by Joe Weber
Vecchio looked at his friend, Willie Overholser, out of the corner of his eye. The former Coast Guard lieutenant was the P-3's air control officer. Overholser was diligently filling out a stack of official forms required after an intercept. The Orion crew had been instrumental in vectoring a Coast Guard HU-25 jet to a successful bust one hour earlier.
"Willie," Vecchio began, then paused. "I've got something strange here."
Overholser, surprised, glanced at Vecchio with a questioning look. "What?"
"Look at this," Vecchio said, adjusting the brightness of his screen. "Something's fishy here."
Overholser stared at the screen, then punched a computer button to place an overlay of Cuba on the images. The symbology showed coastal boundaries along with cities and all Cuban airports.
"Goddamn, Pete," Overholser commented, placing his headset on. "Those are MiGs coming offshore, see 'em?"
"Yes," Vecchio responded, adjusting the radar image. "Look here . . . just north of the Mariel Naval Air Station. That, Willie, is a flight of two MiGs, no question. Nothing else would accelerate that fast and be in formation."
Overholser was completely absorbed by the fast-moving images on the radarscope. "Pete, see if you can pick up any radio transmissions-scan UHF, VHF, and FM."
"Right," Vecchio replied, resetting the switches on his communications console. "Uh, oh . . . , Willie, take a look-see at this." Vecchio pointed at the APS-138's screen, then listened for radio calls from the MiGs.
"Jesus," Overholser muttered, enthralled by the Cuban Air Defense Force scramble. "There's two more MiGs-they came out of San Julian. They're already moving supersonic-has to be MiG-25s."
"Willie, this must be their target. See . . . right here," Vecchio said, pointing at the slow-moving symbol on his radar screen. "He has to be right down on the water. The returns are intermittent, but both MiG flights are headed for that spot."
"Anything on the radio?" Overholser asked, jotting down the time.
"No," Vecchio answered, then listened an additional fifteen seconds. "Just clutter."
"Where did you first see the low bird?"
Vecchio responded without taking his eyes from the radar console. "Just off the coast, northwest of Bahia Honda. I had a few returns before, but nothing steady. Probably false returns over the offshore coral."
"We haven't seen this--a four-plane scramble--for a long time," Overholser remarked as he concentrated on the aerial intercept. "Look . . . right here. That looks like a helicopter--just off Mariel--going for the slow target."
"Well, one thing's for certain," Vecchio responded. "They're damned serious."
"Yeah, I'd say so."
Vecchio watched the two closest Soviet fighters slow, then spread farther apart. "Hell, I thought it was a training hop, or a patrol flight."
"Pete, not much flies around Cuba at night, believe me. I haven't seen anything like this before--two simultaneous MiG scrambles at night."
"Well," Vecchio said, glancing quickly at Overholser, "whoever it is, he's in deep shit."
Chapter Seven
THE YAK-18
"Sonuvabitch!" Matthews swore as he shoved the fuel mixture to full rich and jockeyed the throttle. "Keep running . . . come on .. . do it for us."
"What happened?" Evans shouted. His face was drained of color, and he had a death grip on the instrument panel glare shield. "Get the nose up!"
Matthews eased the nose up, climbed thirty feet, then leveled off again. "I don't know, maybe it took a slug of water through the fuel line. Hell of a rain last night-water may have leaked into a tank."
Evans took a deep breath. "Just keep it going, Chuck, and I'll sign over my retirement pay to you."
Matthews monitored closely the vibrating engine instruments, RPMs remained steady, temperature stayed in the green, but still no oil pressure. "Don't touch anything," he said to himself. "Not until we're over Key West."
Matthews raised his gaze, looked around the moonlit sky, then focused on the cluster of stars he had been using for navigation. Capella remained in the same position, winking through his canopy.
Suddenly his mind issued a sharp alert. Something had moved in the sky. Something very fast. He snapped his head back to the right, searching for the source of light.
"Oh, my God . . . ," the pilot said to himself. He yanked open his canopy, straining to hear over the roar of the howling radial engine.
"Paul!" he shouted, simultaneously rechecking his exterior lights. They were turned off. The Yak-18 was blacked out. "They're on us! We've got fighters overhead!"
