by Joe Weber
"Room twenty-eight," Voronoteev said in passable English as he folded the slip of paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. The phone connection was unusually good. Voronoteev had almost finished buttoning his tunic when Fritz Kranz answered the long distance call.
"Peter Wipplinger," the nervous doctor said as evenly as he could.
"Hello, Peter," Voronoteev responded, cautiously surveying the people in the dimly lighted post office. "The destination is Cuba, at an--"
"You bastard!" Akhlomov yelled as he rushed around the partition and slammed Voronoteev into the side of the dusty booth. "You miserable bastard!"
The other three agents roughly subdued the struggling general as Akhlomov grabbed the dangling phone receiver. The line was dead.
Akhlomov spun around and shoved Voronoteev into the dingy wall. "Who were you talking to?"
Voronoteev paused a moment, trying to regain his shattered composure. "I am Lieutenant General Voronoteev."
"Shut up, you traitorous bastard," Akhlomov shouted, consumed in rage. "Out with it! Who were you talking to?"
Voronoteev, blood dripping from his mouth, remained firmly pinned to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, the stunned general could see the throng of people rushing out the main entrance of the post office. Muscovites could smell trouble a block away, and they avoided it like the plague.
"You have made a grave mistake," Voronoteev said as evenly as possible, "and your superiors will--"
"You sucking dog!" Akhlomov hissed in Voronoteev's face, then bashed him into the wall again. "Tell me about the ATB. Tell me what you stole from the files this morning."
Voronoteev's eyes gave him away when he tried to recover from the sudden shock. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
* "The hell you don't!" Akhlomov said, positioning the point of his Antipov tactical knife against Voronoteev's throat. "Who were you talking to?"
"I demand--"
"Shut up," Akhlomov said as he pushed the blade against Voronoteev's neck a quarter inch, twisted it, and yanked it away. "You are under arrest, General Voronoteev, for committing treason."
Voronoteev started to speak, then realized that any effort to defend his actions would be in vain. His fate had been sealed when he had forced the issue by checking the contents of General Borol'kov's safe.
The bloodied general held his head high, nodding to his shocked driver, as he was escorted to the KGB automobile.
VIENNA
Fritz Kranz sat staring at the beige telephone on the small desk. His right hand, trembling uncontrollably, still rested on the receiver.
"Oh, god . . . ," Kranz said to himself, then slowly removed his hand from the phone. "It's over."
Kranz sat quietly for a moment, contemplating his predicament, then bolted from his chair and walked to the window. He stared vacantly at the roof of the opera house while he tried to calm his nerves. I've been caught in the middle, he told himself. RAINDANCE had been apprehended. He had heard the commotion and the accusations. Would the KGB-no-how soon would the KGB trace him to Vienna?
He knew that his life was in jeopardy. He had to think clearly, and remember the procedures he had been taught by the CIA instructors at Langley. He paced back and forth between the door and the window, trying to sort out the enormity of what had happened in the past three minutes.
It had not been his fault, he told himself. He had been happily ensconced in his pleasant world, enjoying retirement, before this calamity. He knew now that he was swimming in a sea full of voracious sharks.
Now, Kranz kept telling himself, I must think rationally and clearly. The CIA gave me a telephone number to call in the event of such a disaster. "Use it," he heard himself say as he fumbled in his coat pocket for the matchbook. The cover displayed an advertisement for a seafood restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut.
Kranz walked over to the desk, sat down, and gingerly picked up the receiver. His hands were shaking and his temples throbbed. The emergency code words ran through his mind over and over again.
The frightened surgeon dialed the operator and thought about his wife. Christ, Katy had no idea of his involvement in this miserable business.
"Hotel operator," the innocent voice answered.
"I must . . . I need the international operator," Kranz replied, trying to sound calm and businesslike.
"One moment. I will connect you."
"Thank you," Kranz responded, taking deep, even breaths.
