Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  Kerchner flashed his last slide on the screen. "This is a high-resolution photograph from the latest satellite shots. These concentrations of equipment, including T-62 and T-55 tanks, are moving toward the San Julian air base."

  Kerchner clicked off the projector light and turned on the overhead lights in the basement room. "We have also seen a number of helicopter gunships and MiGs repositioned close to the Cienfuegos nuclear power station. Ignatyev and Castro know that we aren't going to sit here and wring our hands if we locate our B-2."

  Alton Jarrett leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. "If Ignatyev is bluffing, I'm going to call his bluff."

  The president looked at his vice president, then faced Gardner again. "If the B-2 is not at San Julian, we're going to have to step back and reevaluate our position. If it is located at San Julian, and I am convinced it is, we have to respond swiftly and boldly."

  "I understand, Gardner replied evenly, "but I recommend that we attempt a diplomatic solution when we have conclusive evidence that the B-2 is in Cuba."

  Truesdell softened slightly. "I concur with your diplomatic initiative, but we know that the Soviets are going to disavow everything."

  Gardner picked up his pipe and clamped it in his mouth. "If we have clinical evidence--photos--"

  Jarrett's intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

  "Mister President," the male voice announced, "the reconnaissance aircraft is about to take off from Cancun."

  "Very well," Jarrett replied, then looked at his secretary of state. "Sam, go ahead and contact Minister Aksenhov and set up a meeting this evening. Just the three of us--here in the White House."

  "Yes, Mister President."

  Jarrett turned to Kerchner. "Bernie, let's have the Strike Warfare Center briefing."

  "I'll get the captain," Kerchner responded as he finished stacking his slides.

  CANCUN

  Marine Capt. Greg Spidel taxied the sinister-looking, olive-drab North American Rockwell OV-10D Bronco to the end of runway 12. The fuselage sat between two stubby wings with long engine nacelles. The two nacelles ran the length of the armed reconnaissance aircraft, forming twin tails that connected the tall, wide horizontal stabilizer.

  The aerial observer seat behind the pilot was vacant, and the two underwing hardpoints held AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. Every indication of country of origin, along with the serial number, had been sanded clean or otherwise removed.

  Steve Wickham sat alone in the cramped compartment behind and below the cockpit. He was isolated in the dark interior except for his communications link with Spidel. The rear quick-disconnect cargo door had been removed, allowing Wickham an unobstructed view out the back of the aircraft.

  Wickham, uncomfortable in his wet suit, sat on a sliding seat mounted flat on the floor. He was restrained by a seat strap and a shoulder harness. Greg Spidel would inform him when to unbuckle and prepare for the paradrop.

  "All set, Mister Wickham?" Spidel asked as he cycled his flight controls.

  "Hey, Spider, drop the Mister," Wickham replied, adjusting his Clark headset. "I'm ready when you are."

  "We'll be rolling in a couple of seconds," Spidel said over the intercom.

  "Cancun tower, Tailback One is ready to roll," Spidel radioed as he pressed on the brakes and walked the throttles forward, checking his engines and propellers.

  "Taxi into position and hold," the controller instructed with a pronounced accent.

  "Posit and hold," Spidel radioed, taxiing to the center of the active runway.

  "Tailback One, wind one-three-zero at seven, cleared for takeoff," the tower operator replied, then added a cheerful send-off. "Tell 'em hello in Pensacola."

  "Will do," Spidel replied into his lip microphone as he rechecked his engine instruments. His visual flight rules (VFR) flight plan showed his destination to be Pensacola Naval Air Station. After Wickham parachuted out of the Bronco, Spidel would return to Cancun from the north with a purported engine problem.

  "Tailback One rolling," Spidel radioed as he shoved the twin throttles forward. Both Garrett T-76 turboprop engines, producing a collective 2,080-shaft horsepower, howled in unison as the camouflaged Bronco accelerated rapidly down the 11,483-foot runway.

  Spidel, feeling the composite propellers clawing the air, watched the airspeed indicator race past his takeoff speed as he eased back smoothly on the stick.

  Wickham watched the runway drop away, then felt the landing gear bang into the wheel wells. He could see the last purple and gold rays of the shimmering tropical sun sinking below the horizon.

  Spidel leveled the OV-10D at 300 feet above the dark Yucatan Channel and rechecked his global navigation display. The readout corresponded precisely with the manual navigation plot he had completed before his passenger had arrived.

  He turned north and remained on course to Pensacola, Florida, until he was out of sight. At that point, he dropped to 100 feet over the smooth water and turned east toward Cuba. The Bronco would not be visible to radar at their transition altitude.

  Spidel cast a quick glance at his vertical tape engine instruments, then concentrated on keeping the OV-10D at the prescribed altitude. He could tell he would have good moonlight for low-level flying.

  Wickham sat with his arms folded on top of his equipment pack and thought about his mission. He had checked and rechecked his gear a half-dozen times. He adjusted his camouflage parachute and felt again for the static line snap. Hooked properly and free to slide.

  The waterproof equipment bag connected to Wickham's chest straps contained his extraction harness and balloon. It also contained worn-looking dark khaki trousers and a soiled green peasant shirt. A tattered straw hat and scuffed work boots completed the outfit. Wickham also carried a 9-mm Excam with a clip containing fifteen rounds, along with a Burbour tactical knife.

  Cushioned inside the clothing were two very important items-a small transmitter to signal for his extraction, and a compact Sony television camera. The lightweight camera, a fraction of the size of the Sony Betacam, had a built-in power pack capable of generating a continuous picture for eight to ten minutes. Provided he could locate the Stealth bomber, Wickham would be able to send real-time photos of the B-2, via satellite. The picture would go to a Transat-16 satellite receiver before being flashed to a monitor in the National Reconnaissance Office.

  The last piece of equipment Wickham had attached to his harness was a small hydrogen-powered tow vehicle. The underwater tow conveyance had been designed for covert operations by Ingenieurkontor Lubeck. Small fuel cells produced electricity by combining hydrogen and oxygen in a quiet electrochemical reaction. The energy turned a shielded propeller, which supplied the swimmer or scuba diver with an effortless ride. Wickham knew that the tow vehicle would take him to the beach from one mile offshore. Returning to his extraction point would expend the limited fuel and require him to swim most of the way.

  Wickham keyed his intercom. "Spider, let me know when we're five minutes from the drop."

  "Will do," Spidel replied from the darkened cockpit.

  The pilot could see a half-dozen aircraft navigation and recognition lights traveling north and south over the channel. The diversionary aircraft flew at staggered altitudes ranging from 4,500 to 16,500 feet. He knew that there were at least another ten aircraft crisscrossing over the Bronco's flight path with their lights extinguished.

  Cuban radar hopefully would not be able to pick out the low-flying OV-10 in the mass of airborne traffic. The string of small prop and turboprop aircraft provided a screen to fully occupy the Cuban radar operators. The CIA pilots would make their trips every night while Wickham was in Cuba.

  Spidel carefully reset his specially mounted Collins AL-101 radio altimeter at seventy-five feet and lowered the OV-10's nose. The precision instrument provided the pilot with altitude accuracy within plus or minus two feet, or 2 percent accuracy, below 500 feet.

  "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 remaining five 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 and concentrated 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're heading 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."