Shadow Flight (1990) (24 page)

"I'm stepping down to seventy-five feet," Spidel informed his passenger. "I'll take it down on the deck in a couple of minutes."

"You're the expert," Wickham responded as he slipped on his swim fins. "Just don't doze off."

GUANTANAMO BAY, CUBA

The United States Naval Base, referred to as Gitmo, was almost deserted except for the contingent of marines and the essential personnel of CompRon Ten.

The naval air composite squadron VC-10, who claimed to work in a Communist country every day, was on full alert. The unique squadron, charged with the dual mission of serving the fleet and providing base defense, had its eight TA-4J Skyhawks loaded with ordnance. Three of the single-engine jets, affectionately known as scooters, had been configured for close air support. The remainin
g f
ive aircraft were loaded with weapons for air defense, including two AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles and twin 20mm cannons concealed in the wing roots. Each cannon held 200 rounds of ammunition.

The VC-10 Challengers maintained a high state of readiness in air-to-ground ordnance delivery by flying almost daily weapons training missions. The unit, acting as an adversary squadron, also provided air combat training for fleet fighter pilots. Each VC-10 pilot had to refine his tactics skills continually, with an emphasis on countering the types of MiGs deployed in Cuba.

The naval aviators of VC-10 were typical of their breed--excellent pilots and proud of the fact. Three of the current pilots were Navy Fighter Weapons School graduates who added to the lean and mean reputation the squadron enjoyed.

Lieutenant Commander Jim "Flaps" Flannagan, VC-10's operations officer, sat alone in his TA-4J at the end of the naval air station's 8,000-foot runway. His wingman, Lt. Frank "Doc" Wellby, taxied into position for the night section takeoff. Both of the attack aircraft had been configured for air defense. A standby Skyhawk, manned and with the engine running, sat on the taxiway adjacent to the runway.

Flannagan checked his master armament switch to ensure that it was in the off position, then glanced back at Wellby's Skyhawk. He could not see Wellby in the cockpit, but he knew that his partner was going through his final checks. Frank Wellby was one of the best in the fighter business.

Wellby's red anticollision lights flashed back and forth in an eerie, pulsating glow. Flannagan, flying the lead position, had his anticollision lights off so he wouldn't blind his wingman.

"Gunsmoke Four is ready," Wellby radioed Flannagan. The tower had already cleared the flight of two for takeoff before the pilots taxied onto the runway.

"Rog," Flannagan replied, advancing the throttle of the Pratt & Whitney J-52 turbojet. "Power coming up to ninety-six percent." The lead pilot did not use full power for takeoff so his wingman would have extra thrust to stay in position. "Gunsmoke Three rolling," Flannagan announced as he released the brakes an
d c
oncentrated on tracking straight down the left side of the dark runway.

Wellby, jockeying his throttle slightly, maintained perfect position to the right of his flight leader. The two Skyhawks blasted down the concrete strip, sending a thundering roar reverberating across Guantanamo Bay. Wellby watched the lead Skyhawk and responded identically to every move Flannagan initiated. The actions and responses of the two pilots were only an eighth of a second from being mirror images.

The lead TA-4J lifted smoothly from the runway. Two seconds later the landing gear was retracting and the aircraft settled slightly as the flaps were raised. Flannagan felt a wobble as one of the leading edge slats on each wing seated before the other was in place.

"Gunsmoke Three," the tower controller radioed, "contact Gun-smoke One on three-two-seven point six."

"Smoke Three, switching three-twenty-seven-six," Flannagan responded as he banked gently to the left and watched his airspeed approach 250 knots.

"Gunsmoke One, Smoke Three and Four up."

"Roger," the orbiting flight leader replied. "I have a tally. We're at your nine o'clock, four miles, descending through eight thousand."

Flannagan, scanning back and forth above his left wing, saw the flashing red lights. "I have you in sight."

Flannagan and Wellby would replace their two squadron mates as the duty air base combat air patrol (CAP). Since Cuban MiG activity had increased sharply during the massive personnel evacuation airlift--two MiG-23s had flown directly over the base during the late afternoon--a continuous combat air patrol was necessary.