Kranz gave the overseas operator the phone number and waited for the call to go through. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the number began ringing. One ring. Two rings, then a pause before Kranz heard the recording.
"Thank you for calling. Please leave your name and telephone number at the sound of the tone."
"Good Christ," he blurted out, then heard the beep. "The ship is aground, the ship is aground," Kranz said impulsively, then continued in a hesitant voice, not sure if he should say anything else. "The tie has been--" Kranz stopped in midsentence when he heard an urgent voice speak to him.
"This is seafarer control," the vibrant male voice exploded. "Your number?"
"Ah . . . ," Kranz hesitated, unsure of his response. He had been told expressly to use code letters. "F . K K. . . D D. . . 0 . . . M," he said in a shaky voice.
No one said a word for fifteen seconds. Kranz was beginning to have doubts, when the man replied.
"Go ahead, Doctor Kranz," the CIA agent said. "We had to bring you up on the computer."
Kranz inhaled sharply, then gushed forth with the story. "Our connection with RAINDANCE has been severed. He was apprehended in midsentence, after telling me the location of the missing B-2 bomber."
"Say again," the surprised voice said.
The agent was not familiar with RAINDANCE. He only monitored a battery of secret global telephone connections. Most of them never rang, and RAINDANCE was one of four that required top secret handling, Eyes Only, by the director or the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
"The Stealth bomber--the B-2 bomber that disappeared," Kranz said hurriedly. "It's in Cuba, and the exact location is unknown."
"Got it," the astonished agent replied as he jotted down the message. "Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not," Kranz answered nervously. "I'm sure the KGB is tracing the call from our contact. I need to get out of Austria, quickly."
"You're in a hotel under an assumed name, aren't you?" the Connecticut-based agent asked. He was looking at Kranz's method of operation on the computer screen.
"Yes," Kranz responded uneasily, "but one of the hotel's assistant managers would be able to identify me. His father was a former patient of mine."
"That's not good," the agent replied gravely as he wrote a message for his assistant.
"I didn't know he worked here," Kranz continued, defending himself, "until after I had contacted RAINDANCE. I thought it would complicate matters too much for me to go to another location after the contact. Besides, I had no idea this would happen."
"We understand," the pleasant voice said with genuine feeling. "You're in a high threat situation. Go directly to the American Embassy."
Kranz's mind was reeling. His peaceful, tranquil life was coming unwound. "Damn."
"What?" the American asked.
"Nothing," Kranz said, then added. "Can you get us--my family--any protection?"
"My assistant is contacting our field office in Vienna right now. Our immediate concern is your safety," the agent paused, "and that of your family. Go directly to the embassy--it's located at Sixteen Boltzmanngasse--and our people will be there as quickly as possible."
"Thank you," Kranz replied, standing to look out of the window. "I must hurry."
"Be careful," Krantz heard the agent caution as he placed the receiver down and picked up his jacket. He scurried to gather his toilet articles, then stopped in midstride. To hell with it, he told himself, I've got to get to the embassy. He raced out of his room and down the hallway, then took t
he stairs two at a time. He walked briskly through the lobby and out into the parking area.
Kranz hurried to his BMW, got in, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. As he turned his head to back out of the parking space, he paused. I have to get Katy, he told himself. I must explain, God help me, what a mess I've gotten myself into. She must go with me to the embassy. She will not be safe at the cottage.
Kranz recalled vividly the CIA briefing about the ruthless means that the KGB utilized to extract information from subjects. His wife, Kranz remembered in agony, would be the primary target of the KGB if he was in the sanctuary of the American Embassy. Kranz backed out, reversed gears, and headed for his home in Neunkirchen.
That decision would prove fatal for Fritz and Katy Kranz. Their charred bodies were found in the remains of their retirement cottage late that evening. A mysterious fire had consumed the entire structure.
Chapter Thirteen
KEY WEST NAVAL AIR STATION
Steve Wickham sat in the passenger cabin of the C-20 VIP aircraft, listening to Hampton Milligan, director of CIA Clandestine Operations. The former Green Beret officer was pointing out various topographical features on a large relief map of Cuba.