"Shit!" Evans exclaimed, scanning the star-filled sky. He quickly spotted the MiGs. "They're slowing--coming over the top from the right."
"We're going down!" Matthews said as he shoved the nose over and concentrated on flying. "Right on the deck!"
MIG-25 FOXBAT 28
Lieutenant Colonel Igor S. Zanyathov, in rumpled street clothes and smelling of rum, listened closely to the Cuban radar controller's instructions. The radar specialist had lost the Yak-18 thirty-three miles off the coast, but the track indicated that the escapees were heading for Florida. The controller had calculated where the stolen aircraft should be by the speed and direction of flight.
The former squadron commander in the Soviet Frontovaya Aviatsiya (Tactical Air Force) cursed Levchenko's arrogance and stupidity, then cursed his own bad luck. The boisterous going-away party for Captain Robanov had progressed far into the second hour when the frantic KGB director had called.
Zanyathov checked the spacing between himself and his wing-man, Maj. Anatoly V. Sokolviy, then rolled gently into a shallow bank to the left.
"They should be right below you," Zanyathov said to himself, repeating the controller's words. "No they shouldn't, you idiot," continued the partially inebriated fighter pilot. "The Americans should be under heavy guard in the B-2 hangar, spilling their guts about every operational aspect of the secret bomber."
Zanyathov searched the surface of the ocean, trying to catch any movement. He glanced at his altimeter, then continued his turn until the moon was directly on the tip of his left wing. The Yak-18 would be hard to spot, but it was down there somewhere.
"Kok pozhivayete, Major Sokolviy?" Zanyathov radioed to his wingman.
"I am fine, colonel, except for my head."
Zanyathov felt the same effects from the potent rum. "I share your suffering."
Sokolviy looked up through his canopy. "The other interceptors are orbiting overhead. I see their anticollision lights."
"You have young eyes, major. Use them well tonight." "Yes, colonel."
"Follow me down," Zanyathov ordered, easing back his two throttles. "We will not contact the other flight unless absolutely necessary."
"Da."
The MiG-25's powerful Tumansky turbojets wound down as Zanyathov lowered the nose and rolled into a steeper turn. The Russian pilot knew that he had to be successful in thwarting the Americans' bold escape. The KGB director would pay dearly if the news of this fiasco got out. Zanyathov knew that Levchenko would see him dead if he did not succeed in returning the daring Stealth crew.
Zanyathov could still hear Levchenko swearing over the MiG's radio as the two interceptors had lifted off the runway in afterburner. The message had been clear. If the American pilots were not brought back alive--so their operational and technical knowledge could be gained-- Zanyathov and Sokolviy had no reason to return.
"I see the aircraft!" Major Sokolviy radioed his flight leader. "Off your right wing, colonel. Just forward of the wing tip."
Zanyathov searched the area, scanning back and forth, then saw the Yak-18 low over the water. The dark aircraft was bathed in luminous moonlight. "Yes, I have them," Zanyathov acknowledged, steepening his descent. "The Americans are brave--they are almost in the water."
Zanyathov set his armament panel switches, then selected his two 23mm guns. The intercept would be very delicate. He had to turn back the Yakovlev without destroying it. Killing the Americans
would seal his own fate.
"How damned ironic," Zanyathov said to himself, spitting out the words. "The Americans are more important to my country than I am." He keyed his radio. "Major Sokolviy, I am descending for a firing pass. Remain in high cover."
"Da, colonel. Be careful."
The lead pilot descended to fifty meters above the water, slowing the MiG-25 to thirty kilometers above the clean configuration stall speed. He rechecked his gun switches, turned slightly to line up on the Yak-18's left side, then added a small amount of power.
"Major, I will make a firing pass to the left, then pull up in front of them. Keep a close watch, in case I lose the Yakovlev in the turn."
"I will not lose them, colonel."
Zanyathov, rapidly approaching the fleeing Americans, pressed lightly on the firing button.
THE YAK-18
"Here he comes!" Matthews shouted over the screaming radial engine. "Goddamnit! We're not turning back!"
Red tracer rounds spewed out of the Foxbat, flashed by the side of the trainer, arched out in front, then disappeared in the distance.