The Skyhawk flights were operating under the guise of normal training missions. They would refuel from a Navy KA-6D tanker fifty-five minutes into the mission, then remain on station for another hour. The two TA-4Js now landing would be their reliefs. Fresh pilots were being rotated on each mission, allowing the previous two pilots an opportunity to grab a quick meal and a few hours of sleep.

"Okay, Doc," Flannagan said into his mask, "let's go upstairs. Cross under and go loose deuce."

"Roger," Wellby replied, raising the nose to match his leader as he transitioned to the tactical formation.

"The Hawkeye is RTB," Gunsmoke One radioed, then spoke to his wingman. "Smoke Two, boards . . . now." Both descending pilots popped their speed brakes to hasten their letdown.

"What's with the E-2?" Flannagan asked, concerned about not having the Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft to call targets for them. The Grumman E-2C all-weather surveillance aircraft provided the eyes for fleet defense. Fighter and attack crews relied on the twin-engine turboprop to warn them early about bogies in the area.

"Their starboard engine went south on 'em," Gunsmoke One answered. "Gitmo approach is up this freq, so they'll work you as Strike."

"Copy," Flannagan replied, rolling out on a heading of ninety degrees three miles south of the runway.

"Strike," Flannagan radioed, glancing at his wingman. "Smoke Three and Four with you."

"Roger, Smoke," the controller acknowledged calmly. "We have confirmed MiG activity over Antonio Maceo. The Strike officer is on his way over from the Hawkeye. Your orbit is the Gitmo two-nine-zero radial, angels fifteen at twelve DME. Squawk onefour-two-seven."

"Wilco," Flannagan responded as he banked the Skyhawk smoothly to the left and set the new transponder code. "Check switches safe."

"Four . . . safe," Wellby radioed, interrupting his thoughts about a cancelled leave. He had been scheduled to be the best man at his brother's wedding in two days.

Neither pilot had any idea what had caused the sudden alert. The ready room speculation had ranged from a terrorist attack to a possible invasion of the naval base. A senior navy captain from CINCLANT headquarters had arrived during the afternoon. He had immediately assumed the responsibility of on-site commander for the base and acted as Strike control.

Flannagan and Wellby leveled their Skyhawks at 15,000 feet and settled into a racetrack pattern twelve nautical miles west of the air base.

"Smoke Three and Four," the controller radioed, "Strike has arrived, and we show new MiG activity eighteen miles southeast of Holguin."

"Roger," Flannagan responded, checking his fuel supply. "I have a visual on three MiGs over Tony Mack."

"We show four targets," the controller said. "The two high contacts are flying a triangle pattern, and the low targets are meandering around north of the city."

Flannagan banked slightly to focus on the fast mover closest to the ground. "We've got a good moon, but I only see one down low. His buddy must have his lights off."

"Roger that."

The two Skyhawk fighter and attack pilots continued their orbit as Flannagan concentrated on the MiGs and counted the minutes till refueling.

"Ah . . . Smoke," the controller said cautiously, "we've got multiple bogies--looks like three targets--closing from three-onezero."

Flannagan's head snapped to his four o'clock position. "How far out?"

"Sixty-five miles," the radar operator said. "They're the MiGs from Holguin."

"Roger," Flannagan replied, thinking about the afternoon rules of engagement (ROE) briefing. The pilots could not fire unless fired upon. "We're going to the tanker."

"Roger, Smoke," the tense controller replied, offering assistance. "The Texaco is at your ten o'clock, angels one-seven."

Flannagan shoved his throttle forward and looked out of his canopy to the left. He could see clearly the Grumman KA-6D's oscillating anticollision lights. "Smoke has a tally on the tanker."

The bright moonlight would be a godsend for the Skyhawk pilots. Night refueling required a great deal of concentration and coordination. Any light would help the pilots' depth perception.

"Gunsmoke Three and Four," the tanker pilot radioed, "we'r
e h
eading zero-seven-zero, two hundred fifty indicated, coming port."

