Shadow Flight (1990) (43 page)

"Copy, copy!"

Cangemi looked at his wingman. "Good show, Torch. Slide back and cover my six."

"Rog," Animal Two acknowledged. "Go for it!"

Cangemi moved closer to the camouflaged cruise missile, now only twenty-eight nautical miles from Kitty Hawk. He could see the two descending CAP F-14s pull hard into a rendezvous turn with his flight.

The marine aviator lined up the pipper, adjusted his aim, and pulled the trigger. The Vulcan vibrated a split second, spewing out the last eighty-nine rounds at the small target. "Shit!" Cangemi swore to himself as he watched the red stream of lead pass under the AS-15.

Time was running out rapidly. The Hornet flight leader, checking the position of the closing Tomcats, made a snap decision. He rammed his throttles into afterburner and accelerated toward the deadly missile.

"What the hell are you doing?" Animal Two asked, breathing heavily.

Cangemi, concentrating intently on his target, did not reply as he pulled into tight formation with the speeding Soviet cruise missile.

"Holy shit, Vince," the wingman called. "You're gonna kill yourself!"

Cangemi remained quiet and concentrated, adrenaline coursing through his veins,'as he eased his left wing tip under the tail of the AS-15. He steadied the Hornet for a second, then snatched the stic
k h
ard to the right. The F/A-18 snapped over violently, flipping the cruise missile end over end. The AS-15, tumbling and twisting out of control, plummeted toward the ocean.

"CAP Tomcats and Animals," Cangemi ordered loudly, "let's go high!" The five pilots shoved their throttles into burner and reefed their fighters into the vertical.

Twelve seconds passed before the missile impacted the water. The high-explosive detonation erupted in a geyser.

"Jesus Christ!" an unidentified voice shouted over the radio. "He did it!"

The pilots, their fighters running out of energy, began recovering from vertical flight.

"Phoenix," Cangemi radioed, feeling the shock wave buffet his fighter, "Animals are winchester . . . we're heading for the boat."

"Roger that," the Hawkeye controller said, then added, "and thanks."

Cangemi, rolling into level flight, hesitated a moment, then concentrated on his charges. "Animals, close up."

"Two."

"Four."

The Tomcat pilots extended their thanks and banked toward Kitty Hawk. Cangemi forced himself not to think about his lost friend. Animal Three, Cangemi's former flight student, had been shot down on the northern perimeter of Ciudad Libertad.

Chapter
Twenty-eight

Lieutenant Commander Jim Flannagan, followed by his wingman, Lt. Frank Wellby, circled high over the naval base. Two additional sections of VC-10 TA-4J Skyhawks, including the commanding officer in Gunsmoke One, orbited the sprawling complex.

The navy fighter pilots listened as nine Marine KC-130 Hercules approached the runway. The big, four-engine transports raced low over the water at 360 miles per hour. Their mission was to extract the Marines and naval personnel pinned down on the base.

"This should be worth the price of admission," Flannagan radioed, banking steeply over the center of the 8,000-foot runway.

"Yeah," Wellby answered. "I've watched them do this before."

Gunsmoke flight remained quiet, searching for MiGs. The Skyhawk pilots could hear other flights engaged in aerial combat, but the sky over Gitmo had remained clear of enemy fighters. The Guantanamo control tower and air traffic radar facility had been shut down minutes before, allowing personnel to reach the debarkation point before the rescue aircraft landed.

The six Skyhawks, joining with the Hercules F/A-18 fighter escorts, would accompany the KC-130s out to sea, refuel, then trap aboard the Abraham Lincoln.

Flannagan looked seaward, searching for the rugged transports. "I have a tally . . . three o'clock, low."

"I have 'em," Wellby radioed.

The nine aircraft, separated in trail at one-mile intervals, waited until the lead pilot, the CO of VMGR-252, was two miles from the end of the runway.

"Watch this," Wellby said over the fighter frequency.

