Shadow Flight

Chapter Twenty-six

The blacked-out bomber, now 390 miles east of Tampico, Mexico, cruised at 36,000 feet in calm air. Shadow 37 remained in total darkness, racing the morning light westward.

Chuck Matthews punched in the latitude and longitude of their next waypoint. The B-2 would pass 28 miles south of Cabo San Lucas before turning northwest to Russia. Matthews checked the navigational display, noting the current fuel burn. In forty-five minutes, the Stealth bomber would be light enough to climb to 40,000 feet.

General Brotskhamov continued to study the sophisticated cockpit as he watched Matthews very closely. Larry Simmons remained quiet, fingering his revolver constantly. He appeared to be dispirited but remained keenly alert.

Unknown to Matthews, Shadow 37 had passed within twelve miles of two F-14s from USS Kitty Hawk. The radar screens in the combat air patrol fighters had remained blank as the bomber crossed the gulf in front of the Tomcats.

The Nimitz-class carrier, launched in February 1989, turned to place the wind down the flight deck. The nuclear-powered ship, stretching 1,092 feet, cut through the pristine water at thirty-one knots.

Two miles in front of the carrier, the AEGIS cruiser Gettysburg (CG-64) led the task force past the coast of Andros Island.

A pair of F-14s raced down Lincoln's bow catapults, then climbed rapidly to their station seventy miles ahead of the carrier. Six additional Tomcats blasted off the flight deck to join the MiG combat air patrol.

Two A-6F Intruders, heavily laden with bombs and fuel, taxied onto the steaming catapults. The strike flight leader launched safely and turned toward his target. His wingman was not as fortunate. He lost his starboard engine during the catapult stroke. The frantic pilot, desperate to save his aircraft, jettisoned his entire bomb load while the bombardier/navigator attempted to dump fuel. The bombs, still attached to the ordnance racks, fell harmlessly into the water.

Flight deck crew members watched helplessly as the A-6F settled precariously low, blew spray from the port engine, then exploded on contact with the water. The 96,000-ton carrier continued straight ahead, plowing through the Intruder's debris, as the spare A-6F taxied forward.

Steve Wickham, noticing the first hint of daylight, ran through a dense guava thicket and stumbled onto the beach. He fell forward, landing on his hands and knees, as his lungs heaved.

The agent rested a moment, listening to the water lap against the shoreline. He could smell the strong, sweet scent of eucalyptus.

His breathing was slowing when he heard the OV-10 in the distance. "Oh, shit," Wickham muttered, lurching to his feet. He ran through the salt grass, crossed a pair of sand dunes, and plopped down at the edge of a large guava thicket. The thick foliage concealed the wet suit, skyhook harness, and water tow vehicle he had hidden there earlier.

Abandoning the wet suit, Wickham tore at the harness as the OV-10 made a pass down the beach. The aircraft, barely discernible in the faint light, appeared to be a mile offshore.

"Goddamnit," Wickham swore as he struggled into the converted parachute harness. "Get it together."

Greg Spidel banked the OV-10 into a tight right turn and raced out to sea. He swore to himself, checked the fuel again, and pressed the intercom. "Gunny, I'm gonna make one more pass…"

"Cap'n," the sergeant replied in a resigned voice, "we ain't got the fuel."

Spidel, ignoring the remark, concentrated on his instruments as he flew a wide arc to start the second pass. He was not going to leave the CIA agent stranded.

Wickham snapped the last ring on his harness, grabbed the water tow, scooped up his swim fins, and ran down the beach. He plunged into the water, slipped on the fins, and pressed the trigger on the water tow. After quickly negotiating the narrow gap in the coral reef, he relaxed his legs and let the water tow propel him out of the cove.

Two minutes later, Wickham again heard the OV-10. He released the water tow, snapped the cyalume lightstick, and popped the cylinder of compressed helium. The balloon inflated rapidly, dragging the elastic cord and chemical lightstick to 200 feet.

Wickham kicked off his swim fins, rolled on his back, and searched frantically for the approaching Bronco. "Come on…," Wickham sputtered as he saw the eerie-looking light. "Don't miss."

