Shadow Flight

Wellby moved forward and flew his fixed probe smoothly into the drogue on the first try. The delicate maneuver required a tremendous degree of finesse with the stick and throttle. The fuel transfer went quickly, and Wellby slid out of the basket, moved seventy feet from the KA-6D's right wing, and watched his flight leader.

Flannagan tanked without a hitch. He watched the refueling light wink off, then disengaged from the basket and slid astern. "Thanks for the drink," Flannagan radioed as Wellby eased back into position on his right wing. "Strike, Smoke flight is returning to our CAP posit."

"Roger," the controller answered. "The inbound contacts are three north of Dos Caminos, closing rapidly."

Flannagan eased his throttle to 98 percent. "Coming up on the power."

"Four," Wellby responded, staring at Flannagan's dull gray Skyhawk.

"Smoke, Strike," the controller said with a hint of anxiety. "The two high targets over Antonio Maceo appear to be joining the inbound flight of three."

Flannagan scanned the sky to the northwest as he descended back to 15,000 feet. After a few seconds he picked out the MiGs' blinking anticollision lights. "Tally on the flight of two," Flannagan reported, then spotted the other three bogies. "I have the Holguin inbounds, too."

The two MiG groups rendezvoused in a staggered trail formation and made a wide, sweeping pass two miles west of the Navy TA4Js. Flannagan and Wellby watched the MiGs pass 3,000 feet higher as they settled back into their pattern.

"Four, let's step up two thou—" Flannagan stopped abruptly, not believing his eyes. Had the Cuban MiGs flown into a cloud? Hell no, he realized quickly — the thin wisps of clouds were well above them.

"Strike, Smoke flight," Flannagan radioed uneasily. "The comrades just turned off all their exterior lights. I've lost them."

"Copy, Smoke. Stand by—"

"Negative," Flannagan said brusquely. "Launch the spare, and get the other two shooters back up."

"Gunsmoke Three," a different voice said, "this is Captain Murchison. Return to base and orbit. Smoke Five is rolling and will join up overhead."

"Wilco," Flannagan replied as he banked smoothly toward the naval base.

Seven seconds passed before the original voice sounded in Flannagan's helmet. "Smoke flight, we have two targets breaking away from the MiG flight. They are approaching you at… they're accelerating at your seven o'clock, twelve miles."

"Shit," Flannagan said inadvertently over the radio. "Doc, come hard port and go combat spread."

Chapter Fifteen

THE OV-10

"We're five minutes out," Greg Spidel said over the intercom. He was concentrating intently on remaining thirty feet above the calm sea.

"Okay," Wickham replied, steeling himself for the night parachute jump. He looked up at his static line, checking the hook again. "I'll unstrap at the one-minute mark."

"I won't forget," the pilot replied.

The camouflaged Bronco raced across the sea at full power, black against the dark water. Spidel could see the twinkling lights of Peninsula de Guanahacabibes approaching rapidly on the right. He searched for any sign of boats or low-flying aircraft, then checked his position. Two minutes to go. He glanced ahead at the surface of the water and watched for a sign of land.

"Oh, shit," Spidel exclaimed to himself as he noticed the white mast light of a small boat off to his right. "Too late now." He continued on course, watching the time and searching for the beach. The bright Caribbean moonlight was both a curse and a blessing.

"One minute, Steve," Spidel warned at the same instant he spotted the curved beach where Wickham would go ashore. Spidel retarded the throttles to slow the Bronco to paradrop speed.

"All set," Wickham replied as he unstrapped his restraining harness. He was free to slide out the rear when the pilot pulled up the OV-10's nose. Wickham made a last check to ensure that his static line was secure, then froze into the brace position. He could feel the aircraft decelerating.

"Thirty seconds, Steve," Spidel said calmly, watching his airspeed. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Wickham replied, clamping his mouth shut and removing the Clark headset. His heart raced and he could feel the adrenaline surge.

Spidel stared at the shore, judging it to be a mile and a quarter from the drop point. He paused a second, checked his speed at 210 knots, then eased back on the stick. "Here we go," the pilot said to himself as he pulled the speeding OV-10 into the vertical.

Wickham flew out the back at 200 feet, cleared the overhead horizontal stabilizer, then stopped in midair when the parachute popped open. The chute deployment, at more than 200 miles per hour, sounded like a shotgun blast. Afraid of becoming entangled in the parachute shroud lines, he closely watched the surface of the water. He did not want to drown under the heavy, wet canopy.