Shadow Flight

Wickham waited until he judged the sea to be about thirty feet below him, then unsnapped his parachute risers and plunged into the cool water. The violent impact almost tore off his right swim fin.

"Sonuvabitch," Wickham sputtered as he resurfaced. His first thought was to get clear of the falling canopy. After swimming twenty yards, he rolled on his back and rested as he watched the parachute sink beneath the sea. His thick wet suit provided as much flotation as a small life vest. He listened for a moment, hearing only the OV-10 departing to the northwest.

He secured his swim fin, then unstrapped the water tow vehicle and rolled onto his stomach. He looked around, pointed the water tow, then focused on the beach and pulled the trigger on the right handle.

OVER GUANTANAMO BAY

The two TA-4J Skyhawks raced head-on toward the unseen adversaries. Lieutenant Frank Wellby, flying Gunsmoke Four, was three-quarters of a mile off his flight leader's starboard wing. He was stepped up 2,000 feet from Flannagan's aircraft.

"Smoke flight," the anxious controller radioed, "your bogies — at twelve o'clock, three miles. Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold."

"Smoke looking," Flannagan replied, scanning straight ahead. "Tallyho!"

"Two miles," Strike warned. "Right down the middle." Both TA-4Js were easy to see with their navigation lights and bright red anticollision beacons blinking.

"Four has 'em," Wellby radioed. The two Cuban MiG-23s (NATO code name Flogger) slashed between the two American jets and snapped into a tight climbing turn to the left.

"Vertical reverse," Flannagan called, then pitched up and turned toward his wingman. "I'll get some angle on."

"I've got ya'," Wellby replied as he passed head-on to his leader. "Five, say posit."

"I have you at one o'clock," the third Skyhawk pilot radioed. "Keep it comin' around — I'll join on your inside."

"Smokes," the radar controller said with an edge of tension in his voice, "the other three bogies are turning. They're accelerating toward you."

"Roger," Flannagan replied, straining under the g load he forced on the Skyhawk. "They're turning into me… master arm on.. going to be close — oh!"

Flannagan snapped the stick into his stomach, but it was too late to avoid colliding with the MiG wingman. The right wing of each jet impacted in a blinding flash, sending both aircraft plummeting out of control.

"Lead is hit!" Wellby radioed in stunned disbelief. "I'm engaging, arm 'em up — cover me!"

Strike tried to transmit at the same instant as Smoke Five, blocking each other's calls. Flannagan ejected from his wildly spinning jet and floated down in the middle of the aerial combat. He watched both crippled fighters tumble to the ground five miles northwest of the runway.

"Smoke, Strike," the controller shouted, "cleared to engage — engage!"

"Lights, lights, Doc!" Lt. Guy Elliot radioed to the new lead pilot as he flipped off his own exterior lights. He saw Wellby's Skyhawk disappear momentarily, then reacquired the aircraft. "Break right, hard right… he's turning inside… reverse… hard port-bring your nose up, now!"

The Strike controller broke in. "The three bogies closing from due west, six miles, angels one-six!"

"Okay, Doc," Elliot shouted, "I'm goin' with a winder. Break hard starboard, now!"

"Fox Two!" Elliot radioed, squeezing the firing button a split second after Wellby snapped his Skyhawk into a gut-wrenching right turn. The Sidewinder heat-seeking missile, appearing to track low, curved into the vertical and slammed into the MiG-23's tailpipe. The Flogger continued to fly, spewing a thin vapor trail, as the pilot fought to control the fighter. He headed straight for Holguin.

"Doc!" Elliot yelled. "I'm at your nine o'clock, low-we've got three on the nose. Let's burn 'em."

"Tally, tally," Wellby shouted, "they're breakin' right… in trail… let's go high." Both Skyhawks, separated 1,200 feet horizontally, pulled up in tandem, then rolled almost inverted to track the MiGs.

"I'm going for the lead!" Wellby radioed. "Get one on… put it on tail end Charlie."

"Wilco," Elliot said, lining up 600 yards behind the last Flogger. He was beginning to feel a sensory overload.

"Fox Two!" Wellby radioed, squeezing off his first Sidewinder. The missile, pointed at the hot exhaust of the lead MiG-23, made two erratic corrections, missed its target, and collided with the second MiG fighter. The Flogger disintegrated in a rapid series of pulsing explosions.

Elliot fired his remaining Sidewinder and watched it track unerringly toward its prey. "Fox Two!"

Wellby, realizing that the Cuban MiGs were attempting to disengage, called his wingman. "Break it off, break off! Strike, we're RTB—"

His statement was interrupted by the explosion and orange fireball created by the destruction of the trailing MiG. The pilot ejected from the burning jet, forcing Elliot to barrel roll over the parachute.

"Jesus," Wellby shouted over the radio. "Strike, recommend you get Smoke One and Two back up to cover the tanker."