“Three and Four, FOX ONE!” Heimler radioed as the AIM-7M Sparrow missiles streaked out in front of the Tomcats. “Going right!”
Heimler snapped into a gut-wrenching 7-G turn, then glanced at the flash below him. “What the hell … is that … on the surface?”
“Don’t know!” O’Neill was straining to breathe under the 8-G load he forced on the laboring Tomcat. “One and Two going high,” O’Neill groaned as he pulled back hard on the control stick, sending the big fighter into a supersonic pure vertical climb. The two Tomcats were indicating Mach 1.2 as they rocketed skyward into the sullen clouds. O’Neill’s engine problem had been forgotten.
“God, what happened?” Cangemi asked, inching closer to Buzzard One.
O’Neill never had a chance to answer. His fighter exploded in a horrendous fireball, lighting the sky in an eerie yellow-white burst of light.
More explosions lit the night, causing chaos over the aircraft radios.
“Stingray! Stingray! We’re going dow—”
“MAY DAY! MAY DAY!” shouted a high-pitched voice.
“WE’RE PUNCHIN’!”
Three seconds later Cangemi felt the impact of a Russian air-to-air missile. He was blinded by the explosion as his Tomcat tumbled toward the icy water, spinning wildly and spewing flaming jet fuel.
The left wing had been blown off and the fuselage was riddled with holes, leaving the young Marine pilot with only one option. Cangemi thumbed the ICS and yelled at his RIO.
“EJECT! EJECT!”
Cangemi could feel his head being bashed violently against the canopy as his body slammed from side to side. Then he noted the altimeter, rapidly spiraling downward, as he reached up over his helmet with both hands and pulled his ejection seat handle.
The protective face curtain had just covered his helmet visor when the blast from the rear seat ejection turned the cockpit into a howling hurricane. One-half second later Cangemi hurtled into space to join his radar intercept officer.
Buzzard One, gravely injured during the ballistic ejection, was already in his parachute, trailing his RIO down to the cold, rolling ocean. O’Neill viewed the devastation in shock and pain as he descended below the cloud base. He could see the Virginia in the distance, flames and smoke pouring from the aft section of the cruiser. It appeared to O’Neill as if the entire fantail was ablaze.
The sky was still lit by explosions and parachute flares as O’Neill slowly drifted toward the Virginia, suspended by his parachute risers over the flames and falling debris. A sudden flash to his left, followed seconds later by an explosive noise, marked the grave of his Tomcat fighter.
O’Neill ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it away in the darkness, and started preparing for his entry into the frigid waters. The pilot knew he would succumb to hypothermia in minutes if he couldn’t board his one-man life raft or be plucked from the freezing waters by a rescue helicopter.
Another aircraft hit the water and exploded with a deafening roar, causing O’Neill to involuntarily jerk around in his torso harness. It was impossible to tell if it was a Russian or American aircraft. Debris was raining down all around him. The Navy fighter pilot, battling unconsciousness, fervently hoped all four Russians were in the drink.
Cangemi’s parachute opened with shocking force from the high-speed ejection. As the slightly injured Marine aviator descended below the clouds, struggling with his survival gear, another aircraft smashed into the water with a deafening concussion.
Looking in the direction of the Virginia, Cangemi thought he saw another parachute descend below the cloud deck. He didn’t have time to study the other figure. The sight of whitecaps indicated only seconds to prepare for the shock of entry into freezing waters.
Hector Chaveze was only twenty miles from the Virginia when he heard the melee erupt. The lieutenant wheeled his helicopter around in a 180-degree turn and raced for his ship as fast as the LAMPS would go. He didn’t hesitate a second, realizing aircrew members and ship’s company from the Virginia might be in the cold, turbulent ocean. Chaveze and his crew would be their only hope in these conditions.
The LAMPS pilot thought about the fact he was committed to land on the Virginia after all. Not enough fuel for multiple rescue attempts and a flight to the carrier.
Chaveze briefed his crew and called the Hawkeye.
“Stingray, Stingray, Seahawk Thirty-eight proceeding back to the Virginia. Standing by for rescue coordination.”
“Roger, Seahawk,” the surprised Hawkeye controller answered. “We’ve gota basket of shit here … ah … multiple aircraft in the water.”
“Stingray, we have the Virginia visual!” Chaveze could feel his heart pounding.
“Roger,” responded the controller, pausing to talk to his assistant. “We have two Tomcats, a Texaco, and … the Viking down. Search all quadrants around the Virginia.”
“Wilco, Stingray.”
Chaveze looked at his copilot. “What the hell happened out here?”
Gill shrugged, indicating it was useless to speculate at this point.
The pilot pressed his radio button again. “Stingray, Seahawk. Any more Russian aircraft loitering in the area?”
“Negative, Seahawk. Stand by.”
The controller studied two radar scopes, then called the pilot. “Looks like three of them went down. We are tracking one headed for the coast, slow, probably damaged or conserving fuel. No observed threats at this time. No radar returns in the area, except two Tomcats still on station.”
“Roger, Stingray,” the LAMPS pilot replied, descending toward the burning Virginia. “Thanks.”
Gill tugged on Chaveze and pointed in front of the helicopter. A pencil flare or flashlight bobbed up and down a quarter mile away in the inky blackness.
“Got it,” Chaveze said as he nosed the LAMPS helo over and ordered the hoist ready.
After the first torpedo explosion rocked the Virginia, Simpson fired two ASROC missiles at the Soviet submarine.
“Skipper,” the sonarman shouted, “I have another torpedo tracking, bearing zero-seven-zero!”
“Right full rudder, all ahead flank!” Simpson looked for Jenkins as he tried to assess the damage to his ship.
“Mister Jenkins, get a damage control report and have the XO … have Commander Risone report to the bridge on the double!”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
The Virginia was wracked by another violent explosion, shattering windows on the bridge. The ship was slowing rapidly and starting to list to starboard.
“Captain,” the sonarman yelled across the bridge. “We got the sub breaking up, sir!”
“You positive?” Simpson shouted as he stumbled toward the operator.
“Yessir,” the frightened sailor responded in a taut voice. “No question.”
The sonarman turned the volume up for the captain. The sound of the Soviets’ pressure hull, being crushed like eggshells, was eerily clear. Simpson relaxed a moment, realizing the immediate threat was gone. Now to save his stricken ship.
Jenkins spoke from behind. “Captain, damage control says they can contain the fire. One propulsion system is out of commission and seven compartments are flooded. They can’t correct the list, but the ship has watertight integrity.”
“Okay,” Simpson answered, appearing haggard. “What about casualties?”
“Fourteen confirmed dead, sir, including Commander Risone. No estimate of injured yet. Everyone is too busy at the moment.” Jenkins felt fatigue taking over from the adrenaline.
“Very well, Mister Jenkins,” Simpson sighed, eyes cast downward. The captain paused a moment, then looked back into Jenkins’s face. “Bud was a good man. All of them were good men.”