Shadow Flight

Chapter Eighteen

President Alton Jarrett, fresh and trim looking, stepped to the podium in the crowded, noisy room. A hush fell over the tightly packed press corps. This was the earliest that anyone could remember attending an unscheduled press briefing.

The president, setting the tone for his message, raised both hands, palms facing the crowd, to stop any questions until he had an opportunity to complete his opening statement.

"Good morning," the president said in a staid, perfunctory manner. "Before I take your questions, I want to bring you up to date on a couple of items." There was complete silence.

"First, the unfortunate encounter our navy pilots had last night, we believe, is tied to the disappearance of our Stealth bomber." He paused as a loud murmur swept through the crowd, with four people attempting to ask questions at the same time.

"Now, wait," the president said, holding his hands aloft again, "wait a second. Remember, we all agreed as to how we would handle these meetings. Let me finish. I can confirm that our missing B-2 bomber is in Cuba." No one said a word, listening intently and writing.

"Furthermore," Jarrett continued, "we have unequivocal proof of the exact location of the B-2, and," the president raised his hands again, seeing words form on the sea of faces, "we are taking diplomatic steps to have the aircraft and crew returned immediately.

"I intend to be candid with you," Jarrett said, "and explain the circumstances surrounding this bizarre and unprecedented situation. Our preliminary findings, based on CIA and FBI investigations, indicate that the B-2 was commandeered by a civilian technician recruited by the KGB." The audience erupted in turmoil.

"Let me finish," Jarrett said, somewhat irritated. "I'll take your questions in a minute. There have been reports and rumors that our pilots defected, and that they are seeking political asylum in Cuba. This is not correct, and we deny any accusation to that effect. Our fine pilots categorically did not defect. I do not know the condition of the crew, but we hold the Soviet Union, and Premier Castro, responsible for their safety and well-being.

"I have just had a conversation with Minister Aksenhov," the president said, adjusting his glasses. "He hinted at the existence of factions, probably of the KGB operating outside the jurisdiction of the Kremlin, but this does not absolve them of all responsibility. We expect to hear from President Ignatyev soon, and no, we have not ruled out a military intervention.

"I will take your questions now," Jarrett said, pointing to a woman in the first row, "in an orderly fashion." The noise intensity increased in the room.

"Mister President," the tall reporter said, ignoring the clicking cameras, "exactly what measures do you intend to take if the B-2 isn't returned? Are you saying that the U. S. is prepared to invade Cuba?"

"I am not going to discuss what our intentions are at this point, nor am I going to reveal our intelligence sources," Jarrett answered, as he pointed to an NBC network representative.

"Can you confirm that the Cuban MiGs were flown by Soviet pilots?"

"I can only say," Jarrett looked at Kerchner, "that the MiG fighter that crashed close to our base at Guantanamo was flown by a Soviet Air Force captain."

A reporter shouted over the group. "Has Castro been involved in the negotiations? Where does he stand?"

Jarrett gave the television reporter a stern look. "Premier Castro has been notified of our position and intent. He obviously is a partner in this violation of international law, and I hold him accountable — as I do the Soviets — for the well-being of our crew.

"Margaret," the president said, gesturing at a newspaper reporter.

"Mister President," an attractive woman stood, "reports have it that you are positioning aircraft carriers in the Gulf of Mexico. What action are you prepared to take if the Stealth bomber is not returned, and what time frame are you talking about?"

"I am not in a position to discuss any military matters," Jarrett answered, "nor can I tell you our time frame. Suffice it to say, we will make decisions based on the reply we receive from Moscow. It's that simple. We have placed President Ignatyev on notice, and I will respond accordingly when we receive his answer.

"One more question," Jarrett said, motioning toward an old friend, "and then I have to leave. Secretary Kerchner and Secretary Gardner will answer further questions."

"Sir," the respected journalist said, "are you prepared to confront the Cubans… militarily?"

Jarrett set his jaw, paused and inhaled, then addressed the entire group. "I am prepared to do what is necessary to preserve our fundamental rights, and protect international law."

The Norfolk, Virginia — based carrier, powered by four Westinghouse steam turbines, cruised thirty miles southwest of Plantation Key, Florida. Her combined energy of 280,000 shaft horsepower propelled the mammoth ship through the pristine waters at twenty-nine knots. America could achieve thirty-three knots at flank speed.

