by Joe Weber
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."
ANIMAL ONE
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.
Chapter Twenty-seven
DIAMOND ONE
Karns tuned out the wild chatter in his earphones. There was total confusion as each pilot, straining to keep track of all the hurtling aircraft, snapped his head continuously from side to side.
"Skipper," Ricketts said over the intercom, "break right! We've got two gomers comin' down from four o'clock."
Karns tightened his stomach muscles to counter g-LOC, then whipped the Tomcat into a painful 6 1/2-g turn and slammed the throttles into afterburner. He switched from missiles to guns, worried that a Sidewinder might miss so close in and hit another F-14 or Hornet.
Transonic vapor appeared over the wing roots as the Tomcat dug into the savage turn. "I ... have 'em ... ," Karns groaned in agony, easing off the crushing g load. "They're reversing . . . coming over * * * the top. Come on, just a few more seconds."
Karns slapped the stick hard to the left and yanked the nose up, placing the pipper just behind the second MiG-25 Foxbat. Two camouflaged MiGs flashed below the Foxbat, firing missiles at two F-14s engaged with three MiG-23s. One of the Tomcats erupted in flame and smoke, breaking hard into the pursuers.
Karns squeezed the trigger and let the M-61 Vulcan roar, vibrating the Tomcat. A blazing reddish white streak walked up the MiG's fuselage, tearing off pieces of metal. The Foxbat headed for the deck, diving steeply while trailing white smoke and jet fuel vapor.
Karns rolled inverted and let the F-14's nose drop, following the wounded Foxbat. He switched back to missiles, heard the tone, waited, and punched off a Sidewinder.
"Fox Two!"
The missile tracked straight to the MiG, exploding on the right side of the fuselage. A brilliant flame trailed down the side of the Foxbat.
Karns recognized the magnesium fire at the same instant the pilot ejected. "We got him!" Karns said to his RIO as he pulled the throttles out of afterburner. "We'll extend and pull back into this furball."
"Yeah," Ricketts responded, scanning the sky above and below the Tomcat.
They could see two distinct groups of aircraft engaged in separate fights. Ricketts spotted three sections of MiGs, high above the melee, traveling supersonic.
"Skipper!" Ricketts warned, snapping his visor up for a better view. "Bogies . . . oh, Jesus . . . MiG-29s at eight o'clock. They're comin' right down the tube."
Karns was shocked by the
sight of the high-performance Fulcrums. They had superior armament and look-down, shoot-down capability. He wrapped the Tomcat into a crushing bat turn, placing the nose on the MiG-29s.
"MiG-29s high!" Karns warned the other fighter pilots over the radio. "Fulcrums--MiG-29s high to the east!"
"Lock 'em up, skipper!" Ricketts shouted.
Diamond One looked up at the diving MiGs, heard the tone, then fired two Sidewinders. His wingman fired one missile, waited a second, and fired a second missile.
Anatoly Sokolviy saw the missiles come off the Tomcats. He punched the chaff button, sending out bright flares to deflect the onrushing Sidewinders, then broke hard to the left. His Cuban wing-man, unprepared for the sudden attack, hesitated a second before he yanked his Fulcrum around. It was a costly mistake for the experienced pilot.
The American missile hit the wingman's tail, blowing off the entire aft section of the MiG. The aircraft tumbled end over end, then exploded at the same instant the pilot ejected. His parachute, engulfed in the horrendous fireball, was partially destroyed when the pilot separated from his ejection seat. Strapped in the streaming parachute, the flash-burned fighter pilot fell four miles to his death.
Sokolviy completed his evasive maneuver and banked the Fulcrum around, tracking the elusive Americans. He fired two AA-11 Archer missiles at Diamond One, then shot into the vertical and snap-rolled the Fulcrum 180 degrees. Shoving his throttles to the stops, he arched his head back to follow the two missiles. The Russian was surprised to see the two F-14s facing him canopy to canopy.
