Shadow Flight

The first sixteen bombers were taxiing for takeoff. Two of the supersonic B-1 Bs, serving as spares, would return to the base if all the strike aircraft were functioning properly at the midway point. The bomber crews would rendezvous with their fighter escorts over the Gulf of Mexico 105 miles south of Lafayette, Louisiana.

At 0445 the first B-1B began its takeoff roll, thundering down the runway in a pouring rainstorm. Operation Metal Scorpion was under way.

THE AGENT

Steve Wickham, breathing heavily, jogged at a steady pace past the weathered houses he had seen en route to San Julian. He noted that the area was in total blackout conditions, which made it easier for him to move rapidly. "God," Wickham said, panting, "let the OV-10 be there."

The agent left the dirt road, splashing noisily across the shallow marsh he had waded through going to the airfield. The warm, stagnant water splattered his face as he ran out of the swamp.

Wickham could hear gunships spreading out to the south and west of San Julian. He also saw the glowing afterburners of two MiG-29s as they climbed out of the airfield.

Checking the time on the run, the agent realized that he was not going to make the beach by the 0500 deadline. He had only eight minutes to traverse the final half mile to the rescue point. He slowed, yanked out the satellite transmitter, and punched in the extraction code again. He pointed the miniscule antenna over his head and squeezed the send button.

Greg Spidel had just entered his first orbit in the OV-10 when he heard Wickham's signal again. He scanned the sky frantically, looking for the bright cyalume lightstick.

The gunnery sergeant had also heard the second extraction signal. "Skipper, you figure he's ready for the snatch?"

"I don't know, gunny," Spidel answered, keeping his eyes moving. "We don't have a visual." The pilot continued turning the Bronco until the cockpit was beginning to point out to sea. "Check behind us," Spidel ordered, "while I set up for another pass."

"Copy."

Fifteen seconds passed while the OV-10 completed the course change. "Skipper," the sergeant paused, searching the water and coastline, "I can't see jack shit."

Spidel set his Collins AL-101 radio altimeter for seventy-five feet of altitude. "Okay, we'll make two more orbits, then I'm gonna make a pass down the coast."

"We got the gas, cap'n?"

Spidel hesitated, making a quick calculation. "We're standing on the wire now."

ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE

The crown helo touched down softly on the main ramp. President Jarrett emerged with his aides and walked straight to the specially configured Boeing 747. After a short discussion with two air force generals, the president and his party entered the National Emergency Airborne Command Post.

The "kneecap," utilizing aerial refueling, could remain airborne for days, allowing the president to direct military strikes and coordinate emergency relief efforts.

The big Boeing E-4B, tail number 31676, lumbered to the runway, taxied into position, and roared down the pavement, rising smoothly into the early morning sky. As the huge jet climbed to altitude on its classified route, bouncing lightly in the turbulence, Jarrett checked in with the National Security Council. The jumbo jet leveled at 39,000 feet on a course for Burlington, Vermont.

SAN JULIAN

Raul Castro, cursing and gesturing wildly to his subordinates, stood next to a battle phone in the underground command post. His brother, President Fidel Castro, had just completed an emotionally charged conversation with the army general. The angry dictator had reminded his brother what the northern imperialist had done to Panama and Noriega.

"Get our Bear bombers aloft," Raul Castro ordered, then added, "and launch our air cover! The Americans may use their Stealth aircraft again." His rage increased as further reconnaissance reports cast a bleak picture. Three of the four-engine turboprop bombers, carrying long-range cruise missiles, were airborne eight minutes later.

Raul Castro, after concluding the conversation with his brother, walked over to Maj. Anatoly V. Sokolviy, the wingman of the deceased Lt. Col. Igor Zanyathov. "Major," the army commander said quietly, "the president wants you to man your aircraft and lead our pilots. We have a feeling the air will be full of American planes very soon."

Sokolviy, dressed in his gray-green flight suit, nodded his understanding, saluted, and slipped quietly away from the turmoil. The Cubans would be ecstatic to have one of the Soviet Union's premier fighter pilots leading them into aerial combat.

Two combat air patrol Tomcats had been launched early from the USS America (CV-66). Now, fifteen minutes later, the flight deck was again buzzing with activity. Green-shirted catapult crews checked the surface combat patrol F-14Ds on the two bow catapults.