Shadow Flight (1990) (12 page)

"I'd be doing a lot better," Evans yelled, "if we were landing in Key West right now."

Matthews looked at the vibrating airspeed indicator. The large pointer, mounted through an oil-soaked, yellowed card, bounced from 190 to 260 kilometers per hour. "Paul," Matthews said, turning around again to Evans. "I can't tell what we're doing speed-wise."

Evans leaned forward, then shouted. "Feels like one-fifty to one-sixty."

"Yeah," Matthews replied. "From the sound of this engine, you'd think we were makin' three hundred knots."

"I'm counting the minutes," Evans said, looking back at the shrinking island. "How long do you figure before we hit the Keys?"

"I don't know," Matthews answered, cross-checking their altitude. He eased back on the stick to level the Yak-18. "I can't really visualize the distance. I'd say an hour and a half."

"Who cares!" Evans shouted. "We're on our way!"

"Damned right we are!" Matthews responded, watching the erratic wet compass. There was a hole in the instrument panel where the gyrocompass should have been. "This wet compass is all over the place."

"There isn't anything back here," Evans said, searching the instrument panel. "Line up on that constellation at your two o'clock-the one with the bright star in the lower left corner."

"Yeah, just above the horizon," Matthews replied, staring at
Capella in the constellation Auriga. "Help me keep it in the same position."

Evans leaned forward in his seat. "I'll handle the nav and you can watch the alti--"

Both pilots were caught off guard when the Yak-18's rumbling Ivchenko radial engine surged, coughed, backfired repeatedly, then surged again.

THE P-3 BLUE SENTINEL

The United States Customs Service Lockheed P-3B Orion, November 91 Lima Charlie, cruised in a seventy-mile racetrack pattern twenty-five nautical miles west of Andros Island.

Two of the reconnaissance aircraft's four turboprop engines had been shut down to increase the loitering time. The gleaming white Orion, with two engines caged, easily maintained an altitude of 20,000 feet. The airborne early warning and control aircraft had been upgraded recently with new APS-138 radar, along with an AYK-14 computer.

Blue Sentinel number one, based at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, was flying the second of two eight-hour surveillance missions. The crew, four and a half hours into the shift, were vigilant in their quest to detect drug smugglers amid the Caribbean air traffic. Because Hurricane Bennett had forced the Customs Service to cancel the previous evening's mission, the P-3 crew knew that the smugglers had also been grounded, so they expected the volume of airborne traffic to be greater than usual.

Pete Vecchio, former navy lieutenant and E-2C Hawkeye combat information control officer, sat in front of his radar screen, tweaking the display board continuously in an attempt to filter out false returns from actual air traffic.

Vecchio looked at his friend, Willie Overholser, out of the corner of his eye. The former Coast Guard lieutenant was the P-3's air control officer. Overholser was diligently filling out a stack o
f o
fficial forms required after an intercept. The Orion crew had been instrumental in vectoring a Coast Guard HU-25 jet to a successful bust one hour earlier.

"Willie," Vecchio began, then paused. "I've got something strange here."

Overholser, surprised, glanced at Vecchio with a questioning look. "What?"

"Look at this," Vecchio said, adjusting the brightness of his screen. "Something's fishy here."

Overholser stared at the screen, then punched a computer button to place an overlay of Cuba on the images. The symbology showed coastal boundaries along with cities and all Cuban airports.

"Goddamn, Pete," Overholser commented, placing his headset on. "Those are MiGs coming offshore, see 'em?"

"Yes," Vecchio responded, adjusting the radar image. "Look here . . . just north of the Mariel Naval Air Station. That, Willie, is a flight of two MiGs, no question. Nothing else would accelerate that fast and be in formation."

Overholser was completely absorbed by the fast-moving images on the radarscope. "Pete, see if you can pick up any radio transmissions-scan UHF, VHF, and FM."

