Wickham wrenched the wheel hard to the left, straightened it momentarily, then rocketed into the deep jungle foliage. The field car smashed through the thick entanglement and ground to an abrupt halt.
The agent leaped out of his seat and grasped the overhead-mounted machine gun. One of the Mi-24 gunships pulled up for another firing pass as the second helicopter orbited to call the firing runs.
The gunship pilot, tracking the GAZ with his four-barrel 12.7mm gun, hurtled toward the field car. The Mi-24's turret gunner commenced firing, sending a stream of high-velocity shells into the ground twelve meters in front of the vehicle.
Wickham pointed the machine gun at the first helicopter. He squeezed the trigger, holding it tightly, until the red-hot gun jammed. "Come on!" the agent yelled as the lead gunship, trailing fire, nosed over and exploded in the trees seventy meters from the GAZ.
Wickham leaped to the ground and ran through the thick jungle for 150 meters, then stopped and changed direction. He knew he had to hurry to reach the beach where he had come ashore. The OV-10 extraction was his only hope of avoiding a firing squad.
The agent, hearing the second gunship rake the GAZ with cannon fire, sprinted toward the beach as the vehicle's fuel tank exploded. Rushing breathlessly through the dense foliage, Wickham had no idea he was headed straight for an advancing company of Cuban infantrymen.
Matthews rubbed his sore wrists as he stepped quickly to the crew entrance hatch of the Stealth bomber. He stopped abruptly when Larry Simmons appeared, backing down the steps.
"Get back in the plane!" Levchenko barked.
The frightened tech-rep raced up the steps and into the cockpit. "Move it," Levchenko shouted as Matthews climbed into the dark cockpit to join Simmons.
The pilot of Shadow 37 paused for a second, working rapidly to untangle his shoulder restraints, then eased into the left seat.
Major General Petr Brotskharnov, after his quick walk around the B-2, climbed into the bomber and sat down in the copilot's seat. He busied himself strapping in as Simmons locked the crew entrance hatch, twisted around, then sat down in the third seat.
"You have checklist?" Brotskharnov asked, glancing at his side panel.
"The checklist," Matthews replied as he slipped on his helmet, "will come up on the screen over the center console when we have power."
The general looked at the dark screen, then replied in competent English. "I do not read English so good."
"I'll take care of it," Matthews responded as he adjusted his seat. Brotskharnov suddenly turned to the pilot. "We do not have maps — charts prepared for flight."
Matthews glanced at the Soviet officer. "We won't need them. Our navigation system will take care of everything."
The American pilot, desperate to foil the mission, looked over his right shoulder. Larry Simmons, holding a flashlight, had Levchenko's revolver drawn.
"Larry," Matthews said quietly, "how about helping me with the prestart."
Simmons, with a tight grip on the pistol, wordlessly went through the motions he had completed dozens of times, rechecking his avionics systems before Matthews, using the ground power unit, brought the B-2's dark cockpit to life.
Steve Wickham, short of breath, dropped to the ground. He rested on his stomach as he looked around cautiously. The agent had heard the voices of soldiers walking down the road.
Wickham, wringing wet and exhausted, was fifteen yards from the edge of a clearing. He crawled forward to get a better view of the activity on the road. The long line of men stretched around a curve on the same dirt road the agent had traversed going to San Julian. He had to cross the narrow route to get to his escape point.
Another sound caught the agent's attention. He could hear the subdued conversation of a group of soldiers making their way along the path the American had just traveled. Wickham swore to himself, knowing that the trail he had savagely forced through the jungle would not be hard to follow, even in the dark. The agent was caught between the column of troops on the road and the search party advancing on his position.
Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews taxied the sinister-looking bomber toward the runway. He studied the eight multipurpose optical displays as he punched in four navigational waypoints. After the information was stored in memory, Matthews placed the master mode switch in the takeoff position.
He watched the display units switch from mission data readouts to performance information. The radios were checked automatically as the flight controls switched to the takeoff mode.
Matthews turned the bomber onto the runway, pointed the nose into the easterly wind toward Ensenada de Cortes, checked the engine instruments a third time, then glanced at Brotskharnov and Simmons. "Ready?" Matthews asked as he held the brakes and walked the throttles forward.
Simmons, fastening his helmet tighter, nodded yes.
Brotskharnov, unsure what his flying responsibilities would entail, looked at the American pilot. "You will tell me what I need to do?"
Matthews simultaneously released the brakes and shoved the four throttles forward. "Just sit tight and don't touch anything until I tell you."
Simmons, listening to the pilots over the intercom, held his revolver on his thigh.
Shadow 37, heavily laden with fuel, gathered speed slowly as the four General Electric turbofans split the air with a deafening roar. At sixty knots, tracking the runway centerline, the B-2 rumbled when the left main gear ran over a depression.
Matthews, mentally calculating the runway distance needed for takeoff, watched the airspeed increase. It would be close at their heavy weight. The speeding bomber passed 130 knots, then 140… 145… 150… 155… Matthews pulled back on the stick, feeling the aircraft vibrate when it ran over another rough spot on the runway.
"Come on.," Matthews coaxed as the last 500 feet of runway flashed under the hurtling bomber. The main gear skipped across the runway overrun as the heavy B-2 lumbered into the air, then shuddered as the left wing dropped. The wing tip scraped the ground before Matthews could level the staggering aircraft.
"Gear up!" Matthews ordered, pointing to the landing gear handle.
Brotskhamov raised the handle, then felt the wheels thump into the gear wells. He could hear himself breathing heavily over the open intercom.
Matthews, busy with the transition to flight, flew straight ahead. The bomber accelerated in ground effect through 230 knots before the pilot started a gentle climb.
Wickham glanced around quickly, then crawled three meters to an area of dense foliage. His ability to hear the approaching soldiers was nullified temporarily during the B-2's takeoff. There was no mistaking the earthshaking roar of the four jet engines. Now, as the thundering bomber climbed away, Wickham could clearly hear the approaching search party.
The agent worked at camouflaging himself in the foliage, pulling leaves over his body. His spot was precarious, but it afforded the only chance he had. His position was totally surrounded by Cuban and Russian soldiers.
Wickham lay perfectly still, his heart racing wildly, as the soldiers advanced on the clump of vegetation. Wickham, eyes locked in one position, looked out from a small opening. He could see three Cubans, wielding machetes, moving steadily toward his concealment. Six additional soldiers followed close behind, their assault rifles at the ready.
The seconds turned into minutes for the agent as the search patrol reached his chancy hiding place. Two soldiers, with flashlights, walked within two meters of Wickham's head, paused, looked left and right, then continued toward the road.
Four minutes passed before Wickham ventured a move. He raised his head slightly and peered through the camouflage. The soldiers had moved out of view of his position. He sat up cautiously, then quietly rolled over onto his stomach.