Shadow Flight (1990) (25 page)

"Oh, shit," Spidel exclaimed to himself as he noticed the white mast light of a small boat off to his right. "Too late now." He continued on course, watching the time and searching for the beach. The bright Caribbean moonlight was both a curse and a blessing.

"One minute, Steve," Spidel warned at the same instant he spotted the curved beach where Wickham would go ashore. Spidel retarded the throttles to slow the Bronco to paradrop speed.

"All set," Wickham replied as he unstrapped his restraining harness. He was free to slide out the rear when the pilot pulled up the OV-10's nose. Wickham made a last check to ensure that his stati
c l
ine was secure, then froze into the brace position. He could feel the aircraft decelerating.

"Thirty seconds, Steve," Spidel said calmly, watching his airspeed. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Wickham replied, clamping his mouth shut and removing the Clark headset. His heart raced and he could feel the adrenaline surge.

Spidel stared at the shore, judging it to be a mile and a quarter from the drop point. He paused a second, checked his speed at 210 knots, then eased back on the stick. "Here we go," the pilot said to himself as he pulled the speeding OV-10 into the vertical.

Wickham flew out the back at 200 feet, cleared the overhead horizontal stabilizer, then stopped in midair when the parachute popped open. The chute deployment, at more than 200 miles per hour, sounded like a shotgun blast. Afraid of becoming entangled in the parachute shroud lines, he closely watched the surface of the water. He did not want to drown under the heavy, wet canopy.

Wickham waited until he judged the sea to be about thirty feet below him, then unsnapped his parachute risers and plunged into the cool water. The violent impact almost tore off his right swim fin.

"Sonuvabitch," Wickham sputtered as he resurfaced. His first thought was to get clear of the falling canopy. After swimming twenty yards, he rolled on his back and rested as he watched the parachute sink beneath the sea. His thick wet suit provided as much flotation as a small life vest. He listened for a moment, hearing only the OV-10 departing to the northwest.

He secured his swim fin, then unstrapped the water tow vehicle and rolled onto his stomach. He looked around, pointed the water tow, then focused on the beach and pulled the trigger on the right handle.

The two TA-4J Skyhawks raced head-on toward the unseen adversaries. Lieutenant Frank Wellby, flying Gunsmoke Four, was three-quarters of a mile off his flight leader's starboard wing. He was stepped up 2,000 feet from Flannagan's aircraft.

"Smoke flight," the anxious controller radioed, "your bogies--at twelve o'clock, three miles. Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold."

"Smoke looking," Flannagan replied, scanning straight ahead. "Tallyho!"

"Two miles," Strike warned. "Right down the middle." Both TA-4Js were easy to see with their navigation lights and bright red anticollision beacons blinking.

"Four has 'em," Wellby radioed. The two Cuban MiG-23s (NATO code name Flogger) slashed between the two American jets and snapped into a tight climbing turn to the left.

"Vertical reverse," Flannagan called, then pitched up and turned toward his wingman. "I'll get some angle on."

"I've got ya'," Wellby replied as he passed head-on to his leader. "Five, say posit."

"I have you at one o'clock," the third Skyhawk pilot radioed. "Keep it comin' around--I'll join on your inside."

"Smokes," the radar controller said with an edge of tension in his voice, "the other three bogies are turning. They're accelerating toward you."

"Roger," Flannagan replied, straining under the g load he forced on the Skyhawk. "They're turning into me . . . master arm on .. . going to be close--oh!"

Flannagan snapped the stick into his stomach, but it was too late to avoid colliding with the MiG wingman. The right wing of each jet impacted in a blinding flash, sending both aircraft plummeting out of control.

"Lead is hit!" Wellby radioed in stunned disbelief. "I'm engaging, arm 'em up--cover me!"

Strike tried to transmit at the same instant as Smoke Five, blocking each other's calls. Flannagan ejected from his wildly spinning jet and floated down in the middle of the aerial combat. He watched both crippled fighters tumble to the ground five miles northwest of the runway.