Flannagan checked his airspeed. He would have to bleed off the extra forty-five knots as he closed quickly inside the tanker. "Smoke flight," Flannagan radioed, "will take four grand each."

The KA-6D pilot clicked his mike twice and extended the refueling drogue. The shuttlecock basket, attached to the fueling hose, slid out from under the twin jet and extended fifty feet.

"Call stabilized," the tanker pilot ordered as he disengaged the autopilot. He would hand fly the aircraft during the refueling procedure.

"Wilco," Flannagan replied, then spoke to his close friend and wingman. "Doc, cross under and plug first."

"Roger," Wellby said, adding a small amount of power and lowering the TA-4J's nose. He passed under his leader, emerging on Flannagan's right wing.

One minute later both aircraft eased into position on the Intruder's left wing. Flannagan checked his wingman's position, then keyed his radio. "Stabilized."

"Cleared to plug," the tanker pilot radioed as he rechecked the fuel-transfer panel. It was set to pump two tons of fuel into each TA-4J.

Wellby moved forward and flew his fixed probe smoothly into the drogue on the first try. The delicate maneuver required a tremendous degree of finesse with the stick and throttle. The fuel transfer went quickly, and Wellby slid out of the basket, moved seventy feet from the KA-6D's right wing, and watched his flight leader.

Flannagan tanked without a hitch. He watched the refueling light wink off, then disengaged from the basket and slid astern. "Thanks for the drink," Flannagan radioed as Wellby eased back into position on his right wing. "Strike, Smoke flight is returning to our CAP posit."

"Roger," the controller answered. "The inbound contacts are three north of Dos Caminos, closing rapidly."

Flannagan eased his throttle to 98 percent. "Coming up on the power."

"Four," Wellby responded, staring at Flannagan's dull gray Skyhawk.

"Smoke, Strike," the controller said with a hint of anxiety. "The two high targets over Antonio Maceo appear to be joining the inbound flight of three."

Flannagan scanned the sky to the northwest as he descended back to 15,000 feet. After a few seconds he picked out the MiGs' blinking anticollision lights. "Tally on the flight of two," Flannagan reported, then spotted the other three bogies. "I have the Holguin inbounds, too."

The two MiG groups rendezvoused in a staggered trail formation and made a wide, sweeping pass two miles west of the Navy TA4Js. Flannagan and Wellby watched the MiGs pass 3,000 feet higher as they settled back into their pattern.

"Four, let's step up two thou--" Flannagan stopped abruptly, not believing his eyes. Had the Cuban MiGs flown into a cloud? Hell no, he realized quickly--the thin wisps of clouds were well above them.

"Strike, Smoke flight," Flannagan radioed uneasily. "The comrades just turned off all their exterior lights. I've lost them." "Copy, Smoke. Stand by--"

"Negative," Flannagan said brusquely. "Launch the spare, and get the other two shooters back up."

"Gunsmoke Three," a different voice said, "this is Captain Murchison. Return to base and orbit. Smoke Five is rolling and will join up overhead."

"Wilco," Flannagan replied as he banked smoothly toward the naval base.

Seven seconds passed before the original voice sounded in Flannagan's helmet. "Smoke flight, we have two targets breaking away from the MiG flight. They are approaching you at . . . they're accelerating at your seven o'clock, twelve miles."

"Shit," Flannagan said inadvertently over the radio. "Doc, come hard port and go combat spread."

Chapter
Fifteen

THE OV-10

"We're five minutes out," Greg Spidel said over the intercom. He was concentrating intently on remaining thirty feet above the calm sea.

"Okay," Wickham replied, steeling himself for the night parachute jump. He looked up at his static line, checking the hook again. "I'll unstrap at the one-minute mark."

"I won't forget," the pilot replied.

The camouflaged Bronco raced across the sea at full power, black against the dark water. Spidel could see the twinkling lights of Peninsula de Guanahacabibes approaching rapidly on the right. He searched for any sign of boats or low-flying aircraft, then checked his position. Two minutes to go. He glanced ahead at the surface of the water and watched for a sign of land.