Shadow Flight

Chapter Twenty-five

Matthews watched the shoreline pass under the B-2's nose, checked his airspeed and rate of climb, then rolled into a gentle left turn. After reversing course, he engaged the autopilot and reprogrammed the first navigational waypoint. The screen lighted with the time and distance to the checkpoint.

Major General Brotskharnov watched Matthews closely but remained silent as the aircraft climbed through 7,000 feet.

"We'll level," Matthews announced over the intercom, "at thirty-six thousand… until we've burned off some fuel. We'll stay between cardinal altitudes to avoid traffic."

Brotskharnov nodded, feeling anxiety beginning to creep into his mind. He was no longer in the relative safety and anonymity of San Julian. He was in an American Stealth aircraft — a stolen B-2 bomber — on his way to Russia.

Matthews, thinking about the arduous flight ahead, looked at the instrument panel. The clock read 4:02 A. M. He made a slight adjustment to the autopilot, then settled back in his seat. He tried to think if there was any way to extract himself from his perilous situation.

The lone Cuban soldier, holding his cap in the helicopter downwash, stepped back and motioned with his rifle for Wickham to stand. The fat, sweat-soaked man had been a straggler who had fallen behind his patrol. Now, the gap-toothed soldier would be a hero to those who ridiculed him constantly about his size.

Wickham raised to one knee, caught the Cuban looking ahead for his unit, then leaped at the soldier like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. The agent hit the obese man square in the chest at the same time the soldier pulled the trigger.

A resounding crack filled the air as the round blasted through the trees, sounding an alarm. The Cuban, gasping for breath, dropped his rifle and fell to the ground with a thud. Wickham scooped up the rifle and slammed the butt into the soldier's head, knocking him unconscious.

Wickham turned and raced through the heavy foliage, using the assault rifle to bash his way through the dense growth. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing. He could see that Cuban troops had him surrounded. There was no way out except across the open field. He cursed the bright Caribbean moonlight.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Wickham exclaimed in desperation, then dropped the rifle and fell to his knees. He watched the column of troops, then analyzed his choices. If I can reach the bend, he thought, I'll have a chance.

The sound of voices, closer than before, made the decision easier. Wickham leaped to his feet and crashed through the thick growth, then sprinted across the field. Shots rang out, kicking up sprays of dirt, as the American zigzagged in a low crouch.

Wickham reached the far side of the clearing at the same instant a high-velocity round slammed into his right boot. The impact knocked Wickham's leg out from under him, sending the agent sprawling to the ground.

Over the Yucatan Channel, Marine Capt. Greg Spidel checked the time as he prepared to select his main gas tanks. The auxiliary fuel cell was almost depleted, but the pilot waited three more minutes before he toggled the fuel switch.

Aware that Wickham had transmitted pictures of the B-2, Spidel was prepared to extract the agent at any point prior to 5 A. M. He flew the OV-10 Bronco in a lazy circle with the Garrett turboprops throttled back to conserve fuel.

Spidel, talking occasionally with his winch operator, waited impatiently for the signal from the CIA agent. The extraction call would have to come soon if he was going to complete the mission this morning.

Wickham rolled over and sat up. He pulled up his tingling leg and looked at his right boot. The thick heel had been partially blown off, but the round had not hit his foot.

He jumped to his feet, raced into the jungle, then turned toward the road, determined to get across and head for the beach. Rapidly outflanking the soldiers, he came to the roadside.

"Shit," Wickham said under his breath as he watched a large patrol, rifles at the ready, walking cautiously down the road.

The sound of the search party behind him forced a bold decision. Seeing a Russian staff sergeant at the head of the Cuban column, Wickham ran out in the road. "Mladshiy serzhant," Wickham said in Russian, "I am Kapitan Kuyev, KGB. Get your men back up the road," he ordered, pointing at the open field he had crossed, "and cover that field. We have a foreign agent trapped somewhere in the middle."

"Da, comrade kapitan," the sergeant replied, turning to his patrol. "Move out!"

Wickham hesitated, watching the soldiers hurry back along the road, then turned and sprinted for his life. The weary agent ran until his lungs felt as though they were on fire. He slowed momentarily, checked behind him, and ran into a tobacco field.

The agent yanked out his small watch, noting that he had less than forty-five minutes to make the extraction deadline. Walking rapidly, he replaced the timepiece and pulled out the satellite transmitter. It was time to. Send Spidel the extraction signal.

Greg Spidel cast a glance at his vertical tape engine instruments. The turboprops were humming quietly, producing only 65 percent of their rated power.

The pilot looked at the time again, checked the dwindling fuel supply, then spoke to his volunteer winch operator. "Gunny, you awake back there?"

"Yes, sir… barely."

Spidel was startled when the high-pitched beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep sounded in his earphones. "Here we go," Spidel announced, pushing the throttles and stick forward simultaneously. "We're gonna be tight on time and fuel."