"Smoke, Strike," the controller shouted, "cleared to engage--engage!"

"Lights, lights, Doc!" Lt. Guy Elliot radioed to the new lead pilo
t a
s he flipped off his own exterior lights. He saw Wellby's Skyhawk disappear momentarily, then reacquired the aircraft. "Break right, hard right . . . he's turning inside . . . reverse . . . hard port-bring your nose up, now!"

The Strike controller broke in. "The three bogies closing from due west, six miles, angels one-six!"

"Okay, Doc," Elliot shouted, "I'm goin' with a winder. Break hard starboard, now!"

"Fox Two!" Elliot radioed, squeezing the firing button a split second after Wellby snapped his Skyhawk into a gut-wrenching right turn. The Sidewinder heat-seeking missile, appearing to track low, curved into the vertical and slammed into the MiG-23's tailpipe. The Flogger continued to fly, spewing a thin vapor trail, as the pilot fought to control the fighter. He headed straight for Holguin.

"Doc!" Elliot yelled. "I'm at your nine o'clock, low-we've got three on the nose. Let's burn 'em."

"Tally, tally," Wellby shouted, "they're breakin' right ... in trail . . . let's go high." Both Skyhawks, separated 1,200 feet horizontally, pulled up in tandem, then rolled almost inverted to track the MiGs.

"I'm going for the lead!" Wellby radioed. "Get one on ... put it on tail end Charlie."

"Wilco," Elliot said, lining up 600 yards behind the last Flogger. He was beginning to feel a sensory overload.

"Fox Two!" Wellby radioed, squeezing off his first Sidewinder. The missile, pointed at the hot exhaust of the lead MiG-23, made two erratic corrections, missed its target, and collided with the second MiG fighter. The Flogger disintegrated in a rapid series of pulsing explosions.

Elliot fired his remaining Sidewinder and watched it track unerringly toward its prey. "Fox Two!"

Wellby, realizing that the Cuban MiGs were attempting to disengage, called his wingman. "Break it off, break off! Strike, we're RTB--"

His statement was interrupted by the explosion and orange fireball created by the destruction of the trailing MiG. The pilot ejected from the burning jet, forcing Elliot to barrel roll over the parachute.

"Jesus," Wellby shouted over the radio. "Strike, recommend you get Smoke One and Two back up to cover the tanker."

"Yeah," the shocked KA-6D pilot interjected, "we'd go for that."

"We're working them now," the controller responded. "Smoke flight, report to Captain Murchison in the ready room after you land. Switch to the tower."

"Wilco," Wellby replied, feeling the stress of the combat engagement. "Did Flannagan get out?"

A long pause followed before the stunned controller answered. "We don't know. The SAR helo is launching--it's airborne now."

Steve Wickham released the trigger on his water tow, slowing to a halt forty yards from the gently sloping beach. He had worked his way cautiously through a narrow gap in the coral reef. Now he let his legs sink, feeling for the sandy bottom of the small inlet.

His swim fins touched bottom in what Wickham figured to be about four feet of water. The agent purged the saltwater from his nostrils and mouth, then listened for any sign of activity. He studied the beach carefully in both directions and spotted the point where he wanted to slip out of the water. Pulling the trigger again, he aimed for a wide stretch of sand leading to a large guava thicket.

When he felt his knees drag bottom, Wickham stopped, slipped off his fins, and walked ashore. He hurried across the beach, carrying his fins and tow vehicle, then slowed at the edge of the sand dunes adjacent to the guava thicket. He flinched as he walked through an area of salt grass and prickly pears. Swatting away a couple of sand fleas, he trotted the last few yards to the thicket.

The agent caught a whiff of eucalyptus as he settled into the thick foliage. The scent reminded him of Grenada. After catching his breath, he stripped off the wet suit, opened his sealed equipmen
t b
ag, and changed into the dry peasant clothing. After tying his boots, he concealed his gear carefully, strapped his tactical knife to the calf of his right leg, then placed the 9mm Excam into the holster at the small of his back.