The glistening transport's auxiliary power unit, providing a steady flow of air-conditioning, was barely audible in the quiet cabin. Wickham sat back, eating his breakfast slowly. The air station enlisted mess had been kind enough to send the meal over to the flight line in the duty pickup truck.
"Okay," Wickham said, swallowing the last bite. He placed the dented tray on a fold-out table. "What gives, Hamp? You usually start an ops brief from the beginning."
"Steve," Milligan began slowly, "this comes from the White House--right from the top. The president has ordered us to recon two specific areas in Cuba, and the general has commissioned you to do it . . . alone."
Wickham leaned back and closed his eyes. After a moment he looked out of the window, then turned to Milligan. "Two questions. Why me, when we have a number of clandestine agents who are Hispanic? And, what am I looking for?"
Milligan frowned. "Steve, when the general gives an order, we pick up our packs and move out. You speak fluent Spanish, along with Russian, and you are the man."
"Fine," Wickham replied, "but what gives?"
"Your mission," Milligan said, enunciating each word carefully, "is to locate a missing B-2 Stealth bomber."
"What!" Wickham exclaimed, sitting upright. "The Cubans have a Stealth?"
"We have every indication that the aircraft is in Cuba," Milligan said as he opened a brown sealed packet.
"How in the name of God did a B-2 end up in Cuba?"
"Read this thoroughly," Milligan responded, "then we'll go over the details."
Wickham sat back again and studied the agency operations brief. His eyes grew wide at each new paragraph. Milligan sat patiently looking out of the window at the dull gray F-14 parked next to them.
Wickham rested the papers on his thigh and shook his head slowly. "This is incredible . . . absolutely incredible. I'm expected to snoop a military airfield?"
"You're going in tonight, Steve." Milligan had an unusually serious look on his ruddy face. "The president has made this his number one priority. The ramifications, in regard to relations with the Russians and the Cubans, are incalculable."
"But, Hamp," Wickham said, scratching the coarse stubble on his chin, "I can't just go waltzing around Cuba--hell, I'll stick out like a sore thumb."
Milligan, pausing to readjust his glasses, did not respond. "Hamp, I'm a green-eyed Caucasian."
The director of Clandestine Operations gave Wickham a blank stare. "A Caucasian who speaks Spanish and is very innovative under pressure."
The former marine officer was resigned to the inevitable, but the selection of an Anglo-Saxon to infiltrate Cuba and reconnoiter a military airfield did not track.
Milligan remained silent. The director continued to look Wickham in the face with an impassive gaze. Wickham knew the look--Milligan always did this when an issue was no longer open for discussion.
"Hamp, this is really stepping over the threshold." Wickham paused, looking at the expressionless face. "Shit . . . how are you proposing to insert me?"
"You will stage out of Cancun tonight." Milligan opened another envelope and handed it to the man considered to be the best clandestine operative in the CIA. "We have a Marine OV-10 en route to Cancun at this time. A young captain, who is regarded as one hell of a pilot, will fly you across the Yucatan Channel and drop you a mile off Bahia de Guadiana."
Wickham shook his head slowly as he looked at the drop location. "We're going to use an active duty pilot?"
"He's a volunteer," Milligan continued, "and he won't have any identification on him. He understands that if anything happens to him, we don't know him. The aircraft will be unmarked. You'll go in," Milligan stopped to point out the exact spot on the large Cuban map, "right here."
"What kind of surf conditions do they have?" Wickham asked, studying the map closely.
"Mild. That's the leeward side. of the island." Milligan pointed to San Julian military airfield. "This air base, as you saw in the brief, is the most likely hiding place for the B-2-if it's in Cuba."
"If it isn't there," Wickham said, tapping the map, "or I can't locate it, then what?"
"Wait," Milligan said patiently, holding up both hands. "I'll get to that."
Wickham, showing his disgust, shook his head again. "Hamp, this is goddamned insane."
