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
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.
Levchenko hastily slipped on his boots and marched into the hangar. He surveyed the B-2, noting it was in the final stages of reassembly. The fuselage was still open, exposing the complex array of electronic equipment, but the few remaining access panels were being replaced.
Levchenko, kicking a loose hose out of his way, walked over to the senior airframe technician. The scowl on the director's face reflected his foul mood. "When will the Stealth be ready to fly?"
The aircraft engineer, matching Levchenko's serious look, calculated quickly how much longer it would take to restore the bomber to flying condition. "Two and a half — possibly three hours at the most, comrade director."
Levchenko looked at his watch, thoroughly disgruntled with the change of events. "It damned sure better be," Levchenko growled, then spun around and headed for the communications center.
The Soviet airframe technician, upset by Levchenko's rebuke, turned around and barked orders to his crew. Intimidated and uneasy, the men went back to work at an increased pace.
Levchenko was about to enter the communications room when the harried comm officer rushed out. "Comrade director, Moscow is on the line," he gushed, "and Castro's helicopter just landed at base operations."
"Sonuvabitch!" Levchenko yelped, brushing the officer out of his way. He stormed into the room and glanced at the sergeant manning the main console.
The portly young man, showing his anxiety, looked toward Levchenko. "Castro is on his way over, comrade director."
Levchenko ignored him and yanked up the receiver next to the blinking yellow light. "Levchenko!"
The KGB director was paralyzed momentarily when he heard the voice on the discreet phone. He sat down, fumbled for a cigarette, snapped open his lighter, and listened to the chief of the KGB. Not a subordinate, division chief, or operations director. THE director of Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti.
Levchenko forgot about the cigarette. "Da, comrade director." He listened intently to Vladimir Golodnikov, motioning for the communications officer to close the door, then scribbled a note to the surprised man.
"Da, I understand, comrade director," Levchenko said as the comm officer read the scrawl and rushed out to find Obukhov.
"Da, comrade director," Levchenko continued, surprised by the order he had been given. "I will keep you informed, comrade director." Levchenko listened to the final statement, then said good-bye. "Do svidanya, comrade director."
Commander Doug Karns taxied his "borrowed" F-14D onto the runway and swung into position for takeoff. He had been cleared to hold in position until the A-6F Intruder that had landed cleared the runway.
The commanding officer of the Diamondbacks, along with his radar intercept officer, had received a thorough physical after their narrow escape. They were in excellent condition, except for strained muscles and contusions, and had been pronounced fit for flight duty.
Karns had made arrangements to have his wingman and RIO flown to the Kitty Hawk. He checked with the carrier air boss for an overhead time, then crawled into Diamond 107 and taxied to the duty runway.