"Stay low," Evans yelled, watching the MiG-25 approach, "and start jinking!"
Matthews watched his altitude closely, then turned his head to the left. The MiG would be abreast of the unarmed Yak-18 in four seconds. "Hang on!" he warned. "Here goes!"
The desperate pilot pushed the control stick to the left, turning in knife-edged flight directly at the MiG-25.
"Oh, God . . . ," Evans moaned, flinching as the Foxbat's nose snapped up and the two afterburners went to full military power. The roar of the thundering turbojets was earsplitting as the Yak-18
passed twenty feet below the MiG. The small trainer almost rolled inverted before Matthews could snap the wings level.
"They're going to blow our asses off!" Evans shouted, sliding open his canopy. "The MiG driver has to be one mad sonuvabitch."
Matthews was working the controls in an effort to constantly change their path of flight. He guided the Yak-18 through a series of skidded turns, slips, and porpoise maneuvers while maintaining the general heading to Key West. He looked over his left shoulder again, then sideslipped the Yak close to the water. "Keep an eye on him!"
The Foxbat pilot wrapped the fighter around in a tight turn, continuing to slow, then eased the nose toward the fleeing trainer. The MiG pilot was in a perfect guns position.
"Hang on!" Matthews cautioned as he rolled the low-flying Yak-18 into a seventy-degree right turn and chopped the power to idle. The deceleration was instantaneous.
Straining under the g loading, Matthews looked over his right shoulder as the MiG-25 snapped into a tight right turn, stalled, then slammed into the water a split second after the afterburners were lighted. The Foxbat exploded in a blinding flash as cold water rammed through the air intakes into the red-hot turbojets.
"You suckered him in!" Evans shouted, pounding the cockpit glare shield. "You did it!"
Matthews added power and leveled the wings, then looked up and scanned the dark sky. "Where's the other MiG? I've lost him!"
"Ahh . . . okay, I've got him," Evans responded, tightening his seat belt. "Four o'clock and coming down fast."
Anatoly Sokolviy, adrenaline pumping through his veins, was in a frenzy. The pilot knew that Director Levchenko, the omnipotent mastermind of the B-2 operation, would have to answer for the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Zanyathov. Sokolviy's mission had changed. He was driven to stop the wily Americans-any way possible-and avenge the death of his flight leader.
The MiG-25, Sokolviy knew only too well, had not been designed to fight slow-moving light aircraft flying on the deck.
Many fine pilots had lost their lives the same way as Zanyathov. He had let his aircraft get behind the power curve, then attempted an abrupt maneuver low and slow.
Sokolviy adjusted his armament panel, selecting his single AA-7 Apex missile. If he missed, he had two more AA-8 Aphids to fire at the fleeing aircraft. He checked the missile arming control, then heard the rescue helicopter.
"Sudak Chetirnatsat [perch fourteen] is on station," the excited Soviet helicopter pilot blurted. "Did the runner go in the tank?"
"Nyet," Sokolviy growled over the frequency. "Stay off the radio."
The Yak-18 was only three kilometers ahead of Sokolviy when the fighter pilot lowered the MiG's nose. "Kiss your asses goodbye, you clever bastards," Sokolviy said under his breath when the ready-to-fire light glowed. "Come on . . . track . . ."
Sokolviy raised the MiG's nose a couple of degrees, then rolled into a gentle right turn to line up with the tail of the Yak-18. "Got it!" Sokolviy said triumphantly as he squeezed off the air-to-air missile.
"Break right! Break right," Evans screamed. "Missile!"
Matthews tightened his stomach muscles, then groaned under the snap g load he forced on the trainer. The Yak-18, in knife-edged flight, changed course ninety degrees in three seconds. "Coming back!" Matthews said in a strained voice. "We gotta stay down--"
The pilot's statement was cut off by a flash and a deafening explosion forty yards in front of the aircraft. The AA-7 Apex had missed the trainer and impacted the water, detonating with a thunderous roar.
"Oh, shit!" Matthews swore as he leveled the wings and yanked back the stick.
The Yak-18 flew through the geyser of water and debris, staggered, shuddered, then dropped off on the right wing.
"Hang on!" Matthews shouted, chopping the throttle. "We're goin' in!"
