Shadow Flight (1990)

by Joe Weber

  The president, taking time to compose himself, propped his elbows on the table. He attempted to suppress his usual wry smile. "Sam, I don't give a damn about my political career. What office am I going to run for?" In his peripheral vision, Jarrett could see that all eyes were averted. "My responsibility, Sam, is to the American people-the people who voted me into office. Sure, there will be dissenters, as there always have been, but the vast majority of Americans know the difference between right and wrong."

  The president looked at his secretary of defense, then back to Gardner. "Some Soviet faction has, with or without their government's knowledge or approval, commandeered our bomber, and we have to get it back."

  Jarrett paused when he saw the reaction on the faces surrounding him. He leaned back in his chair. "What the United States government is engaged in is a recovery mission, pure and simple. When we have reclaimed our B-2, or destroyed it, the encroachment on Cuba is over."

  The vice president, silent until now, swiveled to face Gardner. "Sam, we lose more than Stealth technology if we sit idle and exchange diatribe. As world leaders, we lose face and support."

  The secretary of state displayed a rare show of condescension but remained silent. He had disagreed openly with Truesdell on a number of occasions.

  Jarrett caught a glance from his defense secretary but addressed his remarks to Gardner. "Sam," the president said more softly, "this issue is much bigger than a single B-2 or its technical secrets. This administration is being challenged openly, and we are not going to take the bashing."

  Gardner remained unconvinced but said nothing.

  The president looked at his watch and focused on his defense secretary. "Bernie, I want a maximum effort from our forces, with minimum collateral damage."

  "The Joint Chiefs," Kerchner replied, glancing at the JCS chairman, "and I feel confident that we can achieve the objective, and keep the situation contained."

  "Very well," Jarrett responded, then stood. "I have to meet with the families of the B-2 pilots. Bernie, I want a solid, continuous blanket of air cover over our battle groups until they have returned to our coastal waters."

  "Yes, sir," Kerchner replied, standing with the rest of the group. "We're concentrating our resources to provide a constant barrier."

  Jarrett walked to the door, then stopped and turned to the assemblage. "Let's not forget that Cuban soldiers shot down two U. S. helicopters in Grenada, killing three Marines. Now, we have more losses caused by Communist Cubans." Jarrett stiffened slightly. "Losses because Castro is sheltering our commandeered bomber."

  USS WASP (LHD-1)

  The 40,500-ton amphibious assault ship, commissioned in July 1989, steamed south toward the western tip of Cuba. The carrier was the tenth navy ship to bear the name Wasp.

  Embarked on board the 844-foot ship were 1,966 Marines, supported by eighteen AV-8B Harrier II jets, four LAMPS III helicopters, and four CH-53E Marine Super Stallion helicopters. On the well deck, below the 2.2-acre flight deck, three air-cushioned landing craft (LCAC) waited to transport the marine expeditionary force ashore near San Julian.

  The heavy transport CH-53s, powered by three 4,380-shaft horsepower General Electric turboshafts, would supplement the air cushion landing craft. The four helicopters, each carrying fifty-five Marines, would land at strategic points around San Julian air base.

  The LAMPS III helicopters, with their long-range air-to-surface radar and advanced data link, would manage the over-the-horizon assault. Two LAMPS Ills, backed by two assault LAMPS Ills, would track the amphibious landing craft, maintain communications with the LHD, and transmit the LCACs' progress to the Wasp's large screen displays in the Combat Information Center.

  The eighteen Marine AV-8B close support attack fighters, armed with Snakeye bombs, rockets, and one 25mm cannon, would provide air cover for the marine landing force.

  Wasp's sister ship, USS Essex (LHD-2), followed the lead assault carrier at a distance of seventy nautical miles. Essex was in the final stages of receiving her marine special landing force, along with their AV-8B Harriers from Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station. A continuous stream of helicopters landed, disgorged Marines and supplies, then flew back to shore to pick up more men.

  Essex would land her assault force three-quarters of a mile north of Wasp's unit. Both assault groups would go ashore at Bahia de Guadiana, then forge east to San Julian. The USS Nassau would provide a third marine amphibious assault force. Eight CH-53s, carrying full loads of Marines, would augment the helicopters from Wasp and Essex. Nassau would also provide UH-1 Huey helicopters and AH-1 Cobra gunships for the assault.

