The next thought Wickham had was the lesson he remembered from Clandestine Operations training. He could still picture the burly instructor pounding home the same point: Covert operations never go according to schedule or plan. You must learn to improvise if you plan to survive.
Wickham eased forward to the iron bars, checked the positions of the sentries, then lifted the heavy grate cautiously. The metal cover, which he judged to weigh thirty pounds, was about three feet long by two and a half feet wide. The air that rushed from the opening blasted Wickham in the face, causing his eyes to burn.
He swung his legs carefully over the edge of the opening, holding up the grate at a forty-five-degree angle. He judged the underground compartment to be close to three feet deep. He dropped into the shaft and lowered the cover.
He leaned down, then froze like a statue. "I'll be damned," Wickham swore under his breath. There in front of him, not thirty feet away, was the missing B-2 Stealth bomber.
A large fan, enclosed in protective metal screening, sucked air out of the underground hangar. Wickham could see three other ventilation fans at the back of the enclosure and two on the opposite wall. Since he could see easily through the spinning blades of the fan that separated him from the bomber, he knew that the camera would send a reasonable picture.
Wickham extracted the compact Sony television camera as he surveyed the interior of the hangar. Four guards surrounded the bomber while two other sentries walked around the perimeter of the enclosure. Six technicians, dressed in powder blue smocks, worked in teams of two at different places on the Stealth aircraft.
The agent was surprised that components and panels from the bomber were strewn all over the hangar. Tubular scaffolding encompassed the cockpit, and padding had been placed across the wings. The aircraft, though partially dismantled, still looked sinister.
He checked the small camera and took the thin antenna out of its padded container. The twelve-foot-long antenna was folded like a carpenter's rule. Wickham extended the antenna up through the grate, then maneuvered it between the bleacher seats.
He dropped to his knees, steadied himself, aimed the camera, then pressed the button. He knew that the bright ceiling lights would enhance the picture quality. He also knew that his life would be in greater jeopardy the moment the Soviets found out about the pictures.
The duty watch officer was sitting in front of the row of blank television screens, penning a letter to his daughter in boarding school, when the transmission announcer beeped three times, indicating that an imminent television signal would appear on the screens.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked himself, placing his pen down. He was not expecting any visual transmissions until the following evening, at the earliest. A moment later a slightly blurred image of the Stealth bomber appeared on all three television monitors.
"Good god!" he said to his assistant. "He's in there. Look at this!"
His friend hurried to the bank of monitors and let out a whistle. "Hit the tape."
"Got it," the officer replied. "Call the comm chief."
"I'm dialing now," the wide-eyed assistant responded, mesmerized by the picture on the screens. The resolution was only fair, but the B-2 was clearly visible.
"Jesus," the officer said, "we've got to get a tape to the White House, on the double."
The bored Cuban guard standing near third base buttoned his fly, hitched up his assault rifle, and turned to resume his monotonous patrol duty. He walked toward the pitching mound, noticing his two companions sitting in the stands behind home plate. They outranked him, so he was obligated to walk around the ball field and report in every half hour.
The potbellied guard ambled across the slightly raised mound and continued toward first base. He was about to step on the bag when his eye caught something move. He stopped and scanned the bleachers. Sure enough, there was a small, thin strip of metal protruding through the stadium seats.
The Cuban soldier approached the end of the bleachers cautiously. Had the Soviet technicians added something new to their array of gadgets? He walked between the dugout and the end of the stands, stepped under the stadium, and flipped on his flashlight.
Directly in front of him, not two meters away, was a sliver of metal sticking out of the ventilation duct. Odd, he thought as he stepped closer to peer through the iron grate.
Steve Wickham, concentrating intently on slowly moving the camera from the front of the B-2 to the back, sensed danger, then caught the flicker of light. He placed the camera down and turned around in the cramped space. He could feel his heartbeat surge when he saw the soldier step over the grate, lean down, and point the flashlight into the duct.
"Uh, oh," the watch officer said, feeling uneasy. "We've got a problem. I've lost the feed."
His assistant, holding the phone to his ear, rolled his chair over to the monitors. "What happened?"
"I don't know," the officer answered, staring at the blank screens. "He was giving us a long sweep when the picture angled down and went blank."
"Maybe he thought that would be enough to-" The assistant stopped when his call was answered in the communications center. "Sir, Wozniak at recon ops. We've received a visual on the B-2."
"We have tape," the excited watch officer prompted.
His assistant acknowledged with a nod of his head, then spoke again. "Yes, sir. We have it on tape."
Wickham braced himself, felt a fleeting moment of near panic, then exploded upward, slamming the heavy iron grate into the Cuban's face.
The adrenaline-fueled effort smashed the soldier's nose, broke three of his teeth, and rendered him semiconscious. The guard stumbled backward, holding his face and moaning in agony, then fell between the photocell security system. A high-pitched siren immediately blasted the quiet night with a pulsating shriek. The guard, in shock and pain, never saw his attacker.
Wickham leaped out of the duct, yanked up the television camera, grabbed the squirming guard's rifle, and raced toward the palm tree — studded field. He glanced back and saw the other two sentries running across the ball field. They were headed toward the spot where their companion had disappeared.
The agent stopped suddenly when bright searchlights winked on around the perimeter of the air base. He dropped to the ground and searched frantically for a way out. Seconds passed before he realized he was trapped. The entire base was coming to life.
In desperation, Wickham jumped to his feet and ran toward the nearest cluster of administration buildings. He stopped halfway to the nearest structure, dropping to the ground as he saw a dozen Cuban soldiers pile out of the adjacent barracks. Then he belly-crawled as fast as he could toward the first building in the row.
Chapter Seventeen
Alton Jarrett walked into the Oval Office wearing a navy blue robe over his gray pajamas. The groggy president accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Brian Gaines, then sat down on one of the two facing sofas. The national security adviser, looking rumpled and tired, returned to his seat next to Bernard Kerchner.
The secretary of defense rubbed his bloodshot eyes before speaking to the president. "Is Sam joining us?"
Jarrett nodded, tasting his coffee. "Sam is on his way over. Should be here any minute."
"Good," Kerchner replied, sipping his hot tea.
The president settled into the sofa. "First I want to address Aksenhov personally. When will we have a copy of the B-2 tape?"
Kerchner glanced at the small clock sitting on the president's desk. He had forgotten his wristwatch during the mad dash to the White House. "I expected it here a few minutes ago, sir."