The aircraft were on the deck, screaming toward the air base in left echelon. The flight leader, flying so low he caused the tops of trees to sway when he roared overhead, was pointed straight at the hangars.
The Cuban general watched, stunned, as the strike aircraft leveled a dozen radar-controlled guns. The second wave of attack aircraft boomed across the field, dropping huge loads of bombs on the flight line, runway, and hangars. The windows blew in, knocking Castro to the floor. He picked himself up, partially blinded by the dust and debris, and grabbed his command phone.
Vince Cangemi blasted down the length of Ciudad Libertad, spraying 20mm shells into parked aircraft, hangars, and a large fuel storage area. The fuel farm exploded, sending billowing black smoke and orange flames into the early morning sky.
Cangemi fired a last burst at a taxiing Cubana de Aviacion Ilyushin-62M transport. The four-engine jet shuddered to a halt with the right wing and both engines engulfed in blazing jet fuel.
The fighter pilot flashed over the perimeter of the airfield, scooting down in his cockpit as the cannon shells whizzed by the canopy. He shoved the twin General Electric turbofans into afterburner and pushed the nose down. The tracers were still sweeping past the cockpit when the F/A-18 screeched across the coastline at 550 knots.
Cangemi stayed on the deck for another minute, hugging the water and flying as low as he dared. He raised the nose slowly and started to breathe normally. The marine aviator quickly checked his annunciator panel and eased back on the power. He decided he had just enough fuel to return to the carrier without tanking when he sensed something ahead of his Hornet. He looked up and blinked, not believing his eyes. A Bear bomber, slightly to the right, filled his windshield. Cangemi judged the lumbering bomber to be one and a half miles in front of his fighter.
The pilot hit the air/ground button, switching to air-to-air missiles. He waited a second, swinging the pipper gently on the bomber, then locked up the Tupolev Tu-142.
"Ivan, Cangemi said to himself, bringing the power back further, "the dance is over." He squeezed off a Sidewinder and jinked the Hornet around, checking for his wingman and MiGs.
"Fox Two!" Cangemi broadcast over the radio. He snapped his head forward a split second after the AIM-9 struck the Bear's left outboard turboprop. The big engine came apart in slow motion, flinging blades into the fuselage and tearing into the inboard engine. The huge bomber continued to fly, streaming smoke and fluid.
Cangemi was startled when two cruise missiles, mounted one to a wing, dropped off and ignited. The weapons quickly accelerated out in front of the heavily damaged Bear, steadying at a cruise speed of 0.74 Mach.
"Shit!" Cangemi said to himself as he squeezed off his last Sidewinder. "Fox Two!" he warned, watching the missile plow into the stricken bomber's left wing.
"Animal One," the distressed pilot of the number four Hornet radioed his leader, "Dash Three went in… comin' off the last target.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Cangemi replied as the Bear, missing the outer half of the left wing, rolled inverted and plunged for the Gulf.
The marine flight leader saw two figures jump out of the spinning bomber, then pop open their parachutes. Cangemi knew that his armament was almost depleted, but he had to intercept and destroy the two Soviet-made cruise missiles.
Karns had a quick glimpse of the two AA-11 missiles flash under him as he watched the MiG-29, canopy to canopy, pull into his Tomcat.
Anatoly Sokolviy rudder-rolled the Fulcrum into the F-14, firing his 30mm cannon. He could see the tracers arc under the Tomcat's tail
Karns dropped the F-14's nose, going for knots and separation, then snapped into the pure vertical. Vapor trailed off the wings, signaling the severe positive g load being imposed on the fighter.
The MiG pilot, matching Karns's every move, pulled hard into the F-14 and fired a short burst.
"Holy shit!" Karns yelled, breathing hard. "This sonuvabitch is good!"
"Too good," the RIO grunted as Karns unloaded the straining Tomcat.
"Boss," Karns's wingman radioed, "we're workin' him for a shot."
Karns rolled over the top, separated from the fight, turned hard into the MiG, and engaged again.
"Skipper," Ricketts said, growing more concerned, "you better take him… before we're sea level minus six."
"Yeah," Karns groaned, committing his nose up again. "He's bound to get lucky… matter of time."
Sokolviy watched the American, waiting for the fatal mistake that would give the wily MiG pilot the advantage in the deadly aerial duel. Sokolviy smiled to himself when he saw the Tomcat commit too soon for the vertical engagement. The Russian pilot shoved hard on the throttles, still in burner, and snapped the MiG's nose up.
Karns, anticipating the maneuver, slammed his throttles to idle and popped the speed brakes for a split second. The MiG shot out in front of the Tomcat, twisting violently to spoil the F-14's gun-tracking envelope.
"Son… of… a… bitch!" Ricketts gasped, trying vainly to raise his head under the fierce g load. He had never experienced such a punishing engagement.
"I'm gonna light the pipes," Karns grunted, fighting g-LOC, "and take him out." He shoved the throttles forward into burner, retracted his speed brakes, and fired 290 rounds at the twisting Fulcrum. He aimed ahead of the MiG, expecting the talented pilot to break into the F-14.
Sokolviy, caught off guard, pulled into the fast-turning Tomcat. The MiG pilot, sustaining a gut-wrenching 8 1/2 g's, flew through the devastating cannon fire, shedding large wing panels and part of the vertical stabilizers.
Karns yanked the F-14 up into a barrel roll and watched the Soviet pilot eject from the uncontrollable fighter. "Ivan jettisoned his airplane," Karns said, checking for other MiGs.
"Two," the CO radioed, "you've got a gomer closin' at your seven o'clock… low."
"Wolfpack, I hold four contacts," the airborne warning and control officer urgently radioed Kitty Hawk. He felt the draining stress of coordinating multiple aerial engagements.
There was no immediate response. "No," the controller paused, "make that five bogies. They came from the Bears… have to be cruise missiles."
"Ah… copy, Phoenix," the CIC officer replied, pushing the launch signal on his console. "Ready One CAP will be up your freq in a minute."
"Roger that," the Hawkeye controller responded. "Two bogies tracking Wolfpack, one-niner-zero for forty-five, low."
"Wolfpack copies," the strained officer replied, feeling the first catapult shot reverberate through the carrier. "Say targets of the other three."
"Stand by."
Seven seconds elapsed before the harried control officer replied. "They appear to be tracking the tip of Florida."
The CIC officer paused a moment, checking the location of the surface combat patrol flights. "Scramble the fighters from Key West and Homestead," the officer ordered, feeling the second catapult slam into the water brakes.
The lead B-1B strategic bomber, wings fully swept and traveling supersonic, blasted over Cabo Corrientes at 150 feet. The shoreline was rocked by six shock waves as the lethal bombers raced toward San Julian.
One hundred twenty miles east-northeast, two flights of four B-1 Bs passed northwest of Cayos del Hambre, then separated to attack targets around Havana. Vulture 25 made a slight course correction as San Julian filled the windshield. A wall of ground fire, antiaircraft fire, and surface-to-air missiles filled the air.
The B-1 B flight leader had heard the frantic radio calls from the navy strike force. The pilot could clearly see the damage they had caused as he tweaked the nose to the right to line up on the hangars. "Vultures… defense," the pilot radioed, then hesitated a second. "Now!"