The three men heard an exchange of voices outside the main entrance to the Oval Office. "Thank you," the secretary of state said to the military courier as he grasped the tape container. Samuel Gardner closed the door and turned to the president. "Sir, Aksenhov is on his way."
"He better be," the president replied as Gaines accepted the tape from Gardner.
The national security adviser walked to the VCR, inserted the tape, and punched the play button. Gaines backed away a few steps and remained standing as Gardner took a seat next to the president.
The small screen remained blank a few seconds, then the Stealth bomber appeared in a well-lighted hangar. The black and white picture focused on the aircraft, then moved to the right and swept the entire enclosure. Soldiers and technicians surrounded the secret bomber. A few seconds later the picture returned to the stolen B-2, moving slowly from one section to another.
The nose of the Stealth came into view. Then there was a pause before the picture moved down the length of the bomber. A split second before the aircraft's trailing edge would have come into view, the picture stopped a moment, then tilted down and went blank.
"I'll be damned," the president said, placing his cup and saucer on the coffee table. "Brian, run that back."
"Yes, sir."
Jarrett turned to his secretary of defense. "Bernie, I'm going with the captain's recommendation, from the Strike Center. I believe we should assault San Julian with marine expeditionary units." The president leaned back. "We've got to have concentrated close air support and solid air cover. The Marines have to hit quickly, secure the airfield, destroy the bomber, and rescue the pilots — if they can locate them."
Jarrett paused, mentally reviewing the operation. "This is a different situation from what we had in Panama. I think we have to soften up San Julian before the Marines go in. Let's use a combination of carrier attack aircraft and air force bombers." The president removed his glasses. "Do you have any qualms about that?"
"No, sir, none whatsoever," Kerchner answered truthfully. "I fully endorse that course of action, as does the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. We have already discussed the option."
The president thought for a second. "How soon will our carrier battle groups be on station?"
"Approximately fifteen to twenty hours, sir," Kerchner answered. "America and her group departed Norfolk this — yesterday afternoon, and Kitty Hawk is preparing to get under way from Pensacola. We have an emergency recall out for her crew.
"The marine expeditionary units are en route to the Wasp and the Essex. I anticipate both assault carriers will be in the Gulf by early this evening. The commandant insisted we incorporate a third amphibious assault ship, Nassau, with an additional battalion landing team. It left Puerto Rico a little more than two hours ago. The general is also adding additional Harrier jets and helicopters to each carrier."
"Very well," the president replied, facing his secretary of state. "Sam, you know Aksenhov better than any of us. Any suggestions?"
Gardner paused, chewing on his pipe. "Mister President, we're well past the gamesmanship stage. We simply have to throw it on the table and take a stand."
The president nodded in agreement. "Almost the exact words Kirk used."
"Is the vice president coming over?" Kerchner asked as the Soviet foreign minister was announced.
"No," Jarrett answered. "I spoke with him before I came down-told him to get a good night's rest. We'll need a fresh, clear mind later this morning."
Gaines pulled a large stuffed chair to the opening between the two sofas. Aksenhov, visibly irritated and looking disheveled, walked to the chair and sat down heavily. "May I ask what this is about? We agreed on nine o'clock this morning, did we not, Mister President?"
"I have something special to show you," the president replied, stone faced.
The Soviet foreign minister, feeling the cold looks, steeled himself cautiously to contest any accusations. His face, concealing his trepidation, was deadpan.
"Brian," the president said calmly, "please run the tape again."
"Yes, sir," Gaines replied as he punched the VCR play button.
Aksenhov attempted to remain impassive as the commandeered Stealth bomber appeared on the screen. His expression gave way to a sudden uneasiness when he realized that the Americans had a spy in San Julian. He was caught completely off guard and unprepared.
He had not been informed about any operation involving the American bomber. Was the KGB involved, or had Castro acted alone?
Aksenhov knew that he had to transmit the shocking news to the Kremlin as quickly as possible. He watched the rest of the short tape without concentrating on the picture, searching frantically for a carefully phrased lie to refute the visual evidence.
The room remained quiet when the VCR clicked off. Aksenhov turned slowly to the president. "What is the point of this film, Mister President? I have seen pictures of your Stealth bomber many times."
Jarrett looked Aksenhov in the eyes, shaking his head in amazement. "My point, Minister Aksenhov, is that our missing B-2 bomber is sitting in a hangar at San Julian Air Base in Cuba — a satellite of the Soviet Union."
Aksenhov, confused and knowing the futility of continuing the charade, let out a convincing sigh. "Mister President, I have no knowledge of any operation involving your B-2 aircraft."
"Well," Jarrett responded coldly, "I strongly suggest that you contact your superiors in Moscow and find out who is responsible for the hijacking. We know that the individual who commandeered the B-2 had ties to the KGB."
Jarrett could see the question on Aksenhov's face. All Russian diplomats were suspicious by nature, untrusting of everyone, including their own countrymen. "I believe you understand," Jarrett continued. "We are on a collision course, Minister Aksenhov, and I urge you to intervene before we face off militarily."
Aksenhov, feeling a growing alarm, stood and inhaled. "I will contact Moscow immediately, Mister President."
"I will expect to hear from the Kremlin, Minister Aksenhov, as soon as you do."
Steve Wickham peeked out cautiously from an opening in the foundation of the administration building. The air base was crawling with Cuban soldiers, all looking for the intruder.
The dank, mildewed hiding place was a maze of spiderwebs and rotting wood supports. Wickham thought about his options, knowing that it would be daylight soon. He replayed the lessons from the CIA covert operations classes, especially the chameleon course. If you are surrounded, and have access to the resources, blend into the environment.
"Great," Wickham said to himself, easing away from the opening. "What I need is a Russian uniform." He reasoned that the search would intensify once the sun topped the horizon. He had to think of a way to escape from sure death.
Surveying the activity, he forced his mind to be calm. He watched a GAZ field car approach the building and stop next to a group of Cuban soldiers. A Soviet officer stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the cluster of men. Wickham listened intently, trying to catch what the Russian was saying. Suddenly, the soldiers formed two groups and approached the barracks and administration building.
Wickham swore to himself and scooted back three feet. He wedged the camera and the assault rifle between the cracked foundation and a support beam, then braced his toes on the concrete ledge. Placing his fingers through a rotted hole in the wooden beam, he yanked himself up between the supports.
He held his breath, listening to the men, as two of the soldiers looked under the building with flashlights. Seconds became an eternity as Wickham's arms began to quiver from the strain of holding his body horizontal.