  Navy F-14s and Navy/Marine F/A-18 fighter/attack jets, operating from the decks of Kitty Hawk, America, and Abraham Lincoln, would fly high air cover for the Harrier jets and helicopters.

  Wasp continued on course, reducing speed to allow Essex and Nassau to close the gap. Her escort ships moved closer as the assault carrier approached Cuban waters. Supported by F-14D Tomcats from Kitty Hawk, S-3B Viking antisubmarine aircraft patrolled around the Wasp assault group.

  Each minute increased the danger and tension aboard the amphibious aircraft carrier. Every crew member knew that they were sailing toward a Communist country that had declared war on the United States.

  SAN JULIAN

  Gennadi Levchenko, seething and shouting commands, stormed into his office. He had been informed only minutes earlier that he had a double agent in his midst--an agent who had relayed live pictures of the B-2 bomber to Washington.

  Levchenko, absorbed in ferreting out the spy, yanked his telephone across the desk and sat down heavily. "Who the hell am I supposed to call?" he bellowed at the skinny clerk/medical technician

  The gaunt, hollow-eyed man flinched. "President Castro--Fidel Castro, comrade dir--"

  "Bullshit!" Levchenko raged, eyes bulging. The director had a moment of pure panic, then attempted to recover as his racing heart pounded. He was boxed in between KGB chief Golodnikov and Castro. Levchenko knew that he would face a firing squad if he could not isolate the traitor under his command. Now, with his life on the line, Fidel Castro was meddling in the Stealth operation.

  "I don't report to Castro," Levchenko continued, breathing heavily. "Who took the call?"

  "I did, comrade director," the frightened man answered. "He said immediately. That's why the lieutenant chased after you .. . comrade director."

  "Get out!" Levchenko yelled as he scribbled notes on a scratch pad. "Get out!"

  The clerk hurried through the door, knocking papers off a low filing cabinet.

  Levchenko's mind raced. Shit, what does Castro want? Does he know about the security leak? Levchenko picked up the receiver, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, then looked at the phone number on the message.

  He placed the call. If he could only capture the treasonous member of his contingent. Who the hell was the bastard? Levchenko waited, fidgeting, while the phone rang three times. He yanked out a cigarette pack and snapped open his lighter.

  "President Castro's residence," the pleasingly mild male voice said. "May I have your name and the purpose of your call?"

  Levchenko, glancing over the rim of his glasses into the hangar, fought frustration and disdain. "Gennadi Levchenko, director of KGB operations in Cuba, returning President Castro's communication."

  "Yes, comrade director. The president will only be a moment."

  Levchenko, drumming his stubby fingers on the desk, did not acknowledge the comment. His thoughts were concentrated on retaining control of the situation at San Julian.

  The KGB agent had met Fidel Castro on two occasions. He knew how quickly the Cuban dictator's personality could change from charming and hospitable to belligerent and raging.

  "Levchenko," Castro's voice was loud and abrupt. "Have the American bomber ready to fly by the time my brother arrives at San Julian."

  Levchenko was stunned by the order. "Comrade president, you cannot make such a demand."

  "Have the B-2 ready to
fly!" Castro ordered in a highly agitated voice. "Raul is on the way to San Julian."

  Levchenko sat staring into the hangar after Castro had terminated the conversation. "Goddamned fanatic," Levchenko growled in disgust. He loathed the Cuban dictator, as did the majority of Russians remaining on the island, but he knew he had to be careful around Castro.

  Levchenko's stomach churned as he considered his options. First, the director reasoned, he had to contact KGB headquarters in Moscow. Vladimir Golodnikov, the volatile chief of the KGB, would be incensed when he received word that Castro had assumed command of the Stealth bomber.

  Levchenko sat quietly, pondering other options and thinking about Castro. He recalled clearly Castro's annual national holiday speech at Camaguey, Cuba. The Cuban dictator, accused by many of becoming an aged museum piece, had ranted for more than three hours to a throng of thousands. Clinging to Stalinist-style communism and ideology, Castro had delivered a bitter and emotional discourse to the sweltering crowd. The Cuban leader, yelling loudly, had stated that he would never surrender his brand of communism. Speaking on the anniversary of the revolution he had led, Castro talked about the civil conflict and national strife in the Soviet Union.

