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."
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.
He hurried toward the base, constantly checking the road behind him, then stopped at the edge of the tree line fifty yards from the perimeter fence. He looked up and down the barbed-wire barrier, which he judged to be about four feet high. The agent was surprised by the lack of guard towers, and he did not see any sign of perimeter sentries. The Soviets had done a good job of making the base appear not to have increased security.
The end of the runway was less than 300 yards from the fence. Wickham could see MiG fighters lined up on the ramp in front of the control tower. They were bathed in bright light from fixtures on top of the tower and adjacent hangars.
He studied the ramp and the two hangars. He was shocked to see the enclosures open and lighted. Inside each hangar a crew of maintenance personnel was busy working on the MiGs. The agent also saw what he had been looking for initially. Four sentries patrolled the two hangars and another two guards walked the line of MiGs.
Wickham also examined the tall building containing two fire trucks. Three fuel trucks sat next to the base of the control tower.
Two MiGs and their support carts were positioned at the far end of the runway. Wickham could not tell whether the pilots were in the two aircraft, but he could faintly see activity around the fighters.
Christ, Wickham thought, looking at the wooden barracks and other buildings, there's no place to conceal a Stealth bomber. His thoughts turned to retracing his route and aborting the reconnaissance mission when he noticed the baseball park. It sat on a rise off to the south of the main section of the base. Something seemed strange about the park, but Wickham did not grasp the oddity at first.
Then it struck him. Why, at this hour of the early morning, would the bright field lights be on? He could not distinguish any movement on the field or in the spectator bleachers. A second later, Wickham remembered a part of Milligan's briefing. The director had told him that San Julian appeared to be a carbon copy of every other base, including a ball diamond lighted all night. Satellite photographs had revealed games in progress at 3:30 A. M.
The agent decided to investigate. He approached the perimeter fence slowly and examined the barbed wire closely, noting a small strand of wire wrapped around the top line. He reasoned that it had to be electrified.
He folded his straw hat and shoved it into his back pocket, backed fifteen feet from the fence, inhaled deeply, then raced toward the barrier and high-jumped over the top strand. He landed on his back and rolled to a sitting position, then stood and brushed himself off.
Wickham jogged along the edge of the fence until it made a right turn. At that point he paused, listening and looking for any signs of activity, before heading toward the open field leading to the ballpark.
Halfway across the grassy expanse, Wickham saw movement by the bleachers. He stopped and knelt down, partially hidden by the palm trees that dotted the area. He counted three guards in and around the tiered seats. Two were sitting on the fourth row, smoking cigarettes and talking. The third was walking around the perimeter of the stands. All three were Cubans carrying AK-47s.
Why, Wickham asked himself, would armed guards be patrolling a fully lighted ballpark in the wee hours of the morning? He scurried across the field, darting between palm trees, until he was sixty feet from the west end of the bleachers. The two guards sitting and talking were on the opposite side, engrossed in their conversation. The patrolling sentry had stopped to relieve himself, standing stationary near third base.
Wickham dropped to a prone position, then crawled under the bleachers and rested a moment. As his breathing slowed, he heard a peculiar sound — one that he could not associate with a ballpark. The noise reminded him of an attic fan or a commercial heat ventilator.
He crawled toward the sound. It appeared to come from the end of the stands, close to the dugout. Wickham inched forward, then stopped abruptly as he saw the telltale signs of a photocell security system. He grabbed a pinch of loose dirt, ground it between his thumb and forefinger, then tossed the fine dust between the sensors. The powdery particles were illuminated in the beam of light.
He stood, moving to the edge of the right photocell, paused a moment, then gingerly stepped over the beam of light. He straddled the invisible light a moment before bringing his other foot over.
"Jesus," Wickham said under his breath. He could see a metal grate under the bleachers at the very edge of the steel supports. Hot, humid air was being forced up through the iron bars.
It took a second for the enormity of the message to register on the agent. The Stealth was under the baseball field.