"I've got him!" Spidel said over the intercom. "I've got a visual on the light!" Spidel checked his altitude at seventy-five feet and slowed to 100 knots. "Stand by!"

"Set, cap'n."

Spidel banked slightly to line up on his target. His mouth was dry as he fixated on the lightstick. "He's close in!" Watching the glowing light approach the center of his canopy sight ring, the pilot eased in a touch of right rudder and waited for the impact.

Four seconds later the nose-mounted steel fork slammed into the elastic cord. Spidel shoved the throttles forward at the same instant the hard rubber ball snapped into the V clutch, severing the lightstick and balloon.

Wickham, gasping for air, accelerated through the water, then popped into the air. He twisted and turned uncontrollably in the OV-10's propeller wash. During a moment of stability, he caught a glimpse of the lightstick floating skyward at the end of the balloon.

Six miles to the east, the pilot of an Mi-24 gunship also saw the strange, glowing light.

Major Anatoly Sokolviy, flying one of the newest MiG-29 Fulcrums on the island, taxied to the runway. The advanced MiG-29s had been stored secretly for seven months in a heavily guarded hangar at Ciudad Libertad Air Base. The other MiG-29s, flown by Cuban pilots who had recently transitioned to the Fulcrum in Russia, taxied in trail behind Sokolviy.

The MiGs were equipped with six AA-11 Archer air-to-air missiles and full loads of 30mm ammunition. The fighter cockpits, at Fidel Castro's insistence, had been reinforced with armor plating. The Cuban president had lost a good friend who had been shot in the stomach during an aerial engagement.

Sokolviy energized his pulse-Doppler radar, glanced at his engine instruments, then shoved his twin throttles forward into afterburner. The two Tumansky R-33D turbofans belched flames thirty feet behind the Fulcrum as it rocketed down the pavement in the growing dawn.

Sokolviy caught a glimpse of the line of MiG-25s and -23s taxiing in the opposite direction. He watched his airspeed increase rapidly, then raised the Fulcrum's nose wheel gently off the rough runway.

His wingman was halfway through his takeoff roll when Sokolviy snatched the landing gear up and banked into a rendezvous turn. He waited for the airspeed to build before deselecting afterburner, then checked in with the ground control intercept radar unit and armed his missiles.

Sokolviy was surprised when the radar operator informed him that numerous contacts were approaching San Julian from the northwest. The Soviet fighter weapons instructor waited for his wingman to join off his right wing. Both MiGs increased power and began a steep climb as Sokolviy talked to the radar controller.

Partway through the radio communication, Sokolviy heard static followed by a humming noise. He swore to himself, knowing that the American EA-6B ADVCAP Prowlers were jamming the airwaves. Sokolviy also knew that the U. S. ELINT aircraft would have a detrimental effect on the radar-controlled 57mm and 85mm antiaircraft guns.

The Soviet fighter pilot leveled the Fulcrum at 14,000 feet and carefully scanned the sky to the northwest. He vowed to avenge the death of his close friend and fellow pilot, Igor Zanyathov.

The last strike aircraft, a VF-41 Tomcat sporting a black ace on the tail, thundered down the starboard catapult into the glare of the rising sun. The pilot left the F-14D in afterburner, accelerating above the speed of sound, as he pursued his flight leader. Two manned CAP Tomcats were towed to the bow catapults as the barren flight deck was respotted for the recovery cycle.

The catapult crews, keenly aware of the sudden silence on the flight deck, went below to have a cup of coffee and discuss the upcoming strike. Most of the crew in the coffee locker were in their late teens and. Early twenties. They had never actually seen aircraft launched with the intent of striking an enemy. The attack on the Wasp, along with the aerial engagements of the previous day, had cast a new feeling aboard Kitty Hawk. The crew of the giant carrier wanted Castro and Cuba blown off the map.

Commander Doug Karns, CO of the VF-102 Diamondbacks, led a flight of four F-14s toward San Julian. He had selected his two best pilots to lead another four-ship and three-plane fighter mission. Their job was to fly MiG cover for the A-6s and F/A-18s that would bomb San Julian. Each Tomcat had eight advanced AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles and 675 rounds of 20mm ammunition in the multi-barrel M-61 cannon.