  Levchenko could hear Castro's words clearly in his mind. "Cuba, our great and wonderful country, can expect serious shortages in Soviet economic aid."

  Levchenko, like most Soviet officials, paid little attention to Castro's agitated, lectern-pounding speeches, in which he generally spotlighted past triumphs and focused on the 1953 Moncado barracks attack that had launched his revolution.

  Now, Levchenko thought, Castro was on the verge of cutting ties with Moscow and directing communism in the West. The Stealth hijacking, now exposed, could destroy him.

  Levchenko stood to go to the communications room, then stopped when he remembered what else Castro had said. It all tied together for Levchenko. The Cuban president had lashed out vociferously against the United States, saying, "We can survive and overcome any challenge by the imperialist Americans, be it blockade, invasion, or full-fledged war. If the Yankee troops invade or try to occupy Cuba, we will be on our own, forgotten by our Soviet benefactors, but we will prevail."

  Levchenko walked out of the office and headed toward the communications center. He replayed Castro's speech in his mind. The Cuban dictator, a fervent Stalin purist in Levchenko's estimation, was going to present some difficult problems.

  The KGB director, developing a strategy to protect himself, entered the sophisticated message center. He walked to one of two direct lines to KGB headquarters, dismissed the communications officer brusquely, then sat down and lighted a cigarette before he initiated the voice-scrambled call.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE GENERAL ABELARDO ALVAREZ

  The Soviet Foxtrot-class submarine, crewed by Cuban sailors and a KGB political officer, moved slowly through the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. The diesel-electric--powered attack submarine, quieter than her nuclear-powered counterparts, slipped through the water using freshly charged batteries.

  Three and a half hours had passed since the General Abelardo Alvarez had submerged 280 kilometers northwest of Havana. The captain, Ricardo Esteban, had ascended to periscope depth twice during that time to receive messages informing him that President Castro had declared war on the United States.

  The grizzled captain, three months from retirement, had been astounded. He had been thoroughly briefed about the war contingency but never dreamed it would happen. He told himself to remain calm, but he could not quell the thought that Castro must be senile, or crazy. The United States, the submarine skipper knew, could crush Cuba like an eggshell.

  The KGB officer, a veteran submariner, showed little emotion when the message had been transmitted. Esteban, who privately had no desire to engage the Americans, knew that the Soviet political officer would label him a coward and traitor if he did not attack American targets of opportunity.

  The General Abelardo Alvarez, freshly painted in dark gray, carried three Soviet-manufactured antiship torpedoes. The devastating weapons, fired from the bow tubes, had the power to sink an aircraft carrier. The reconditioned torpedoes, stowed aboard the Alvarez less than a month earlier, had replaced older, less powerful weapons.

  Esteban, dripping with perspiration, hovered over the chart table. He was sure that the Soviet officer could sense his trepidation.

  "Captain," the sonar operator said in a loud whisper, "I have a contact, bearing three-four-zero. Two propellers, turning at high speed."

  Esteban turned white, glancing nervously at the KGB officer. "Right twenty degrees." The Alvarez, creeping along at two and a half knots, eased around to place the torpedo tubes on the unknown ship.

  "The contact is big," the intent Cuban sonarman reported. "Very big, captain . . . wait--I have more propellers to the . . . a contact in front of the large ship."

  The political officer, openly irritated, stepped forward to the sonar station. "Range, what's the goddamn range!"

  The sonar operator hunkered down and pressed his earphones tightly to his head. "Twenty kilometers, possibly less, comrade."

  "Stand by forward tubes," the Soviet officer ordered, aggressively taking command. "Come to periscope depth."

  Esteban, openly embarrassed, shrugged his shoulders and retreated against the bulkhead.

  The control room talker, apprehension in his eyes, turned to the Soviet officer. "Forward tubes ready to fire, comrade."

  The KGB officer, ignoring the report, watched the depth gauge. "Bearing and distance," the Russian commanded in a harsh tone. "Give me bearing and distance at one-minute intervals."

