Shadow Flight

Two A-6F Intruders, heavily laden with bombs and fuel, taxied onto the steaming catapults. The strike flight leader launched safely and turned toward his target. His wingman was not as fortunate. He lost his starboard engine during the catapult stroke. The frantic pilot, desperate to save his aircraft, jettisoned his entire bomb load while the bombardier/navigator attempted to dump fuel. The bombs, still attached to the ordnance racks, fell harmlessly into the water.

Flight deck crew members watched helplessly as the A-6F settled precariously low, blew spray from the port engine, then exploded on contact with the water. The 96,000-ton carrier continued straight ahead, plowing through the Intruder's debris, as the spare A-6F taxied forward.

THE AGENT

Steve Wickham, noticing the first hint of daylight, ran through a dense guava thicket and stumbled onto the beach. He fell forward, landing on his hands and knees, as his lungs heaved.

The agent rested a moment, listening to the water lap against the shoreline. He could smell the strong, sweet scent of eucalyptus.

His breathing was slowing when he heard the OV-10 in the distance. "Oh, shit," Wickham muttered, lurching to his feet. He ran through the salt grass, crossed a pair of sand dunes, and plopped down at the edge of a large guava thicket. The thick foliage concealed the wet suit, skyhook harness, and water tow vehicle he had hidden there earlier.

Abandoning the wet suit, Wickham tore at the harness as the OV-10 made a pass down the beach. The aircraft, barely discernible in the faint light, appeared to be a mile offshore.

"Goddamnit," Wickham swore as he struggled into the converted parachute harness. "Get it together."

Greg Spidel banked the OV-10 into a tight right turn and raced out to sea. He swore to himself, checked the fuel again, and pressed the intercom. "Gunny, I'm gonna make one more pass…"

"Cap'n," the sergeant replied in a resigned voice, "we ain't got the fuel."

Spidel, ignoring the remark, concentrated on his instruments as he flew a wide arc to start the second pass. He was not going to leave the CIA agent stranded.

Wickham snapped the last ring on his harness, grabbed the water tow, scooped up his swim fins, and ran down the beach. He plunged into the water, slipped on the fins, and pressed the trigger on the water tow. After quickly negotiating the narrow gap in the coral reef, he relaxed his legs and let the water tow propel him out of the cove.

Two minutes later, Wickham again heard the OV-10. He released the water tow, snapped the cyalume lightstick, and popped the cylinder of compressed helium. The balloon inflated rapidly, dragging the elastic cord and chemical lightstick to 200 feet.

Wickham kicked off his swim fins, rolled on his back, and searched frantically for the approaching Bronco. "Come on…," Wickham sputtered as he saw the eerie-looking light. "Don't miss."

"I've got him!" Spidel said over the intercom. "I've got a visual on the light!" Spidel checked his altitude at seventy-five feet and slowed to 100 knots. "Stand by!"

"Set, cap'n."

Spidel banked slightly to line up on his target. His mouth was dry as he fixated on the lightstick. "He's close in!" Watching the glowing light approach the center of his canopy sight ring, the pilot eased in a touch of right rudder and waited for the impact.

Four seconds later the nose-mounted steel fork slammed into the elastic cord. Spidel shoved the throttles forward at the same instant the hard rubber ball snapped into the V clutch, severing the lightstick and balloon.

Wickham, gasping for air, accelerated through the water, then popped into the air. He twisted and turned uncontrollably in the OV-10's propeller wash. During a moment of stability, he caught a glimpse of the lightstick floating skyward at the end of the balloon.

Six miles to the east, the pilot of an Mi-24 gunship also saw the strange, glowing light.

SAN JULIAN

Major Anatoly Sokolviy, flying one of the newest MiG-29 Fulcrums on the island, taxied to the runway. The advanced MiG-29s had been stored secretly for seven months in a heavily guarded hangar at Ciudad Libertad Air Base. The other MiG-29s, flown by Cuban pilots who had recently transitioned to the Fulcrum in Russia, taxied in trail behind Sokolviy.

The MiGs were equipped with six AA-11 Archer air-to-air missiles and full loads of 30mm ammunition. The fighter cockpits, at Fidel Castro's insistence, had been reinforced with armor plating. The Cuban president had lost a good friend who had been shot in the stomach during an aerial engagement.

Sokolviy energized his pulse-Doppler radar, glanced at his engine instruments, then shoved his twin throttles forward into afterburner. The two Tumansky R-33D turbofans belched flames thirty feet behind the Fulcrum as it rocketed down the pavement in the growing dawn.