't have precise targeting coordinates. Even if we did know the exact location of the B-2, it might be fortified beyond our conventional capability." The pilot glanced at the chief of naval operations, who nodded in agreement.
"Second, we can fly heavy strike missions against the base. Again, we can't be sure of the results, and we run the risk of losing a lot of aircraft, and the crews. And there's an additional factor to consider with this type of operation — some of the pilots would undoubtedly become prisoners."
The captain concealed his uneasiness. "The third option, in my opinion, is the most desirable and provides the best chance for success."
"Please continue," the president said, seeing the officer hesitate again.
"The best approach," the captain continued, "is to have two marine expeditionary units assault San Julian. Navy and marine aircraft will provide close air support and air cover while the grunts secure the base."
The marine commandant leaned back and squinted at the naval officer. "Captain, while I agree with your basic approach, I must point out that battalion landing teams are too light to conduct sustained combat operations."
"Yes, general," the pilot responded, "I realize that. I'm suggesting that we go in fast, secure the base, destroy the Stealth, free the crew, and withdraw."
"What is our chance for success?" Jarrett asked in an interested tone.
"Mister President," the captain replied, "as the general knows, we've been working with two of his crack battalion landing teams. They're primed for this type of mission. We can have them on station in a matter of hours, and with increased helo and Harrier support, I believe we can successfully accomplish the objective."
"Thank you, captain," the president said, then stood. Everyone followed his lead as the commander in chief walked over to the surprised officer and extended his hand. "We appreciate your brief, and your recommendation. I feel more comfortable-and knowledgeable about-our current capabilities."
"Thank you, Mister President," the captain replied, shaking Jarrett's hand solidly.
The president walked the officer to the entrance, wished him a safe flight home, then returned to his chair. "Well, gentlemen," Jarrett said, "Secretary Gardner and I have a meeting with Minister Aksenhov. We will discuss our options in-"
The president stopped when the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs stepped into the room. His face was flushed and he was carrying a message hard copy. "Mister President," the four-star general said, "three navy jets based at Guantanamo Bay have engaged in a dogfight with five Cuban MiGs."
"Jesus… Christ," Jarrett replied, trying to stifle his irritation and surprise. "When?"
"Only minutes ago, sir. We just received the flash message."
The president broke the shocked silence that had settled over the room. "What's the present situation, general?" Jarrett asked, casting a glance at his secretary of defense.
"The on-site commander's report states that our pilots were forced to defend themselves. The navy flight leader was apparently shot down."
"Are the other two pilots okay?"
"As far as I know, sir."
Jarrett turned to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, I want a thorough brief as soon as you can glean the details."
"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, nodding soberly. "I suggest we have the on-site commander, along with the pilots involved, flown here immediately to get a clear picture of exactly what happened before we react."
"I agree," Jarrett responded, then added, "and expedite getting them here." The president was angry — and not in the best frame of mind to confront the Soviet foreign minister.
Steve Wickham slowed his pace, then stopped at the edge of a tobacco field. He had heard a vehicle approaching and now saw the glaring headlights. He squatted down and checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes after eleven and he was already more than halfway to San Julian. Just three more miles to the MiG base.
Wickham watched the dilapidated automobile go past his hiding place and disappear down the winding dirt road. He waited another minute, silently cursing his wet feet. He had been forced to wade across a wide, stagnant marsh a half hour earlier.