Shadow Flight

Chapter Twenty-eight

Lieutenant Commander Jim Flannagan, followed by his wingman, Lt. Frank Wellby, circled high over the naval base. Two additional sections of VC-10 TA-4J Skyhawks, including the commanding officer in Gunsmoke One, orbited the sprawling complex.

The navy fighter pilots listened as nine Marine KC-130 Hercules approached the runway. The big, four-engine transports raced low over the water at 360 miles per hour. Their mission was to extract the Marines and naval personnel pinned down on the base.

"This should be worth the price of admission," Flannagan radioed, banking steeply over the center of the 8,000-foot runway.

"Yeah," Wellby answered. "I've watched them do this before."

Gunsmoke flight remained quiet, searching for MiGs. The Skyhawk pilots could hear other flights engaged in aerial combat, but the sky over Gitmo had remained clear of enemy fighters. The Guantanamo control tower and air traffic radar facility had been shut down minutes before, allowing personnel to reach the debarkation point before the rescue aircraft landed.

The six Skyhawks, joining with the Hercules F/A-18 fighter escorts, would accompany the KC-130s out to sea, refuel, then trap aboard the Abraham Lincoln.

Flannagan looked seaward, searching for the rugged transports. "I have a tally… three o'clock, low."

"I have 'em," Wellby radioed.

The nine aircraft, separated in trail at one-mile intervals, waited until the lead pilot, the CO of VMGR-252, was two miles from the end of the runway.

"Watch this," Wellby said over the fighter frequency.

The pilots of the nine KC-130s simultaneously pulled their power to idle, decelerated to flap speed, dropped the flaps and landing gear, then adjusted power to hold their interval at approach speed. Every transition was performed at the same instant by every pilot.

Flannagan and Wellby banked their Skyhawks tighter and watched the first Hercules cross the runway threshold and touch down on centerline halfway down the landing strip. The transport CO waited until he passed the 3,000-foot remaining marker on runway 28, then yanked the four Allison turboprops into full reverse. The speeding transport slowed quickly as the second Hercules landed a thousand feet behind the touchdown point of the commanding officer.

The first KC-130 reached the end of the runway and executed a right 180-degree turn onto the parallel taxiway.

"Here they are," Flannagan radioed, spotting the four Marine F/A-18s streak overhead in tight formation and enter the defensive circle.

The VMFA-323 Death Rattlers, on detachment to Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, Puerto Rico, checked in with the VC-10 Skyhawks. The Hornets would maintain high station during the evacuation.

Below, the last KC-130 was touching down as the first Hercules, crammed quickly with personnel, added power for takeoff from the taxiway.

The transport squadron CO passed the landing Hercules, accelerated rapidly past the control tower, then hauled the straining KC-130 into the air. The pilot, hugging the deck, raised the landing gear as the aircraft roared over the Hot Cargo area. The aircraft commander of the second Hercules was commencing his takeoff run when the first transport passed over the end of the taxiway.

Both groups of fighter escorts circled lazily overhead, watching the evacuation operation while keeping a vigilant eye open for MiGs.

The orderly scene was shattered by a frantic call from Frank Wellby. "Bogies! Bogies at… comin' in high from the northwest!"

"Weapons Hot!" the VC-10 commanding officer ordered.

The stagnant air in the bomb shelter was thick with suffocating dust. Raul Castro, boiling with anger, stormed up the steps and kicked open the dented door. He was unprepared for the magnitude of destruction that lay around him. The hangars and support facilities, burning furiously, had been reduced to rubble.

The control tower had toppled to the ground, crushing the Cuban general's personal helicopter. Two fuel trucks at the base of the tower added to the inferno. Flames licked skyward from the fuel storage area, sending billowing clouds of coal black smoke rising over the ruins of San Julian.

Raul also noticed that the baseball stadium had been destroyed. The walls of the underground hangar had caved in, touching off a fuel tank fire. Castro walked a few steps and stopped as two MiG29s, followed by three MiG-25s, flew over the field to survey the damaged landing strip.