  "Three-three-seven," the perspiring sonarman reported, keeping his eyes forward. "Eighteen kilometers, comrade."

  The tension in the control room mounted as the range of the contact closed. The Cuban sailors, who went to sea only three to four weeks a year, had never even fired a torpedo. The military budget did not allow firing weapons for training purposes.

  The Alvarez, rigged for silent running, moved only fast enough to maintain depth control. The propeller, driven by the silent batteries, turned very slowly.

  "Bearing three-three-five," the Cuban sonar specialist said in a hushed whisper. "Fourteen kilometers."

  "Up periscope," the grim-faced Russian ordered.

  The sonarman stole a glance at Esteban as the thin attack scope slid into position. The Cuban captain only frowned, then looked blankly at the deck. He despised the arrogant Russian, but he had adjusted to the fact that the Soviet Union supplied the submarines and the expertise.

  The Russian grasped the periscope handles and swung the scope around the horizon, stopping on the large contact. "It's a carrier-an American troop carrier!"

  Esteban flinched inwardly, catching the frightened sailors looking at him for some indication of command.

  The Soviet officer moved the periscope slightly to the left, then reversed to the right, scanning both sides of the big warship. "I hold three frigates," he said quietly, "and one . . . destroyer. Down scope." The relentless officer watched the periscope retract, then turned to Esteban. "You will give the order to fire, comrade captain."

  THE WASP (LHD-1)

  The amphibious assault carrier, steaming at 20 knots, was preparing to land a flight of four Marine AV-8B Harrier II jets. The vertical/ short takeoff and landing (VSTOL) attack aircraft, seven miles astern, were approaching the Wasp at 400 knots.

  Two S-3B Viking antisubmarine warfare (ASW) aircraft, supplemented by three LAMPS III ASW helicopters, orbited around the carrier at varying distances. The four escort ships bracketed the Wasp on all points. Two frigates were deployed on each side of the carrier, along with a frigate 2,000 yards in front of the bow. A single destroyer followed the assault ship at a distance of 1,600 yards. High above the carrier, thirty-five miles off the port and starboard bow, two flights of F-14D Tomcats patrolled the sky.

  Wasp's combat information center, tracking multiple targets close to Cuban
shores, had been working closely with the E-2C Hawkeye from Kitty Hawk's VAW-123 squadron. The Hawkeye was due to be relieved on station in twelve minutes.

  Wasp's CIC came to life when one of the LAMPS III ASW helicopters radioed a report. "Crossbow, Cold Water Three has a contact," the pilot said in an excited voice. "We're coming around for another pass, but we had a solid contact."

  "Roger, Cold Water Three," the CIC officer replied as he sounded general quarters. "Drop a marker and stand clear."

  "Ah . . . roger," the pilot radioed, searching the water around and below the helicopter. "Cold Water Three is marking . . . solid contact . . . confirmed."

  Less than five seconds passed before the ASW pilot shouted and pointed below. His copilot saw the periscope a second later. "We have a periscope! We have a scope below us!"

  The CIC officer glanced at the two large screens in front of his console. "Sea Wolf Seven One Two cleared for a drop. Repeat, Sea Wolf Seven One Two cleared for a live drop. Warning Red, Weapons Free."

  "Copy, copy," the S-3B Viking pilot radioed. "Tally on the smoke. We're comin' downhill."

  "Roger," the CIC officer replied as the Wasp and her escort ships assumed battle stations. "Call the drop."

  "Seven-twelve," the Viking pilot replied as he lined up slightly upwind from the smoke.

  THE GENERAL ALVAREZ

  Captain Ricardo Esteban squinted through the attack periscope. The American assault carrier would be at the optimum torpedo attack position in less than half a minute.

  Esteban, aware of the KGB officer standing behind him, wiped perspiration from his glistening forehead. The interior temperature of the Soviet submarine was approaching eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit.

  "Stand by to fire on my command," Esteban ordered, tracking the carrier. He rotated the periscope quickly to check the horizon around the battle group, then stopped in panic when he saw the canister. It was eighty meters off the starboard bow, pumping out billowing clouds of bright yellow smoke.