Both pilots grabbed their glare shields and braced themselves for the impact. The Yak-18's right wingtip sliced into the water, sending the trainer into a cartwheeling, end-over-end crash landing. The crumpled fuselage, missing the right wing and three feet of the left wing, came to rest inverted.
Matthews yanked repeatedly at his seat belt, thrashing from side to side. Finally, when his lungs felt as though they had been set on fire, the pilot freed himself and struggled out of the sinking aircraft. Orienting himself with the rising bubbles from the sinking wreckage, he kicked off from the side of the cockpit and clawed his way upward.
Gasping and sucking air, he broke the surface and looked around frantically for Paul Evans. The slightly injured pilot could see bits of floating debris surrounding him, but nothing that resembled his friend.
"Paul!" Matthews shouted, treading water and turning constantly. He could taste the foul, greasy aviation fuel. "Paul!"
Matthews, who had been on the swimming team at the Air Force Academy, gulped more air and dove below the surface. He fought his way downward in the pitch-black water, felt the stub of a propeller blade, then crawled along the side of the mangled fuselage. He passed the front cockpit, cutting his right hand on the fractured canopy, and reached into the rear seat. His left hand touched Evans's arm, then moved up to his face. Matthews yanked back his hand, recoiling in horror.
Paul Evans had not suffered long, if at all. His face had slammed into the instrument panel, breaking his neck. Matthews was sickened by the unnatural twist and angle of his friend's head.
Feeling the water pressure build as the Yak-18's fuselage sank below twenty feet, Matthews tugged at Evans's seat belt. The locking device opened easily and Matthews pulled on Evans's torso.
He yanked repeatedly on his copilot, then realized the problem. Evans was trapped in the twisted cockpit, crushed between the seat pan and the glare shield.
Matthews, in agony and frustration, and feeling the onslaught of oxygen starvation, let go of his close friend and shot for the surface.
His oxygen-starved mind was slipping into unconsciousness, a kaleidoscope of colored lights dancing in front of his eyes, when his face popped out of the water.
The pilot treaded water instinctively while his lungs heaved in an effort to suck in life-sustaining air. He felt his head clear rapidly and his strength return. His mind shifted from concentrating on survival, to rage.
Four seconds later, Matthews heard the combined sounds. They had been there all along--the MiG-25
overhead and the approaching Soviet helicopter--but he had blocked them out in his mental trauma.
"You SONS OF BITCHES," Matthews bellowed, watching the approaching searchlight from the rescue helicopter.
THE P-3
Pete Vecchio stared at the APS-138 radar screen as he recorded the time and exact location. "Ah . . . Willie, I can't believe this."
"Believe it, Pete," Overholser replied quietly, energizing the LINK-11 secure data communications system. "The MiG flight leader went in the drink, and his wingman, as I see it, splashed the slow mover."
Vecchio turned to the air control officer (ACO). "We better get on the horn."
"Yeah," Overholser responded, keying the communications button. "Stay with 'em." The ACO adjusted his lip microphone, rechecked the radio frequency, then spoke to their operations center. "Corpus Operations, Tar Baby One Five."
"Corpus Ops, One Five," the Texas-based coordinator replied, "go ahead."
"One Five has a priority," Overholser radioed in an even voice. "We just witnessed two aircraft crash in the water seventy nautical miles west of Havana. One of the aircraft, we believe, was a Cuban MiG."
Vecchio and Overholser listened to the surprised operations officer as they watched the three MiGs return to their respective air bases.
SAN JULIAN
Gennadi Levchenko anxiously waited at the control tower for the rescue helicopter to return. The tower chief, Starshiy Praporshchik (Senior Warrant Officer) Yevgeny Pogostyan, had just sent word that the helicopter was nine minutes out.
Levchenko had already spoken with Maj. Anatoly Sokolviy, who had been extremely hostile and defiant. The confrontation had ended abruptly when the MiG fighter pilot, encouraged by his fellow aviators, walked away from the contentious KGB director.
Pogostyan ran down the steep stairs of the control tower, then hurried across the tarmac toward Levchenko. "Comrade director, the helicopter pilot reports only one American survivor."
in?" "We only need one," Levchenko snorted. "What condition is he..."
