The six bombers, thundering toward San Julian, filled the sky with chaff and flare decoys.
Raul Castro, warned of the rapidly approaching bombers by Cuban and Soviet warships, had sought refuge in the bomb shelter at the base of the control tower. The damp, musty-smelling shelter was full of personnel seeking cover from the air raids.
Gennadi Levchenko had dropped to the floor and covered his head when the antiaircraft weapons commenced firing. The Stealth project officer gritted his teeth and cursed in frustration.
The bombers screamed toward San Julian with an ear-shattering, high-pitched screech. Seconds from bomb release, Vulture 25 flew into a surface-to-air missile and exploded, spreading flaming debris for a mile and three quarters.
Two more B-1 Bs succumbed to the devastating barrage of antiaircraft weapons, crashing across San Julian in terrifying fireballs. The remaining three aircraft released their bomb loads and flew straight across the center of the field.
Clouds of churning dust, smoke, and debris shot into the air as the deadly clusters of bombs pounded the air base. The hail of antiaircraft fire followed the fleeing planes, damaging two of the strategic bombers. Overhead, the B-1 Bs' fighter escorts fired missiles at the MiGs, then chased after the surviving bombers.
Marine Maj. Vince Cangemi heard the frantic call from the Hawkeye. The two cruise missiles, launched from the Bear bomber he had shot down, were heading for the Kitty Hawk.
"Phoenix! Phoenix!" Cangemi radioed, shoving his throttles to the stops. "Animal One has a tally on the cruise missiles — the ones heading for Kitty Hawk."
"Phoenix, copy!" the controller said in a taut voice. "Can you get a shot?"
"I'm closing now!" Cangemi answered, unsure of how many rounds he had left in his M-61 cannon. "Two and Four, close up and say ordnance."
"Two has one missile," Cangemi's wingman answered, trying to catch his flight leader. "Vince, you'll have to ease off the power."
"Four is winchester," the marine pilot radioed, indicating that he was out of ammunition and missiles.
"Okay, Two," Cangemi replied, easing back on his throttles as he rapidly approached the closest AS-15 missile. "Come up on my starboard wing and drop the cruiser off to the right." Cangemi jinked his Hornet violently, checking his six o'clock for Cuban MiGs.
"On the way," the wingman radioed, sliding out to the side of his leader. "I have a tally." The sleek F/A-18 drew abreast of Animal One, reduced power to stay aligned, waited for the missile side tone, then squeezed the trigger.
"Fox Two!" the pilot radioed, watching the lethal air-to-air missile belch fire and accelerate toward the deadly prey. The Sidewinder went slightly high, then corrected downward and slammed into the cruise missile.
Cangemi saw the flash, then watched tensely as the missile exploded in an orange fireball. "Phoenix!" Cangemi radioed excitedly, "we dropped one — going for the second."
"Copy, copy!"
Cangemi looked at his wingman. "Good show, Torch. Slide back and cover my six."
"Rog," Animal Two acknowledged. "Go for it!"
Cangemi moved closer to the camouflaged cruise missile, now only twenty-eight nautical miles from Kitty Hawk. He could see the two descending CAP F-14s pull hard into a rendezvous turn with his flight.
The marine aviator lined up the pipper, adjusted his aim, and pulled the trigger. The Vulcan vibrated a split second, spewing out the last eighty-nine rounds at the small target. "Shit!" Cangemi swore to himself as he watched the red stream of lead pass under the AS-15.
Time was running out rapidly. The Hornet flight leader, checking the position of the closing Tomcats, made a snap decision. He rammed his throttles into afterburner and accelerated toward the deadly missile.
"What the hell are you doing?" Animal Two asked, breathing heavily.
Cangemi, concentrating intently on his target, did not reply as he pulled into tight formation with the speeding Soviet cruise missile.
"Holy shit, Vince," the wingman called. "You're gonna kill yourself!"
Cangemi remained quiet and concentrated, adrenaline coursing through his veins,'as he eased his left wing tip under the tail of the AS-15. He steadied the Hornet for a second, then snatched the stick hard to the right. The F/A-18 snapped over violently, flipping the cruise missile end over end. The AS-15, tumbling and twisting out of control, plummeted toward the ocean.
"CAP Tomcats and Animals," Cangemi ordered loudly, "let's go high!" The five pilots shoved their throttles into burner and reefed their fighters into the vertical.
Twelve seconds passed before the missile impacted the water. The high-explosive detonation erupted in a geyser.
"Jesus Christ!" an unidentified voice shouted over the radio. "He did it!"
The pilots, their fighters running out of energy, began recovering from vertical flight.
"Phoenix," Cangemi radioed, feeling the shock wave buffet his fighter, "Animals are winchester… we're heading for the boat."
"Roger that," the Hawkeye controller said, then added, "and thanks."
Cangemi, rolling into level flight, hesitated a moment, then concentrated on his charges. "Animals, close up."
"Two."
"Four."
The Tomcat pilots extended their thanks and banked toward Kitty Hawk. Cangemi forced himself not to think about his lost friend. Animal Three, Cangemi's former flight student, had been shot down on the northern perimeter of Ciudad Libertad.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Lieutenant Commander Jim Flannagan, followed by his wingman, Lt. Frank Wellby, circled high over the naval base. Two additional sections of VC-10 TA-4J Skyhawks, including the commanding officer in Gunsmoke One, orbited the sprawling complex.
The navy fighter pilots listened as nine Marine KC-130 Hercules approached the runway. The big, four-engine transports raced low over the water at 360 miles per hour. Their mission was to extract the Marines and naval personnel pinned down on the base.
"This should be worth the price of admission," Flannagan radioed, banking steeply over the center of the 8,000-foot runway.
"Yeah," Wellby answered. "I've watched them do this before."
Gunsmoke flight remained quiet, searching for MiGs. The Skyhawk pilots could hear other flights engaged in aerial combat, but the sky over Gitmo had remained clear of enemy fighters. The Guantanamo control tower and air traffic radar facility had been shut down minutes before, allowing personnel to reach the debarkation point before the rescue aircraft landed.
The six Skyhawks, joining with the Hercules F/A-18 fighter escorts, would accompany the KC-130s out to sea, refuel, then trap aboard the Abraham Lincoln.
Flannagan looked seaward, searching for the rugged transports. "I have a tally… three o'clock, low."
"I have 'em," Wellby radioed.
The nine aircraft, separated in trail at one-mile intervals, waited until the lead pilot, the CO of VMGR-252, was two miles from the end of the runway.
"Watch this," Wellby said over the fighter frequency.
The pilots of the nine KC-130s simultaneously pulled their power to idle, decelerated to flap speed, dropped the flaps and landing gear, then adjusted power to hold their interval at approach speed. Every transition was performed at the same instant by every pilot.
Flannagan and Wellby banked their Skyhawks tighter and watched the first Hercules cross the runway threshold and touch down on centerline halfway down the landing strip. The transport CO waited until he passed the 3,000-foot remaining marker on runway 28, then yanked the four Allison turboprops into full reverse. The speeding transport slowed quickly as the second Hercules landed a thousand feet behind the touchdown point of the commanding officer.