Shadow Flight (1990) (34 page)

"I don't know, Mister President," Kerchner answered, shaking his head in frustration. "The submarine was apparently detected at the same time the torpedoes were fired."

"Did they get the sub?"

Kerchner looked straight into the president's eyes. "They aren't sure, sir. We'll have to wait for a detailed report."

"Heavy casualties?" the chief of state asked.

Kerchner's face quivered slightly. "That is the report, sir. The surface escorts reported men in the water."

The president remained quiet, as if in a trance. Kerchner waited a few seconds, expecting Jarrett to say something. It was highly unusual for this outgoing man to be openly withdrawn.

The president, jaw set rigid, closed his eyes a moment, then opened them. "I want Castro's military installations reduced to rubble--all of them," Jarrett said, violently agitated. "Every goddamned airfield, port, ship, airplane, radar site--everything destroyed--flattened."

The president paused a moment, seeing the surprised look on Kerchner's face. "I want to keep this military--understand, Bernie? No cities, or civilians--just military targets."

"Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, placing a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "The Joint Chiefs are working on the operation now. We will submit it for your approval as soon as the plans are finalized."

"Bernie," the president said, glancing at the entrance to the situation room, "I want a maximum effort."

HARTSFIELD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, Atlanta, Georgia

Hundreds of travelers crowded around the cocktail lounge televisio
n m
onitors when the president of the United States appeared on th
e s
creen. Continuous news reports, updating the Wasp tragedy, had angered and shocked people around the world. Calls for retribution had filled the airwaves as diplomatic efforts were cast aside.

The president, looking drawn and tired, faced the television cameras. "My fellow citizens, and friends around the world, I share your grief in the Wasp tragedy. We mourn the fine young American patriots who gave their lives today . . . in a state of war declared by Cuba. We must band together to make it clear that America will exact a price from those who cause war, and from those who support them."

Jarrett stared intently into the group of cameras. "I assure you, as president of the United States of America, that I will take the appropriate steps to stop Castro's aggression."

Cheers and applause thundered through the huge airport, drowning out the president's final words.

Jarrett stepped away from the podium, joining his defense secretary and other staff members, as the secretary of state stepped in front of the cameras.

"Mister President," Kerchner said quietly, "the Joint Chiefs are prepared to present their recommendations for targeting."

"Very well," Jarrett responded, walking rapidly out of the room.

The four F-14D Tomcats from VF-102, led by Comdr. Doug "Frogman" Karns, rendezvoused over the Kitty Hawk and headed for their barrier combat air patrol station. The pilots and their radar intercept officers, reacting to the news of the Wasp, were keyed to a fever pitch.

The expedited catapult launches and the quick ready room brief, covering the change in the rules of engagement (ROE), had heightened tensions. The new ROE stated that a pilot had to visually identify his target as an enemy aircraft, or ship, before he could fire.

Everyone felt the visceral impact of being thrust into a shootin
g c
onflict. The strain was magnified by the close proximity to American shores.

"Diamond One Zero Three, Wolfpack," the carrier controller radioed, "contact Phoenix, button seven."

"Copy, button seven," Karns acknowledged, then transmitted, "Diamonds switch, now."

The fighter pilots simultaneously switched to the new frequency and checked in with their leader.

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

"Phoenix, Diamond One Oh Three," Karns reported to the E-2C Hawkeye airborne early warning and control aircraft. "Four Fox Fourteens."

"Roger, Diamonds," the controller responded. "Stand by for your quadrant."

"Diamond One Oh Three."

The Hawkeye, one of three circling over the Gulf, would handle the fighter aircraft from the carriers Kitty Hawk and USS America.

"Diamonds," the controller said calmly, "we have bogies in whiskey one-seven-four bravo. Flight of three . . . looks low. Your eleven o'clock for forty-five."

"Diamond One Oh Three," Karns responded, then talked to his charges. "Frank, take your section out a mile and step up three thousand."

"Diamond Three and Four movin' out," the second section flight leader replied, banking gently to the right.