The carrier and her battle group would rendezvous with an attack submarine, the Los Angeles — class USS Baton Rouge (SSN 689), sixty-five miles southwest of Key West, Florida.

The carrier air wing assigned to America had flown aboard five hours after the ship left home port. America, originally scheduled to depart the following day for a routine deployment, had her entire crew aboard.

Two F/A-18 Hornet squadrons, including the Silver Eagles of VMFA-1 15, were sharing CAP duties with two F-14D Tomcat squadrons. The marine fighter/attack pilots of VMFA-115 thoroughly enjoyed having the opportunity to hone their skills aboard the huge carrier.

Forty-five miles south of the ship, Marine Maj. Vince Cangemi, along with his wingman, Capt. Chuck Bellvue, orbited at 22,000 feet. The two fighter pilots had been assigned to Barrier Combat Air Patrol with two navy pilots flying F-14Ds. The Tomcat pilots were twenty miles west and two thousand feet higher than the Marine F/A-18 Hornets. The McDonnell-Douglas F/A-18s, powered by twin General Electric F404 afterburning turbofans, were capable of reaching speeds in excess of 1.8 Mach.

The combination fighter/attack aircraft sported the powerful liquid-cooled Hughes APG-65 radar, along with a nose-mounted 20mm M-61 cannon containing 570 rounds. The Hornets also had two advanced AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles slung under the wings and an AIM-9 mounted on each wing tip.

Cangemi was checking his three multifunction displays, which replaced most of the conventional cockpit instruments, when he heard the E-2C Hawkeye call.

"Animal flight, Phoenix," the airborne warning and control officer said. "We hold multiple bogies at your three o'clock, forty-five miles, climbing out of eight thousand."

"Roger the bogies," Cangemi radioed, squinting into the early morning sun. "Bullet flight, Animal."

The F-14D pilots, orbiting in a lazy circle, were on the same radio frequency. "Go, Animal," the navy flight leader replied.

Cangemi keyed his mike. "Care to come on down here?"

"We're comin' starboard," the deep voice responded. "Be there in a minute."

"Ah… negative, Bullets," Phoenix ordered. "You have three bogies thirty right for forty-seven. CAP aircraft Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold."

"Animals copy," Cangemi radioed at the same instant his Hughes radar locked onto the four aircraft approaching his flight. "I have four on the scope," Cangemi said. "Animals, go combat spread."

"Roger," Bellvue replied as he moved out to the right and up 1,000 feet.

"Bullet Two Oh Two has a lock," the navy flight leader reported. "Copy Yellow, Weapons Hold."

Both CAP flights attempted to maneuver to place themselves in advantageous positions. Each move was countered by the approaching Cuban MiGs. The Hawkeye controller, watching the four flights close on each other, ordered the Ready Two CAP pilots to launch from America. After the acknowledgment, Phoenix called the BARCAP fighter crews.

"They have good GCI [ground control intercept]. Countering every move you make. Bullets, come starboard sixty — we need more separation."

"Comin' right sixty," the VF-2 squadron executive officer replied, then called his wingman. "Barry, step up another three grand and cover me."

"Movin' up, boss."

Cangemi watched on the heads up display (HUD) the four radar targets rapidly approaching. The MiGs were straight off the Hornet's nose, closing at 700 knots. "Animals go burner, now," Cangemi ordered, shoving his twin throttles into afterburner.

"Two," Bellvue replied as he checked his radar. "I've got 'em locked."

Seven seconds later, Cangemi and his wingman saw the MiG-25 Foxbats silhouetted against a puffy cumulonimbus cloud. "Tally," Cangemi radioed. "They're Foxbats — State Iron Works twenty-fives."

"Bullet has a tally," the navy pilot radioed. "We've got three Foxbats, one o'clock low, comin' up."

Cangemi started to raise his F/A-18's nose when two of the MiGs launched missiles. "Hard port!" Cangemi shouted as he slammed the stick to the left. "They fired — MiGs launched missiles!" he gasped in the 8 1/2-g turn. He felt his tight g suit inflate, squeezing his legs and stomach in a vise grip.

"Weapons Hot!" the Hawkeye controller ordered. "CAP flights engage! Repeat, CAP flights engage!"

