Shadow Flight

The technicians, scientists, and KGB personnel were sequestered in two adjoining rooms. Gennadi Levchenko, sitting in his small office, was questioning each man individually.

Natanoly Obukhov, the assistant KGB director, approached Levchenko's door.

"Have you found the infiltrator?" Levchenko barked. "Comrade director," Obukhov bowed slightly in a highly respectful manner, "our men are scouring the base and surrounding area. We have three helicopters and two spotter planes in the air, and we are-"

"Don't give me long-winded reports," Levchenko spat. "Give me results."

"Yes, comrade director," Obukhov replied, averting his eyes to the colorless concrete walls in the spartan office. He always felt apprehension when his eyes crossed the Mongolian features of Levchenko's face.

"What did the guard see?" Levchenko asked, dismissing a technician with a wave of his arm.

"He never saw the assailant," Obukhov answered, then added quickly, "he doesn't remember anything after he bent over."

Levchenko fixed his eyes on his assistant. "I want every inch of this base searched again."

ANIMAL ONE

Major Vince Cangemi, turning toward his carrier, USS America, looked back at his right wing. He could clearly see two deep slices in the leading edge, along with numerous dents and scars close to the fuselage.

The marine pilot quickly scanned his annunciator panel and engine instruments. "Oh, shit," Cangemi muttered when he noticed the right engine was cooking at the maximum temperature limit. The damaged F/A-18 had ingested the MiG's debris through the starboard engine.

Cangemi waited while the outbound combat air patrol pilots talked with the E-2C Hawkeye, then keyed his radio switch. "Phoenix, Animal One is inbound with engine damage."

"Copy, Animal One," the controller responded in a professional, low-key manner. "You have a ready deck. Come port fifteen degrees."

"Port fifteen," Cangemi radioed, watching the right engine gauges cautiously.

The Hornet continued flying, rock steady, for another minute and a half. Cangemi was just starting to relax when the F/A-18 yawed violently to the right.

"Ah… Phoenix," Cangemi radioed as he checked the hydraulic pressure. "Animal One has a problem."

"Roger, Animal," the controller said in a detached tone. "Say nature of your problem."

Cangemi watched the main hydraulic pressure fluctuate, then drop rapidly toward zero. "I'm losin' my hydraulics."

"Are you declaring an emergency?" the controller asked with an edge in his voice.

"That's affirm, Phoenix," Cangemi answered as he watched the primary hydraulic pressure reach zero. "Animal One is declaring an emer—"

Without warning, the Hornet's nose pitched up seventy degrees. Cangemi shoved in full left rudder, forcing the aircraft into knife-edged flight. The nose fell through the horizon as Cangemi pushed in full right rudder, bringing the fighter wings-level.

The nose pitched skyward again, forcing the pilot to repeat the unusual procedure to control the Hornet. During the third rudder roll maneuver, Cangemi selected emergency hydraulic power and recovered control of his wounded fighter. He also noticed that he had lost more than 2,000 feet of altitude during the wild gyrations.

"Understand emergency," Phoenix radioed. "Can you make the ship?"

Cangemi studied his instruments and checked his DME. Forty-two nautical miles to go. "I think so. Looks okay… at the moment."

"Do you want the barricade?" the concerned controller asked as he rechecked the flight deck status.

Cangemi raised the nose slightly and mentally reviewed his NA-TOPS emergency procedures. "Ah… negative. Not at this time."

"Roger."

Cangemi glanced at his fuel gauges, knowing he needed to plug into a tanker. He also knew he could not risk close formation flying with a questionable control problem.

The pilot rechecked his DME, fuel burn, and rate of descent. He would arrive over the carrier with 700 to 800 pounds of fuel — only a few minutes in the thirsty fighter. He could not afford a bolter. He had to trap aboard America on his first pass.

Cangemi watched the right engine parameters as the seconds ticked away. He listened while Bullet Two Oh Two, the sole returning navy Tomcat, checked in for a push time. He eased back on the left throttle, held his breath, then pulled the right throttle slowly back to match the reduced power.

"Animal," Phoenix radioed, "your deck is eleven o'clock, twenty miles."

"I have a visual," Cangemi responded, squinting through the early morning haze. He could see the long white wake of the fast-moving carrier. "I'm setting up for an overhead two-seventy."

"Roger," the controller replied. "CAG paddles will wave you." The senior landing signal officer (LSO) would guide the marine aviator through the emergency landing. "Switch button five," the controller instructed.