"Okay, Two," Karns radioed, "combat spread."

"Two "

"Diamond," the laconic Hawkeye controller paused, "your . . . ah . . . bogies at twelve for thirty-five, maneuvering."

"Roger," Karns responded, scanning the horizon. He raised his tinted visor a few seconds, examining the sea and sky, then lowered it back in place and twisted the tension knob. "Heads up, Diamonds."

"Warning Red," the controller called. "Weapons Hot!"

"Arm 'em up!" Karns ordered his pilots as he leveled at 17,000 feet. "It's show time."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four's hot."

Karns keyed the intercom and queried his radio intercept officer (RIO) about the radar return on the bogies.

"Got 'em locked, skipper."

The F-14s, receiving continuous updates from the Hawkeye flew straight at the MiGs. At eighteen miles Karns rechecked his firing switches and fuel state, then keyed his radio. "Diamonds, let's go burner."

At seven miles the Hawkeye called. "Check starboard, one o'clock low!"

Karns rolled the big Grumman fighter inverted, scanning the hazy sky below his Tomcat. "Tallyho-One has a tally! MiG twenty-fives . . . confirmed."

The Foxbats, guided by their own ground control radar site, were in trail with the third MiG weaving back and forth. They were level at 12,000 feet, going supersonic.

"Diamond One is engaged!" Karns radioed, shoving the Tomcat's nose down.

Karns's wingman rolled inverted and followed the lead F-14 into the fight. As Karns plunged toward the camouflaged MiGs, the lead Foxbat turned hard into the two Tomcats. The two trailing MiGs continued straight ahead, building speed, then pulled into the vertical.

Karns, recognizing an overshoot, pulled his throttles to idle and deployed his speed brakes. "I've got him . . . come on, lock up!"

"Shoot! Shoot!" Karns's backseater yelled. "The other two are * * * they're takin' us!"

Karns squeezed off an AIM-9 missile, slammed the throttles into afterburner, retracted the speed brakes, unloaded the aircraft, and dove for separation. "Fox Two!"

The VF-102 commanding officer caught a glimpse of the exploding MiG-25 as his Tomcat slashed by the cartwheeling fuselag
e a
t 670 knots. The lead MiG, minus sections of the wings, tumbled across the sky, exploded again, then spun straight into the Gulf of Mexico.

"Good hit! Good shot!" the RIO shouted as he checked the other two Foxbats. "They're pulling lead!"

"Skipper," the second section leader radioed, "break hard starboard, bring your nose up!"

Karns popped the Tomcat into knife-edged flight and snatched the stick into his stomach, groaning under the 6 1/2 g's. He saw why the section leader had called. Karns's wingman was in a perfect position to attack the two remaining MiGs.

"Two has . . . we're locked!" the wingman radioed as he fired a missile. "Fox Two!" The missile tracked straight to the second MiG, flew up the left tailpipe, and exploded in a mushrooming fireball.

"I'm in!" Karns radioed, pitching the F-14 to the left and rolling up into a high yo-yo. "Good shot!" He looked down just in time to see the cockpit of the Foxbat fly out of the fireball. No wings, no tail--just the cockpit. The canopy separated and the pilot ejected a second later, falling out of sight when his parachute failed to open.

"Come on, lock it up," Karns said, pulling through the top of his climb. He looked into the late afternoon sun, losing the MiG in the glare. "Sonuvabitch!"

"Skipper!" the section leader, who was calling the fight, radioed frantically. "The gomer reversed, coming inside your five o'clock."

"Okay," Karns groaned, twisting the F-14 through a displacement roll. "I've lost him!"

"Break hard starboard!" Karns's wingman called. "I can't get a shot into the sun!"

"He's firing!" the section leader yelled to the CO. "Get on him, Two!"

Karns, breaking right and up into the vertical, felt the thudding impact of the MiG's twin 23mm cannons. Red streaks flashed by the canopy as tracer rounds worked across the left wing, blasting access plates off the fighter. Karns whipped the stick over, snapping the Tomcat through three tight rolls, then unloaded the F-14, going for separation.