Bellvue reacted immediately, breaking hard left to get on the tail of the lead Foxbat. He snapped down his tinted helmet visor, selected heat, and waited a second for the lock-on tone. Cangemi saw a missile flash past his canopy, then snapped hard over to track the last MiG.

The Foxbats split into two sections, providing excellent coverage for each flight. It was obvious that the Cuban MiG-25s were being flown by well-trained fighter pilots.

Cangemi got into a turning fight with the leader of the second section, then noticed a MiG slipping behind him for the kill. The marine aviator unloaded his Hornet, throwing the number two bandit off a split second, then snatched the stick back. The F/A-18 slashed between the Foxbats as Cangemi searched frantically for his wing-man.

"Chuck," Cangemi groaned, feeling the effects of grayout as he saw Belivue twisting through the sky, "break hard starboard, now!"

Cangemi watched as his wingman wrapped the Hornet into a gut-wrenching, vapor-producing right turn. A second later, Cangemi heard a rasping sound in his headset, indicating that the selected AIM-9 Sidewinder missile was tracking the infrared signature of the lead MiG.

"Fox Two!" Cangemi said as he pulled the trigger.

The heat-seeking missile rocketed straight at the Foxbat, colliding with the right tailpipe of the twin-engine fighter. The impact blew off the entire aft section of the aircraft in a black pulsing explosion.

The MiG's nose yawed to the right, then tucked under, sending the fighter tumbling out of control through the sky. Cangemi glimpsed the canopy separate from the crippled aircraft, but he never saw the pilot eject. Cangemi whipped the stick to the right to avoid debris, then pulled into the vertical. He rolled the Hornet slowly, scanning the hazy sky.

"Chuck," Cangemi radioed, hanging in his straps as he pulled the F/A-18 through the horizon, "check your six-you've got a gomer settin' up."

"Goin' for knots," Bellvue replied as he forced the Hornet into an 8-g "Bat Turn," followed by a zero-g unload. The fighter accelerated downward, then snapped straight up when Bellvue sighted two of the Foxbats attempting to turn inside his leader.

"Vince!" Bellvue shouted. "Break left now! Fox Two!"

Bellvue waited a second, then fired two of his Sidewinder missiles in a head-on pass at the two MiGs. The advanced air-to-air weapons, three seconds apart, slammed into the first Foxbat. The doomed fighter emerged from the orange fireball trailing debris, smoke, and blazing jet fuel.

The second MiG popped up instantly to miss the colossal explosion and raining debris. The pilot caught the upper edge of the black cloud, disintegrating his right engine with foreign object damage. The MiG, turning tight, unloaded and raced for Cuban airspace.

"Reverse, Chuck!" Cangemi ordered, working the remaining MiG into a vertical scissors. "Set him up — I'm going to disengage. Call it!"

"Stay on him a couple of seconds," Bellvue responded, rechecking heat while he rolled into a firing position. He searched the sky quickly for other bandits, then heard his AIM-9 missiles track the MiG-25. "Turn him loose!"

Cangemi snatched the stick back violently, then rolled the agile Hornet 180 degrees and unloaded the g forces. Going supersonic, Cangemi snapped into the vertical again and watched both of Bellvue's missiles miss the Foxbat. He stared, transfixed, as both heat-seeking missiles tracked straight at the blazing sun low on the horizon.

"Shit!" Bellvue said, selecting his 20mm M-61 cannon. "I'm guns!"

"Wrap him up," Cangemi shouted, watching Bellvue close inside the tight-turning MiG.

Suddenly the Foxbat snapped out of the punishing turn, allowing the Hornet pilot to fall into trail — a perfect firing solution.

Cangemi's mind sounded a warning a split second before the Soviet missile erupted from under the MiG's tail. "Break, break!" Cangemi radioed as he watched the Hornet explode into a million flaming pieces. His eyes witnessed the carnage, but it took his brain a second to record the blazing image.

"Chuck!" Cangemi shouted, flashing by the black puff, "get out! Eject! Eject!"

Three seconds passed as Cangemi looked frantically for the Foxbat. He spotted the MiG turning tight and diving toward the water. "Sonuvabitch!" Cangemi swore to himself, realizing that his wingman was part of the smoking wreckage falling toward the ocean.

