puts him well to the west of us, but he’s transiting our area.
Could be drug runners, could be a civilian pilot who’s lost.
My bet is on the former rather than the latter.”
The CDC officer nodded and reached for the microphone.
“I bet we don’t get an answer.”
“No bet. I’d say you’re right. We’ll notify the Coast Guard.”
“Unidentified air contact at-” the CDC officer glanced at the latitude-longitude readout on his screen” thirty- two north, seventy-two west, altitude five thousand feet, speed one-three-zero knots, this is USS Thomas Jefferson. Over.”
He waited for a few minutes for a reply, then repeated the call-up.
After the third time, he turned back to the TAO. “No response, sir.
Big surprise.”
“Notify the Coast Guard in Miami. We’ll let the normal law enforcement handle this.” The TAO turned back to the briefing sheet before him, wondering whether his summaries of the previous day’s flights and engagements would take long enough to kill the rest of the watch.
“Keep an eye on it,” the TAO said. “If its course puts it within ten nautical miles of the battle group, we’ll talk to Tactical Rag Command Center about what to do. Until then, just be sure the data is relayed to SOUTHCOM. We’ll let them worry about it.”
“New contact,” the operations specialist at SOUTHCOM j announced. “My bet is it’s a drug runner.” (The watch officer at SOUTHCOM, the composite commander responsible for all areas south of the continental United States, glanced at the big-screen display. “The Coast Guard knows about it?”
The operations specialist nodded. “They’re checking into it, but there doesn’t appear to be a flight plan. Not much we can do about it now, but they’ll be alert for a contact on the return from Cuba.”
The watch officer frowned. “Could be another one of those rescue operations. We had two last month, you remember. American activists trying to evacuate relatives from Cuba. Let’s make sure INS is in the loop.”
“Already on it,” the operations specialist announced smugly.
The small contact was now five hundred yards in front of him and one thousand feet below. There was still no visible contact, and the Fulcrum was closing rapidly on the slower target.
“And if you had honorable intentions, my friend, you would be showing your running lights,” Santana said aloud.
“Since you aren’t, I suspect you don’t want me to see you.”
The contact was not painting brightly on his radar scope.
Santana was certain he hadn’t been detected in return, since the contact was emitting no radar pulses. He waited until he was only five hundred feet behind the small contact and, still without visual contact, put the Fulcrum into a steep climb. If he judged correctly, the wake from his two Klimov-Sarkisov RV-33 turbofan engines would buffet the smaller aircraft, letting him know that he’d been detected.
; Just to be sure, Santana slammed the throttles forward and kicked in the afterburners.; He ascended to ten thousand feet, smugly certain that the civilian aircraft knew it was no longer alone in the skies. He stood the Fulcrum on its tail, then executed a sharp turn downward. He watched the radar scope carefully, judging his approach angle. If this worked correctly, he would cut directly in front of the small contact.; When the scope indicated he was almost in front of the smaller plane, Santana flipped on all of his external lights.
He watched on the scope as the small aircraft executed a hard turn to the right, and grinned. Whatever the contact was, its maneuverability and speed were no match for the Fulcrum, and he was willing to bet that the other pilot would need a change of underwear as soon as he was back on the ground.
Wherever that might be. He frowned, wondering why the Americans had decided to pull such a stupid tactical maneuver.
“Perhaps another pass will dissuade you from your plans,” Santana said out loud. He gained altitude and prepared to repeat the maneuver.
“A nice little game of chicken?” the TAO asked. “That’s our Cuban shadow that’s been watching all day, isn’t it?”
“Or his relief” The CDC officer looked amused. “Do you know what would happen to us if we tried to harass an inbound aircraft like that to turn it back from the coast?
We’d all be facing a court-martial.”
The TAO frowned. “Not something I’d want to do even in relatively clear weather like this,” he remarked. As an FA-18 pilot, the TAO was well aware of the range inaccuracies that could creep into any radar system. “He’s getting so close to that contact that we’re getting a merging of the two blips on radar.”
“I’m not sure which would be worse to be in the Fulcrum trying to pull it off, or to be in the small plane he’s harassing.”
The CDC officer shook his head. “Either way, it’s a hell of a way to make a living.”
10,000 Feet Santana was not pleased. Despite two buffeting passes, the light aircraft continued inbound on Cuba. At first he’d assumed it was just a smuggler plying the regular route between Florida and Cuba, but it hadn’t reacted like any drug dealer he’d seen yet. He glanced back to his left at the battle group. Was there some other reason for its foray into Cuban airspace or was it mere coincidence that the American battle group was in the same vicinity? He toggled the comm circuit to relay his observations to the Cuban controller.
For the last five months, the area around the western end of Cuba had been closed airspace. It had only taken a couple of weeks before the word had spread throughout the close-knit smuggling community, and it had been months since there’d been an unauthorized intrusion into the area.
The Fuentes Project he grimaced in frustration. Protecting it from outsiders had been his highest priority as Western Air Defense Zone commander, and it wouldn’t do for the first unauthorized intrusion to occur during one of his personal surveillance missions.
“Continue maneuvers as briefed.” The ground control intercept officer, or GCI, sounded bored even over the circuit’s static. Santana smiled.
Perhaps he should have consulted with the GCI before the first warning maneuver, but this permission, in effect, granted retroactive absolution for the maneuver.
“Commencing second run,” he said as he toggled the circuit mike.
“Estimate contact is forty minutes from the coast.”
“Do you require assistance?” the GCI asked.
“I don’t think so,” Santana said. He rolled his eyes in disgust. As if the Fulcrum were incapable of handling one small, turboprop aircraft. Even the mighty F-14 Tomcats on the carrier’s deck were little match for this fighter.
At ten thousand feet he tipped the nose of the Fulcrum down, heading for the deck at five hundred knots. He watched the airspeed indicator slowly creep to the right as the Fulcrum traded altitude for speed. A little closer this time, perhaps, with full lights on blazing the entire way.
“Fulcrum 101, GCI!” The controller’s voice was taut with tension.
“Contact’s course indicates it is on an intercept course with the Fuentes Base. Imperative that no overflights are allowed. If the contact cannot be turned back, take with missiles.”
Santana sucked in his breath. Weapons-free permission?
Now that was something new.
The briefing he’d received indicated that some form of military research was taking place at the small naval base, but no details had been forthcoming. Rumor had it that a new, powerful, land-based intercept radar site was being installed, but he hadn’t found anyone to confirm that yet. It irked him. As the officer responsible for enforcing