The pilots of the nine KC-130s simultaneously pulled their power to idle, decelerated to flap speed, dropped the flaps and landing gear, then adjusted power to hold their interval at approach speed. Every transition was performed at the same instant by every pilot.

Flannagan and Wellby banked their Skyhawks tighter and watched the first Hercules cross the runway threshold and touch down on centerline halfway down the landing strip. The transport CO waited until he passed the 3,000-foot remaining marker on runway 28, then yanked the four Allison turboprops into full reverse. The speeding transport slowed quickly as the second Hercules landed a thousand feet behind the touchdown point of the commanding officer.

The first KC-130 reached the end of the runway and executed a right 180-degree turn onto the parallel taxiway.

"Here they are," Flannagan radioed, spotting the four Marine F/A-18s streak overhead in tight formation and enter the defensive circle.

The VMFA-323 Death Rattlers, on detachment to Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Station, Puerto Rico, checked in with the VC-10 Skyhawks. The Hornets would maintain high station during the evacuation.

Below, the last KC-130 was touching down as the first Hercules, crammed quickly with personnel, added power for takeoff from the taxiway.

The transport squadron CO passed the landing Hercules, accelerated rapidly past the control tower, then hauled the straining KC-130 into the air. The pilot, hugging the deck, raised the landing gear as the aircraft roared over the Hot Cargo area. The aircraft commander of the second Hercules was commencing his takeoff run when the first transport passed over the end of the taxiway.

Both groups of fighter escorts circled lazily overhead, watching the evacuation operation while keeping a vigilant eye open for MiGs.

The orderly scene was shattered by a frantic call from Frank Wellby. "Bogies! Bogies at . . . comin' in high from the northwest!"

"Weapons Hot!" the VC-10 commanding officer ordered.

The stagnant air in the bomb shelter was thick with suffocating dust. Raul Castro, boiling with anger, stormed up the steps and kicked open the dented door. He was unprepared for the magnitude of destruction that lay around him. The hangars and support facilities, burning furiously, had been reduced to rubble.

The control tower had toppled to the ground, crushing the Cuban general's personal helicopter. Two fuel trucks at the base of the tower added to the inferno. Flames licked skyward from the fuel storage area, sending billowing clouds of coal black smoke rising over the ruins of San Julian.

Raul also noticed that the baseball stadium had been destroyed. The walls of the underground hangar had caved in, touching off a fuel tank fire. Castro walked a few steps and stopped as two MiG29s, followed by three MiG-25s, flew over the field to survey the damaged landing strip.

The contingent of Cuban and Russian military personnel, including Gennadi Levchenko, emerged from the underground shelter. They stared at the devastation, coughing as they brushed the dust from their faces. Levchenko, seeing the blazing fire, knew that the intense heat had melted the tapes containing the secret Stealth information.

The Cuban general, shaking with rage, lunged toward Levchenko. "The Soviet Union," Castro hissed in the Russian's face, "is responsible for this!"

The MiGs, looking for a divert field, added power and flew northeast.

THE KNEECAP 747

President Jarrett, wearing a blue windbreaker, sat across from two air force generals. He held a phone to his ear, listening intently to his secretary of defense.

"Mister President," Kerchner said over the secure net, "we have lost a number of aircraft, but the strike was successful . . . in our estimation."

Jarrett shifted around to glance at a message, nodding his head in agreement. "Bernie," the president replied, turning back around, "give me a quick synopsis."

Kerchner measured his words carefully. "San Julian was damaged heavily, but we don't know if the B-2 was there or had departed, as the Cubans claim."

"Okay, Bernie," Jarrett said impatiently, "let's get some photoreconnaissance--see if we can detect the B-2 in the rubble."

"Yes, sir."

The president paused. "What were our losses?"

"At the moment," Kerchner replied uncomfortably, loosening his tie, "we show six aircraft at San Julian, along with three F-14s, two additional Hornets, one F-16, and an A-4 at Guantanamo Bay."