SAN JULIAN
Raul Castro, enraged and shouting orders to everyone in sight, heard the antiaircraft guns start firing. He dashed to the control tower windows and shook his fist at the A-6Fs and Hornets approaching the airfield.
The aircraft were on the deck, screaming toward the air base in left echelon. The flight leader, flying so low he caused the tops of trees to sway when he roared overhead, was pointed straight at the hangars.
The Cuban general watched, stunned, as the strike aircraft leveled a dozen radar-controlled guns. The second wave of attack aircraft boomed across the field, dropping huge loads of bombs on the flight line, runway, and hangars. The windows blew in, knocking Castro to the floor. He picked himself up, partially blinded by the dust and debris, and grabbed his command phone.
Vince Cangemi blasted down the length of Ciudad Libertad, spraying 20mm shells into parked aircraft, hangars, and a large fuel storage area. The fuel farm exploded, sending billowing black smoke and orange flames into the early morning sky.
Cangemi fired a last burst at a taxiing Cubana de Aviacion Ilyushin-62M transport. The four-engine jet shuddered to a halt with the right wing and both engines engulfed in blazing jet fuel.
The fighter pilot flashed over the perimeter of the airfield, scooting down in his cockpit as the cannon shells whizzed by the canopy. He shoved the twin General Electric turbofans into afterburner and pushed the nose down. The tracers were still sweeping past the cockpit when the F/A-18 screeched across the coastline at 550 knots.
Cangemi stayed on the deck for another minute, hugging the water and flying as low as he dared. He raised the nose slowly and started to breathe normally. The marine aviator quickly checked his annunciator panel and eased back on the power. He decided he had just enough fuel to return to the carrier without tanking when he sensed something ahead of his Hornet. He looked up and blinked, not believing his eyes. A Bear bomber, slightly to the right, filled his windshield. Cangemi judged the lumbering bomber to be one and a half miles in front of his fighter.
The pilot hit the air/ground button, switching to air-to-air missiles. He waited a second, swinging the pipper gently on the bomber, then locked up the Tupolev Tu-142.
"Ivan, Cangemi said to himself, bringing the power back further, "the dance is over." He squeezed off a Sidewinder and jinked the Hornet around, checking for his wingman and MiGs.
"Fox Two!" Cangemi broadcast over the radio. He snapped his head forward a split second after the AIM-9 struck the Bear's left outboard turboprop. The big engine came apart in slow motion, flinging blades into the fuselage and tearing into the inboard engine. The huge bomber continued to fly, streaming smoke and fluid.
Cangemi was startled when two cruise missiles, mounted one to a wing, dropped off and ignited. The weapons quickly accelerated out in front of the heavily damaged Bear, steadying at a cruise speed of 0.74 Mach.
"Shit!" Cangemi said to himself as he squeezed off his last Sidewinder. "Fox Two!" he warned, watching the missile plow into the stricken bomber's left wing.
"Animal One," the distressed pilot of the number four Hornet radioed his leader, "Dash Three went in . . . comin' off the last target.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Cangemi replied as the Bear, missing the outer half of the left wing, rolled inverted and plunged for the Gulf.
The marine flight leader saw two figures jump out of the spinning bomber, then pop open their parachutes. Cangemi knew that his armament was almost depleted, but he had to intercept and destroy the two Soviet-made cruise missiles.
Karns had a quick glimpse of the two AA-11 missiles flash under him as he watched the MiG-29, canopy to canopy, pull into his Tomcat.
Anatoly Sokolviy rudder-rolled the Fulcrum into the F-14, firing his 30mm cannon. He could see the tracers arc under the Tomcat's tail
Karns dropped the F-14's nose, going for knots and separation, then snapped into the pure vertical. Vapor trailed off the wings, signaling the severe positive g load being imposed on the fighter.
The MiG pilot, matching Karns's every move, pulled hard into the F-14 and fired a short burst.
"Holy shit!" Karns yelled, breathing hard. "This sonuvabitch is good!"
"Too good," the RIO grunted as Karns unloaded the straining Tomcat.