The MiG had disengaged and was running for home. Cangemi eased the Hornet's nose slightly in front of the Foxbat, selected another missile, waited for it to lock on, then squeezed the trigger gently.

"Fox Two!" Cangemi radioed as he watched the missile undulate toward the bastard who had killed his friend. "Go… go… be there…"

The heat-seeking weapon missed the MiG's twin exhausts, hitting the left wing root. The wing separated from the fuselage, sending the Foxbat spinning out of control. Cangemi watched the MiG pilot eject as he heard a Mayday call from one of the F-14 pilots. Stunned and absorbed in the drama, Cangemi made an age-old mistake. He allowed his F/A-18 to fly through the debris of his kill.

Seven armed guards surrounded the partially dismantled Stealth bomber. All activity had ceased in the hangar while everyone involved in the secret operation was interrogated by the KGB director.

The technicians, scientists, and KGB personnel were sequestered in two adjoining rooms. Gennadi Levchenko, sitting in his small office, was questioning each man individually.

Natanoly Obukhov, the assistant KGB director, approached Levchenko's door.

"Have you found the infiltrator?" Levchenko barked. "Comrade director," Obukhov bowed slightly in a highly respectful manner, "our men are scouring the base and surrounding area. We have three helicopters and two spotter planes in the air, and we are-"

"Don't give me long-winded reports," Levchenko spat. "Give me results."

"Yes, comrade director," Obukhov replied, averting his eyes to the colorless concrete walls in the spartan office. He always felt apprehension when his eyes crossed the Mongolian features of Levchenko's face.

"What did the guard see?" Levchenko asked, dismissing a technician with a wave of his arm.

"He never saw the assailant," Obukhov answered, then added quickly, "he doesn't remember anything after he bent over."

Levchenko fixed his eyes on his assistant. "I want every inch of this base searched again."

Major Vince Cangemi, turning toward his carrier, USS America, looked back at his right wing. He could clearly see two deep slices in the leading edge, along with numerous dents and scars close to the fuselage.

The marine pilot quickly scanned his annunciator panel and engine instruments. "Oh, shit," Cangemi muttered when he noticed the right engine was cooking at the maximum temperature limit. The damaged F/A-18 had ingested the MiG's debris through the starboard engine.

Cangemi waited while the outbound combat air patrol pilots talked with the E-2C Hawkeye, then keyed his radio switch. "Phoenix, Animal One is inbound with engine damage."

"Copy, Animal One," the controller responded in a professional, low-key manner. "You have a ready deck. Come port fifteen degrees."

"Port fifteen," Cangemi radioed, watching the right engine gauges cautiously.

The Hornet continued flying, rock steady, for another minute and a half. Cangemi was just starting to relax when the F/A-18 yawed violently to the right.

"Ah… Phoenix," Cangemi radioed as he checked the hydraulic pressure. "Animal One has a problem."

"Roger, Animal," the controller said in a detached tone. "Say nature of your problem."

Cangemi watched the main hydraulic pressure fluctuate, then drop rapidly toward zero. "I'm losin' my hydraulics."

"Are you declaring an emergency?" the controller asked with an edge in his voice.

"That's affirm, Phoenix," Cangemi answered as he watched the primary hydraulic pressure reach zero. "Animal One is declaring an emer—"

Without warning, the Hornet's nose pitched up seventy degrees. Cangemi shoved in full left rudder, forcing the aircraft into knife-edged flight. The nose fell through the horizon as Cangemi pushed in full right rudder, bringing the fighter wings-level.

The nose pitched skyward again, forcing the pilot to repeat the unusual procedure to control the Hornet. During the third rudder roll maneuver, Cangemi selected emergency hydraulic power and recovered control of his wounded fighter. He also noticed that he had lost more than 2,000 feet of altitude during the wild gyrations.

"Understand emergency," Phoenix radioed. "Can you make the ship?"

Cangemi studied his instruments and checked his DME. Forty-two nautical miles to go. "I think so. Looks okay… at the moment."

"Do you want the barricade?" the concerned controller asked as he rechecked the flight deck status.

Cangemi raised the nose slightly and mentally reviewed his NA-TOPS emergency procedures. "Ah… negative. Not at this time."

"Roger."

Cangemi glanced at his fuel gauges, knowing he needed to plug into a tanker. He also knew he could not risk close formation flying with a questionable control problem.