"Did the Marines get out okay?" the president asked as he totaled the number of aircraft lost on his code reference book.

"Yes, sir," Kerchner answered quickly, "but one of the trailing C-130s was shot up before our fighters downed the MiGs. The Hercules lost an engine, but they're limping home with a fighter escort."

"What about our aircrews?" Jarrett asked, experiencing the pressure of command. "Did we have anyone . . . any crewmen captured?"

"Not that we are aware of," Kerchner answered, deeply concerned about the lack of timely information. "However, the aircrews have not been debriefed yet, so we'll know more in about an hour and a half."

The president sighed. "Okay, Bernie . . . oh, what happened to the Soviet ship--the Marshal Ustinov?"

"We're not sure, sir," Kerchner responded, glancing at his message notes. "We think a Cuban pilot erroneously thought it was one of ours, and strafed it. We'll get the credit, though."

"Well, Bernie," the president paused, "what is your recommendation?"

Both men were interrupted almost simultaneously as the flash message appeared on monitors. "Uh, oh," Kerchner said first. "Sir, we have an emergency condition--cruise missiles approaching Florida! We have to alert the--"

"I see it!" Jarrett said excitedly, turning to the four-star general. "Get everything up! They have to knock down those missiles!"

Two F-16s from the 308th Tactical Fighter Squadron, afterburners blazing, hurtled down the runway. The Fighting Falcons left a trail of shimmering heat waves as they scrambled to intercept the incoming cruise missiles.

The fighters passed smoke generators, fake aircraft, and false runway surfaces that had been hurriedly deployed by the camouflage, concealment, and deception personnel.

Two more F-16s rolled at the precise second that the first section lifted off the pavement and snapped up their landing gear. The thundering Pratt & Whitney turbojets, producing more than 23,800 pounds of thrust, slammed the highly experienced pilots into their seat backs. Each F-1.6 was armed with four AIM-9 missiles and 515 rounds of 20mm ammunition.

One hundred ten miles southwest of Homestead, two Navy Tomcats lifted off from Key West Naval Air Station and banked into
a t
ight, climbing turn. The fighter crews contacted the airborne warning and control aircraft for snap vectors to the intruding cruise missiles.

Both flights, air force and navy, left their fighters in afterburner, pushing their aircraft to 1.5 Mach. The pilots knew they had less than seven minutes to locate and destroy the missiles.

The president, sitting stiffly at the command console, pressed his headset tightly against his ears. He could hear the airborne controller vectoring the air force and navy fighters toward the three cruise missiles.

"Come on . . . ," Jarrett said to himself, feeling his hands ball tightly. "Knock them down."

The three air-launched cruise missiles (ALCMs) were forty-five miles south of Key Largo, Florida, when the F-14s spotted the intruding weapons. Both pilots circled to approach the streaking missiles from behind. Seconds later the air force fighter pilots had a tally on the Tomcats.

The radio chatter, incomprehensible at times, increased dramatically when the airborne controller and the flight leaders attempted to coordinate the attack. Jarrett felt his neck and shoulders become rigid when the four-star general slammed down his fist and swore out loud.

The F-16s moved to the east of the missiles, allowing the Tomcat crews a clear shot. Time was ticking away as the weapons, traveling more than 480 miles per hour, hurtled toward the southern Florida coastline. Both Tomcat pilots closed on the AS-15s, each firing two AIM-9s, then pulled into the vertical to clear the target area.

"They splashed one!" the F-16 flight leader radioed as he led his three squadron mates into their firing run.

The president listened, his eyes closed, as the F-16 pilots initiated their attack. He could hear them call their missile launches.

"Oh . . . my God!" the navy flight leader shouted through the confusion. "One of the sixteens is down--his Sidewinder detonated coming off the rail!"

The president grimaced, pressing his earphones tighter. He could hear the anguish in the pilot's voice.

"We got another cruiser dow--" a voice radioed, cut off by a separate radio transmission.

"He's in his chute--good chute!"