The OV-10 Bronco, flying more than 300 miles per hour, descended to 150 feet over the peninsula and raced for the extraction coordinates. Ten minutes later, Spidel reduced power and eased down to 100 feet. He would be on station, off the Gulf of Guanahacabibes, in fifteen minutes.

Planning had intensified into the wee hours of the morning before the air strike to Cuba was in hard copy. Senior, highly experienced aircrews had been selected for the combat air patrol/escort, attack, and surface combat air patrol (SUCAP) missions.

The pilots and other aircrew members had begun to gather at 0315 to prepare for the launch thirty minutes before first light. At 0455 the war-at-sea strike would shift into their fifteen-minute alert status, ready to pounce on any invading surface ships.

The A-6F Intruders and F/A-18 Hornets had been armed with Walleyes, Harpoons, Rockeyes, Skippers, and assorted multipurpose bomb loads. The combat air patrol aircraft, F-14Ds, supplemented by four F/A-18s, carried upgraded AIM-9 Sidewinders and Sparrow AIM-7M air-to-air missiles. Both types of CAP fighters held maximum rounds in their 20mm M-61 cannons.

Aerial refueling would be minimal, due to the short flight distances involved in the air strike. Two KA-6Ds would be airborne, with two standing by on deck.

The Air Force would supply three KC-10 refueling aircraft — one per aircraft carrier — as standoff safety tankers. Each of the three-engine behemoths carried more than 350,000 pounds of total fuel. They could give away 270,000 pounds and still have the reserve fuel to fly to an inland U. S. base.

Two E-2C Hawkeye early warning aircraft, working as a team, would sweep the entire gulf area around Cuba. A third Hawkeye would orbit sixty miles closer to the U. S. coast, acting as a spare warning platform. The E-2Cs would be critical in providing the big picture for aircrews and the battle staff.

The amphibious assault carriers Essex and Nassau, carrying the two marine expeditionary units, would be held in reserve. After the initial air strike, including the Air Force B-1 Bs, the joint task force commander would evaluate the need for a second strike before landing the Marines.

Two of the four Los Angeles — class attack submarines operating in the Gulf had been tasked to launch BGM-109C Tomahawk cruise missiles at Cuban shore installations and inland targets. USS Jacksonville (SSN 699) would concentrate her missiles at military sites along the shore west of Havana. USS Albuquerque (SSN 706) would direct her ordnance at targets east of the capital city. All four of the nuclear-powered submarines had been cleared to attack unidentified submarines and fire MK-48 torpedoes at Cuban surface combatants.

The Kitty Hawk — based flight crews were in the final stages of preparing their aircraft for combat. The effort was being duplicated aboard the supercarriers America and Abraham Lincoln.

At Barksdale Air Force Base, final preparations were in progress to launch the Rockwell' International B-1B strategic bombers. The eighteen aircraft had been loaded with a variety of conventional bombs and air-launched cruise missiles (ALCM).

The first sixteen bombers were taxiing for takeoff. Two of the supersonic B-1 Bs, serving as spares, would return to the base if all the strike aircraft were functioning properly at the midway point. The bomber crews would rendezvous with their fighter escorts over the Gulf of Mexico 105 miles south of Lafayette, Louisiana.

At 0445 the first B-1B began its takeoff roll, thundering down the runway in a pouring rainstorm. Operation Metal Scorpion was under way.

Steve Wickham, breathing heavily, jogged at a steady pace past the weathered houses he had seen en route to San Julian. He noted that the area was in total blackout conditions, which made it easier for him to move rapidly. "God," Wickham said, panting, "let the OV-10 be there."

The agent left the dirt road, splashing noisily across the shallow marsh he had waded through going to the airfield. The warm, stagnant water splattered his face as he ran out of the swamp.

Wickham could hear gunships spreading out to the south and west of San Julian. He also saw the glowing afterburners of two MiG-29s as they climbed out of the airfield.

Checking the time on the run, the agent realized that he was not going to make the beach by the 0500 deadline. He had only eight minutes to traverse the final half mile to the rescue point. He slowed, yanked out the satellite transmitter, and punched in the extraction code again. He pointed the miniscule antenna over his head and squeezed the send button.

Greg Spidel had just entered his first orbit in the OV-10 when he heard Wickham's signal again. He scanned the sky frantically, looking for the bright cyalume lightstick.

The gunnery sergeant had also heard the second extraction signal. "Skipper, you figure he's ready for the snatch?"

"I don't know, gunny," Spidel answered, keeping his eyes moving. "We don't have a visual." The pilot continued turning the Bronco until the cockpit was beginning to point out to sea. "Check behind us," Spidel ordered, "while I set up for another pass."

"Copy."

Fifteen seconds passed while the OV-10 completed the course change. "Skipper," the sergeant paused, searching the water and coastline, "I can't see jack shit."

Spidel set his Collins AL-101 radio altimeter for seventy-five feet of altitude. "Okay, we'll make two more orbits, then I'm gonna make a pass down the coast."