"Steve," Milligan responded, finally showing some emotion, "you went through Quantico. We don't make the rules, we follow orders."
"Shit!" Wickham exclaimed. "Did the general come up with this plan?"
"Most of it . . . ," Milligan trailed off, then added, "with some input from the National Security Agency."
"Unbelievable," Wickham responded. "Go on."
"San Julian is approximately eight miles inland." Milligan pointed to the map. "We figure you can make the base by sunrise, dig in for the day, then recon the field the following night."
"Wait a second," Wickham said. "Back to the drop. We're going to need some diversionary tactics."
"We're going to cram the channel with a plethora of aircraft." Milligan reached over and picked up the top secret message. "Sixteen, as a matter of fact. It will appear to be heavy drug traffic, and you'll be lost in the shuffle."
"Jesus," Wickham said softly.
"The captain-your pilot-is considered by his CO as the best." Milligan placed the message down. "He's going to be skimming the water all the way in. No way can they pick you up on radar."
Milligan paused when his SecTel 1500 secure phone rang. The director inserted his key that had the identity of the person using it, and pushed the secure button. The key code went to a National Security Agency computer for validation, then selected an encoding algorithm for this particular conversation. The process took fourteen seconds before the call was completed. Milligan heard Norm Lasharr's voice on the line.
"Yes, general," Milligan reported, "he's with me as we speak."
Wickham watched Milligan as he talked to the director of Central Intelligence. A vision of Becky in her bikini crossed his mind, but then his thoughts returned to the recon mission. I hope the general has another wonderful scheme to extract me, he told himself.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Milligan said sadly, "but we now have the answer . . . at least part of it." Milligan listened a moment longer and bid the director a good day. He severed the secure connection and turned to Wickham. "The Stealth is in Cuba, but the location is unknown."
"How did we confirm it was in Cuba?" Wickham asked, becoming more intrigued with the recon mission.
"I'm not sure of the exact connection," Milligan responded, "but we have . . . had an informant in Moscow fairly high up. The general didn't give me the particulars, but suffice it to say we lost our contact. The KGB had been watching him for quite a while."
Wickham remained silent, mindful
of the implications.
"We've got a lot to do," Milligan continued, "so let's get under way. We're going to fly you to Cancun in a chartered cargo jet, then prepare you for the drop. By the way, don't shave . . . we're going to transform you into a gnarled farm worker."
THE WHITE HOUSE
The president walked briskly into the Oval Office, motioning for everyone to remain seated. "Please don't get up," Jarrett said as he crossed the room and sat down at his desk.
Kirk Truesdell and Bernie Kerchner noticed that the president's face was pale. They had become accustomed to this physical sign of trouble.
"Norm Lasharr just received confirmation," Jarrett said, grim faced. "Our B-2 is indeed in Cuba."
Truesdell and Kerchner exchanged stunned looks, then glanced at Brian Gaines, the president's national security adviser. Gaines was speechless for one of the rare moments in his life.
"God . . . damn," Truesdell said emotionally. "We're sitting on a powder keg."
Gaines studied the president before speaking. "Where in Cuba is it located, sir?"
Jarrett sighed, then looked directly at the tall, red-haired security expert. "The exact location is unknown."
"Unknown?" Kerchner asked. "If Lasharr knows--"
"Wait," the president interrupted, seeing Truesdell and Gaines forming words on their lips. "Wait a second, Bernie. We lost our priority contact--the air force general--before he could relay the entire message." Observing the shocked looks, the president poured a glass of water and waited for the gravity of the news to sink in before continuing.
"The CIA's intermediary cutout called an agency crisis line from Vienna. Seems that the general was in midsentence when the conversation was terminated. Our Vienna connection believes that the KGB has the general in custody. And we have no knowledge as to how he confirmed this information."
"Damn," Truesdell said, "we knew that the KGB had been suspicious. Voronoteev had relayed that concern when he gave us the MiG-29 data."