The contingent of Cuban and Russian military personnel, including Gennadi Levchenko, emerged from the underground shelter. They stared at the devastation, coughing as they brushed the dust from their faces. Levchenko, seeing the blazing fire, knew that the intense heat had melted the tapes containing the secret Stealth information.

The Cuban general, shaking with rage, lunged toward Levchenko. "The Soviet Union," Castro hissed in the Russian's face, "is responsible for this!"

The MiGs, looking for a divert field, added power and flew northeast.

President Jarrett, wearing a blue windbreaker, sat across from two air force generals. He held a phone to his ear, listening intently to his secretary of defense.

"Mister President," Kerchner said over the secure net, "we have lost a number of aircraft, but the strike was successful… in our estimation."

Jarrett shifted around to glance at a message, nodding his head in agreement. "Bernie," the president replied, turning back around, "give me a quick synopsis."

Kerchner measured his words carefully. "San Julian was damaged heavily, but we don't know if the B-2 was there or had departed, as the Cubans claim."

"Okay, Bernie," Jarrett said impatiently, "let's get some photoreconnaissance — see if we can detect the B-2 in the rubble."

"Yes, sir."

The president paused. "What were our losses?"

"At the moment," Kerchner replied uncomfortably, loosening his tie, "we show six aircraft at San Julian, along with three F-14s, two additional Hornets, one F-16, and an A-4 at Guantanamo Bay."

"Did the Marines get out okay?" the president asked as he totaled the number of aircraft lost on his code reference book.

"Yes, sir," Kerchner answered quickly, "but one of the trailing C-130s was shot up before our fighters downed the MiGs. The Hercules lost an engine, but they're limping home with a fighter escort."

"What about our aircrews?" Jarrett asked, experiencing the pressure of command. "Did we have anyone… any crewmen captured?"

"Not that we are aware of," Kerchner answered, deeply concerned about the lack of timely information. "However, the aircrews have not been debriefed yet, so we'll know more in about an hour and a half."

The president sighed. "Okay, Bernie… oh, what happened to the Soviet ship — the Marshal Ustinov?"

"We're not sure, sir," Kerchner responded, glancing at his message notes. "We think a Cuban pilot erroneously thought it was one of ours, and strafed it. We'll get the credit, though."

"Well, Bernie," the president paused, "what is your recommendation?"

Both men were interrupted almost simultaneously as the flash message appeared on monitors. "Uh, oh," Kerchner said first. "Sir, we have an emergency condition — cruise missiles approaching Florida! We have to alert the—"

"I see it!" Jarrett said excitedly, turning to the four-star general. "Get everything up! They have to knock down those missiles!"

Two F-16s from the 308th Tactical Fighter Squadron, afterburners blazing, hurtled down the runway. The Fighting Falcons left a trail of shimmering heat waves as they scrambled to intercept the incoming cruise missiles.

The fighters passed smoke generators, fake aircraft, and false runway surfaces that had been hurriedly deployed by the camouflage, concealment, and deception personnel.

Two more F-16s rolled at the precise second that the first section lifted off the pavement and snapped up their landing gear. The thundering Pratt & Whitney turbojets, producing more than 23,800 pounds of thrust, slammed the highly experienced pilots into their seat backs. Each F-1.6 was armed with four AIM-9 missiles and 515 rounds of 20mm ammunition.

One hundred ten miles southwest of Homestead, two Navy Tomcats lifted off from Key West Naval Air Station and banked into a tight, climbing turn. The fighter crews contacted the airborne warning and control aircraft for snap vectors to the intruding cruise missiles.

Both flights, air force and navy, left their fighters in afterburner, pushing their aircraft to 1.5 Mach. The pilots knew they had less than seven minutes to locate and destroy the missiles.

The president, sitting stiffly at the command console, pressed his headset tightly against his ears. He could hear the airborne controller vectoring the air force and navy fighters toward the three cruise missiles.

"Come on…," Jarrett said to himself, feeling his hands ball tightly. "Knock them down."

The three air-launched cruise missiles (ALCMs) were forty-five miles south of Key Largo, Florida, when the F-14s spotted the intruding weapons. Both pilots circled to approach the streaking missiles from behind. Seconds later the air force fighter pilots had a tally on the Tomcats.