"We got the gas, cap'n?"

Spidel hesitated, making a quick calculation. "We're standing on the wire now."

The crown helo touched down softly on the main ramp. President Jarrett emerged with his aides and walked straight to the specially configured Boeing 747. After a short discussion with two air force generals, the president and his party entered the National Emergency Airborne Command Post.

The "kneecap," utilizing aerial refueling, could remain airborne for days, allowing the president to direct military strikes and coordinate emergency relief efforts.

The big Boeing E-4B, tail number 31676, lumbered to the runway, taxied into position, and roared down the pavement, rising smoothly into the early morning sky. As the huge jet climbed to altitude on its classified route, bouncing lightly in the turbulence, Jarrett checked in with the National Security Council. The jumbo jet leveled at 39,000 feet on a course for Burlington, Vermont.

Raul Castro, cursing and gesturing wildly to his subordinates, stood next to a battle phone in the underground command post. His brother, President Fidel Castro, had just completed an emotionally charged conversation with the army general. The angry dictator had reminded his brother what the northern imperialist had done to Panama and Noriega.

"Get our Bear bombers aloft," Raul Castro ordered, then added, "and launch our air cover! The Americans may use their Stealth aircraft again." His rage increased as further reconnaissance reports cast a bleak picture. Three of the four-engine turboprop bombers, carrying long-range cruise missiles, were airborne eight minutes later.

Raul Castro, after concluding the conversation with his brother, walked over to Maj. Anatoly V. Sokolviy, the wingman of the deceased Lt. Col. Igor Zanyathov. "Major," the army commander said quietly, "the president wants you to man your aircraft and lead our pilots. We have a feeling the air will be full of American planes very soon."

Sokolviy, dressed in his gray-green flight suit, nodded his understanding, saluted, and slipped quietly away from the turmoil. The Cubans would be ecstatic to have one of the Soviet Union's premier fighter pilots leading them into aerial combat.

Two combat air patrol Tomcats had been launched early from the USS America (CV-66). Now, fifteen minutes later, the flight deck was again buzzing with activity. Green-shirted catapult crews checked the surface combat patrol F-14Ds on the two bow catapults.

Behind the raised jet blast deflectors, two additional Tomcats waited in line, followed by four F/A-18s, two A-6F Intruders, and two EA-6B advanced capability (ADVCAP) Prowler electronic countermeasure aircraft. The Prowlers sported a new receiver processor group for passive detection, along with the ALQ-149 communications intercept and jamming system.

The yellow-shirted catapult officer, standing between the howling F-14s, supervised the launch preparations. He listened to the air boss in PRI-FLY and waited for the green light to illuminate on the crowded island structure.

"Launch aircraft! Launch aircraft!" the cat officer heard through his "mickey mouse" headphones. He made a final check of the Tomcats and turned toward the pilot on the starboard catapult.

The F-14 aviator was looking at the officer, anticipating the full-power signal. The cat officer raised his arm, then formed a vee with his index and middle fingers and shook them vigorously back and forth.

The Tomcat's two engines increased to full power, splitting the air with a savage howl. The pilot checked his engine instruments, then saluted the catapult officer smartly and placed his helmet back against the head restraint. The cat officer brought his arm down quickly-the signal to launch the Tomcat.

The big fighter squatted down and rocketed off the end of the catapult track, sinking slightly as it left the deck. The pilot snapped the gear up and turned to the right, climbing to his assigned rendezvous altitude. Thirty-five seconds later the second Tomcat, on the port catapult, roared down the flight deck in a cloud of superheated steam.

Marine Maj. Vince Cangemi, cleared for flight duty by the squadron flight surgeon, sat in the lead F/A-18 waiting to taxi onto the port bow catapult. His Hornet, loaded with twelve Mark-82 fivehundred-pound bombs, two AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, and 570 rounds of 20mm ammunition, had been configured for a ground attack mission. With a flick of a button on his control stick, Cangemi could switch instantaneously from air-to-ground mode to air-to-air capability.

The marine pilot looked to his right, checking his wingman's aircraft for any obvious problems. He watched his friend taxi the VMFA-115 Silver Eagles Hornet up to the blast deflector, stop while the jet exhaust shield was lowered, then taxi onto the starboard catapult.

Twenty seconds later, Cangemi taxied into place on the left catapult. He felt the catapult take tension, checked his controls, and went to full power, then afterburner. He checked the engine gauges, saluted the cat officer, and placed his new helmet against the headrest.

BOOM!

Cangemi, feeling the effects of grayout, blasted down the flight deck and off the bow. His vision returned as he snapped the landing gear up and accelerated straight ahead. He would rendezvous with the other Marine F/A-18s and join the Navy A-6F Intruders. Their mission was to bomb and strafe military targets, including radar sites and targets of opportunity, in the vicinity of Havana. The Hornets would strike first, then revert to a fighter mission.