Wickham looked at his watch, unstrapped it, and placed it in his shirt pocket. He checked his small compass and dropped it in the pocket, too. He felt confident that he could traverse the distance to San Julian by 3 A
. M
.

He placed the small, lightweight satellite transmitter in a pocket of his baggy khaki trousers and donned his tattered straw hat. He slid the compact television camera into the specially sewn pocket in his pants, checked his camouflaged tow vehicle and wet suit, then set off for the Cuban air base.

The president, vice president, secretary of defense, security adviser, CIA director, and Joint Chiefs of Staff listened to the seasoned, articulate commanding officer of the Naval Strike Warfare Center, referred to as Strike University.

The rugged-looking captain, who had been initially taken aback by the disclosure of the B-2's whereabouts, explained the intricacies of the various missions the carrier groups could support. He outlined the latest improvements implemented to standardize air wing training, then explained their basic strategy.

"In this type of situation," the confident pilot said, "we would use two carrier battle groups. One group, augmented by shore-based forces, would be assigned the task of defending our southern coastline. The second group would support the type of operation selected to neutralize or recover the B-2. We can fly air strikes, or supply close air support if you elect to shell the airfield . . . or invade the island."

The captain hesitated, waiting for an indication of the preferred course of action.

"Captain," the president said in a friendly tone, "Secretary Kerchner and the Joint Chiefs have expressed their opinions in this matter. You're the current expert. What do you recommend?"

The captain paused a moment, seeking to formulate a politically astute answer.

"I apologize for putting you on the spot," Jarrett said when he saw the officer tense. "We recognize your splendid record, including combat duty, and I would appreciate your thoughts on the situation."

"Mister President," the captain replied, measuring his words carefully, "our naval and marine forces can provide three basic capabilities in this particular situation. One, we can use a battleship to shell San Julian . . . take the least number of casualties. However, we cannot predict the outcome if we don't have precise targeting coordinates. Even if we did know the exact location of the B-2, it might be fortified beyond our conventional capability." The pilot glanced at the chief of naval operations, who nodded in agreement.

"Second, we can fly heavy strike missions against the base. Again, we can't be sure of the results, and we run the risk of losing a lot of aircraft, and the crews. And there's an additional factor to consider with this type of operation--some of the pilots would undoubtedly become prisoners."

The captain concealed his uneasiness. "The third option, in my opinion, is the most desirable and provides the best chance for success."

"Please continue," the president said, seeing the officer hesitate again.

"The best approach," the captain continued, "is to have two marine expeditionary units assault San Julian. Navy and marine aircraft will provide close air support and air cover while the grunts secure the base."

The marine commandant leaned back and squinted at the naval officer. "Captain, while I agree with your basic approach, I must point out that battalion landing teams are too light to conduct sustained combat operations."

"Yes, general," the pilot responded, "I realize that. I'm suggesting that we go in fast, secure the base, destroy the Stealth, free the crew, and withdraw."

"What is our chance for success?" Jarrett asked in an interested tone.

"Mister President," the captain replied, "as the general knows, we've been working with two of his crack battalion landing teams. They're primed for this type of mission. We can have them on station in a matter of hours, and with increased helo and Harrier support, I believe we can successfully accomplish the objective."

"Thank you, captain," the president said, then stood. Everyone followed his lead as the commander in chief walked over to the surprised officer and extended his hand. "We appreciate your brief, and your recommendation. I feel more comfortable-and knowledgeable about
-
our current capabilities."

"Thank you, Mister President," the captain replied, shaking Jarrett's hand solidly.

The president walked the officer to the entrance, wished him a safe flight home, then returned to his chair. "Well, gentlemen," Jarrett said, "Secretary Gardner and I have a meeting with Minister Aksenhov. We will discuss our options in-"