The radio chatter, incomprehensible at times, increased dramatically when the airborne controller and the flight leaders attempted to coordinate the attack. Jarrett felt his neck and shoulders become rigid when the four-star general slammed down his fist and swore out loud.

The F-16s moved to the east of the missiles, allowing the Tomcat crews a clear shot. Time was ticking away as the weapons, traveling more than 480 miles per hour, hurtled toward the southern Florida coastline. Both Tomcat pilots closed on the AS-15s, each firing two AIM-9s, then pulled into the vertical to clear the target area.

"They splashed one!" the F-16 flight leader radioed as he led his three squadron mates into their firing run.

The president listened, his eyes closed, as the F-16 pilots initiated their attack. He could hear them call their missile launches.

"Oh… my God!" the navy flight leader shouted through the confusion. "One of the sixteens is down — his Sidewinder detonated coming off the rail!"

The president grimaced, pressing his earphones tighter. He could hear the anguish in the pilot's voice.

"We got another cruiser dow—" a voice radioed, cut off by a separate radio transmission.

"He's in his chute — good chute!"

"Ghostrider's in!" the VF-142 Tomcat leader radioed, seeing the Air Force F-16s pull up. "They got another missile down." The second AS-15, like the first, had exploded in a blazing fireball.

Jarrett looked over at the general, then listened with heightened anxiety. He heard the navy flight leader announce that their missiles were away.

"Fox Two!"

The president held his breath, waiting.

"Miss!" the pilot radioed. "Two — get it!"

"Come on, damnit," Jarrett said under his breath. He was unaware that he was clutching the edge of his console in a death grip. The seconds passed slowly as the radio chatter quieted, then ceased.

"Okay," the F-14 wingman called. "We had a proximity explosion… don't know if we have a kill."

"Say again," the Hawkeye controller ordered, unsure of the situation. The ALCM, now seven miles east of Key Largo, was still on his radarscope.

"The missile — our Sidewinder," the Tomcat pilot said, "exploded close to the target. The cruise missile appeared to oscillate, then flew into these buildups."

"Do you have a visual?" the distraught Hawkeye coordinator asked, knowing that the fighters were too close to the coast to launch more missiles.

"Negative!" the navy flight leader radioed. "It flew into the clouds — appeared to be descending. Keep us in trail, and we'll nail it when it comes out the bottom."

The president listened to the frantic E-2C controller give the F-14 crews, joined by the three remaining F-16 pilots, vectors to the west of the AS-15. The seconds continued to stretch into a minute before the ALCM descended below the billowing cumulonimbus cloud.

"Tally! Tally!" the air force flight leader yelled. "Cajun lead is in!" The pilot raced across Biscayne Bay, closing on the ALCM at 520 knots. He placed the pipper on the descending missile, squeezed the trigger, twitched the control stick gently, and expended his entire 515 rounds at the cruise missile.

"Got it!" the jubilant pilot radioed, watching the ALCM, minus the tail, cartwheel out of the sky. "It's going into the bay!"

"Go vertical!" the Tomcat leader radioed, reefing his F-14 into a chest-crushing 6 1/2-g climb. "It may deto—"

His warning was cut short when the conventional-warhead missile, nine miles south of the Miami Seaquarium, exploded in Biscayne Bay.

Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews, growing more weary by the minute, prepared to alter course toward the Soviet airfield on Kamchatka Peninsula. He had watched the distant lights of Cabo San Lucas pass off the right wing fifteen minutes earlier.

Matthews, noticing that the Russian general was beginning to show the effects of fatigue, glanced back at Simmons. The technician's eyes were wide open and he sat up straight in his seat, still vigilant and cautious. Matthews, knowing that daylight would catch them in approximately three hours, had to figure a way to stop the flight.

A haggard President Jarrett sat alone in his suite, listening to his defense secretary on a secure line. The vice president, at Raven Rock, and the secretary of state, at Mount Weather, were also listening. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were monitoring the conversation.

"Goddamnit, Bernie," the president said, hunched over his desk, "I want containment… saturation bombing until Castro is completely neutralized… on his knees. He's going to pay a heavy price for the men we've lost."

