"You ready, Scurve?"
Ricketts thought of an appropriate answer but decided not to utter the obscene expression to his CO. Instead, he voiced what he really felt. "A triple martini would help."
Karns grinned, keying his radio when the Intruder cleared the duty runway. "Key tower, Diamond One Oh Seven, ready to roll."
"Diamond One Zero Seven, wind one-zero-zero at eight, cleared for takeoff."
Karns rechecked his flight controls, navigation and anticollision lights, and engine instruments. He released the brakes, shoved the throttles into afterburner, then felt the powerful g forces push his helmet back against the headrest. "Diamond One Oh Seven on the roll."
The Tomcat accelerated down the 10,000-foot runway, afterburners lighting the night, then rotated smoothly and headed for the Kitty Hawk.
Levchenko glanced at the Stealth bomber, then saw Obukhov rushing across the hangar. Both men arrived at Levchenko's office at the same time.
"We have more problems…, shit," Levchenko snarled, slamming the door. "Raul Castro is here."
"I was informed," Obukhov responded, sitting down on the hard metal bench.
Levchenko sat down at his desk and wearily removed his glasses. "I just had a conversation with our stubborn director — THE man."
Obukhov sensed trouble. The KGB chief's reputation for recalcitrance was known widely throughout the organization.
"He ordered us to cooperate with Castro," Levchenko sighed heavily. "They are backing off… washing their hands of the operation now that we have the goddamned airplane."
Obukhov, clearly uncomfortable, fidgeted for a moment. "I'm not sure I understand, comrade director."
"Damnit!" Levchenko snapped, showing his growing frustration. "The situation is out of control. Golodnikov knows the operation has collapsed. They can't contain or control Castro, and they have turned their backs on the operation… and us. I don't know what the hell is going on, but the Kremlin is not to be involved further. Golodnikov inferred that I am a man without a country-persona non grata in Moscow."
Levchenko yanked out a cigarette, lighted it, and inhaled deeply. "We are out of the picture. The Stealth belongs to Castro, as of now."
Both men sat in dumbfounded silence. So many months of intense work, training, and planning had been erased in one split second.
Levchenko started to speak, then noticed a commotion in the hangar. He stood, then walked to the door and opened it. "He's here," Levchenko said in a resigned voice. "I will need your assistance, Natanoly Vitelevich."
"You have it, comrade director."
Levchenko and Obukhov silently observed Raul Castro and his small procession enter the hangar, stop for a moment to take in the secret bomber, then walk slowly toward the work spaces and office.
Levchenko, watching Raul Castro, wondered about Fidel Castro's motivation. The dictator had always harbored a grudge against the Soviet Union for excluding him during the 1961 missile crisis-the October crisis in Cuban history. Stifling his rage and looking pleasant, Levchenko walked toward the commander of the Cuban army and extended his hand.
Raul Castro gave Levchenko an obligatory handshake. He was imposing as he stared at Levchenko, eyes focused, riveting. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and sideburns. His olive green utility uniform was damp with perspiration. "You do not have the bomber ready to fly," Castro accused.
"Comrade general," Levchenko replied uncomfortably, "the bomber will be ready to fly in three hours. The men are working as fast as they can."
Raul Castro remained silent a moment before he leaned into Levchenko's face. "I will be back in three hours — have it ready!"
Levchenko flinched, feeling the warm spittle hit his cheek. "Yes, comrade general."
Sparks flew from the tailhook of Diamond 107 as Comdr. Doug Karns screeched to a halt in the number three arresting cable. The CO let the Tomcat roll back a few feet, dropped the wire, raised the tailhook, and followed the lighted wands held aloft by the flight deck petty officer. The pitch-black deck was alive with ordnance handlers and fueling crews.
Kitty Hawk began slowing as the plane guard helicopter, a Kaman SH-2F Seasprite, entered a hover over the angle deck, then settled to a gentle landing. Two F-14Ds sat on the forward catapults, manned and ready to launch at a moment's notice.
Seventy-five miles ahead of Kitty Hawk, off the port quarter, two Diamondback Tomcats flew barrier air combat patrol. They would refuel one more time from two KA-6D Intruders before being relieved by two F-14Ds from the Black Aces of VF-41.
On board Kitty Hawk, in flag plot, the carrier air wing commander had received the tactical air operations order. The battle plans had been approved by the Joint Chiefs of Staff before being forwarded to the three carrier groups. The operations order tasked the three air wings with attack and combat air patrol missions, along with a war-at-sea contingency.
Gennadi Levchenko, unshaven and feeling the effects of fatigue, supervised the final assembly of the Stealth bomber. He had Simmons, who had become even more withdrawn, in the cockpit checking the avionics and weapons systems.
Levchenko had watched the time closely, expecting the Cuban general to return at the end of three hours. He observed the tired technicians reconnect the last avionics system and replace the last access panel, then went into the lavatory and washed his face with cold water. He was drying his neck vigorously when Natanoly Obukhov rushed in.
"Comrade director," Obukhov said breathlessly, "Raul Castro called. He wants an engine run-up on the Stealth, and then have it towed to the flight line."
Levchenko looked at his assistant through tired, bloodshot eyes. "What are you waiting for? It's his airplane now… we're out of the picture."
"Da, comrade director," Obukhov replied respectfully, turning to leave. "I will take care of everything."
Levchenko finished drying his face and flung the towel into a corner hamper. He was about to lie down when the sergeant from the communications center appeared at the door.
"Comrade director, you have an urgent call from Moscow!"
Steve Wickham, hearing the loud sound of jet engines being started, inched next to the opening in the foundation. The base was completely blacked out except for a group of men working with flashlights.
He studied the soldiers, unsure of what they were trying to accomplish. The men worked rapidly, moving rocks and fence posts. Wickham continued to observe the group until they had passed his position. Three minutes later the jet engines reached a howling crescendo, then throttled down and shut off. Wickham, having forgotten his hunger pangs, waited impatiently for an opportunity to escape from his hiding place.
Finally, after the soldiers had completed their task, Wickham grabbed the assault rifle and ventured out of the small hole. He remained on his stomach and looked cautiously around the immediate area. The bright, luminous moon would spotlight any dark object and make his escape more dangerous.
Wickham listened intently for any sign of soldiers, then crawled to the corner of the building. He edged around the side and froze when he saw the B-2. Realizing what the soldiers had been doing, he watched the bomber as it was towed down the cleared path. Then he crawled back to the opening in the foundation and returned to his place of concealment. If they were going to fly the B-2 out of Cuba, Wickham reasoned, the roar during takeoff would help cover his escape.
Gennadi Levchenko replaced the phone receiver and sat quietly at the communications console. He shook his head and turned to the watch officer. "Get Talavokine up," Levchenko ordered, "and have General Brotskharnov report to me immediately."