Shadow Flight (1990)
Page 29
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."
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
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.
SAN JULIAN
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.
Chapter Twenty-six
SHADOW 37
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.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN (CVN-72)
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 harml
essly 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.
THE AGENT
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.
SAN JULIAN
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.
USS KITTY HAWK (CV-63)
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.
THE OV-10
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!"
"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?"