Shadow Flight

Karns watched the other Tomcat land, roll out, and turn off at the end of the runway. He lined up with the center line, dropped the gear, and lowered the tailhook. The squadron commander flew a shallow, low approach at 210 knots, then brought the throttles to idle and flared the F-14 gently over the runway threshold.

The fighter landed on the numbers, but the hook slammed into the pavement and bounced over the wire. Kams shoved the throttles into afterburner, feeling the Tomcat vibrate. The master caution light flashed on, but Karns could not look down for the cause. His feet danced on the rudder pedals, correcting the F-14's path down the runway.

He rotated the speeding jet and shot a quick glance at the annunciator panel. "Sonuvabitch!" Karns swore over the intercom, seeing that the combined hydraulics had dropped to zero. "Scurve, we're in deep shit."

"What now, coach?" Ricketts asked in an unsteady voice. The ejection option was looking better.

"Diamond One Zero Three," the tower controller radioed urgently, "looks like you blew one of your main mounts. Appears to be rubber on the runway."

"Copy," Karns replied, wrestling with the sluggish fighter. "We're coming around for a final pass-we'll have to keep it on the ground this time."

Karns keyed his intercom as the tower acknowledged the radio transmission. "Scurve, we're outta as and hydraulic fluid. If we miss the wire, I'll try to keep us on the runway."

"You've got my vote," Ricketts responded, cinching his straps as tight as they would go.

Karns, watching the sun sink below the horizon, flew an extended downwind and turned final. "If we go off the runway, or it looks like we're gonna take out any obstacles, I'll call for ejection."

"I'm ready," Ricketts replied, taking the ink pens out of the arm pocket of his flight suit. He unstrapped his knee board and stowed it on the side console, then placed his sunglasses in his right breast pocket. The young officer said a silent prayer as the end of the runway flashed under the stricken Tomcat.

Karns pulled the power to idle, touched down hard at 190 knots, sensed the tailhook skip, then fought the rudders to keep the F-14 on the runway.

"Uh, oh!" Karns exclaimed when the left main mount, minus the tire, collapsed. The Tomcat's left wing dug into the pavement, trailing a shower of sparks and metal.

Karns fought to keep the big Grumman on the runway, then realized they were headed for a fire truck that was backing away at full throttle.

"Eject! Eject!" Karns shouted as he pulled the alternate ejection handle between his legs.

Both men rocketed out of the speeding Tomcat, arcing through the air. Their chutes opened a split second before the F-14 slashed by the fire truck, exploded in a blinding flash, then tumbled across the field.

Chapter Twenty-three

SAN JULIAN

The air base had been placed under total blackout conditions, as had all of Cuba. President Castro had issued a warning over national radio. Simply stated, any light showing after dark would be shot out by the army.

The perimeter of San Julian was bustling with activity as additional weapons were placed in strategic locations. Four squads of Cuban soldiers rushed from site to site, camouflaging the armament.

Portable surface-to-air (SAM) missiles ringed the air base, along with radar-controlled 57mm and 85mm antiaircraft guns. By late evening, twenty-three motorized ZSU-X antiaircraft weapons had joined the original twelve ZSU-Xs that had been sent to San Julian earlier. The assembled firepower represented a major obstacle to the American pilots.

Seven MiG-23s, eight MiG-25 Foxbats, and twelve MiG-29 Fulcrums had been fueled and loaded with ordnance in preparation for the expected American assault. The fighters were lined up on the runway and taxiway, ready to be airborne in five minutes.

The first eight aircraft on the runway, six Fulcrums and two MiG-25s, were manned.. The rest of the pilots, including three Russian instructors, waited in the ready tent erected hastily next to their fighters.

Gennadi Levchenko sat on the small bunk in the cramped guarters behind his office. The wait for instructions from Moscow was taking its toll on the KGB director.

Levchenko leaned over his footlocker, grabbed the neck of a rum bottle, and poured a liberal amount of the amber fluid into his coffee mug. He tossed down the room-temperature libation, grimaced, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. His hand froze when the chief communications officer rapped on the edge of his open door.

"Comrade director," the man said cautiously, "I have an urgent message for you."

"Moscow called?" Levchenko asked impatiently. "What is it?" The communications officer swallowed. "Raul Castro is en route to our base, comrade dir—"

"Goddamnit!" Levchenko bellowed, leaping up. "Get Moscow on the line! I want answers!"

The flustered officer, exhausted from lack of sleep and the mounting tension, hurried out of the small office and ran toward the communications center.