"Right," Vecchio replied, resetting the switches on his communications console. "Uh, oh . . . , Willie, take a look-see at this." Vecchio pointed at the APS-138's screen, then listened for radio calls from the MiGs.

"Jesus," Overholser muttered, enthralled by the Cuban Air Defense Force scramble. "There's two more MiGs-they came out of San Julian. They're already moving supersonic-has to be MiG-25s."

"Willie, this must be their target. See . . . right here," Vecchio said, pointing at the slow-moving symbol on his radar screen. "He has to be right down on the water. The returns are intermittent, but both MiG flights are headed for that spot."

"Anything on the radio?" Overholser asked, jotting down the time.

"No," Vecchio answered, then listened an additional fifteen seconds. "Just clutter."

"Where did you first see the low bird?"

Vecchio responded without taking his eyes from the radar console. "Just off the coast, northwest of Bahia Honda. I had a few returns before, but nothing steady. Probably false returns over the offshore coral."

"We haven't seen this--a four-plane scramble--for a long time," Overholser remarked as he concentrated on the aerial intercept. "Look . . . right here. That looks like a helicopter--just off Mariel--going for the slow target."

"Well, one thing's for certain," Vecchio responded. "They're damned serious."

"Yeah, I'd say so."

Vecchio watched the two closest Soviet fighters slow, then spread farther apart. "Hell, I thought it was a training hop, or a patrol flight."

"Pete, not much flies around Cuba at night, believe me. I haven't seen anything like this before--two simultaneous MiG scrambles at night."

"Well," Vecchio said, glancing quickly at Overholser, "whoever it is, he's in deep shit."

Chapter
Seven

THE YAK-18

"Sonuvabitch!" Matthews swore as he shoved the fuel mixture to full rich and jockeyed the throttle. "Keep running . . . come on .. . do it for us."

"What happened?" Evans shouted. His face was drained of color, and he had a death
grip on the instrument panel glare shield. "Get the nose up!"

Matthews eased the nose up, climbed thirty feet, then leveled off again. "I don't know, maybe it took a slug of water through the fuel line. Hell of a rain last night-water may have leaked into a tank."

Evans took a deep breath. "Just keep it going, Chuck, and I'll sign over my retirement pay to you."

Matthews monitored closely the vibrating engine instruments
,
RPMs remained steady, temperature stayed in the green, but still no oil pressure. "Don't touch anything," he said to himself. "Not until we're over Key West."

Matthews raised his gaze, looked around the moonlit sky, then focused on the cluster of stars he had been using for navigation. Capella remained in the same position, winking through his canopy.

Suddenly his mind issued a sharp alert. Something had moved in the sky. Something very fast. He snapped his head back to the right, searching for the source of light.

"Oh, my God . . . ," the pilot said to himself. He yanked ope
n h
is canopy, straining to hear over the roar of the howling radial engine.

"Paul!" he shouted, simultaneously rechecking his exterior lights. They were turned off. The Yak-18 was blacked out. "They're on us! We've got fighters overhead!"

"Shit!" Evans exclaimed, scanning the star-filled sky. He quickly spotted the MiGs. "They're slowing--coming over the top from the right."

"We're going down!" Matthews said as he shoved the nose over and concentrated on flying. "Right on the deck!"

MIG-25 FOXBAT 28

Lieutenant Colonel Igor S. Zanyathov, in rumpled street clothes and smelling of rum, listened closely to the Cuban radar controller's instructions. The radar specialist had lost the Yak-18 thirty-three miles off the coast, but the track indicated that the escapees were heading for Florida. The controller had calculated where the stolen aircraft should be by the speed and direction of flight.

The former squadron commander in the Soviet Frontovaya Aviatsiya (Tactical Air Force) cursed Levchenko's arrogance and stupidity, then cursed his own bad luck. The boisterous going-away party for Captain Robanov had progressed far into the second hour when the frantic KGB director had called.

Zanyathov checked the spacing between himself and his wing-man, Maj. Anatoly V. Sokolviy, then rolled gently into a shallow bank to the left.

