Shadow Flight (1990) (40 page)

The agent left the dirt road, splashing noisily across the shallow marsh he had waded through going to the airfield. The warm, stagnant water splattered his face as he ran out of the swamp.

Wickham could hear gunships spreading out to the south and west of San Julian. He also saw the glowing afterburners of two MiG-29s as they climbed out of the airfield.

Checking the time on the run, the agent realized that he was not going to make the beach by the 0500 deadline. He had only eight minutes to traverse the final half mile to the rescue point. He slowed, yanked out the satellite transmitter, and punched in the extraction code again. He pointed the miniscule antenna over his head and squeezed the send button.

Greg Spidel had just entered his first orbit in the OV-10 when he heard Wickham's signal again. He scanned the sky frantically, looking for the bright cyalume lightstick.

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."

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.

Raul Castro, cursing and gesturing wildly to his subordinates, stoo
d n
ext to a battle phone in the underground command post. Hi
s b
rother, 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 throug
h h
is "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 harmlessly 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.

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.

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.