Shadow Flight

The air traffic specialist spoke slowly. "We've got a turkey on the cat ready to launch. Mister Wickham will be escorted to the island, then to the Tomcat."

"One Oh Seven, copy," Sandoline replied as he closed the speed brakes and added a small amount of power.

"Come port three-five-zero," the original controller ordered. "Descend to three thousand and call the ball."

"One Oh Seven," Sandoline responded as he reduced power and lowered the nose again, "outta one-one thou for three, three-fifty on the heading."

Wickham quietly surveyed the dimly lighted cockpit, then watched the twinkling stars change position as Sandoline turned to the new heading.

"Steve," the pilot offered, "watch over my left shoulder and tell me when you see the orange ball of light."

"I can't see a thing," Wickham responded, straining to locate the carrier. "It's pitch-black out there."

Sandoline swept the wings forward, lowered the flaps, extended the landing gear, set his power, and dropped the tailhook. "When you enter the island," he instructed, "use the head, drink as much water as you're comfortable with — it'll help stave off altitude dehydration — and run in place to get the blood circulating."

"Will do," Wickham responded at the same time he saw the "meatball" — the primary optical landing aid. "I can see the ball, but I don't have the carrier."

"You won't see the boat until we're on deck," Sandoline replied, then keyed his radio. "One Oh Seven Tomcat. Ball. Four point nine."

"Roger, ball," the landing signal officer acknowledged in a studied, nonchalant manner.

"A bit more advice, Steve," Sandoline offered as he extended the speed brakes to stabilize the approach. "Don't ever call a ship a boat around the blue water sailors. The black shoe Navy would have you keelhauled on the spot."

"Yeah," Wickham replied, "they told me that when I joined the Marines."

"Oh, shit," Sandoline said in mock disgust, "how am I going to live this down?"

"You'll make it," Wickham laughed, knowing what the navy fighter pilot was going to say.

"I've been chauffeuring a jarhead around," Sandoline laughed, then concentrated on flying the meatball.

The pilot's labored breathing became erratic gasps as the Tomcat descended through 600 feet, three-quarters of a mile behind the Ranger.

"See the horizontal green lights?" Sandoline asked, working the stick and rudder pedals.

"Yes," Wickham answered as he braced himself, "the ball is even with them."

"We gotta… keep the ball… centered there," Sandoline said, fighting the oxygen mask. "Nailed… till we hit… the deck."

Wickham stared at the approaching lights but still could not see the carrier. He listened as the Ranger's landing signal officer (LSO) talked to Sandoline.

"Power… power," the LSO coached as the F-14 sank slightly below the optimum glide path, then leveled off until Sandoline intercepted the proper descent profile again. "Lookin' good, turkey."

"Hang on!" Sandoline warned three seconds before impact.

Wickham grabbed the sides of the canopy in a death grip and held his breath. The Tomcat, traveling at 145 miles per hour, flashed over the rounddown and slammed into the steel flight deck without flaring. The tailhook screeched down the deck, showering sparks, then snagged the number three wire and snatched the fighter to an abrupt halt.

Wickham, still holding his breath, shot forward violently as his head snapped downward. The shoulder straps dug deep into his shoulder blades. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed as the F-14 rolled backward to allow the arresting cable to fall out of the tailhook. "You people are crazy."

"Yeah," Sandoline responded with a laugh, "being certified crazy is the first qualification."

Wickham quickly unfastened his restraints, unsnapped his oxygen mask, then rubbed his neck. "I think my back is broken."

Sandoline raised the tailhook and flaps, retracted the speed brakes, and added power to follow the two lighted wands beckoning him forward and starboard. He was barely able to see the petty officer holding the soft, glowing lights.

"You got a little CAG to escort you," Sandoline said as he taxied close to the carrier's superstructure.

Wickham held his oxygen mask to his mouth. "What's a little CAG?"

"The deputy carrier air group commander," Sandoline answered as he opened the canopy and shut down the engines. "Good luck, Steve, in whatever it is you do."

"Thanks," Wickham responded as he prepared to remove his helmet. "Hell of a ride."

SAN JULIAN

Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Matthews sat back in the hard, rough chair and watched the Soviet medical technician prepare the syringes. He could see into the hangar through the KGB director's window.

Workers continued to remove components from the Stealth bomber. Larry Simmons stood in the middle of a group of Soviet officials, answering questions and pointing out various components on the B-2.

Matthews, bound to the heavy chair with wide leather wrist straps, flexed his fingers and glanced at the two Cuban guards. They remained impassive, showing no emotion.