Shadow Flight

Many fine pilots had lost their lives the same way as Zanyathov. He had let his aircraft get behind the power curve, then attempted an abrupt maneuver low and slow.

Sokolviy adjusted his armament panel, selecting his single AA-7 Apex missile. If he missed, he had two more AA-8 Aphids to fire at the fleeing aircraft. He checked the missile arming control, then heard the rescue helicopter.

"Sudak Chetirnatsat [perch fourteen] is on station," the excited Soviet helicopter pilot blurted. "Did the runner go in the tank?"

"Nyet," Sokolviy growled over the frequency. "Stay off the radio."

The Yak-18 was only three kilometers ahead of Sokolviy when the fighter pilot lowered the MiG's nose. "Kiss your asses goodbye, you clever bastards," Sokolviy said under his breath when the ready-to-fire light glowed. "Come on… track…"

Sokolviy raised the MiG's nose a couple of degrees, then rolled into a gentle right turn to line up with the tail of the Yak-18. "Got it!" Sokolviy said triumphantly as he squeezed off the air-to-air missile.

"Break right! Break right," Evans screamed. "Missile!"

Matthews tightened his stomach muscles, then groaned under the snap g load he forced on the trainer. The Yak-18, in knife-edged flight, changed course ninety degrees in three seconds. "Coming back!" Matthews said in a strained voice. "We gotta stay down—"

The pilot's statement was cut off by a flash and a deafening explosion forty yards in front of the aircraft. The AA-7 Apex had missed the trainer and impacted the water, detonating with a thunderous roar.

"Oh, shit!" Matthews swore as he leveled the wings and yanked back the stick.

The Yak-18 flew through the geyser of water and debris, staggered, shuddered, then dropped off on the right wing.

"Hang on!" Matthews shouted, chopping the throttle. "We're goin' in!"

Both pilots grabbed their glare shields and braced themselves for the impact. The Yak-18's right wingtip sliced into the water, sending the trainer into a cartwheeling, end-over-end crash landing. The crumpled fuselage, missing the right wing and three feet of the left wing, came to rest inverted.

Matthews yanked repeatedly at his seat belt, thrashing from side to side. Finally, when his lungs felt as though they had been set on fire, the pilot freed himself and struggled out of the sinking aircraft. Orienting himself with the rising bubbles from the sinking wreckage, he kicked off from the side of the cockpit and clawed his way upward.

Gasping and sucking air, he broke the surface and looked around frantically for Paul Evans. The slightly injured pilot could see bits of floating debris surrounding him, but nothing that resembled his friend.

"Paul!" Matthews shouted, treading water and turning constantly. He could taste the foul, greasy aviation fuel. "Paul!"

Matthews, who had been on the swimming team at the Air Force Academy, gulped more air and dove below the surface. He fought his way downward in the pitch-black water, felt the stub of a propeller blade, then crawled along the side of the mangled fuselage. He passed the front cockpit, cutting his right hand on the fractured canopy, and reached into the rear seat. His left hand touched Evans's arm, then moved up to his face. Matthews yanked back his hand, recoiling in horror.

Paul Evans had not suffered long, if at all. His face had slammed into the instrument panel, breaking his neck. Matthews was sickened by the unnatural twist and angle of his friend's head.

Feeling the water pressure build as the Yak-18's fuselage sank below twenty feet, Matthews tugged at Evans's seat belt. The locking device opened easily and Matthews pulled on Evans's torso.

He yanked repeatedly on his copilot, then realized the problem. Evans was trapped in the twisted cockpit, crushed between the seat pan and the glare shield.

Matthews, in agony and frustration, and feeling the onslaught of oxygen starvation, let go of his close friend and shot for the surface.

His oxygen-starved mind was slipping into unconsciousness, a kaleidoscope of colored lights dancing in front of his eyes, when his face popped out of the water.

The pilot treaded water instinctively while his lungs heaved in an effort to suck in life-sustaining air. He felt his head clear rapidly and his strength return. His mind shifted from concentrating on survival, to rage.

Four seconds later, Matthews heard the combined sounds. They had been there all along — the MiG-25 overhead and the approaching Soviet helicopter — but he had blocked them out in his mental trauma.

"You SONS OF BITCHES," Matthews bellowed, watching the approaching searchlight from the rescue helicopter.

THE P-3

Pete Vecchio stared at the APS-138 radar screen as he recorded the time and exact location. "Ah… Willie, I can't believe this."

"Believe it, Pete," Overholser replied quietly, energizing the LINK-11 secure data communications system. "The MiG flight leader went in the drink, and his wingman, as I see it, splashed the slow mover."