Keith Douglass
Arsenal
ONE
Cuban Air Force Colonel Emilio Santana banked his Soviet built MiG-29 Fulcrum to the left, skirting the air defense perimeter of the American battle group. The fighter twisted through the sultry night air as though the mechanics of airspeed, altitude, and control surfaces were mere formalities in the relationship between man and machine. The advanced composite struts and fuselage were extensions of his own body, the howling jet engines an echo of the blood rushing through his arteries and veins. The single-seat fighter seemed to read his mind, translating the smallest twitches of human muscle and nerve into tactical maneuvers that would have been impossible in any other aircraft in Cuba’s inventory.
Tonight he was alone in the sky, suspended between the heavens and black water, surrounded by hard points of light that bit into the dark without dissipating it. Spattered overhead, the stars. To his right, Cuba, city lights clustered into hard gems set in velvet. Directly below him, fog seeped up from the ocean and mixed with broken cloud cover to obscure patches of water. Water and land, night and stars the world below him seemed remote and untouchable, changing in response to universal rhythms that man could neither understand nor alter.
Reality isn’t that simple. First the Soviets, now the Libyans, In both cases, the first seemingly harmless offers of technological assistance and money had led to an ominous military presence that pervaded every facet of daily life. The military advisors weren’t so easily ejected once they’d established a military presence eighty miles south of the United States.
More than just a mere presence. They are an infestation, a plague. As long as we can control them, we benefit. But as with any parasite, there is a danger that the host may suffer.
He nosed the fighter up, aiming directly at a star. The maneuver bled off airspeed, slowing his rate of travel around the latest of many American intrusions into Cuba’s sphere of influence.
Forty miles to the north, clearly visible under the full moon and through the light haze, the USS Thomas Jefferson, and her covey of escorts were finishing up the last phase of their workup operations prior to deployment. The Cubans had been watching carefully for the last two weeks as Jefferson fought a mock opposed transit through notional landmasses charted in the middle of the Caribbean. Flight operations had ceased at 2200, and the Cubans had had sole possession of the airspace surrounding their island nation since then. From his altitude, on a moonless, slightly overcast night, the only indications of the American presence were the phosphorescent green lozenges on his aircraft’s radar.
Santana sighed and shifted his attention away from the stars and to his duty. As commander of the Western Air Defense Zone, he’d wanted a personal look at the armada; assembled off his coast. American battle group workups were a normal part of life, but this one was particularly irking. This battle group included the first operational deployment of an Arsenal-class cruiser, and both Cuba and her allies were desperate for intelligence on the platform.
That the Americans had no compunction about conducting military maneuvers so close to the coast of his nation irritated him. Had the situation been reversed, the Americans would have strenuously objected to a foreign power conducting war maneuvers off their coast. Why was it that the Americans were unable to understand Cuba’s objections?
Not unable just unwilling in their arrogance to even entertain the idea of Cuba as an equal, as a leader in the Caribbean basin. Yammer as they will about self determination and democracy, the Americans understand power, only military power. They have chosen the weapon in this duel, but we will choose the time.
A new speck of light on his RP-29 coherent pulse Doppler radar caught his attention. Code-named Slot Back by NATO, the MiG-29’s radar had a search range of fifty-four nautical miles, and was collimated with laser range finder and infrared search/ track sensors. Using data supplied by the radar, the MiG was capable of launching AA-8 Aphid infrared air-to-air missiles or AA-10A Alamo medium-range radar-guided antiair missiles. A GSH-301 in the port wing root carrying 150 rounds completed its armament.
The new contact what was it? He studied the radar screen carefully, noting that it was growing stronger by the minute. Not a military aircraft. The pulse size was too small, and the wavering edges of the lozenge indicated that the radar was having a difficult time maintaining any resolution on it. The first tingles of adrenaline tickled his senses.
A light aircraft, then. Possibly civilian, or a small reconnaissance or spy aircraft deployed from the Florida coast, only eighty miles to the north. At 130 knots, the contact could be either a helicopter or a fixed-wing aircraft.
Whatever it was, it warranted further investigation.
His orders were to maintain radio silence pending identification of any threat or an indication that a contact was proceeding into within twelve miles of the Cuban coast.
Santana rolled the MiG out of its turn and vectored off toward the contact.
He glanced down at the SO-69 electronic countermeasures display. Aside from the normal search radars from the carrier and her escorts, as well as the familiar signature of the Cuban land-based air search radar, there were no new contacts. Odd, that. But understandable. Only an aircraft wanting to avoid detection would make the journey toward Cuba without radar. His level of excitement ratcheted up another notch.
The new contact was still sixty miles to the north of his position. He shoved the throttles forward slightly, accelerating to 520 knots. At that speed, he was only minutes away from obtaining a visual. He swore quietly at the layer of low clouds at five thousand feet and checked the altitude of me unknown contact. As he’d suspected, it was right in the middle of the layer, using the clouds for cover. Again, more suspicious conduct.
Madre de Dios! What were the Americans thinking?
Anger shattered the traces of his earlier mystical contemplation of the sky and the sea. Exercise operations, however odious, were expected.
But expanding the routine into an open affront to Cuba’s domestic airspace such arrogance!
Did they really think they could make a covert approach on the Cuban coast without being detected?
If so, it was time to teach them a lesson.
The tactical action officer frowned and spun his track ball cursor over to the new contact. He clicked once, calling up data on a small secondary screen. Airspeed, altitude, IFF International Friend or Foe signal were all indicative of a small civilian aircraft.
CDC was the carrier’s nerve center. Sensor data from every radar and ESM electromagnetic sensor detection suite in the battle group was relayed to the carrier’s computers, analyzed, compared with other sensor data, and projected onto the blue large-screen display in the forward part of CDC.
Hardly a threat to an aircraft carrier, but where the hell did it come from?
The new symbol had popped into being on his screen without any prior warning from Tracker Alley, the long array of air search and correlation consoles that took up a quarter of the CDC spaces. He keyed the microphone to his headset with the foot pedal. “Track supervisor, what is this?”
The tinny voice sounded bored. “Don’t know, sir. We just gained contact a few moments ago. It’s off any commercial air routes, and it’s not one of ours.”
“Any ideas?”
“No. That’s why I’ve got it designated as unknown.
There’s no IFF squawk from her, and no flight plan for the route.”
The TAO sighed and jotted down the details in his watch log. He turned to the CDC watch officer, the person normally responsible for the operations of CDC. “Let’s do the standard challenge and reply. That contact’s course