"Boss," Karns's wingman radioed, "we're workin' him for a shot."
Karns rolled over the top, separated from the fight, turned hard into the MiG, and engaged again.
"Skipper," Ricketts said, growing more concerned, "you better take him . . . before we're sea level minus six."
"Yeah," Karns groaned, committing his nose up again. "He's bound to get lucky . . . matter of time."
Sokolviy watched the American, waiting for the fatal mistake that would give the wily MiG pilot the advantage in the deadly aerial duel. Sokolviy smiled to himself when he saw the Tomcat commit too soon for the vertical engagement. The Russian pilot shoved hard on the throttles, still in burner, and snapped the MiG's nose up.
Karns, anticipating the maneuver, slammed his throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes for a split second. The MiG shot out in front of the Tomcat, twisting violently to spoil the F-14's gun-tracking envelope.
"Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!" Ricketts gasped, trying vainly to raise his head under the fierce g load. He had never experienced such a punishing engagement.
"I'm gonna light the pipes," Karns grunted, fighting g-LOC, "and take him out." He shoved the throttles forward into burner, retracted his speed brakes, and fired 290 rounds at the twisting Fulcrum. He aimed ahead of the MiG, expecting the talented pilot to break into the F-14.
Sokolviy, caught off guard, pulled into the fast-turning Tomcat. The MiG pilot, sustaining a gut-wrenching 8 1/2 g's, flew through the devastating cannon fire, shedding large wing panels and part of the vertical stabilizers.
Karns yanked the F-14 up into a barrel roll and watched the Soviet pilot eject from the uncontrollable fighter. "Ivan jettisoned his airplane," Karns said, checking for other MiGs.
"Two," the CO radioed, "you've got a gomer closin' at your seven o'clock . . . low."
THE E-2C HAWKEYE
"Wolfpack, I hold four contacts," the airborne warning and control officer urgently radioed Kitty Hawk. He felt the draining stress of coordinating multiple aerial engagements.
There was no immediate response. "No," the controller paused, "make that five bogies. They came from the Bears . . . have to be cruise missiles."
"Ah . . . copy, Phoenix," the CIC officer replied, pushing the launch signal on his console. "Ready One CAP will be up your freq in a minute."
"Roger that," the Hawkeye controller responded. "Two bogies tracking Wolfpack, one-niner-zero for forty-five, low."
"Wolfpack copies," the strained officer replied, feeling the first catapult shot reverberate through the carrier. "Say targets of the other three."
"Stand by."
Seven seconds elapsed before the harried control officer replied. "They appear to be tracking the tip of Florida."
The CIC officer paused a moment, checking the location of the surface combat patrol flights. "Scramble the fighters from Key West and Homestead," the officer ordered, feeling the second catapult slam into the water brakes.
The lead B-1B strategic bomber, wings fully swept and traveling supersonic, blasted over Cabo Corrientes at 150 feet. The shoreline was rocked by six shock waves as the lethal bombers raced toward San Julian.
One hundred twenty miles east-northeast, two flights of four B-1 Bs passed northwest of Cayos del Hambre, then separated to attack targets around Havana. Vulture 25 made a slight course correction as San Julian filled the windshield. A wall of ground fire, antiaircraft fire, and surface-to-air missiles filled the air.
The B-1 B flight leader had heard the frantic radio calls from the navy strike force. The pilot could clearly see the damage they had caused as he tweaked the nose to the right to line up on the hangars. "Vultures . . . defense," the pilot radioed, then hesitated a second. "Now!"
The six bombers, thundering toward San Julian, filled the sky with chaff and flare decoys.
Raul Castro, warned of the rapidly approaching bombers by Cuban and Soviet warships, had sought refuge in the bomb shelter at the base of the control tower. The damp, musty-smelling shelter was full of personnel seeking cover from the air raids.
Gennadi Levchenko had dropped to the floor and covered his head when the antiaircraft weapons commenced firing. The Stealth project officer gritted his teeth and cursed in frustration.