The pilot rechecked his DME, fuel burn, and rate of descent. He would arrive over the carrier with 700 to 800 pounds of fuel — only a few minutes in the thirsty fighter. He could not afford a bolter. He had to trap aboard America on his first pass.

Cangemi watched the right engine parameters as the seconds ticked away. He listened while Bullet Two Oh Two, the sole returning navy Tomcat, checked in for a push time. He eased back on the left throttle, held his breath, then pulled the right throttle slowly back to match the reduced power.

"Animal," Phoenix radioed, "your deck is eleven o'clock, twenty miles."

"I have a visual," Cangemi responded, squinting through the early morning haze. He could see the long white wake of the fast-moving carrier. "I'm setting up for an overhead two-seventy."

"Roger," the controller replied. "CAG paddles will wave you." The senior landing signal officer (LSO) would guide the marine aviator through the emergency landing. "Switch button five," the controller instructed.

Cangemi clicked his mike twice to acknowledge the radio transmission, switched to the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC), then switched again to the LSO standing on the side of the flight deck. The LSO platform was adjacent to the arresting gear at the stern of the carrier.

"Animal One with a sick right engine, and ah… hydraulic problems."

"Okay, Animal," the senior LSO said in a reassuring tone, "hang onto it. Left two-seventy into the grove."

"Animal One," Cangemi replied a second before the right engine fire warning light flashed on and off momentarily.

"Oh… no," Cangemi said to himself as he approached the carrier at 3,000 feet and 360 knots. "Just two more minutes… give me two more minutes."

The fighter pilot watched the ship pass under him as he started slowing and banking to the left. "I'm going to trap on this pass," Cangemi said to himself, "if I have to taxi to the one wire." He lowered the flaps as the leading edge slats deployed automatically.

The F/A-18 continued to decelerate as Cangemi lowered the landing gear and tailhook. He increased power on both engines to compensate for the drag, glanced at his angle-of-attack indicator, then looked out at the wake of the carrier.

Concentrating on his approach, he did not see the right engine fire warning light flicker twice, then glow steadily.

"Animal One," the LSO radioed urgently, "you have smoke-negative, you're on fire! You're burnin' Vince!"

Cangemi snatched the right throttle to cutoff and activated the fire extinguishing system. The fire light remained illuminated as he tightened his turn toward the carrier.

"Hornet ball!" Cangemi radioed as he added more power on the left engine. The angle-of-attack indicator continued to rise, forcing the pilot to ease up the port throttle further.

"Roger, ball," the LSO replied, trying to quell his apprehension. "You're lookin' good."

Cangemi, concentrating intently on the bright orange meatball, angle of attack, and lineup, did not detect the drop in emergency hydraulic pressure.

"You're going low… too low!" the LSO shouted. "Power! POWER!"

Animal One, seconds from touchdown, shoved the left throttle forward. The stricken fighter plane climbed through the glide slope as Cangemi tried frantically to force down the Hornet's nose. He recognized that the controls were frozen as the carrier deck rushed up to meet him.

"Oh, god, I'm sinking like a rock!" Cangemi yanked the left throttle to idle and shoved on the control stick, diving for the deck. The burning fighter sank toward the end of the mammoth ship as Cangemi fought desperately to salvage the landing.

"Wave off! Wave off!" the LSO shouted as the F/A-18, flying left wing low, slammed into the rounddown at the aft end of the flight deck.

The fighter shed its landing gear, along with the left wing, then caught the number one arresting wire. The crushing impact, followed by the violent arrestment, separated the fuselage three feet behind the cockpit. The Hornet's nose and cockpit, minus the canopy, continued up the flight deck on its left side, stopping four feet from the angled deck edge.

Cangemi, rendered semiconscious during the 160 mile-per-hour crash, struggled to free himself from the smoking wreckage. He could see waves passing almost directly below him.

Three hot-suit firefighters and a paramedic reached Cangemi at the same time. They assisted the stunned aviator out of the remains of his cockpit, then placed him on a stretcher. The paramedic helped remove Cangemi's helmet, then placed it on the fighter pilot's chest.

Cangemi looked at the helmet in astonishment, then said a silent prayer. The left side of the marine red and gold helmet had been ground paper thin where Cangemi's head had slid on the rough flight deck.