Karns listened to the E-2C early warning controller vector another flight toward surface ships off the western tip of Cuba. The E-2C had the San Julian strike group turn to a new heading to avoid flying close to the Cuban ships and patrol craft.

Karns could see two of the attack elements 4,000 feet below his Tomcat. The lead A-6F Intruder was being flown by CAG, the Kitty Hawk's air group commander; his deputy led the escort F-14s. The cockpit load and communications intensified as the strike force approached the Cuban shoreline.

Greg Spidel, climbing at a reduced airspeed of 120 knots, focused on flying perfectly straight until the agent was aboard. Wickham, dangling twenty-five feet behind and below the Bronco, watched the Mi-24 helicopter pass by the ascending lightstick and turn directly toward the OV-10. He knew that the gunship pilot could see the low-flying turboprop in the pale morning light.

Thirty seconds later, Wickham was in the grasp of the winch operator. After he was pulled inside the aircraft, Wickham leaned next to the sergeant. "We've got a gunship closing on us!" Wickham shouted, gesturing wildly out the back of the OV-10.

The startled sergeant looked at the helicopter, then turned to Wickham. "Strap in!"

Wickham scrambled forward and locked himself into a crew seat. The winch operator severed the elastic cord, crawled into his seat, secured his restraints, and keyed his intercom.

"Cap'n!" the sergeant yelled, "our man's aboard and we've got a shooter-a gunship closin' from five o'clock!"

Spidel, feeling his adrenaline surge, shoved the throttles forward. "How far out?"

"I can't see him now," the sergeant reported, checking his parachute straps. "He's comin' up your right side."

Spidel, glancing back to his right, saw the gunship. "Are you both strapped in tight?"

"That's affirm," the sergeant responded, bracing himself. Wickham, taking his cues from the gunnery sergeant, grabbed the handholds over his head.

"Hang tight!" Spidel ordered as he flipped on his master arm and wheeled the accelerating Bronco into a tight wingover. Coming down the inside of the face-sagging turn, Spidel saw a flash of flame and smoke erupt from the gunship. The pilot, recognizing the launch of an air-to-air missile, fired both of his Sidewinders and shoved the nose down violently.

Passing 250 feet above the water, Spidel whipped the OV-10 into a steep turn and recoiled from the shock of a proximity detonation. He leveled the wings and felt the Bronco yaw to the left as the port engine disintegrated in a fireball. Spidel yanked the left throttle back and initiated an emergency shutdown to contain the fuel and hydraulic systems.

Wickham, looking out the back, caught a glimpse of the Mi-24 as one of the Sidewinders hit it head-on. The gunship shed the main rotor blades and plummeted into the water. The agent grabbed the spare headset and clamped it over his ears. He heard Spidel, in midsentence, talking to the sergeant.

"… lost the left engine, but we're okay for the moment." Wickham keyed his intercom. "The gunship went in."

Spidel recognized Wickham's voice. "Yeah, I saw the impact flash. You okay?"

"Fine," Wickham replied, feeling his heart pound. "We gonna make it?"

Spidel hesitated before answering. "We're a little tight on fuel. We may have to ditch off the Yucatan coast."

Wickham glanced at the sergeant, then spoke to the pilot again. "Spider, are you in contact with Cancun?"

"I can be," the pilot answered. "What's up?"

Wickham felt the winch operator staring at him. "The B-2 took off… about four this morning."

"You saw it?" Spidel asked in a surprised voice.

"No, but I heard it."

"Okay," the pilot said, switching on his scrambler. "You can talk by pushing the radio button on the cord. Let me check in and… uh, oh."

Spidel was quiet for a few seconds, adjusting the two radios. "We've lost our comm. Probably knocked the antennas off when the engine shelled."

"Do you have any other means of communication?" Wickham asked.

"Afraid not," Spidel replied calmly. "We'll have to wait until we land."

Vince Cangemi listened closely to the excited chatter between the Hawkeye and the F-14 lead pilot from the VF-202 Superheaters. The Tomcat flight, four miles ahead of the strike aircraft, was less than two minutes from tangling with five sections of Cuban MiGs.

