Shadow Flight (1990) (42 page)

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.

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 shove
d h
ard 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.

The bombers screamed toward San Julian with an ear-shattering, high-pitched screech. Seconds from bomb release, Vulture 25 flew into a surface-to-air missile and exploded, spreading flaming debris for a mile and three quarters.

Two more B-1 Bs succumbed to the devastating barrage of antiaircraft weapons, crashing across San Julian in terrifying fireballs. The remaining three aircraft released their bomb loads and flew straight across the center of the field.

Clouds of churning dust, smoke, and debris shot into the air as the deadly clusters of bombs pounded the air base. The hail of antiaircraft fire followed the fleeing planes, damaging two of the strategic bombers. Overhead, the B-1 Bs' fighter escorts fired missiles at the MiGs, then chased after the surviving bombers.

Marine Maj. Vince Cangemi heard the frantic call from the Hawkeye. The two cruise missiles, launched from the Bear bomber he had shot down, were heading for the Kitty Hawk.

"Phoenix! Phoenix!" Cangemi radioed, shoving his throttles to the stops. "Animal One has a tally on the cruise missiles--the ones heading for Kitty Hawk."

"Phoenix, copy!" the controller said in a taut voice. "Can you get a shot?"

"I'm closing now!" Cangemi answered, unsure of how many rounds he had left in his M-61 cannon. "Two and Four, close up and say ordnance."

"Two has one missile," Cangemi's wingman answered, trying to catch his flight leader. "Vince, you'll have to ease off the power."

"Four is winchester," the marine pilot radioed, indicating that he was out of ammunition and missiles.

"Okay, Two," Cangemi replied, easing back on his throttles as he rapidly approached the closest AS-15 missile. "Come up on my starboard wing and drop the cruiser off to the right." Cangemi jinked his Hornet violently, checking his six o'clock for Cuban MiGs.

"On the way," the wingman radioed, sliding out to the side of his leader. "I have a tally." The sleek F/A-18 drew abreast of Animal One, reduced power to stay aligned, waited for the missile side tone, then squeezed the trigger.

"Fox Two!" the pilot radioed, watching the lethal air-to-air missile belch fire and accelerate toward the deadly prey. The Sidewinder went slightly high, then corrected downward and slammed into the cruise missile.

Cangemi saw the flash, then watched tensely as the missile exploded in an orange fireball. "Phoenix!" Cangemi radioed excitedly, "we dropped one--going for the second."