The section leader, caught off guard, slammed his stick hard over in an attempt to miss the explosion and debris. Both F-14 crew members felt the thump when they collided with the MiG pilot's body.
"Good shot!" Karns said, elated. He scanned the milky sky quickly then called the Hawkeye. "Phoenix," Karns sucked pure oxygen, "Diamond flight with three splashes. Any more bandits?"
The Hawkeye controller, busy vectoring another flight of Tomcats, completed his radio call and acknowledged Karns. "Negative, Diamond One Zero Three." The controller checked his radarscope, leaving the mike keyed. "Nothing in your sector at this time. RTB for recycle. Rattler and Snake flights are inbound — comin' up your port side, ten o'clock high."
"Roger," Karns responded, looking for his executive officer in Snake One. He caught a glint of sunlight off a canopy as the XO rocked his wings. "I have a tally."
"Skipper," Karns's RIO said over the intercom, "check fuel."
Karns glanced at the fuel gauge, surprised by the amount the thirsty Tomcat had consumed during the combat engagement. He was down to 5,900 pounds of fuel — enough to reach the carrier if he conserved the precious fluid.
"Diamonds, let's go max conserve and join up," Karns ordered, easing back the twin throttles. "Call fuel states."
The other three pilots acknowledged, giving their respective fuel loads, as Karns slowed the Tomcat. As the F-14 decelerated through 0.72 Mach, Karns felt a strange sensation. Something was definitely wrong. The Tomcat wobbled unsteadily.
"Skipper, we've got a control problem." Karns glanced back over his right shoulder, swearing to himself. The wings, swept back to the full aft position, had not reprogrammed forward. Karns tried the wing-sweep button, emergency handle, and circuit breakers. Nothing worked.
"Diamond Two," Karns radioed, reviewing his pocket checklist, "come aboard and check me over. My wings are frozen in the full aft position."
"Roger, movin' up."
Karns waited, cursing his luck, while his wingman rendezvoused on the starboard side. Karns knew he could not land aboard the carrier with full wing sweep; the engagement speed would be close to 200 miles an hour. It was prohibited, even during a time of war.
If the emergency developed during Blue Water operations-in the middle of an ocean-the pilot and RIO would have to fly by the carrier and make a controlled ejection. In this case, Karns prepared to divert to Key West Naval Air Station, the closest field with the arresting equipment he needed.
The Diamondback CO watched his wingman's Tomcat slide up to his wounded fighter. He could see the rivets, the oil streaks, and the pilot's eyes. Karns waited patiently while his wingman slid under the Tomcat, appearing on the other side.
"Okay, skipper," the pilot radioed, knowing they had only one option, "we're going to have to go to Key Worst."
"Yeah," Karns replied calmly. "What does it look like?"
"You've got hydraulic fluid pouring down the port side of the aircraft." The wingman moved in closer. "Skipper, you took some rounds. Looks like the area around the wing sweep actuator is shot up."
Gennadi Levchenko checked on the bomber assembly and walked into the communications center.
"Comrade director," the chief communications officer said in a hesitant voice, "Castro has attacked an American aircraft carrier."
Levchenko's thick neck muscles bulged, distorting his craggy face. "That goddamned idiot!" Levchenko raged savagely. "When?"
"Earlier today, comrade dir-"
"And you just heard about it?" Levchenko yanked a cigarette pack from his pocket. He had a momentary thought that the communications chief might be the double agent. The officer had been off duty at the time the guard had been attacked. "What the hell is wrong here? Why didn't Moscow contact us?"
The officer recoiled, feeling the sting of Levchenko's wrath. "I don't know, comrade director."
"Get KGB operations on the scrambler, NOW!"
Levchenko slumped into the seat next to the Moscow lines, discouraged and angry. His perilous situation had degenerated even further. "Moscow is going to have to stop Castro," Levchenko said to himself as the communications specialist nervously contacted KGB headquarters.
Steve Wickham, hearing his stomach growl, crawled to the small opening in the crumbling foundation. He peered out cautiously, noting the long shadows of late afternoon, then he slid around to the other side, taking in the hangars and flight line area.
The agent was surprised by the amount of activity on the air base. He counted eleven antiaircraft guns and four tanks, along with hundreds of soldiers digging in around the outer boundaries of the field.
He rolled over and leaned against the cool cement support. He felt exhausted but forced himself to stay alert. His only chance for survival was to attempt a daring escape during the early morning hours.