Cangemi, not wanting to add to the radio clutter, rocked his wings and started a shallow descent. His flight, locked in perfect formation, followed their leader toward the deck.

Animal flight did not need to converse to accomplish its mission. The marine aviators had briefed the mission and memorized their targets, airspeeds, altitudes, headings, timing, separation, tactics, and egress procedures. The pilots had studied their charts and flown the attack mission a dozen times in their minds.

Cangemi heard Heater One, the VF-202 CO, acknowledge the Weapons Red and Free call from the E-2C. Seconds later the sky ahead and above the F/A-18s filled with white, fast-moving streaks as the Tomcat pilots fired their missiles at the Cuban MiGs.

The radio was saturated with calls to break, shoot, reverse, and pull up. Cangemi saw two, then three explosions as two MiGs and an F-14 became large black puffs in the clear morning sky.

Cangemi shoved the Hornet's nose down further, streaking across the water at sixty feet and 510 knots. He checked his switchology — air/ground in master mode, inertial navigation system set to display the target offset point in the heads up display — then kicked in the afterburners.

The F/A-18 accelerated to 530 knots as the coast rapidly filled Cangemi's windshield. Forty seconds to "feet dry." Cangemi saw the piers approach, then flash under the Hornet in a blur as he snapped into a 6-g knife-edged turn and looked for his target. He resisted the insidious g-LOC (g-induced loss of consciousness).

Eight seconds later, Cangemi saw the San Antonio de Los Banos Air Base appear in his canopy. Concentrating on altitude, he waited until he was abreast of the pop-up point, then snatched the stick back and shot skyward. The tight-fitting g suit squeezed his abdomen and legs, then deflated as he unloaded the Hornet.

Cangemi, simultaneously rolling inverted and turning ninety degrees to the left, let the nose fall through until the pipper was on the main runway.

The radar-guided 57mm and 85mm antiaircraft guns opened up in unison, filling the sky with black shrouds of flak. The ground and pavement rushed toward the marine pilot at a breathtaking speed. Cangemi finessed the Hornet's pipper up, capturing the first third of the runway, held it a second, then pickled the twelve Mark-82 bombs.

The 500-pound explosives came off the racks in timed sequence, blasting twelve huge craters in the runway as Cangemi pulled out of the dive. Clouds of dust and debris boiled into the sky as Animal Two laid his twelve bombs down a row of hangars.

The third Hornet was blasting an assortment of parked aircraft as Cangemi snapped into another "fangs out" turn to the left. The Hornet bounced upward when a shell exploded under the fuselage. Cangemi checked his warning lights. They remained blank as he let out his breath.

He rechecked the gun position for a strafing run on the egress portion of the attack mission. The flight had been briefed to hose down the San Pedro and Ciudad Libertad military airfields on the way out. The sky was filled with black puffs of flak and red tracers slashing past the fighters.

Cangemi lined up with the first field, approaching from the south at 480 knots, then spotted two MiG-23 Floggers on their takeoff roll. They were pointed straight at him, one gaining speed and the second beginning to roll.

Cangemi lowered the Hornet's nose four degrees and pulled the trigger. The M-61 cannon spewed more than 320 rounds into the runway, through the center of the MiG-23 leader and across the right wing of Dash Two.

The first MiG, with a dead Cuban pilot in the cockpit, veered off the runway, crossed the ramp under full power, and plowed into a maintenance hangar. The explosion created an enormous fireball that engulfed four additional aircraft.

The wingman, stunned by the sudden attack, aborted his takeoff roll and stood on the brakes. His Flogger, damaged heavily by the cannon fire, had jet fuel pouring out of the right wing root.

Cangemi yanked the stick into his stomach as he passed over the explosion, jinking as hard as he could. The antiaircraft fire was devastating and concentrated. "Oh, Jesus!" the marine fighter pilot said to himself as three lines of tracers crisscrossed in front of the Hornet's canopy.

Cangemi lowered the nose for a pass across the third airfield. He knew he was pushing his luck well beyond the boundaries of reason. The Marine banked the agile F/A-18 to the right, placing the nose straight at Ciudad Libertad, then glanced around. The morning sky, clear and blue, was filled with aircraft and rising plumes of black smoke.