"Yes, Mister President," Kerchner replied, resting his head on his left hand. "We have twenty-three more B-1 s en route to Barksd—"

"I'm aware of that," Jarrett interrupted tersely. "I also want the Navy to deep-six — to sink every Cuban warship and patrol vessel. I don't want anything flying or floating when we're finished."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner responded, glancing across the table at the tense faces of the Joint Chiefs. "Mister President," the defense secretary continued, "the carrier battle groups are preparing for a second Alpha Strike. We anticipate a launch in two hours fifteen minutes. The strike will be a maximum effort, utilizing the reserve aircraft, too."

"Sam," Jarrett said without acknowledging his defense secretary, "what is Ignatyev's position?"

"Mister President," Gardner answered from Mount Weather, "the Kremlin is pursuing an investigation of KGB officials, but they are flatly refuting any involvement. President Ignatyev contends that our pilots defected to Cuba, and that Castro is operating on his own."

Gardner hesitated a moment, expecting the president to reply. The secretary of state cleared his throat and continued. "Sir, Ignatyev has completely absolved the Soviet Union from any responsibility in the B-2 affair."

The secretary of defense was listening to Sam Gardner when his CIA line buzzed. He switched off the speaker phone and picked up the receiver. "Kerchner."

"Norm Lasharr," the director said, sounding out of breath. "We've just heard from our operative — from San Julian."

"Just a second, Norm," Kerchner interrupted. "The president is on the line… I'll put you through." Kerchner punched the conference call button and waited for a pause. "Mister President, Norm Lasharr is on the line with an update from our San Julian operative." The president spoke quickly. "Go ahead, Norm."

"Sir, we have recovered our agent," Lasharr said hurriedly. "They crash-landed off the coast near Cancun… out of gas, but they're okay. The agent confirms that the B-2 departed San Julian around four o'clock this morning. He couldn't tell the direction of flight, but he's positive it took off."

"Okay," Jarrett responded. "Stay on the line."

"Yes, sir."

The president addressed the entire group. "Gentlemen, we've got an entirely different situation now. A hundred and eighty out. Bernie, let's stand down from the second air strike and concentrate on finding the B-2."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied. "We need to be very cautious though, in regard to retaliatory strikes."

"Of course," Jarrett agreed, remembering what General Rafael del Pino, who had defected from Cuba during 1986, had told the CIA. Fidel Castro had planned an air strike against a nuclear power installation in southern Florida if the United States had blockaded Cuba during the Grenada invasion.

"Bernie," the president continued, "we want to maintain our battle groups on station for the time being. Do you have any idea where the B-2 might be at the present time?"

Kerchner had been calculating the possibilities but kept coming back to one point. "Sir, my bet is that they're flying away from the sun, to stay in the dark as long as possible. We have to assume," Kerchner said slowly, "that they're counting on getting the bomber to a safe haven before we have time to find out it hasn't been destroyed in Cuba."

Jarrett thought a moment. "Any other theories?"

"Mister President," the vice president said from Raven Rock, "Secretary Kerchner is probably on the money. My guess is they're traveling west, or northwest-the quickest way to another hiding place with the least exposure to daylight."

"Bernie," Jarrett said calmly, "the B-2 has been airborne about three and a half hours. That has to put them out somewhere around seventeen to eighteen hundred miles."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, thinking about possible contingencies.

Jarrett, sounding more upbeat, continued. "Okay, let's move. Bernie, get every aircraft we can muster airborne. We have to have a semicircle of airplanes, from the mid-Atlantic across North America to the western Pacific, beginning at a radius of two thousand miles from San Julian."

Jarrett, thoroughly engaged, continued. "I want layers of aircraft all the way to the territorial limits of the Soviet Union. Sam, you notify the Kremlin… just in case… and make our position crystal clear."

"Yes, sir," Gardner answered, harboring reservations. Kerchner was already scratching a note for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"Bernie," the president said sternly, "the only way we're going to find the B-2 is to spot it visually in the daylight."

"You're right, sir," Kerchner responded, then added a question. "What action do you want to take when we locate the B-2?"

Jarrett responded without hesitation. "If the pilot doesn't respond to the order to land, shoot it down."