The MiG, flown with great expertise and wild abandon, pulled in behind Karns, leaving Diamond Two a difficult shot. If the missile missed the Foxbat, highly possible in combat, it might track to the Tomcat.

"Doug! Break, break!" the section leader radioed, flipping his armament switch to guns. "Three is engaged--gonna drag his ass off."

"Bring it on!" Karns groaned, jerking the accelerating Tomcat into a 6 1/2-g, neck-wrenching turn.

The section leader, turning inside the third MiG, placed the pip-per slightly ahead of the Foxbat and squeezed the trigger gently. The Vulcan cannon growled, pouring more than 100 shells a second into the Russian fighter. The pilot released the trigger a split second, then squeezed it again, causing the Tomcat to vibrate. He watched, fascinated, as the M-61 multibarrel cannon, spewing molten lead, knocked large pieces off the stricken MiG.

"Fox Two!" Karns's wingman shouted, punching off another Sidewinder. The missile tucked down, made a correction, and plowed into the MiG's right wing a millisecond after the pilot ejected.

The section leader, caught off guard, slammed his stick hard over in an attempt to miss the explosion and debris. Both F-14 crew members felt the thump when they collided with the MiG pilot's body.

"Good shot!" Karns said, elated. He scanned the milky sky quickly then called the Hawkeye. "Phoenix," Karns sucked pure oxygen, "Diamond flight with three splashes. Any more bandits?"

The Hawkeye controller, busy vectoring another flight of Tomcats, completed his radio call and acknowledged Karns. "Negative, Diamond One Zero Three." The controller checked his radarscope, leaving the mike keyed. "Nothing in your sector at this time. RTB for recycle. Rattler and Snake flights are inbound--comin' up your port side, ten o'clock high."

"Roger," Karns responded, looking for his executive officer in Snake One. He caught a glint of sunlight off a canopy as the XO rocked his wings. "I have a tally."

"Skipper," Karns's RIO said over the intercom, "check fuel."

Karns glanced at the fuel gauge, surprised by the amount the thirsty Tomcat had consumed during the combat engagement. He was down to 5,900 pounds of fuel--enough to reach the carrier if he conserved the precious fluid.

"Diamonds, let's go max conserve and join up," Karns ordered, easing back the twin throttles. "Call fuel states."

The other three pilots acknowledged, giving their respective fuel loads, as Karns slowed the Tomcat. As the F-14 decelerated through 0.72 Mach, Karns felt a strange sensation. Something was definitely wrong. The Tomcat wobbled unsteadily.

"Skipper, we've got a control problem." Karns glanced back over his right shoulder, swearing to himself. The wings, swept back to the full aft position, had not reprogrammed forward. Karns tried the wing-sweep button, emergency handle, and circuit breakers. Nothing worked.

"Diamond Two," Karns radioed, reviewing his pocket checklist, "come aboard and check me over. My wings are frozen in the full aft position."

"Roger, movin' up."

Karns waited, cursing his luck, while his wingman rendezvoused on the starboard side. Karns knew he could not land aboard the carrier with full wing sweep; the engagement speed would be close to 200 miles an hour. It was prohibited, even during a time of war.

If the emergency developed during Blue Water operations-in the middle of an ocean-the pilot and RIO would have to fly by the carrier and make a controlled ejection. In this case, Karns prepared to divert to Key West Naval Air Station, the closest field with the arresting equipment he needed.

The Diamondback CO watched his wingman's Tomcat slide up to his wounded fighter. He could see the rivets, the oil streaks, and the pilot's eyes. Karns waited patiently while his wingman slid under the Tomcat, appearing on the other side.

"Okay, skipper," the pilot radioed, knowing they had only one option, "we're going to have to go to Key Worst."

"Yeah," Karns replied calmly. "What does it look like?"

"You've got hydraulic fluid pouring down the port side of the aircraft." The wingman moved in closer. "Skipper, you took some rounds. Looks like the area around the wing sweep actuator is shot up."