"They should be right below you," Zanyathov said to himself, repeating the controller's words. "No they shouldn't, you idiot," continued the partially inebriated fighter pilot. "The Americans should be under heavy guard in the B-2 hangar, spilling their guts about every operational aspect of the secret bomber."

Zanyathov searched the surface of the ocean, trying to catch any movement. He glanced at his altimeter, then continued his turn unti
l t
he moon was directly on the tip of his left wing. The Yak-18 would be hard to spot, but it was down there somewhere.

"Kok pozhivayete, Major Sokolviy?" Zanyathov radioed to his wingman.

"I am fine, colonel, except for my head."

Zanyathov felt the same effects from the potent rum. "I share your suffering."

Sokolviy looked up through his canopy. "The other interceptors are orbiting overhead. I see their anticollision lights."

"You have young eyes, major. Use them well tonight." "Yes, colonel."

"Follow me down," Zanyathov ordered, easing back his two throttles. "We will not contact the other flight unless absolutely necessary."

"Da."

The MiG-25's powerful Tumansky turbojets wound down as Zanyathov lowered the nose and rolled into a steeper turn. The Russian pilot knew that he had to be successful in thwarting the Americans' bold escape. The KGB director would pay dearly if the news of this fiasco got out. Zanyathov knew that Levchenko would see him dead if he did not succeed in returning the daring Stealth crew.

Zanyathov could still hear Levchenko swearing over the MiG's radio as the two interceptors had lifted off the runway in afterburner. The message had been clear. If the American pilots were not brought back alive--so their operational and technical knowledge could be gained-- Zanyathov and Sokolviy had no reason to return.

"I see the aircraft!" Major Sokolviy radioed his flight leader. "Off your right wing, colonel. Just forward of the wing tip."

Zanyathov searched the area, scanning back and forth, then saw the Yak-18 low over the water. The dark aircraft was bathed in luminous moonlight. "Yes, I have them," Zanyathov acknowledged, steepening his descent. "The Americans are brave--they are almost in the water."

Zanyathov set his armament panel switches, then selected hi
s t
wo 23mm guns. The intercept would be very delicate. He had to turn back the Yakovlev without destroying it. Killing the Americans would seal his own fate.

"How damned ironic," Zanyathov said to himself, spitting out the words. "The Americans are more important to my country than I am." He keyed his radio. "Major Sokolviy, I am descending for a firing pass. Remain in high cover."

"Da, colonel. Be careful."

The lead pilot descended to fifty meters above the water, slowing the MiG-25 to thirty kilometers above the clean configuration stall speed. He rechecked his gun switches, turned slightly to line up on the Yak-18's left side, then added a small amount of power.

"Major, I will make a firing pass to the left, then pull up in front of them. Keep a close watch, in case I lose the Yakovlev in th
e t
urn.
"

"I will not lose them, colonel."

Zanyathov, rapidly approaching the fleeing Americans, pressed lightly on the firing button.

THE YAK-18

"Here he comes!" Matthews shouted over the screaming radial engine. "Goddamnit! We're not turning back!"

Red tracer rounds spewed out of the Foxbat, flashed by the side of the trainer, arched out in front, then disappeared in the distance.

"Stay low," Evans yelled, watching the MiG-25 approach, "and start jinking!"

Matthews watched his altitude closely, then turned his head to the left. The MiG would be abreast of the unarmed Yak-18 in four seconds. "Hang on!" he warned. "Here goes!"

The desperate pilot pushed the control stick to the left, turning in knife-edged flight directly at the MiG-25.

"Oh, God . . . ," Evans moaned, flinching as the Foxbat's nose snapped up and the two afterburners went to full military power. The roar of the thundering turbojets was earsplitting as the Yak-18

passed twenty feet below the MiG. The small trainer almost rolled inverted before Matthews could snap the wings level.

"They're going to blow our asses off!" Evans shouted, sliding open his canopy. "The MiG driver has to be one mad sonuvabitch."